#silver filling India

[magickkate]

We'll uncover the enchanting world of bells in witchcraft in today's topic. Bells are utilized for cleansing, protection, summoning spirits, and enhancing rituals. Let's look into their rich history, deep symbolism, and practical applications in magic. Warning, this is a bit of a long post, be prepared to read :)

What are Witch(es) Bells?

Magical bells are small, often ornate instruments used in witchcraft to produce sound vibrations that carry specific intentions. These bells can be made of various materials such as brass, bronze, or silver, and they often feature intricate designs and symbols. The clear, resonant tones of bells are believed to carry powerful vibrations that can cleanse, protect, and communicate with the spiritual realm.

Historical and Symbolic Significance

Historical Roots:

The use of bells in spiritual and religious practices dates back thousands of years. They have been used in ceremonies across many cultures, including ancient Greece, Rome, China, and India, to invoke deities, ward off evil spirits, and mark sacred time.

By the Middle Ages, bells were commonly used in churches and monasteries throughout Asia and Europe. They were believed to scare away evil spirits with their loud sounds.

In modern witchcraft, bells are often used as tools for spiritual protection and purification. They may be rung at the start of a ritual to clear the space of negative energies or to signal the end of a ritual. Bells are also used to call forth the spirit of a deity or to invoke the elements.

Symbolism:

Sound and Vibration: Bells symbolize the power of sound and vibration, which can influence energy fields, cleanse spaces, and elevate spiritual awareness. The word "bell" translates to mean "to roar" or "to make a loud noise" (think bellow)

Divine Masculine and Feminine Energy: The significance of male and female anatomy in the use of bells in witchcraft is rooted in symbolism. The bell’s body is often seen as representing the anatomy of a female, while the clapper represents the anatomy of a male. This symbolism extends to the idea of the bell’s body representing the womb and the clapper representing a child within. This union of male and female elements is believed to create a powerful protective amulet. The combination of these elements symbolizes the unity between yin and yang, male and female, and the Divine Masculine and Feminine. This balance and harmony are considered essential in many magical practices and rituals. This unity creates powerful and protective energies.

Communication:

Bells are often seen as tools for communication with the divine, spirits, and otherworldly beings. Their sound is believed to transcend physical boundaries and reach the spiritual realm.

Protection:

The ringing of bells is thought to drive away negative energies and entities, creating a protective barrier around the practitioner and their space.

Choosing and Consecrating Your Bell

Choosing Your Bell:

Select a bell that resonates with you both visually and audibly. The tone should be pleasing to your ear and evoke a sense of peace or power. Consider the material and craftsmanship, as these can influence the bell’s energy and effectiveness. Many bells are made with iron, brass, bronze, aluminum, or "bell metal", which is ~75% copper and ~25% tin to help make a sturdy, long-lasting bell that also produces a resonant sound.

Consecrating Your Bell:

Cleansing: Cleanse your bell to remove any unwanted energies. This can be done by passing it through incense smoke, sprinkling it with salt water, or placing it under moonlight. If you choose to use saltwater, be sure to dry it thoroughly as the type of metal of your bell could tarnish if the water remains on it over time. Be mindful! :) Charging: Hold your bell and focus on your intentions. Visualize it being filled with your energy and purpose. Blessing: Recite a blessing or incantation. For example, "I consecrate this bell to serve as a tool of cleansing, protection, and communication in my magical workings." This is just an example of a way to perform a blessing or consecration of this item for your practice. You are welcome to adjust this to your practice. It is best to make clear your intentions for the use of the objects in your magickal toolbox such as these bells.

Practical Uses of Bells in Witchcraft

Cleansing and Purification:

Ring your bell to cleanse and purify your space. The sound vibrations can dispel negative energies and create a harmonious environment. Walk through your space, ringing the bell, and visualize the sound waves sweeping away stagnant energy.

Protection:

Use your bell to create a protective barrier around your home or sacred space. Ring it at the entrances and corners while setting the intention of protection and safety.

Ritual Enhancement:

Incorporate the bell into your rituals to mark the beginning and end, or to signify transitions between different stages. The sound can help to focus your mind and elevate the ritual atmosphere.

Summoning and Invocation:

Bells can be used to summon spirits, deities, or elemental energies. Ring your bell to call upon the entities you wish to work with, inviting them into your space with respect and reverence.

Meditation and Focus:

Ring your bell before meditation to clear your mind and set the tone for a focused, serene session. The sound can help to shift your consciousness and deepen your meditative state.

Cord and Knot Magic:

Use the bell in cord and knot magic to charge your cords or knots with sound vibrations. Ring the bell as you tie each knot, infusing it with your intention and the bell’s energy.

Caring for Your Bell

Regular Cleansing:

Regularly cleanse your bell to maintain its energy. Use the same methods as when you first consecrated it.

Storage:

Store your bell in a safe, sacred place, such as on your altar or in a special box. Treat it with respect as a powerful tool in your practice.

Respect:

Your bell is a sacred tool. Avoid using it for mundane purposes or allowing others to handle it without permission.

Bells are magical tools that harness the power of sound and vibration to cleanse, protect, and communicate. By incorporating bells into your practice, you can elevate your rituals, create sacred spaces, and connect with the spiritual realm. Use them with intention and respect, and their enchanting tones will guide and support you on your magical journey.

[working on some info updates, will add sources/citations when finished! thank you for your patience.]

Share your experiences and tips with using bells in the comments. Let's continue to learn and grow together! 💜

[arthistoryanimalia]

For #InternationalTigerDay + #MetalMonday:

Tiger-Headed Mace of Office

Deccan, India, late 18th century

Silver, gold, garnets, stone

L 77.3 cm, 2.7 kg

The Wallace Collection OA1760

“This beautifully-wrought silver-gilt tiger-headed mace, one of a pair, was intended not as a weapon but was employed purely for processional use, being carried by harbingers to herald the imminent approach of a prince, nobleman or important official. The tiger’s eyes are made of garnets and a green stone is mounted in the centre of the forehead. Although appearing to be of massive and deadly weight, such maces were usually hollow, made out of thin sheet-silver, embossed, chased, engraved and parcel-gilt. The hollow shell was filled with pitch, or a similar substance, to confer a degree of strength and rigidity. Similar examples bearing different animal’s heads (horses, bulls or elephants, for example) are also known.”

[chibsandchill]

Oliver Quick indeed

Fandom: Saltburn

Pairing: Oliver Quick x AFAB!Catton!Reader 

Summary: Oliver never suspected he'd get caught, and he's not exactly against his punishment.

Warnings: NSFW content, a slight amount of dub-con, swearing, Oliver Quick, bathwater drinking, grammatical and spelling errors, Oliver is perhaps a smidge jealous of a bathtub, inappropriate use of a hairbrush

If you know me in real life and you found this… No you didn’t. 

Masterlist

Minors do not interact (seriously, don’t)

Next part

:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:-:

NSFW content under the cut

The bathroom is eerily silent – too silent – after Felix’s door slams shut. 

Well, 

not entirely silent. 

Was it possible to be jealous of a bathtub? Four legs, a scooped out body to rest in, and water. It held him you, and warmed you. It took care of the mess and when it was done you abandoned it, but it always welcomed you back. 

Did it long for your return? 

Like him? 

Was he jealous? 

Over a bath? He couldn’t be. 

But Felix would be warmer in his arms, and Oliver would make sure that not even a speck of dirt would muddy him. 

Oliver rinsed his mouth and leant his forehead against the cold mirror. He stared at himself. Blue eyes. Very blue eyes. Elspeth praised his eyes, fawned over them even when they first met. Told him about Venetia and how she’d just die. 

Did Felix like his eyes? Were they blue enough? Too blue? India didn’t have blue eyes, or Annabelle.

 Felix fucked them. 

Has he ever seen Felix with someone with blue eyes? No. 

Suddenly the praise sat wrong inside of him. Were they making fun of him? Did they know? Oliver knocked his forehead against the mirror once, twice, thrice before grinding his teeth together with a glare directed at his image. 

He forced a smile, but not too happy. Then he frowned, but not too unhappy. They liked a broken thing, Felix’s family. But not too broken. Just broken enough for them to be able to ignore it, like a barbie doll missing a few fingers, or a book with a cracked spine. 

Oliver’s father died, his mother an addict. No siblings, no money. Poor, poor Oliver Quick. 

Felix liked feeling needed, appreciated, 

adored. 

Poor Oliver with a dead dad. So, so incredibly sad. No one else in this wide world other than Felix Catton. No friends, no siblings. Just…Felix. 

The bathtub caught his eye. A posh thing, really. Like something out of a painting or a museum. His feet brought him to it before he’d even realized he moved. Oliver stroked the edges, pressed his nails against the porcelain until shivers ran down his spine. There was still some water in it. Warm, hot, taunting him. Felix had been there. A piece of him still lingering around the edges of the drain. 

They had hugged once. Felix was a generous person, free with his affection to everyone around him. He had kissed Oliver’s helmet when they first met. Told him he loved him. 

Did he? 

Leaning over the tub and watching the water slowly circle around the drain filled him with an unfamiliar sense of thrill. Like he was watching something forbidden. A piece of him; of Felix offered on a silver platter. 

Oliver didn’t hesitate as he got in the tub and got down on all fours. Pearly white globs swirling around below him. This was a gift. 

Did Felix leave it to him? 

He must have. 

The door hadn’t been properly closed, and he moaned like a wanton whore. It was on purpose. Did he mean to tease Oliver? He did. He didn’t. Oliver was no one. Felix was everything, 

Oliver’s everything. 

Yes, it was a gift, and Oliver would take anything Felix gave. 

It was still warm when he pressed his face against it. It coated his lips, his nose, his cheeks, his eyes. When he breathed, it followed, and he hated how it left when he exhaled. It clung to his hair. 

Felix. Felix. Felix. 

He wanted it on him. On. On. On. On, 

in. 

The tip of his tongue wetting his lips, a taste of heaven. 

Oliver pressed himself closer, and closer as if to fuse himself together with the porcelain, but even then, 

it would not be close enough. 

He needed to be closer. 

What was wrong with him?

Felix was so far away still, even as Oliver had a mouth full of his cum. He dared not swallow for he would not be separated from even a single piece of him. 

“You’re a fucking freak, y’know that, Oliver?” 

Oliver jolts up, almost banging his head on the faucet. 

“W-what? Oh. Oh! No! I- I wasn’t- I mean- It’s-” 

He felt sticky. Cold. His blood froze. Would you send him away? Tell Felix? Anger blossoms under his skin. Felix wouldn’t understand. How could he? How could perfection look at ugliness and understand? Even the light could not see in the dark. How could he understand the longing? The envy? The chest crushing feeling of being so close to the sun, being burned alive and yet always left craving more and more. Loving every second of losing yourself to another. 

“You weren’t what?” You narrow your eyes. 

“I was just…making sure the tap was closed properly. It’s been dripping all day and night.” 

You scoff. 

“It has!” Oliver tried to defend himself, wiping at his mouth with his wet sleeve. 

“You’re pathetic, Oliver. I saw you… licking. We’ve all seen you stare at him. I mean, I’d say you were his shadow if you didn’t moon over that one as well! But Felix doesn’t see it. He doesn’t believe us when we tell him what a little freak Oliver Quick is.”

Oliver can’t help but feel smug at that. Felix believing him over everyone else? It made him hard. 

It must’ve shown on his face for next thing Oliver knew your fingers burrowed into his hair and you forced him down into the water again. He coughs and splutters but you don’t let him up. 

“ Stop it!” He protests. The water’s gone up his nose, he’s choking on it. 

“What’s wrong, Ollie?” You coo. “I thought you liked drinking bathwater. I’m simply… giving you what you want.”

In his mind he begged for Felix to come save him, like he had at the pub, at uni. Felix would hate him for it. Would cast him away, away from him, away from Saltburn. He’d rather drown in the tub than have Felix come save him. He’d become part of Saltburn then. 

“Please don’t tell Felix,” he managed to get out. 

You hummed but offered no response. 

Cruel. You were all cruel. 

The drain cuts into his face, but you don’t let up. 

Your breath fans over his ear. Oliver shivers. “We’ll see.”

You smell like Felix. You even sound a bit like him too. If Oliver closed his eyes he could almost pretend it was Felix who was taking his shirt off in the bath, who urged him to clean all his spill away. 

It’s filthy.

“Do you want this, Oliver?” 

You placed your hand flat over his bulge, cupping the hard outline of his cock. Could you feel him pulse? 

He shakes his head no. He doesn’t. 

Does he? 

His head’s all muddled. All he can see, all he can feel, 

taste, 

is Felix. 

One thought circles around in his head; more. 

You squeeze, and Oliver moans. 

“Thought so.” You whisper. 

And then you’re gone. 

“Keep your head down.” You order him, though Oliver hadn’t moved a muscle. 

Despite how humiliating it was, he still wanted more. All he felt was longing, envy and pure want. Felix could stand in front of him, his spend in Oliver’s mouth and he’d still want more. When would Oliver be satisfied? How close could he get to Felix? Not close enough. 

Oliver jumps when he feels your hands back on him. You tug at his boxers and his face grows red when you touch him. 

“Well, well, well,” you said to him. “Prepared, are we?”

He shakes his head again. 

“Liar.” You say as you bring your hand down on his ass. Oliver groaned and closed his eyes. 

When had you grown so confident, he wondered? He had barely seen you at the estate, always hiding away in the library with Duncan standing guard by the door. Oliver mistook you for Felix once, but you had only laughed and walked away. Didn’t even turn to look at him. 

And now your finger was in his ass and he was resisting the urge to grind back. You don’t even need to push his head down anymore, he wouldn’t raise it even if you ripped all his hair out. 

You smoothed down some of his hair. “There we go, you poor thing.”

He doesn’t feel poor. Certainly not when your free hand is gripping his cock and stroking it so slowly it feels like torture. Even then the coil in his stomach starts to tighten, a delicious burn in his spine from bending over as he was; face down, ass up. 

Then you’re pulling out your finger. He feels empty. Hungry. He hears the water splash as you run your hand through it, and then you’re touching him again. Spreading the wetness around his hole, in him, everywhere. 

You slip a finger back in. Oliver groaned at the feeling. 

“Can you take another?” You asked. 

His forehead smacked against the porcelain from how hard he nodded. He thinks he might die if you don’t, stuck in this limbo of barely-there pleasure and coldness. 

Oliver shut his eyes when you started pushing in the second one. He’s never had anyone there before. It was uncomfortable and it even hurt a little, but that ember of pleasure in his stomach when you crooked your fingers and touched that spot inside him made him want to beg for you to never go. 

But then, you leave him again. Almost as if you heard his thoughts. 

He sobs against the tub, but then his eyes flashed open in cold surprise as he felt something prodding at his entrance. Something smoother and colder than your fingers. “W-what’s that?” 

“It’s a surprise.” You told him. 

He almost thought you kind when you made him spit in your palm so you could wet his cock with it. He hadn’t thought it could get better, but when you spread it around him, gradually building up to pace again, he wants to thank you. It almost made him forget about the mystery object you were pushing into him. Almost. It was still cold, but felt better than he thought it would. He shuts his eyes again, losing himself to the pleasure. 

It wasn’t long until you had him moaning and whining and grinding against the tub, against you, against whatever it was you were using against him. There wasn’t enough left of Oliver to think it embarrassing how he acted like a wanton whore. All he could think of was the tidal wave of pleasure that was building. It grew. Grew. Grew. 

You push into him harder and harder. Your hand smacked against his skin until he was sure Felix could hear it. If not, then his moans would still tell the story. 

“If only Felix could see you now.” You whisper in his ear, cruel and cold against the warmth of his pleasure. 

Oliver whined. He almost wanted Felix to see. Almost. 

“Freak.” 

Oliver came harder than he ever had in his life. Rope after rope of cum landing on his stomach, in the water, on the sides of the tub. It seemed endless. He shook and cried as the wave fell over him. He was drowning. Drowning in you. In pleasure. In Felix. But you kept your hand on him, tugging and tugging even as he moaned from the overstimulation. 

“Oliver Quick indeed.” You mock him. “I’ve barely even touched you.” 

You tugged out the thing from his ass and threw it next to him, but Oliver didn’t have enough strength to even open his eyes. Not with how you forced him into a second orgasm, one almost more painful than pleasurable. 

“Do you want me to stop?” 

No. Yes. Never. 

He never wanted it to stop. Even as it grew painful and he cried from it, he wanted more. He wasn’t satisfied. Not even close. He wanted more. More. More. More. More, until there was nothing left to give. Until he had taken all you had, and he alone was left. Even then would he want more. 

You scoff at his lack of answer and tear your hand from him, wiping it off on his hair. 

“Go on, Dog, lick it up.” You spat at him. 

And he did, 

addlebrained as he was, so fucked out from the pleasure he couldn’t even tell you his own name. 

He licked and licked, until there was no more left, water nor cum. No more of him, no more of Felix. He had swallowed it all. All gone.

Oliver looked at you from under hooded eyes. Pleading. “Please don’t tell Felix.”

“You’re pathetic.” 

You stormed out of the room, and then his eyes fell on the object you had thrown on him. The surprise, 

it was Felix’s brush. 

Next part

[jumpstart-if]

Jumpstart is a character-driven slice of life, containing drama and romance. It's mainly inspired by the show 90210 and the movie Mean Girls.

You had multiple sticky notes on your bedroom ceiling, bathroom mirror, and any other surface you were able to get it on.

How to be rich by 21:

1. Survive high school Survive the final year of high school 2. Move out and get a pet (finally!) 3. Become rich and famous (should be easy enough...)

This list has followed you ever since your eleventh birthday when you were suddenly bombarded with the dreaded question:

‘What is your dream job?’

Quite frankly, you didn’t dream of labour. At least not the regular kind. Call it psychic, but you knew you were destined for the easy life, filled with copious amounts of wealth, relaxation, and travels. You were are special.

Seriously, you had everything set out for your 'rags to riches' story:

You weren’t the most popular, but you also weren’t eating lunch alone in the school bathroom. ✔️

You made sure to work a part-time job, starting from the age of thirteen, so it would be easier for future fans to relate to you. ✔️

You were on your way to being crowned ‘Most likely to be famous’, which would have made for the perfect moment on ‘The Late-Night Phil Show’.✔️

Everything was going to plan… until it wasn’t.

Not only did your mother decide to marry some wealthy businessman, but she also packed up all your stuff and moved you hundreds of miles away from your home that screamed ‘humble beginnings’ and into a five bedroom (minimum) mega mansion.

Oh, and public school? Forget about that. From tomorrow on, you’ll be one of those rich private school kids. Goodbye 'rags to riches' background, and hello nepotism allegations.

Though, that’s a problem for future you...

Right now, you’ll have to adapt to school life the way the people at the top of the food chain do it. 

Get ready to ‘survive the final year of high school’ filled with gossip, betrayal, romance, angst, and social drama you could’ve sworn only happened in movies and TV shows.

Jumpstart is rated 18+ as there will be mentions of sexual themes, drugs, alcohol and violence.

Choose your MC's name and gender.

Decide your MC's personality, clothing style, and much more.

Get involved with 1 out of 4 romanceable characters.

Climb to the top of the hierarchy at Maplewood Private School.

Jumpstart your way into the life of stardom and wealth.

Isaiah/India (m/f) 'the high school worldwide heartthrob':

You could’ve sworn you saw them gracing the red carpet in some of the hundreds of magazines stashed in one of your moving boxes. Child of the famous celebrity make-up artist, Naomi Lawton and basketball star, Sean Lawton. Wanted by many, yet only successfully claimed by A. Though, judging by how many people I can be regularly spotted with, it begs the question: Does I care?

Appearance: Sepia skin tone. M! has short coily black hair, mostly styled in cornrows and decorated with some silver hair jewellery. F! has long bleached coily hair, currently styled in waist-length blonde braids.

Alison/Anderson (m/f) 'the school's number one':

Not quite like the ones in movies… they’re somewhat nice? At first, they can be straight-up vicious, ripping apart any and every little detail they can get their hands on, but once you earn their trust, you’ll learn that behaviour is much more of a façade than a true reflection of them.

Appearance: Olive complexion with sprinkles of freckles on their nose and cheeks. M! has short curly ginger hair that loosely hangs over his forehead. F! has shoulder-length ginger curls and bangs.

Tegan (m/f) 'the estranged childhood best friend'

You were eight years old, when their family decided to move someplace else, ripping your, what you thought to be inseparable, bond into two. At the start you tried to keep up, exchanging letters almost every day… then weeks… then months if anything, until complete silence. You’re not sure who stopped sending them first or when even, but one thing’s for certain: you were no longer friends. No, after ten years, you definitely weren’t.

Appearance: Brown skin tone. M! has black buzzed hair. F! has straight, waist-length black hair.

Levi/Leighton (m/f) 'wherever they go, trouble follows aka the school's bad boy/girl':

For someone with a big reputation, there’s next to nothing that can be found on them. And all your pestering questions are met with nothing but warnings, yet you can’t help but grow more curious about them with each passing encounter.

Appearance: Tawny skin tone, though you can’t help but notice the faded scar tainting their otherwise clear left cheek. They have wavy brown hair, reaching down to their shoulders.

Reblogs are more than welcome and thanks for reading!

DEMO TBA

[terrence-silver]

Also I had the best idea the other day after seeing Nick Marini Silver in the camo(?) with young Kreese in the cave.

Post 'Nam Terry Silver, with his new little ponytail, going back home to Cali only to somehow meet innocent hippie Beloved whose all about love and peace and hope- all the things Twig was concerned with- until it was purely just survival and he had to evolve into a Cobra. Yet, he can't help but become obsessed with Beloved...

Summer of Love.

Twig!Terry Silver x Reader.

―

You had a ‘make love not war’ badge pinned to your jacket and Terry Silver thought that was the funniest thing he’s ever seen.

Of course, you weren’t the only one; that year in California there was an abundance of these smiling, airheaded cockroaches drifting around aimlessly with handmade embroidery featuring their empty, meaningless slogans — jeans patches, spray paint backpacks, sharpied on mud-crusted sneakers, assholes hand painting Yoko Ono’s likeness on their shirts thinking they’re making some big statement, vans decorated (if it could be called decoration) with corny, one-word mottos in the likeness of ‘Peace’ and ‘Love’ that made Terry’s gut lurch up in amusement at the vapidity. Must’ve been easy. Ranting about peace and love from the comfort of home, the easy summer of the West Coast washing away all problems with a warm, seaborne salty breeze, not doing anything at all but slum around in the heavy shade, but regardless, in spite of all their comforts, they all gave the impression of being dirty. Unwashed. Something the ocean couldn’t exactly scrub off considering it was internal as much as, often times, external. He thought you were the dirtiest of all. Not physically, but something about your manner as you spoke enthusiastically about your plans to go overland, on a trailer from one end of Europe, all the way Bangkok, through the Silk road along the Hindu Kush mountain range gave him the irresistible urge to wash your mouth out with soap and make you swallow the bitter, soapy load.

-"Kabul, Peshawar, Amman. I guess I wanna see these ancient, hallowed places before they’re irrevocably changed."-

You explain, engrossed in your own imagination like a child, a colorful crochet blanket sprawled out beneath you in the back of an open van, your legs hanging and dangling from the edge. Terry had learned you didn’t exactly have an address in the classical sense. Heck, hilariously enough, you didn't even drive the very vehicle you were laid up on, considering the act somehow backwards and harmful, a notion that made you inherently comical, ; you came to California and by extension joined your traveling troupe, to, as you put it, see the world. Go wherever the path took you. For all you were concerned, he was just some guy with the same goal in mind and not someone who just rotated back to civilization a couple of months ago. Who’s already seen the world, alright. Who’s already walked paths you could scarce imagine. Who’s already witnessed the change you were babbling on about firsthand. He left one country behind and came back to a totally different one. A country filled with people like you. You were everywhere, one way or another. Unavoidable. Reflected in every face. Every person. Every sight.

-"You know? Everything is eventually changed, usually for the worse and it’s good to grab the chance and see stuff while they last, in their original form."-

You continue, leaning on your elbows and smiling, your enthusiasm and zest like a biting into something way too sweet; both addictive and slightly disgusting. So. You wanted to go to Goa, Bangkok and India. What was next? Go to Vietnam too? Carry a transparent that said ‘Americans go home’? Was that it? -"Oh, I know exactly what you mean."- Terry interjects, feigning innocence, watching you idly twirl one of the suede leather frills on your shirt, not in a manner deemed seductive, because no, you weren’t out to seduce him or anyone. He could tell as much. He could tell someone who had insidious intentions from someone who didn’t. You merely thought you’ve made a new friend in him these past couple of weeks in the grand soulsearch called life, feeling relaxed enough to act whoever you wanted to act in front of him — he cultivated that atmosphere for you on purpose, wanting to have you trust him, wanting you to be relaxed, right before…right before — well, Terry wasn’t entirely certain what he wanted to do to you just yet, but he was certain it would hurt. -"I just recently came back. And the place isn’t the same."- He tells the truth by effectively lying; things have changed, yes, you just weren’t privy exactly how things changed for him. So naive and wide eyed, he told you he was part of the Peace Corps and you believed him because you had no reason not to. You didn’t think people were fundamentally bad, just occasionally misguided at worst and that was a worldview so alien he thought it should be placed in a jar and examined under a microscope for good measure. You went by Beloved around these parts, after all, instead of your actual name. That alone deserved to be scrutinized and laughed at in the line up of all the other facts about you that were funny all on their own. But then again, Terry found he strangely enough didn’t mind. He knew your actual name, and he recently discovered he didn’t want to share it with anyone. -"All around Asia, yeah? Right on!"-  You beam up, a light visible in your eyes. The light of admiration. Heavy, omnipresent, addictive. He wanted more. Needed more. Revolted that he did, yet still craving it. He wanted to take that light and crush it in the palm of his hands like a puny ant. But, he needed to separate you from everyone else here first; separate you from all these cockroaches mingling around with too many eyes that could potentially be on him. So far, nobody suspected him to be a returning vet. Especially you. That was your fatal flaw, Terry figured; the fact you trusted anyone at all.

Least of all him.

He supposed, irony of all ironies, that the handful of hair tied at the nape of his neck helped the overall impression and image you had of him. Half of the bums here had long hair. None was like his, of course. Unlike theirs, his hair was sacred. But, it helped perpetuate a certain look. Even the Cobra ink on the side of his ribs; you were convinced it was an aesthetic statement and no more than that.

-"I really respect that, Terry. I wish I could go too. You’re so lucky!"- 

You sigh dreamily, throwing your head back under the shade of the van’s roof.

Lucky?

He was lucky?

Sure, why not, so long as you keep bearing your neck to him the way you were.

-"Yeah, Cambodia, Thailand, Korea."- Terry keeps perpetuating a half-lie, seated on a low wooden lawn chair in front of you, his blue Ford pick up truck he procured for the occasion parked nearby, neglected and busted up just enough to give him the visage of some working class schlub mingling with other schlubs, the fan from inside your the van blowing in a cool breeze his way; he’s been to all of those places, that much was true, you just weren’t aware of the context he was there in; admittedly, you didn’t hate returning army men either like he initially was convinced you and all of your ilk would, finding roundabout ways to question you of your worldviews — no, you merely thought they were deluded, lost souls someone took advantage of, which was somehow only ever more infuriating than plain old hate. Humiliating. Pitiful. Like a disgustingly sympathetic nod nobody asked for causing him to feel a bit like a stray street dog someone threw a dry bone to chew on. Terry Silver preferred death rather than for someone to feel sorry for him, fueled to an even darker place every time you were hideously empathetic, towards him and the whole world, hit with a flash of greed, wanting your stupid kindness for nobody but himself. So, he keeps on lying. Anything to momentarily distract him from the violence brewing around in his mind like a tempest. -"But, my favorite experience has to be with the Peace Corps in ‘Nam, hands down. It was life changing."- Terry allows himself to smile, finding the urge irresistible. He’s told you so many made up stories about his volunteer work abroad that he almost felt bad for you and how desperately you believed him. Almost. All those hours spent on various lawns, picnic blankets, on the backseat of a car, walking along the beach, spinning made up scenarios you ate up like a child full of wanderlust, eager for someone to tell them a story of how the world is full of possibilities. Hope. Terry leans forward suddenly, his elbows pressed against his knees and your body moves, matching his, engrossed in the conversation, looking at him like he was about to share with you the answer to life itself. -"Would you like to go one day?"- Terry asks, all figuratives and future tense, chuckling, and oh, he would take you down a path unwalked before. That’s what you said you wanted after all. Go wherever the road took you, no? You nod vigorously, smiling wide, a warm twinkle in your eyes. Trusting. Pliant. Unspoiled.

He returns the gesture, bearing his teeth in the visage of happiness.

So, you wanted to have a Vietnam experience and that could very well be arranged.

But, thing is, he doesn't.

The thought remains firmly lodged in his head, all the things he could to do to you, make you suffer, take that sweet, sparkling light in your eyes and ensure it is a dimmed, lifeless thing after all the various methods through which he could cause you pain. Make you suffer again and again until you're a husk and your lesson has been learned; a remainder forever that life isn't just travel and seeing pretty places, instead, he's laid up with you in a pretty place all of his own, thinking he deserves his Summer of Love too, perhaps more than anyone else --- after all, he's fought for it. Toiled for it. Seen his friends murdered for it. He spent months in a cage for it. He's earned his place in the sun tenfolds over. And he enjoyed the game. He enjoyed this role he played in front of you. If Captain Turner could see how now he'd say he's 'gone native' and the idea only serves to amuse Terry doubly so --- the notion his commanding officer would be mad at him for anything only intensifying him further, supposing he wanted to spite the man from beyond the grave, if possible --- your head in Terry's lap, the foliage of the palm tree casting a long, heavy shadow from above obscuring your face, your jacket riddled with badges cast to the side in the beach sand at the foot of the tree. Thank fuck. -"You know, I always thought my travel companion wouldn't be anyone but myself."- You sigh, keeping your eyes closed only to flutter them open suddenly, looking at him engrossed in the task of smoothing the top of your head, fingers drawing patterns along your scalp. The thin layer of skin atop of the skull, potentially so easy to peel. -"As in, that I'd mostly be hitting the road on my own."- You continue; Terry spots the odd bit of hesitation in your voice. You lean up because he lets you, your weight prepped up on your elbows. -"All these others, they have someone other then themselves. Not me, though."- You glance further down the beach and the ramshackle collection of vans parked up along the coastline, the distant sound of music echoing through the seaboard. Beatniks making a barbeque and someone strumming a sappy guitar tune. Your tribe. The punks that drove you around. Dragged you from place to place. Occupied your time. Perpetuated this way of living you took to heart. Not for long, though. -"But, I think that's changed now."- You remark, forlorn. Of course it has changed. You were less and less a part of them and more and more a part of him than you could imagine. That's the way he liked it too.

-"When I leave here, I'd like you to come with me, Terry."-

You ask sweetly, halfway pleading, as much as he relished the notion of you begging him for anything, imaging you doing so on your knees, he had to concur internally that as much as you were convinced of the opposite in this very moment, you weren't in fact going anywhere. Where would go anyway? San Francisco? Out to Mexico? The thought made him want to throw his head back cackling. No. You didn't realize it just yet because Terry didn't want you to realize, but you'd be staying put, right here, with him. Indefinitely. Instead, he gives you the softest look he could muster to camouflage his intent, something within him melting and bleeding forth like warm, overly sugary pus, as he nods slowly, that desire to scrub the inside of your mouth out with soap every time you talked about leaving for somewhere else subsiding for a second, taking a backseat, overtaken by a certain gentleness, the assurance it was all just make belief on your part anyway because you wouldn't be going no matter how badly you were convinced of the opposite and no matter how badly he was convincing you of it. -"Yeah. Sure thing."- He says, absentmindedly, deliberate in his choice of words, deciding to never say 'yes' or 'no' decidedly, but you never notice, falling back on his back momentarily content and closing your eyes once more, seemingly enjoying the ocean breeze, choosing to trust the way you always did so far and when you're not watching, he weighs his options between tossing the 'Make love not war' badge he took off of your jacket into the sea and keeping it for himself as a memento and deciding it belonged to him rather than the depths of the rolling waves. After all, in Vietnam, they always had the tendency of collecting trophies. Sometimes it was ears. Sometimes it was chopped fingers. But, in your case, the notion of separating you into pieces he could keep starts becoming less and less alluring compared to the idea of having you whole and this thought hits Terry helming the steering wheel with you beside him on the passengers seat, all tender smiles and quiet warmth. During the war, he always daydreamed of someone writing him the way Betsy wrote to John --- the way all the other boys had sweethearts, wives and fiancées writing them too, wondering what it would be like if it was you who wrote to him, filling every page with your idealism and this puny belief in a better tomorrow. A field opens up in front of him. A coastal superbloom spreads as far as the eye can see. He figured you'd get a kick out of this shit, and just as he thought, you do, sighing deeply. -"Words can’t describe how pretty this is, Terry, so I’ll say nothing."- You turn to him, appearing serene, shrugging simply, your hand on his shoulders, touching him. He allows the gesture, leaning into it. Of course it was pretty. Desert Lillies, Verbenas, The Indigo Bush and Dune Evening Primroses spread on for miles. That's why he privatized the place. That's why he owned it. For you to indefinitely do what you liked with it. A gift you didn't even know was a gift just yet. -"Lets just enjoy it together, okay? Take in the moment."-

Terry feels his lips spread and a smile form in place of his stoicism so far.

He couldn't help himself. He brought you to a field of flowers and you were convinced he was the best of men. You were wearing a jacket riddled with pins, a weaved wicker purse, the birds chirping and your face was sunkissed with light; the fact he had to ruin this moment and squash the innocence of it both filled with blood with heat and made his gut lurch out in pain. Terry allows his himself to cackle quietly ---- at first as a slow rumble emanating from the back of his throat and then open, into his own chin. You give him a confused look. You were going to hate him so much for what he was going to right now and he both relished and reviled the fact.

-"What’s wrong?"-

You ask.

-"This is really funny."-

He manages. And it was. It genuinely was.

-"What is?"-

You prod on, scooting closer like you were worried for him, your fingers squeezing and kneading his shoulder and the concern shoots his blood down into his groin; at this point, he's outright laughing. How could he not?

-"Peace Corps."-

Those two words alone provide him with enough humor for him to barely contain it.

-"I was in Vietnam, but not with the Peace Corps."-

Terry shakes his head, feeling his own mouth pucker up comically, like he was teasing a child for believing his elaborate story about the toothfairy, and still, your trust stands there unshaken, your expressions lost and confused. You really bought into this crap.

-"Wait, what do you mean?"-

You scoot in your seat, fidgeting a bit, poor, beautiful idiot, your bag and all its many jiggling keychains and ornaments firmly clutched against you like a subconsciously protective barrier, your body facing him. A man just comes along, tells you a story and you go with it because your philosophy in life and first instinct was to not think someone just went along lying for its own sake, but see, that's where you were wrong. Terry supposed he loved and hated you for it, envying and coveting you and how unpolluted your mind was. Anyone could've come along and sold you on some bullshit and the idea of that momentarily infuriates him and relieves him --- he was infinitely glad it was him and that he was the first.

-"And I lied because you provided me with such wonderful sensations. Hated to see it ruined."-

He continues, ignoring your previous queries, the budding shock on your face positively delicious; the way it spontaneously grew in scope in real time as you sat in his busted up car surrounded by a meadow of flowers like a scared fairy or a deer caught in the headlights about to be trampled --- he could have the image and the whole scene commissioned and painted, framed and hanged above the mantlepiece facing his tub so he could have the vision of your naiveté collapsing in on itself for all eternity, admiring it while he bathed, had his mourning champagne, took calls. Touched himself underneath the searing hot water. Squeezing his cock in the palm of his hand. -"What sensations?"- You mouth, more breath than words at this point.

Your body language changing slightly. Skittish. Uncertain.

-"Friendship."-

Terry smiles into the word.

-"Hope."-

He adds leisurely, chewing on those four letters like they're bones.

-"Love."-

Finally, his hand grips the place where your shoulder blades meet your neck, caressing and squeezing there, ensuring his own body is distant; he was touching you and you weren't to touch him. Not when you were so close to realization and then, with in an instant, it hits you. The light from your eyes is gone and he feels the space in his trousers tighten. His teeth digging into his lower lip. -"You were in the army!?"- You gasp, like your lungs lacked the oxygen necessary for you to actually raise your tone and yell out, your voice crackling your throat as you tried to move backwards, further into your seat and the door on the passenger's side --- Terry doesn't let go, his hand still ever-present on your neck. A lover's touch transforming into a vice grip within seconds. He shrugs, deliberately mocking, paraphrasing and twisting every hippie-dippie bullshit talking point he's ever heard ever since he's stepped back on American soil.

-"What can I say, I was a demographically exploitable, impressionable youth and the big mean man from the poster tricked me into killing Gooks. I wouldn't have otherwise. I'm strictly anti-violence."-

Terry senses his own brows shooting up in a make-belief mask of feigned, parodied innocence only for your own to furrow and you look offended. Angry, for once in your life. Beautiful enough to consume. -"You're making fun of me!"- You cry out, desperately as he grabs you, both hands, and you struggle, to no avail. Your running days were over. You'd stay put for a change and you'd stay down. -"Don't you love me?"- Terry cocks his head only to find you quelled. Hesitating. Oh, you loved him alright. You just loved the pacifist idiot listening to you how you wanted to be a nomad backpacking in every backwater dump on the surface of the planet and not the man with the past and you couldn't immediately reconcile the two without betraying everything you stood for. -"I ---"- Your mouth falls open and he feels you shiver, your words caught on the precipice of your mouth. -"You said you wanted to see ancient places before they're changed, but do you think they were built on notions of peace? Every empire you'd like to travel to with me was built on war and conquest."- He shakes you, only slightly, hoping it'll make you come to your senses. You thought Xerxes in the remnants of Persia you wanted to see was a pacifist with a flower garden atop of his head or something? Did your beatnik friends tell you that? Your eyes shimmer, horrified, glossed over with suppressed tears he wanted to lick off your cheeks. -"God, what else did you lie about to me."- Your voice is barely audible, raspy, like the gravitas of the situation only just started settling in. If he wanted to mess with you further, now would be the ideal time, so he does just that, pointing his nose across the field, towards the skyline of the city and the tallest tower visible from plain on the outskirts of the highway. Impossible to avoid, juxtaposed like a distant fortress against the blue sky vista. Terry points the tip of his nose towards it, feeling rather triumphant of Dynatox's expansion. -"That compound. I own it. Along with half of the real estate in the country. Content?"- He snarks, tilting his head at your outrage. Not only was your lover a war criminal, he was an eco-terrorist mass profiteer as well. He's fucked you and you loved it too. -"I don't know you. Jesus. I don't even know you."- You murmur, wiggling out of his grip and moving because he lets you, very well intending to give chase once you practically jump over the closed door of the van, and unto the grass. Sure, why not. He'd get to fuck you knee-deep in flowers next. It was perfectly in-line with the life you led. He steps out of the Ford, slamming the door shut, his arms open and inviting once he finds you hastily walking down the meadow, no doubt intending to hitchhike your way back to the city. He couldn't allow that.

-"Why are you running? You've got it all now! A ticket away from backpacking your entire life away with a bunch of aimless bum punks!"-

He speaks plainly then; the jig is up, he tells himself, and playing games as only as fun as the revelation of true intent. His true intent being, taking you, his diamond in the rough, cleaning you up and separating you from those who'd get you hooked on a life of slumming it on every street from here to India. His wild blossom needed to be plucked, re-planted, placed in a hothouse, tended to, domesticated and copiously watered until it bends or breaks for him. You're practically running at this point, glancing back at him, face radiating ire. You were pissed the fuck off. Nice. Perfect.

-"Maybe I'm an aimless bunk punk too! Have you thought about that!? But, at least I didn't kill anyone! And I don't lie! Get away from me!"-

You yell, and Terry doesn't recall the last time he's seen you this angry, if ever, but the vision makes him smile and this point, he's so hard he can practically feel himself pulsate as he follows after you at a brisk pace, allowing you enough leeway to have you stupidly think you can just walk away from him while he's right there only to come up from behind you, always in your shadow, grab your forearms from the back, stop you in your tracks, spinning you to face him. Chest to chest, face to face, there was no escape. Why should his well-earned Summer of Love ever end? Have you asked yourself that?

-"See, that's where you're wrong, baby."-

He practically giggles, steadying you in his grip.

You're slippery, like a bar of soap. Luckily, he's stronger, not intending to let go.

-"You aren't an aimless bum punk. You're mine."-

He states the fucking obvious, grinning at the levels of your vexation growing.

-"And you are lying. You're lying to yourself when you refuse to fess up that you care about us."-

He inhales your scent, the tip of his nose dragging itself against the outline of your neck, inhaling all that sweat, the aroma of the great outdoors, the pollen of the field caught on your skin, smiling against you as he spoke, feeling you dig your fingers and nails into his arms, the jab of pain a relish, like an injected aphrodisiac in his system. His hand travels down, cupping you between your legs and on instinct, he hears your breath hitch. You liked that, didn't you? He rubs up against the side of your thigh, craving raw, dry friction. -"When you pretend that targets living in mud huts halfway across the planet getting napalmed matter to you as much as they do."- He presses his mouth next to the lobe of your ear, caressing the shell with his lip, feeling a slight shiver there, like your body spoke out in confirmation instead of you, even as you pushed and struggled, spilling words of venom when it was so clear your very nervous system craved to shout out a definitive 'yes'. -"You murderous son of a ---"- You seethe, trashing only to get hooked even more firmly against him, until he's practically embracing you not unlike wrangling a slithering Cobra, attempting to tame it. What's wrong? Were you afraid your friends will exclude you if they find out you've been getting fucked by a vet? Will they label you as less progress for it? Take your hippie credentials away? The continues massaging the seam between your hips, swearing he could feel the warm sensation of moisture and heat through the fabric, watching your mouth part even as you struggled. Bodies don't lie. He finds your zipper and the material of your panties underneath it, soaked to the very flesh. Ah, yes. There it was, all your political philosophies flying out the window proven just by how wet you were for him. -"You don't care about it that much."- Terry whispers laced with giggles, finding the bare skin of your cunt ready for his touch. Suddenly hungry, he devours your neck with kisses in-between words, pushing you backwards, hands all over, on the small of your back, around your waist, coaxing you down into the bed of flowers. He was going to have you, right here, right now. He's slept under the open sky and the wilderness for months and months only up until recently before rotating back to civilization, so for all intents and purposes, this should've been true return to form. -"You care about how good my fingers feel inside of your cunt much, much more and the thought of not being morally upstanding while getting fucked kills you on the inside."- He laughs, on top of you, finding you were no longer fighting it, maybe just barely, enough to make it interesting for him. The faintest spice of struggle with his hand up your leaking hole.

-"It kills you that your lizard brain rules you when I'm near."-

His hand propped up underneath your head, pillowing your contact with the bare soil underneath you, he admires you, all of you, cooing to you surrounded by flowers bent and broken at the stem through the impact of you both laying down in the bosom of the meadow, or more like, crashing into it; he supposed he despised the natural world as a whole --- a distaste he cultivated in Vietnam, in the jungle, overgrown, deep, impossible to traverse, during six months of monsoon rain, the perpetual, sinking moisture of the ground and the insects, centipedes as long as his arms, snakes, scorpions and things stemming forth from the muddy, slick bowls of the earth that would make any man's skin crawl, mowed down, culled and leveled, sprayed from above with an orange dust, the brainchild that birthed everything he wanted Dynatox to be --- a great equalizer of nature. The big, final X. But, you? Seeing you surrounded by the natural world? He supposed the only way he could ever tolerate nature is if it is in relation to you personally and no other way at all. Terry found no use for it unless it was in connection to you. That was his own lizard brain working overtime when you were near and he wanted you, needed to hear it from your own mouth that you were much the same as him. Weak around the resolve where he was concerned. -"Say it."- He demands it, firm lipped, his hand fishing around his trousers, pulling his cock out, hard, dripping precum, entirely ready for you. You shake your head, avoiding eye contact, pinning your gaze up at the sky; he could swear he spotted the faint, pale glimmer of suppressed tears. -"No."- You mouth bluntly. No? That just wouldn't do in this dojo. -"Say. It."- Terry repeats himself, insisting, annunciating every syllable, not intending to do it a second time, pulling your trousers down to your knees and spreading you. You could've shut your knees, but you never do; not that it would've stopped him, if anything, it would make this all the more profoundly enjoyable, but he reads desire, guilty, transgressive, hidden between the lines, yearning to burst forth. You wanted him too, but it went against your core values. Were you really as free as you thought you were, though? If you couldn't even fuck who you really wanted? Sounded like a miserable way to live. You moan and sob up at the same time once he's inside of you, bucking your hips up against him, managing a single word.

-"Yes."-

-"Yes, what?"-

-"It kills me ---"-

You stutter, attempting to repeat his words back to him beat by beat, only to stop, cutting yourself off once Terry picks up a pace, back and forth, back and forth, his fingers long since having undone your blouse, your tits and nipples bare, kneading them, greedy, wanton, unsure of what he'd do first, what he'd rather touch and when, finding he wanted all of you at once, no waiting, no hesitation, on a plot of land he owned, fucking someone who belonged to him.

-"What kills you?"-

He encourages, kissing along your jawline, biting, all spit, lack of decorum.

Finally, you break, and the tears flow like a river, your hands pinned above your head.

Complete defeat. Complete surrender.

-"You do."-

You whimper under the warm breeze, giving up even the faintest notion of finishing your sentence the way you should've; but he didn't mind this subversion. Actually, he rather prefered it, finding your mouth and kissing it deep, longer and hard, separating himself if only just a moment mid-trust to admire his handiwork and the pink bruise left behind on the side of your perfect lips that promised to grow blue by tomorrow --- a punishment for his tiny lack of control. Punishment for you not parroting his words back the way he ordered. But, you weren't going anywhere anymore, the final destination being right here, in this very city, so he'd have all the time in the world to train you as he liked. Teach you as he wanted and he feels his own throat hum in contentment, his cock lodged deep inside of you, remembering your badge and how he still had it somewhere in the inside pocket of his jacket left behind on the driver's seat of his truck; claiming one thing and then claiming another and ultimately, claiming everything you were, piece after piece, part after part, from the smallest, most insignificant pin, to the biggest, most crucial segments that made up who you were.

-"Good. Perfect."-

Terry murmurs victoriously, smiling, caressing the hair sticking to your forehead slick with sweat.

[bijoumikhawal]

Nose rings in Egypt

Wearing nose rings in the Eastern Mediterranean actually goes back to the time that the Torah was being written. Referred to as nezemim, Rebecca is noted as wearing one. The practice continues to this day, though they are less common and have grown to be more strongly associated with South Asia and Alt sub cultures. Today it is thought that the wearing of nose rings in India may have been imported from West Asia (the assertion that they were brought over by the Mughals seems inaccurate, however, as the first mention of them is from around 1000 AD)- the discussion is somewhat contentious and unfortunately often feeds into political violence and bias against Muslims when mentioned.

The earliest modern depuction of a nose ring being worn in Egypt comes from the 1830s, thanks to our old enemy and research dog, Edward William Lane. He describes then as being made of brass or occasionally gold with glass beads attached to them, an inch to an inch and a half in diameter, says they are worn on the right side of the nose. His account associates them with poor women. He records the name as "khizám" or "khuzám".

A difficulty comes in recognizing nose ring examples held in museums; I have found a few items resembling this style, but they are described as earrings. The V&A is responsible for two cases, and given they have gotten information wrong on both Ancient and Modern Egyptian jewelry, my suspicion is these examples may be misidentified. The two examples will be shown promptly.

Another example of dubious identification comes from a design that may be multipurpose; silver rings with an openwork barrel at one end. The TRC Leiden institute has an example from Saudi Arabia and claims its a nose ring, but it bears close resemblance to some Egyptian examples identified as earrings, and those resemble some Coptic bronze examples also identified as earrings. To my mind this style also resembles Amazigh earrings/head ornaments (these were sometimes attached to the headdress, not the ears themselves). It is also possible that TRC Leiden has misidentified the item.

While Lane says nose rings were worn all over Egypt, the modern discussion I've found strongly associates them with Bahariya, where they are called gatar or qatrah. There, they are made of gold (usually 12 carat), with filigree and granulation filling the lower half, worn on the right side by married women. They also typically have a large flat circle of gold covering the gap where the wire goes through the nose. This is either soldered on or apart of the central wire the nose ring is built around. Occasionally a coral or glass bead is threaded into the wire that passes through the nose. They are never made of silver, as local women say silver would damage the blood vessels in the nose. They also feel that the nose ring prevents pain and headaches while worn, and when a piece has to be sent off to repair, they urge the person transporting it to hurry back.

I've found some discussion of nose rings as worn by Nubians, Sinai Bedouins, and Bisharin (Beja), Ababda (who have closely intermarried with the Bisharin), and Rashayda. The name recorded as used by Nubians and Beja is zimam. I haven't seen enough examples of Nubian or Beja Egyptian nose rings to draw conclusions about common manufacture, but I do have a few examples. One piece, attributed to Egypt by the Philadelphia museum, is a sliver ring with part of the wire flattened and cut halfway through. Azza Fahmy also provides a photo, putting it under a collection of earrings from the Red Sea area. Similar nose rings can be seen in these two photos from Sudan. I have also seen a photo allegedly of an Egyptian Nubian girl with a gold nose ring that has a similar partially flattened design.

Other Sudanese nose rings I've seen are gold, with a chain leading from the ring to the hair, in a similar fashion to the nath in India. However, these are not necessarily synonymous with Nubian nose rings, as Sudan has an Arab/Arabized cultural majority. At some point I'd like to ask someone who knows more about the subject if there is a distinction between the two styles, but as of now I do not know anyone who is knowledgeable on the matter, nor do I know of any academic texts that discuss the issue.

Beja jewelry has a strong influence from Nubian and Sudanese styles, owing to the fact that they live in proximity, and that more Beja live in Sudan than Egypt. Like Nubians, the Beja are an Indigenous group. They're believed to be related to the Blemmyes and the original group referred to as Medjay in Ancient Egypt, and some ostracon exist of their languages written in the Coptic alphabet (The Nubian alphabet is related to the Coptic alphabet as well, with unique letters for certain sounds). I have little information on the Rashayda, but they call their nose ring zimam. They claim to be descended from an Arab tribe, and some information I've seen implies they've intermarried with the Beja. Two nose piercings are in use by the Beja and Rashayda; a diamond shaped one worn in the center bulb of the nose, worn by Beja women, and gold nose rings with engraved designs or strung with beads, worn by both. 21k is the preference in Nubian goldwork, and this seems to be true of these groups as well.

In Sinai, the nose ring is called a shenaf. It has a great deal of similarity to Palestinian nose rings, and has a similar construction to Bahariya nose rings with the lower half full of filigree and granulation. It also sometimes has beads and hanging pieces. It is most commonly made of gold.

Other miscellaneous pictures of Egyptian nose rings:

Further reading:

https://newvoices.org/2021/05/14/most-decorated-women/ https://newvoices.org/2021/05/24/i-put-a-ring-in-your-nose/ | Regarding Jewish piercings and body art

https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.dharmadispatch.in/amp/story/history/the-nose-ring-or-nath-is-an-import-from-muslim-invaders https://www.naturaldiamonds.com/style/natural-diamonds-nose-pin-history-legacy/ | regarding Indian nose rings. The first one is unfortunately incredibly biased against Muslims, and I wouldn't link it if I could find a better write up of the argument regarding nose rings being an import to India. I debated including it at all, but figured I should stick to my rule for citing biased sources in Egyptian fashion research; include it, but note the problem.

The Traditional Jewelry of Egypt by Azza Fahmy

The Manners and Customs of the Modern Egyptians by Edward William Lane

https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79718/earring-unknown/

https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79793/earring-unknown/

https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79718/earring-unknown/

http://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79342/earring/earring-unknown/

https://collections.vam.ac.uk/item/O79454/earring-unknown/

https://trc-leiden.nl/collection/?trc=&zoek=saudi&cat=Accessories&subcat=&g=&s=24&f=0&id=2435

https://www.philamuseum.org/collection/object/41469

[calciumdeficientt]

What if I asked for more max headcanons.,., *bats eyelashes*

Ohohohohhoh okay can do. Fuck that weird bitch forreal

SIR MAXELL WHITLOCKE IV HCS

Sensitive to light, silver, garlic, holy water and cru- oh no wait. No no no hold on that’s a vampire. My bad. He’s probably just sensitive to light from all the many hours spent trawling the depths of Reddit like some kind of goblin, and maybe has some kind of allergy to silver jewellery. He’ll die if you stake him through the heart but that seems like pretty standard procedure for any living creature. Maybe sprinkle a little bit of holy water on him, or text him a bible verse or something if he’s annoying you and he’ll get out of your hair.

Hunched constantly, unlike Gary its not intentional, he just has bad posture and just a smiiiiidge of scoliosis that never got fixed because he kicked and screamed and bit so much has a kid that his parents, nannies and other caregivers refused to attempt putting the back brace on him. So now he stands at that creepy angle all the time, and probably will for the rest of eternity. The hunch will only get worse as he ages, so when he’s and old man he’ll probably be folded completely in half like a contortionist.

Technically his DAD is the one with the knighthood, he was given it for charity work he did in Africa. Max just uses his title as leverage over the preps. That was actually how he got in, he was asked for a name and as soon as ‘Sir’ left his lips they were rolling out the red carpet for him and preparing a room private room in Harrington House. Likely commandeering one of the other, poorer preps’ rooms. The IV part is real, he was named after his great great grandfather, who had ancestral ties to the East India company but we don’t talk about that… wait what’s that red dot… its moving oh god. No N-

Has a series of lab rats he likes to do tests on. Noting crazily sinister, just little mazes. Although sometimes the mazes are more like labyrinths, equipped with little minotaurs in the form of his pet snake Basil. He likes seeing them work through the puzzles and often doesn’t name them until they’ve succeeded in at least one maze. They have to earn their names, its pointless getting attached to them if they’re completely brainless. Taffy is his oldest and best rat, as well as being his best confidant and just generally the snuggliest.

The phrase ‘say it dont spray it’ was invented the day he got his headgear on by the way. Super cool claim to faim to be honest. He cannot say a single sentence without drooling on himself or others. It’s really incredible how much spittle one boy can produce. Even when he’s just sat there, he produces volumes of saliva that could easily fill an Olympic sized swimming pool, his mouth doesn’t close all the way, so its not really his fault he drools like an old, blind English Bulldog.

Really wants friends and approval. He raised himself from when he was old enough to dress, shower and otherwise exist unattended. Hence why he clings to Gary like a barnacle and much like a barnacle, he’s just as much of a nuisance. Gary gives him praise, approval and guidance, much like his parents were supposed to. So he hangs on his every word and praises him like a god. He has a little shrine in the corner of his rim full of Gary’s stuff. Discarded notebook paper, old yearbook photos, gum. its as creepy as it is wholesome. He just likes to keep the mementos. Very is his first and only humans friend, so its safe to say Max is more than a little obsessed with what he has to say. Because of this sheltered past, it makes Maxwell Gary’s personal errand boy and puppet. He’s more likely to get away with stuff because of the privilege of being rich, and that little weasel knows it.

[ramayantika]

~ The one deceived

»»————> ◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐◐<————««

O lovers, enchanters of your sweet maidens, must you keep in mind to never displease the queen of your hearts.

'She who adorns herself in fine silks and jewels, awaits you at night hiding from the entire town in the heart of the forest where fierce beasts lay, she must never be kept await for long and certainly must not be left alone if ever your eyes droop for a night. Who knows someone else might snatch the beauty away?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐰𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫

With dark eyes not blue lotus

she fashions a welcome garland.

Petals she strews—

not various species of jasmine

but smiles.

Water she offers from ripe

moistened breasts

rather than ceremonial jars.

With only her own body

she makes for her

lover an

auspicious welcome.

~ Erotic Love Poems from India

A tightly knotted braid pinned by jewelled pins moves like a serpent by her waist. She carefully arranges flowers in her hair, just the way he likes. She spent months apart from him, and now is the time to bring long lost romance back into their lives -- of sweet nothings, stolen kisses, teasing words and the bliss of just being around your lover.

The morning was spent in perfuming the hair and the body. His favourite scent: the rain perfused soil. It always enchanted him when she passed by the busy market place in front of him. She usually preferred a light scent of roses, but today she has to make him heady as soon as he catches a whiff of air around him.

A necklace decked with moonstones sits on her making her look dazzling. Her wrists are adorned with glass bangles, and a shy smile teases her lips when her friends tease her on the various ways glass bangles can be broken tonight.

"Quiet. You must not speak like this. He's a gentle lover," she admonishes them with a stern look that soon melts into a beautiful blush and her friends once again start teasing her.

"You look perfect now. If you decorate yourself anymore, your dazzling form shall blind him as soon as he enters the house," says a friend, dabbing a kohl dot behind the jewelled maiden's ear to ward off the evil eye.

»»——⍟——«« ♧♧ »»——⍟——««

The letter in betel leaves 🥀

Handmaiden bears a large plate on her tender hands.

Soft silks from lands far and wide,

jewels crafted in nothing but perfection,

perfume extracted from only exotic flowers and oils,

But what pleases the bejewelled beauty?

A silver box revealing a richly stuffed Kaushal paan.

'In separation I have burned for several moons, and my heart wailed in agony. Where do I carry this ocean of love when you are the shore that binds me to you? Oh, my dearest, my lovely moon, it is you I desire. Come meet my by the riverside near the sweet-smelling jasmine bower.'

.・。.・゜✭・»»——⍟——««.・✫・゜・。.

झांझर झमके सुन झमके आधी रात को

उसको तोको न रोको तोको न रोको

आधी रात को।

𝐎𝐡, 𝐡𝐨𝐰 𝐈 𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐦𝐲 𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬.

𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐚𝐧𝐜𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭,

𝐌𝐲 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐬𝐡𝐲𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬,

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐈 𝐚𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐛𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭?

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐥𝐰𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐨𝐧 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐤𝐢𝐧 𝐛𝐮𝐫𝐧𝐬 𝐚𝐬 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐦𝐲 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭.

𝐓𝐞𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐬𝐞 𝐟𝐥𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐝𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐫𝐞,

𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐥𝐚𝐢𝐦 𝐦𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐚 𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬...

'We sipped on moon-gleam at midnight.

And the moon rose in our eyes, at midnight.'

-- Delicate as the moonstone, bangle laden wrists

alert the love god who stands ever ready with love arrows.

She traverses down the narrow forest path,

Her feet leave behind fresh red footprints on earth,

And jingling anklets make the serpents steer off her way.

-- The jasmine bower fresh and fragrant as ever,

Fireflies adorn the bushes like earthen lamps in a house's courtyard.

The moon unveiled shines on the resplendent maiden

And like the chakora, she fills her eyes with the moonbeams,

In each, a vision of the man prisoned in heart.

-- The forest grows still.

Doe eyes search for him in every corner of the forest.

Is he playing games today? Must I walk and search for him now?

The love god too has dozed off, his bow and arrows discarded beside.

The garland around her neck now frail,

Tiny buds fall down and mingle with the earth...

»»————>○○○○○○○○○○○○<————««

And, rasikas, here we behold a man who did not keep his promise. Sends the extravagant betel leaf and promises of giving a beautiful night, but gives in to the sweet embrace of slumber while the beauty awaits in the forest, her once radiant face now pale in fear and annoyance.

Oh, the pain of shattered dreams filled of love, sweet words, passionate touches and long nights. How can one scorn a woman this way after long nights of loneliness?

Chuckle in mirth my friends, for the man dreams of kissing her lips in his sleep. Who shall tell him about his lover's wrath at dawn break tomorrow?

*******

Breathing hard into the lotus calyx

Annoyed at his care less actions,

She wipes an angry tear from her soft cheek.

Tosses away the wretched droopy garland,

Flings the silver anklet far across the room.

Red lips that should have been kissed curse the sun.

Arms that should have been curled around his neck

Lay bare bereft of bangles on the silken sheets.

Her bosom that should have carried drops of perspiration from a sweet night of love

That should have been kissed tenderly, Adorned with a chain of bites

Now heave in anger, wanting a respite.

The love god scoffs at the man yet deep in sleep

Who makes love the scorned woman in waking.

The love goddess pitifully caresses the heart broken girl,

And winces when the moon-like beauty sends

A silver box encasing an empty betel leaf and a lone anklet

»»——⍟——««

Tags: @ratna-the-furball @swayamev @inexhaustible-sources-of-magic @pulihora @arachneofthoughts @krishna-priyatama @yehsahihai @reallythoughtfulwizard @ketchup-jar-ka @manujanolavu @morally-gayy @celestesinsight @desi-cleopatra

I used a lot of references from kamasutra for this and probably this is one of my in a way most explicit lol

[princesssarisa]

Heidi Ann Heiner's Sleeping Beauties now offers just two more Sleeping Beauty tales before moving on to Snow White tales.

*The first is The Story of the Prince In Love from Egypt, which is included in some editions of The Arabian Nights as The Ninth Captain's Tale. In this variant, the curse results from a rash wish by the heroine's mother before her birth, similar to the opening of Hans-my-Hedgehog by the Brothers Grimm. A merchant's barren wife prays for a daughter even if the smell or touch of flax should be deadly to her. Soon afterward she has a daughter, Sittukhan, and keeps her away from flax as she grows up. But one day a sultan's son sees Sittukhan and falls ill with love for her. An old woman goes to fetch her for him, but ignorantly gives her flax to spin, and Sittukhan catches a flax splinter in her finger and falls down dead. Her grieving parents build a palace in the middle of a river, where they display her body on an ivory bed. When the prince gets word of this, he goes to the palace to mourn, but sees the flax splinter in Sittukhan's finger and removes it, reviving her. They lie in bed together for forty days and forty nights. Then, every three days, the prince goes to meet with his Vizir, but then returns to Sittukhan. The girl finally becomes curious about where the prince is going, so she hides and spies on him when he leaves again. Unfortunately, when he catches her spying, he becomes angry and abandons her. But soon afterward, Sittukhan finds a wish-granting ring, and wishes for a palace next to the prince's and to become more beautiful than ever. When the prince sees his "new neighbor," he doesn't recognize her, but falls in love with her, and his mother the queen brings her gifts on his behalf. But Sittukhan scornfully destroys all the gifts and insists that she'll only marry the prince if he pretends to be dead and is carried into her palace wrapped in seven shrouds. He obeys, and Sittukhan unwraps the shrouds, then reproaches him in words that mirror his reproach when he caught her spying. This makes the prince recognize her and they happily reconcile.

**A comment for @faintingheroine: I wonder if this Middle Eastern tale influenced the choice in the 1971 Turkish Snow White film to have Snow White's glass coffin placed on an island in the middle of a river.

*Then comes The Petrified Mansion from India. In this tale, a prince goes on a long journey alone. Finally, he comes to a grand mansion filled with life-sized stone statues of people and animals. At last he comes to a room where a beautiful princess lies seemingly dead on a bed of gold. Beside her pillow is a golden stick, which the prince picks up to examine, and in doing so, he accidentally touches her forehead with it. At this, the princess revives, and all the statues change back into living people and animals, including the princess's father the king. He explains that the touch of a silver stick put the princess to sleep and turned everyone else to stone (no context is given), and only the golden stick could revive them. The prince and princess are married, of course, and joyfully go back to the prince's home kingdom. There they find that his mother is ill with grief and his father has gone blind from weeping, because their son has been gone for so many years. But a touch of the golden stick restores the queen's health and the king's sight, so they all live happily ever after.

This ends the Sleeping Beauty portion of the book, for now anyway. Next is the portion devoted to a tale that comes in considerably more variants: Snow White.

@ariel-seagull-wings, @adarkrainbow, @themousefromfantasyland

[kaalbela]

Danke-ka-kaam or Danka embroidery is a type of metal embroidery from Rajasthan in India. It’s a 400-year old embroidery craft that has been primarily practiced by people of the Bohra community in Udaipur.

The danka is a small square plate, varied in size, but not bigger than 1.5 cm. Though originally it was made of pure gold, now silver-plated with gold dankas are used. To make the danka, thin, well-finished and polished silver sheets of 98 percent purity are electroplated in gold in strips of 30 cm x 2.5 cm. These are washed in water and polished with fine sand. Then the strips are cut into 1.5 cm squares and the squares hammered with a stone implement till they resemble the tip of an ice cream cone. This method is called korpatti-ka-kaam. The cost of the finished piece is calculated according to its weight. This decorative technique is usually worked on fabrics like satin, chiffon or silk fabric. The fabric is stretched tightly on a wooden frame before it is embroidered and the craftsman sits on the floor. Danka pieces are spread on the fabric as required by the design. The danka is pierced with a sharp needle, bringing out the thread through the fabric. About three to five strands of gold or silver wire, called kasab, are kept over each danka and couched down along its edges. It is secured with eight stitches in the shape of a knot. Two stitches go into the back and the other two at each corner and two on the front. About three to five strands of kasab wire are placed over each danka along its edges. It is secured with eight stitches in the shape of a knot - two at the back, one in each corner and two in the front. The most popular motifs used in danka work are inspired by nature - the sun, the moon as well as the paisley design in a stylised form. Round and flat metal braids about one quarter of a centimetre in width are used to highlight the design. Additional stitches used include the chain stitch, satin stitch for the design filling, while stem and running stitches are for lighter work.

1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / 6 / 7 / 8 / 9 / 10 | textile series

[johns-prince]

What breaks my heart (though a lot breaks my heart about these two) is that, whatever had transpired between John and Paul during the escape-hopefully-this-fixes-it trip to India, it's that neither had wanted the outcome of it to be what ended up happening.

I mean even with John clearly spiraling out of control of his mind and emotions, trying to deal with it all from childhood to then and now with drugs and alcohol and sex—I can't bring myself to believe he wanted to have the falling out, the divorce, the interpreted separation of connection from the soul, from Paul.

All complicated and dramatic and bluffing and lying to himself evidently points to no, he didn't.

He burned down the temple he loved so much because he loved it so much. He burned down the Beatles—and with it, he burned down what he and Paul essentially created together (as George said, it was in 1967 that John and Paul became a duo... That is, not super on the nose dig at apparently the innate dynamics of the Beatles George was privy too... Or at least believed he'd witnessed become the inevitable outcome of his band in 1967. Remember, 1967 was like, peak John and Paul attached-at-the-hip proximity probably similar to that of when they were just teenagers in Liverpool together)

Not to exclude the other two, because John was so desperate and in need of his friends, the people he had grown up with, he'd wanted them to buy an island and live together on it, just them, houses connected through tunnels.

But, as harsh as it sounds, John could live not working with or necessarily having George and Ringo... But Paul.

Now Paul and him, in many interviews, confidently proclaiming once The Beatles went bust, then that's alright—it'd be John and Paul, Paul and John, still writing music together, still creating together. Paul helping John with his books, John and Paul writing music together as old farts to so graciously hand off for younger musicians to play; John and Paul even having the audacity to mention maybe dabbling in creating a musical play, even when John apparently had no interest in musicals whatsoever.

It was John and Paul, JohnandPaul, and it was since 1957. George was just speaking the truth of it all out loud:

HADDAD: Then, your musical ambitions didn’t really begin to take form until the two of you joined with John Lennon?

GEORGE: Paul and John were the spark that ignited The Beatles. Of course, we weren’t The Beatles then, and we didn’t have Ringo, but that was the start. The air was filled with excitement, and even though we went through silly names like The Quarrymen Skiffle Group, The Moondogs, The Moonshiners, and The Silver Beatles, before evolving into that group everyone grew to know and love, the crucible was in 1967 [sic; 1957] when John and Paul became a duo.”

— George Harrison, interview w/ M. George Haddad for Men Only. (November, 1978) [X]

John and Paul were the spark that ignited The Beatles. The Beatles were John and Paul's, and George was simply aware of it. By 1967, John and Paul were a duo, at least in George's viewpoint: the inevitable happened, what George suspected to be, anyway.

So to tell me that John had actually wanted to burn it all down and destroy this Thing that was in fact his and Paul's, essentially burning Paul (and himself) in the proces, because he loved them, it, him, too much. He wanted that.

I refuse to believe it.

I refuse to believe it because even John couldn't buy in to his own lies about why he had actually been the one to finally bring an end to Lennon-McCartney. Yoko's validation of his lies and encouragement of letting go of the past and all those that hurt him (Paul) might've enabled him, but it didn't make the lies of it all stick. He couldn't justify it in the end, he couldn't let go.

It's heartbreaking to think how neither of them wanted it to go the way it did.

Paul probably didn't even fathom it. He's gotten into enough rows with John, and while this one could've definitely been different, been worse, been something that even stable and strong and level headed and perfectly centered Paul McCartney couldn't even withstand, he couldn't control, he couldn't neatly deal with. What he couldn't do for John. What he might not have been able to understand, for John, for whatever reason.

But they've had fights, they've had their trials and tribulations together... What's another one? Why wouldn't they be able to climb over it or sweep it under the rug? Or even come to a compromise, at some later date.

Paul certainly didn't want what ended up happening, with The Beatles, with John.

It damn near tore him up and left him a pitiful, pathetic, alcoholic of a man. He agonized over this impending doom of another loss he couldn't stop.

Of course the main strain between John and Paul after the India excursion was only made worse and exacerbated by other outside forces and John's dwindling psyche and general stability.

No matter how hard he tried, truly fought for it all, it was set up for failure by the inside out.

Ringo was the only one trying at points and Linda was literally his saving grace.

Paul felt he had to divorce The Beatles (divorce John) because he felt he had no choice. John tapped out. George was angry. John wasn't even trying, after all Paul did was try and try and try.

What I'm trying to say is, and not just beat this potential dead horse: what is truly heartbreaking, is that John and Paul since the time of their boundless partnership, friendship, collaboration, and essentially finding their soulmate in each other (Paul's word, not mine) they had it set it would be them, together, forever, creating and inspiring and being together, during and after The Beatles.

You could say it was unrealistic, that it was just the faulty and frivolous daydreaming boyish promises young men barely in their twenties make in the heat of the hour of that day and week and month and year.

But they meant it. You can tell they meant it, you can tell, especially from Paul, that he meant it truly and earnestly and with shameless affection and fondness for his relationship with John, that he wanted to continue whatever this was with him, after The Beatles and on.

It's heartbreaking, because whatever was transpiring between John and Paul and which came to a head in India, whatever happened in India, they didn't want it to turn out and end in the way that it had.

John and Paul loved each other, indescribably so.

It's so heartbreaking when two people who clearly loved each other and are like soulmates, can't end up staying together, have a falling out or life finds a way to tear them apart because life isn't fair.

It's tragic.

There's an extra heaviness to it when you come to fully realize "Nobody wanted what happened to happen."

Neither John or Paul planned for it, for that kind of falling out, for a divorce. By all accounts and records, it hit like an agonizing and sudden septic natural disaster.

[thekiltongrammarwriter]

Girl I’ve Always Been | Childhood (1)

Pairing: Andie Bell x fem reader (Becca Bell x reader) childhood best friends

Summary: Her deep silver eyes shot up to you, wide and almost menacing. Her eyes were the same color as your father you noticed. Her lips were calm and poised as they eyed you, running down your figure to stop at your soiled trainers. Her bike was still on the ground, you could just make out the sticker that lined the bars. ‘Property of: Andie Bell’ written neatly on with a marker pen. Andie bell.

Series Warnings: Childhood innocence, toxic parents, Jason Bell being his own warning, hurt/comfort, found family, firecracker baby Becca Bell, featuring the very famous Roadie and Toadie, My take on the Bell family. Pre AGGGTM.

Authors note: I first Read A good girl guide to murder when it first released in 2019, and I absolutely adored it. It kept me on my feet and I fell head over heels for so many characters. I happen to be one of those people that sympathize a great deal with characters. One of those characters happened to be Andie bell. She was so complex, so versatile it was impossible to know her next move. I throughly enjoyed the dynamic between the Bell family, and in turn it made me love Andie more as a character. Not condoning her actions, but there is a saying, hurt people hurt people. I wrote this piece simply to explore Andie’s childhood, and explore it in my own special way. This is again solely for entertainment purposes. I do hope you enjoy it. (The cover photos will be altered when we get picts of India as Andie)

Words: well beyond 7k (Not Proofread. Expect grammar errors)

Your eyes peered out of the frosty window of the car your parents had been driving for what seemed like hours now. You watched as the bustling streets of London remained a firm solid memory in your mind, your eyes now peering over at the soft country road of a small town. Your mother eyed you with soft eyes from the front seat, leaning down so her firm hand made contact with your cheek, softly moving some strands of hair from your eyes. “I know the move was not what you expected sweetheart, but your father and I know you will grow to love Little Kilton. I hear there are even some lakes? Isn’t that so Charles?”

Your father’s soft smile filled his features as he peered at you with his soft silvery eyes, “Oh yes! Plenty of lakes! I hear they’re known for their tea rooms!”

What town wasn’t known for their tea rooms?

You couldn’t help but let out a laugh, watching as your fathers smile lifted at the sound of your voice, at the age of eight you had now moved more than four times. That was just part of the job given that your parents were the top familial therapist’s in the England. They had worked with so many families all over, from the great city of Cardiff in Wales to the great burrowing dales of Scotland. You had been too small to remember the early years, living in wales and Scotland, though you think now you’ll remember this move the most.

The white pale sign greets your eyes, ‘Little Kilton’ leaping of it as your father zooms past, he notices your wide gleaming eyes watching the small city center, the churchyard, the tea rooms. It’s all so new. It’s only when your father turns into a small neighborhood that you really feel anxious, your leg shaking against the car floor.

The houses all look similar to each other, terraced houses, orange brick lined with white window tills, black rimmed picked fences. Your father curses as he flips the map onto the left side, “Jenny do you have that paper I gave to you when we left tesco’s yesterday? The one with our address on the back?”

There is some shuffling as your mother peers through her rucksack, before producing a small piece of paper, you’re observant enough that you catch the street name, Hogg Hill. You laugh to yourself, imagining a street laden with Hoggs, all sorts of colors.

“There we are” your father sputters, twisting the wheel until the car is turning on a specific road. “Hog Hill, number 29”. The house isn’t what you expected, its a detached house, standing alone from all the others, the brick is devoid of color, probably withered away with age. The gate that lines the house is made of brick, metal bars upholding the bricks. The mail slot is pure gold, cleaner than any other mail slot you had seen in your short years of life.

The windows remain clean, and you’re about to ask your mother if the previous tenant had done a clean up when she answered for you, getting out of the car, eyes taking in the house.

“Would you look at that Charles-“ your mother begins, her words a void in your head as she begins to decorate the front door, talking a mile a minute about planting a small garden, to which you take the time to look round. The street is small, but you find yourself smiling as you watch an elderly couple walking their small dog, lead on and tail wagging. It makes your heart swell, but also in a way that has you begging for home. Your grandparents had been sad to see you go, and you along with them. You must have cried buckets upon leaving.

It’s your father who mentions it. You don’t remember noticing it yourself before he had brought it up, “My goodness will you get a look at that tree Jenny?? It’s bigger than five lots combined!” Your father comes near, rustling your ponytail and tickling you as he passes, “it’s a sycamore tree! Your favorite!”

Your eyes follow your fathers and right across from your house stands a tree. Not just any tree, a sycamore tree. Your grandmother’s favorite. It’s big and tall, overlooking the semi detached houses, and all you want to do is rush over and begin climbing. That small curiosity that beats in your chest aching to get out. You bet you could see all of Little Kilton from that high above the ground, you wager you could even see all of London, maybe even London Eye. It’s only then that your mother breaks your concentration, piling up your arms with boxes, as much as your eight year old hands can carry. And the tree is forgotten.

After nearly two days of decorating and helping your mum move the furniture you’re itching to get outside. It’s when your mother is out talking on the phone that you manage to sneak out from under her.

The weather is Cloudy, the breeze feeling nice on your skin, the tiny patch of sun that peeks out through the dreary clouds is warm. You tug your climbing shoes on, before racing across the street.

The sycamore is as big as your grandmothers, and you easily climb on it, making it halfway. You clutch the tree trunk in your hands as you peer down at the land bellow. Although your previous theory of being able to see London had been false, you never realized how small Little Kilton truly was. It stretched miles and miles, but seemed cut off from the rest of the world. A tiny town filled with tiny people.

A vast difference from the bustling Streets of London. Where the people were anything but tiny, crowds of people going to and from. The feel of the underground station rocking your feet, rattling the edges of your skin.

It was quiet here. Almost too quiet. The Unsettling sort of quiet that caused your mind to race with endless ideas. Here there was no underground station, no busy bodies going to and from, just the tiny town, where kids would play in the park and everyone knew your name.

It would only be a matter of time before your mum found you missing and would call for you to come back, help her finish off the garden out back. You sighed, moving to climb off the tree, making sure you were careful on the way, you didn’t want to get any scratches or broken limbs. Not like last time.

You hadn’t seen her at first, the tree had most likely been too high to peer down at, you had mostly kept your eyes on the rest of the town, not bothering to look bellow. A girl was on her bicycle, pedaling angrily down the hill. You watched from your front steps as her front tire hit a crack in the pavement. The first thing you noticed was, she didn’t cry. Or wince. She simply rose up from the road, ashy blonde hair now ruined as she pulled up her ponytail. Her scraped palms and unblemished face were a stark contrast to the fierce determination in her eyes. You could tell she was angry, from her raised brows and lips muttering incomprehensible words.

her knee was bleeding, racetracks of blood spilling over the wound that had no doubt gotten cut from the fall. You weren’t sure what possessed you at that moment to walk over to her. You were normally too scared, too sensitive to go talk to other children on your own. But something in you made your feet walk towards her.

Maybe it was because your parents were therapist or because you were observant and you always knew when people needed to talk, but you stood in front of her, your feet licking against the ground as you walked, alerting the blonde girl of your presence.

Her deep silver eyes shot up to you, wide and almost menacing. Her eyes were the same color as your father you noticed. Her lips were calm and poised as they eyed you, running down your figure to stop at your soiled converse. Her bike was still on the ground, you could just make out the sticker that lined the bars. ‘Property of: Andie Bell’ written neatly on with a marker pen.

Andie bell.

She eyed you for what felt like eternity, until you managed to speak. “I saw you fall”. If the girl thought your words were candid she didn’t show it, only rose those threatening eyebrows, her silvery eyes wild as she eyed you, like she was on the defense. You knew that because your parents had seen to many cases like that.

Andie couldn’t help but feel like your words were contradictory, like you cared but didn’t at the same time.

Her chest puffed outward, like a threatened puffer fish desperately trying to defend itself, and then the stubborn response fell from her lips, “Didn’t fall.” The words were harsh, menacing, with a sudden chill added to them. “just….lost balance is all”

You scoffed, eyebrows raised, clearly she had. The evidence was all around for others to see, You just stared at her for a second, wondering if she was being serious. Surly the way her knees were scrapped and her bike was dented had been evident of the fall, of some accident.

“But you did” you let out, head tilting, eyes soft.

Andie gulped, her nose flaring and eyes squinting in anger. “No I didn’t” she growled out. But you saw it—the tremor in her voice, the vulnerability she tried to hide. She got closer to your face, hands balling into fists. She didn’t like how weak you made her feel, and even more so that she couldn’t read you enough to decipher your emotions. It was beyond frustrating. but it was obvious you didn’t perceive . All you saw was an angry little girl with the same characteristics your parents would talk about.

You shrieked back as she stepped over to you, eyes still mapping out your emotions, trying to catch a glimpse of anything.

It took a second, but you could clearly see her anger, the way it was raw irritation. You planted your feet, stood your ground. She was in obvious need of help, you could tell from the way she held her body that pain was something she was not immune to.

“I have plasters. No shame in falling.” Andie’s gaze bore into yours, as if assessing whether your words held true. She was wary, like a wild animal caught in a snare and at that you watched as her eyes softened, and with a simple nod moved past you, bumping your shoulder lighty as she passed.

She followed you back to the house silently, scratched up bike trailing beside her.

She didn’t talk, didn’t even veer her eyes away from in front of her, pulling her dented bike by its handles. Once you made it to your new house, boxes and boxes still laying out in your fathers boot, evidence of you being freshly new to the town.

Your father smiled as you neared, his eyes kind and sweet, and you watched as his eyes took in the girl next to you, taking in her bleeding knee and soiled clothes. “Oh dear! Have a fall did we sweetheart?” He spoke, dropping the box he was carrying to come and eye Andie.

You watched the blonde girl, who seemed a bit nervous and confused as your father moved closer to her, she stepped back a bit, not too much for it to be noticeable, but you noticed. You could tell by her firm jaw and observant eyes that she was calculating her thoughts about your father.

“This is Andie Bell papa” you spoke out, moving to step in front of the small girl,a small smile perched on your lips. “She had a bit of a fall and I offered to help clean her up”.

You watched as Andie’s silver eyes moved to you, and you didn’t understand why you suddenly felt nervous, the beginnings of butterflies in your stomach.

Your father nodded at your words, moving to grab your head affectionately and drag you into him, laying a big almost embarrassingly kiss onto your cheek. You shrieked, pulling away, wiping at where your father left his lips.

“Always the mediator aren’t you” he had whispered into your skin

You were a big girl now, and you certainly didn’t need to be branded as the girl whose parents still treated her like a toddler with their endless affection. If your father noticed your less than enthusiastic behavior torward his affection he didn’t make it known. Only smiled that wide smile, “well Andie it’s a pleasure to meet you!! I’m sure you’ve made quite the impression on my daughter, you’re the first friend she’s ever brought home”.

You could feel your cheeks heating up at your father’s admission, you were worried Andie would be less than enthused to be around a middle aged man talking fondly about his daughter. You were sure she would take the plaster from your hands and walk straight out of the door, no thank you or words mentioned. She most likely thought you a nerd, a dweed, a good girl who did everything your parents asked, and with a smile. That you were, and you weren’t ashamed, you usually never were. So why was it when it came to Andie Bell did you feel the need to suddenly be cool?

To your great and utter astonishment the blonde only smiled at your father, the lines of her lips lifting into a beautiful grin, and you were amazed at how beautiful her smile was. It was a big difference from the scowl you had seen on her face the whole walk over.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you too sir.” It was short and simple, and your father seemed to like that, moving aside and gesturing for you to take Andie inside the cluttered house, where you were sure your mother would be flying around like a headless chicken.

“Don’t let me stop you. Off you girls go, and make sure to clean out those cuts, don’t want them to get infected” he chimed, going back to the boxes laying on the pavement of the drive.

“Sorry about my father” you spoke, “he means well but sometimes I think he fancies making me feel embarrassed” you whispered.

You watched as Andie’s eyes remained on yours, something flickering in them, you didn’t notice it then, the small flickers. Emotions that were too big for an eight year old to feel, that would flicker and make themselves known.

“Your father loves you” she spoke, her voice calm and controlled, a major difference to her angry self that you had met a while back on the pavement floor. “I think it’s wonderful”.

Wonderful? Any other child your age would have agreed with you, would have laughed and said a very different thing, “parents! How embarrassing can they be!!”. But Andie Bell hadn’t, in fact she had saved you from making a small error in your judgement. You peered back to your father, watched as he eyed the boxes, standing that same way he always did when he thought too hard.

A smile formed on your lips. Your chest ached in that way that only ever happened when you thought of your dad. A warm feeling. “You’re right” you chimed. It was only then that your eyes caught the lines of discomfort in the young girls face, the way her lips let out a hiss as she walked.

You immediately without thought reached for her hand, concern etched into your soft eyes, “come along Andie, let’s fix that cut of yours”.

Your mum’s eyes rose from the lamp she had carefully taken out of the box, eyes seeming to take on a surprised expression as you strolled in, hand in hand with Andie. Your mother looked amused, like she’d waited for this moment for years.

“Made a friend already have we dear?” Her smile is genuine and soft, her eyes then turn down to the cuts on the girl and immediately mum mode is activated. She immediately comes near to Andie, “had quite the adventure it seems, come dear let’s clean that cut of yours. What’s your name sweetheart?”

Your surprised when Andie replies, fast and steady, you watch the way she interacts with your mother, her uneasiness of others seeming to fade away as she tells your mother where she lives, “Number 33 four houses down, I have a little sister named Becca, but she’s a bit of a bore, all she does is toddle about and play with her dolls”.

You think it’s the most words you’ve ever heard the girl say in your presence. Your mother seems to love the conversation, nodding along and laughing at the way Andie describes Becca, like any older sister would, with the least affection.

You watch from your place across the table as your mother asks permission to lift Andie onto the granite, and when she nods your mother lifts her on the counter, very tenderly taking the girls shins into her hands before cleaning out her wound. Andie doesn’t wince, nor cry, the only indication that she’s felt any type of pain evident from the way her fingers grip the sides of the granite, fingers turning deathly pale. “I am quite use to cleaning cuts” your mother spoke, moving to get the plaster from the box and placing them neatly on the wound, tapping Andie’s cheeks playfully as she did so. Andie had smiled, not a forceful smile or a big smile. But a soft one. Genuine in nature

“This girl over here is constantly giving me a fright with her tree climbing. I’m just happy that she was there to help you”.

Andie’s eyes meet yours, and to your surprise she nods her head, a mere shake directed at you, but you know well enough what it truly means. Thank you. Thank you for helping me. You can’t fight the smile that fits across your features, or the amused expression on Andie’s face. Once of the counter and onto the floor you watch as Andie’s eyes widen, your ears hearing a distant voice in the distance, “Andie your father is almost home!! Come put the kettle on!” It’s a woman’s voice. But your perspective enough to watch the way Andie’s eyes change when the word father is entered into the equation. Your mother must tell too, because she’s immediately speaking, “it’s about tea time. Why don’t you go along home now honey? I’m sure your mother is looking for you”. Andie is nodding, before making her way out the door and down to her bike, not even looking back at you. A pit opens in your stomach, but it’s only when she’s about halfway down the drive that she turns. “I didn’t catch your name. You’ll have to tell me next time!” She shouts, and then she’s gone, biking down the street down to her house.

Your mother only smiles, moving to kiss your forehead, “well look who made a friend today.” Only your not listening, your made to focused on following Andie as she peddles down to her house. Her mum is outside the house, looking like a carbon copy of her daughter, and she sighs when she sees Andie, speaking words you can’t hear, but you watch as Andie points in the direction of your house. Her mother peers over and you find yourself ducking behind the door, hoping she hadn’t caught you. But you don’t see the way Andie laughs, her eight year old teeth making appearance as she giggles.

You don’t see Andie much during the weekend, your parents keep you busy as you trail alongside them in the center of Little Kilton, holding fast to your fathers hand as you go into the antique shops, your eyes far to busy taking in all the old valuables, old oil paintings and clocks devoid of colour and paint. Although you can’t help but want to run into Andie, you can’t explain why, but you felt this feeling in your chest when you looked at her, you didn’t know what it was, or why it was there. At first you had thought it odd, but now..you enjoyed it. The way it would flit through your whole body, make your tiny heart beat fast in your chest.

As you sit in the ices cream parlor, a cone in your hands you watch as your mother sits in front of you, eating her ice cream with a spoon, much too posh then your father and you. Unlike you barbarians she didn’t feel the need to lick till her tongue was frozen. You were usually a rather observant child, people would comment that you were much to mature for your age, you weren’t sure if that was true. Did a mature eight year old still wear bunny nighties to bed?

But you were observant as ever. Had been ever since you were an infant, your eyes were always so clever, finding things, always searching. Learning, mapping. You could see it now, the way your parents were eyeing each other, you knew those eyes. The back to school discussion. It was practically protocol now.

“I can see you both eying each other, is it about school?” You let out, your tiny eyes flitted between your parents. Your father smiled, that large grin that lifted of his features, his sliver eyes glinted and he merely nodded. “As a matter of fact yes. Your mother and I know you’ll be starting up year eight soon.” Your father moved to pinch your cheeks, “growing a bit old ain’t you?” He joked. You giggled, but the sentiment was just as felt. You were getting older.

You were usually star pupil, always getting the highest marks in exams and projects. You were use to being the new kid, that never changed but it didn’t help when you started school back up again, it usually left you with anxiety, trying to fit in a new environment. You delt with many different children in the past, angry children, cruel, kind, clever, plain mad. That wasn’t what you were worried about. You were more worried about the logistics of the day. Which classroom would you go too, would you need your kit for physical education? What if you lost it or misplaced it? Would the teachers be angry?

“I’m sure you’ll do just fine come Monday.” Your mother spoke, “Kilton grammar School is a perfect educational school, I was just having a chat with that Dawn Bell from four houses down, and she tells me your little friend Andie is starting up year eight as well”. At that you can feel your mothers sly finger meet your stomach, you thrash as she tickles you. But all you can think about is that Andie will be at school. With you. It shouldn’t make you as happy as you feel, but you welcome the excitement.

The rest of the weekend flashes by so fast you’d think it never happened. Your mum finishes the final touches of the house, decorating it with as many colorful portraits and antique clocks. Your father helps you pick out your school uniform. Just as my school you’ve been to Kilton Grammar school is no different. Your father holds up your polo uniform, Kilton grammar emblem embedded in the fabric. He holds it up in his hands, it looks tiny compared to your father. Like he’s some giant. It makes a grin overtake your features.

“I quite like this shade of blue. Nicer than your old pair of uniforms you had to wear.” He puts it down on your bed, “now for your jumper”. You watch as he puts it next to your polo, “I say we go with these smart trousers, it will be a bit nifty when we drop of. Wouldn’t want you catching cold now would we? Or perhaps we could go with some smart skirts and wear some long socks, it’s a while since I was in primary school. Is that still allowed jelly bean?”.

You laugh, “i think I’ll go with the smart trousers papa”. He nods, “grand idea.”

It’s no surprise when on Monday morning your eyes open even before your alarm wakes. It’s the early hours of the morning, you can tell from the way the sun is not quite up, not yet ready to greet the sun. You yawn, pad to the lavatory, brush your teeth and smarten your hair. You settle for a dull ponytail, bunching up your brown bristles of hair. You wish you had gotten your mothers honey curls, but you hadn’t. Dull old brown suited you. It was then that your eyes caught sight of the sycamore tree. And you wondered how the view looked from way up high, it had been otherworldly to be up that high last time. But the colour from the morning sky must have been otherworldly. You had half and to sneak out, have a quick climb, perhaps ease your anxious anxiety, but your parents had woken up a bit long after.

Your mother busied herself with breakfast, putting a plate of fried eggs, one very juicy tomato and some mushrooms in front of your face. You had barley eaten two bites, your stomach filled to the brims with nerves when your mother had dragged you to the car, “we’ll be late if we wait any longer!” She chimed. You buckled in and watched as your father’s car rolled out of the driveway. You couldn’t help but flit your eyes to the Bell house. It looked quiet from the outside, and you wondered if Andie was half as nervous as you were. You laughed at that, Andie didn’t seem like the kind to be nervous about these type of things. You were sure right about now she was as calm and chipper as you were. Perhaps she would busy right at this very moment berating her little sister as they sat in the car, “Becca would you please stop that chattering!! It’s hurting my head!” You could practice hear.

As soon as the school gates appeared you could feel your chest halt, the way it always did when you were nervous. That familiar drop in the pit of your stomach. ‘I can do this. I can do this. Just be calm’ you recited in your head like a mantra. Your mother took your trembling hand in hers, and walked you across the cold nifty England air into the building. You took in the school corridors, watching all the children pass you in the halls. Your nerves seemed to run rampant as you took in the sight of all the halls, endless amount of classrooms and was that a stairwell?? How were you ever going to memorize this information? Where were the lavatories? The Headmasters office? The nurse?

“I can see your feeling a bit overwhelmed at all this new information” your mother’s voice spoke, and she very calmly took your hands in hers, her green eyes soft as she eyed you. “Remember what we practiced last time? Breathe in….” You did, “and out”.

She smiled once you did, moving to kiss your forehead. “Now you are going to have a wonderful day! I’ll let you in on a secret-dad and I are nervous as well. It’s always scary to try new things. But I’ll tell you what, when I come to pick you we’ll pick up a few sausage rolls”. How could you ever say no to that?

After your mum walked you to your class, you breathed in a sigh of relief when Mrs Edmunds came up to you, she was a soft young women, couldn’t have been older than your aunt, fresh out of Uni you assumed. “Well hello Miss Y/n. I’m Mrs Edmund! Welcome to year eight. Why don’t you go ahead and have a seat where you like, you can leave your kit on the table”.

Your brows furrowed as you eyes the corridors, flitting around for your father. He never would leave without saying any sort of parting. Especially on first days. Your chest began to heave slightly faster, what if he didn’t come?

“Looking for me jelly bean?” You immediately let out a sigh, falling into his arms and holding fast. Your father always had a way to calm your racing heart. It was like he just knew what to say. Some kind of magic only he had. After a long embrace and a kiss on the cheek he smiled, that wide glinting smile, sliver eyes looking grey in the light of the hallway. “"After while, crocodile."

"Too-da-loo, kangaroo." You reached down, squeezing his hand.

"Gotta go, buffalo." You squeezed back.

"Give me a hug, ladybug." He moved forward and pulled you into another hug and kissed the top of your head again.

"Take care, polar bear." You squeezed him tighter. He laughed, before pushing you into the classroom, your parents waving once last time before they disappeared down the hall and out the doors of Kilton Grammar. You were officially alone.

You scanned the classroom, eyes flitting to new faces you had never seen before, your hands were shaking in front of you, and you could feel your heart hammering in your chest. You hated the first day of school. Hated it.

“Oi” a soft voice flitted behind your ear, you turned taking in a young boy, his stature was just few inches taller than you, and you noticed the way his hair was dark and neatly pushed back. His dark brown eyes seemed to fill with kindness, it nearly radiated of him in waves. His eyes were soft as they laid on you, like he knew how hard your day had already been. “I’m Sal, Would you like to sit with me? I’m not much of a good talker but my mum says I can listen very well”.

At first you felt the overwhelming feeling of shame fill your chest, you were eight years old not some toddler, but Sal didn’t seem to mind. In fact his smile was wide and calm as he kept his eyes on you. Like a secure hug, and you knew at that exact moment that Sal Singh would be a friend you would never forget. He was still as he waited for you, his cheeks a red shade as you gave him a shy smile. His cheeks reddened, You shook his extended hand, offering your name. He smiled, his eyes alight. “I like your name, sounds like some fairytale character. Much better than what my mum picked. Sal” he retorted, his mouth lifting in disgust. “Not much of a name is it?” He joked.

You took your seat next to his, smiling when he held out an extra pencil. You quickly learned that Sal was smart, clever in the way he spoke. He was more mature than the other kids that sat behind you. He spoke about his mother and father, his baby brother who he adored to bits, Ravi his name was. you couldn’t help but feel like Sal had somehow in his own way, came to your rescue. Like some Angel sent to make your day better. Brighter, jovial.

“Would you mind if we sat together in the canteen?” He had nervously asked, his fingers bending his pencil, like he was waiting for you to run off and never speak to him again. “I wouldn’t sit with anyone else even if I could. I haven’t had a proper introduction to anyone else” you secretly whispered, and Sal’s eyes lit up, his dark eyes reminding you of the bark on the sycamore tree back home. “Wicked” he spoke. “I can introduce you to some friends if you’d like” he spoke, and before you could object he was calling names you’d never heard before.

“Emma! Chloe!” He called, and soon two new girls your age trotted over. Emma eyed you as Sal introduced you, she was shy. You could tell by the way she stood, her feet not quite touching. Lopsided.

“I’m Emma Hutton!” She greeted out, bellowing her name like she was some star in a film. You laughed, shaking her hand. Narcissism tendencies much? “Do you like hamsters?” The girl beside Emma questioned, her voice so high pitched it ricocheted of the walls. Before you could answer Emma was answering for you, “of course she does Chloe!! I was so jealous when Andie got one last summer holiday! And for what?”.

Your heart rattled against your rib cage at the girls name. Come to think of it you hadn’t seen Andie on the way to school, “Andie gets everything she wants because she’s a daddy’s girl”. Chloe sniped back, “As long as she’s the perfect obedient little girl her papa will cave for anything” Emma spoke, huddling up next to you and whispering like it was a big secret no one else should tell.

Curiosity killed the cat, you had seen Andie’s reaction to the mention of her father, had seen her tense and run off. That didn’t seem like the typical “Daddy’s girl” the girls had been referring to but before you could ask it was Sal who beat you too it. “We shouldn’t talk about Andie behind her back. It’s gossiping. Andie wouldn’t like it, and neither do I.”

“Oh come on Sal!” Chloe began, “even you have to admit that Andie gets everything she wants! She never has to work for it”. You could already detect some odd system of hierarchy. All you knew was you didn’t like it, it made something pull in your stomach. Your conscience telling you it wasn’t right. Yet you couldn’t pull away. It was Andie they were talking about.

You watched as Sal’s eyebrows rose, eying both girls. It seemed he was the mediator of the group, the moral compass. “So what of Andie is given everything? Money and gifts aren’t everything girls. And I wouldn’t joke about Andie’s father, it’s not easy being a bell” he stated, his shoulders deflating like he knew something. A glint in his dark eyes. You willed yourself to follow him back to the desks. Waiting beside the boy as he breathed. Simple sigh, he chucked softly, “sorry about the girls. They think they know everyone’s business.” You were about to say something when he spoke, “Andie was right about you. You have a kind heart” he spoke, moving to lay his hand on yours. You could feel your heart race, your cheeks red. No one had ever said that before. “Takes one to know one Sal” you spoke. The smile on his face was victory enough.

As if summoned Andie had appeared through the threshold, school uniform on and tired blue watercolored eyes taking in the classroom, you tried to school your features when you caught sight of her, giving her a small smile, and you felt your heart aching when she only eyed you before walking to Chloe and Emma. You could feel your heart pummel in your chest. But as soon as you felt your eyes get teary the chair squeaked against the floorboards. Andie bell had sat next to you. You of all people. You could see Emma and Chloe let out a huff, obviously wanting Andie to sit next to them.

“Hiya y/n” she let out, her smile wide as it had been when she left your house. You had smiled back, just as wide, but Andie caught your eyes drifting back to Chloe and Emma, eyes staring daggers at you, as if you had stolen their best mate. “I wouldn’t worry about them” Andie whispered, “I sat with them all last year and it didn’t do me any good. Thought I’d sit with you for a change”.

“I’d like that very much” you uttered.

“Good. Because I like you y/n” she said so matter of factly. The words made your cheeks heat up. Andie bell liked you. What a privilege your eight year old mind thought.

Andie had a glint in her eye, the kind that made your stomach twist and your innocent mind twist with fascination, she was a character that was for sure. You had seen the way Chloe and Emma has stood up the minute that Andie had walked in. Like some toppled toy soldiers standing up at attention at the first sign of the commanding officer. Andie had only eyed them as she passed, stopping to say something to Chloe, you had been to far to hear, but it obviously left Chloe with a sour expression on her face. You knew from your first introduction that Andie came from a toxic house, you had met a lot of them moving around so much. But none of them had taking a liking to you, no matter how hard you had tried, expect Andie.

Andie eyed you with her wide childish eyes, “you know mum told me that I should start hanging out with nicer girls. Chloe and Emma are all good and well but-“ Andie halted, her jaw set in a square. Tiny brain trying to make out a sentence. “Your kind. We could use a bit of that. How would you like to join our group y/n?”.

Now looking back you almost wish you could drag your eight year old self back and tell her that this group was not what you had thought it was. That this group would one day leave you high and dry. Dump you like wasted trash in the bin. That it would hurt just as much coming from the eight year old blonde who had looked at you that day like you were an Angel from heaven. Perhaps she had, but those days were gone now.

Andie’s invitation was simple. her eyes wide and pleading. You nodded, and just like that, you stepped into her orbit. In class, she claimed the seat next to you, her pencil case spilling over. “Oops,” she’d say, brushing her knuckles against yours. “Clumsy me.” You found you didn’t mind how many times it would fall into your desk, in fact you wished it had happened more. It was a confusing thought. You remember asking your parents about it on the car ride home. Your dad had nearly stepped on the gas pedal too hard, and your mum had eyed him like they knew something you hadn’t recognized yet.

Andie’s brashness was legendary. She wielded sarcasm like a sword, her words cutting through the air. But you saw beyond the armor—the tremor in her hands when someone mentioned her father, the way her laughter sometimes cracked at the edges. You were surprised when she would eye you with soft eyes, her words far more kinder and softer which was different from the standoffish Girl who had fallen of her bike.

Chloe and Emma eyed you with suspicion, their accents dripping with skepticism. “What’s so special about you?” Chloe would ask, her freckled nose wrinkling. “Andie’s never been this clingy.”

Andie’s soft spot for you was evident. She’d slide into the seat next to you during classes, her elbows brushing against yours. Emma scowled from across the room, but Andie ignored her, whispering secrets to you instead. “Did you know,” she’d say, “that the periodic table is like a giant puzzle? I’ve cracked it, you know. Hydrogen and helium are the corner pieces.” That alone had almost surprised you, Andie didn’t seem like the type of student to study hard. But she had. Sometimes all night. Anything to get away from her parents fighting in the other room and perhaps she had done so because she had seen you looking at the periodic chart a little too long during library hours. You were clever as well. Andie didn’t understand the feeling, she’s never felt it before. This feeling in her gut that made her want to please you.

Chloe rolled her eyes. “Andie, stop geeking out.”

But you loved it—the way Andie’s eyes sparkled when she talked about her hamster Roadie, the way she shared her lunchtime sandwich without hesitation often sneaking an extra Jaffa cake just for you. She wasn’t mean to you like she was to Chloe and Emma. Instead, she’d pass notes during maths, doodling random thoughts and questions. She’d ask you questions about what you thought of her outfit, would gleam when you would say she looked wonderful.

Outside of School you and Andie would meet each other by the sycamore tree. “You really weren’t lying when you said it was big” Andie had spoken, her blonde brows raised as she eyed the tree. “You mean you haven’t seen it?” You asked, chuckling. How had Andie not seen it after all these years of living on Hogg hill?

Andie could see your confused amused eyes and she only chuckled sardonically her usual hint of cruel ness left out as she eyed you, shrugging her shoulders. “I guess I never was a much of an observer” her reply was.

“You want to climb it with me?” You asked, grabbing Andie by her shoulders. Excitement bursted out of your veins and the thought of being so high up in the air with Andie Bell. Andie was never afraid of anything, you had known her for a while now. She was the queen bee of the group, confident, alarmingly confident. You had seen her dig sharp mean replies to Emma and Chloe like it was the most easiest thing in the world. So it confused you when she eyed the tree with less than enthusiastic eyes.

“I think we would be much safer on the ground. Less likey to break a bone…or a nail” she commented.

Behind that comment had been fear. You knew that. With soft eyes you came closer to the girl, your shoulders brushing.

“It’s alright to be scared” you spoke. “Being scared means your human. My mum always says that being scared is like a superpower” you laughed. You had never thought that true, till now.

Andie had eyed you with wide unbelieving eyes. Her signature smile on her features.

“Everything in that sentence was wrong. How is being scared like a superpower? If anything being scared is a weakness”.

You knew she believed her words. Was it her father who had told her that? You hadn’t met her father yet. He seemed far to scary, too quiet for your liking. Like he was watching, observing. Your father had met him. “Jason Bell offered to take me golfing next week. He seems like a kind bloke.” But you had seen how his daughter reacted to just his name alone and right then in your eight year old mind you had tagged him as dangerous.

In the end Andie Bell had climbed the tree with you. It didn’t take much hackle, and you were surprised when she had climbed even faster than you. The tree was high up and you could tell from the way Andie’s fingers clung to the bark, her nails digging into the tree trunk with a true fervor.

You watched her gray eyes take in the scene. The wind was soft this time of day. The birds flying past. Little Kilton was no longer a mystery. Andie could see everything. Could feel everything. The sky which was a darker cloudy color. The surrounding woods nearby, the old farmhouse that was deserted that in a few years would become infamous to her.

“Are you still scared?” You has asked.

Andie had scoffed, “why would I be scared? I’m only a few hundred feet of the ground! My father would kill me if he saw me up here this high” Andie spoke, her eyes taking in the view from bellow.

You settled in next to her. Your shoulders brushing hers. Andie’s fingers had made their way down to lay next to yours. Inches apart.

The silence had been what you remembered the most. Pure silence. Nothing but the wind and the soft sounds of Little Kilton bellow. Andie was different up here. With you. The silence seemed to awake something in her.

“My dad never hits me”. The words hit you like a freight train.

“What does he do then?” You asked, watching as Andie’s eyes began to tear.

“He-I know he loves me. Mum says he does. But sometimes I’m not so sure. Sometimes I think he’d rather be somewhere else.”

“Sometimes I think I’m not good enough. Doesn’t matter what marks I get on an exam, he’s always angry. Always quick to yell. He says such mean things. Cruel things. He thinks it doesn’t hurt me…but it does. I try to brush it off, to remember he loves me. But…sometimes I can’t”.

You don’t pry. You hadn’t noticed Andie’s fingers had inched closer and closer to yours till they were touching. Your stomach lurched and you immediately could feel your cheeks flush. It took a second but Andie wiped her tears.

“What was it you were saying? About scared being a superpower?” Andie changed the subject.

You let your eyes look bellow, watching as both your feet dangled of the branch, feet upon feet of air bellow.

Andie looked down too, her eyes widened, her fingers gripping yours a little tighter.

You licked your lips, “does it scare you?” You spoke, eying bellow. Gravity and the tree were all that stopped you two from tumbling down.

Andie nodded.

“Good. My mum told me that’s good. Because your heart is beating so hard..you can almost feel it in your palms. Blood and oxygen is pumping though your brain, think of it like rocket fuel” you laughed. “Right now you can run faster and fight harder. You can jump higher than you’ve ever jumped! It’s almost like you can slow down time. I’d wager that the scariest girl up here is you”.

Andie had laughed. “Chloe and Emma would agree with you”.

You must have sat up on that three for hours. Just you and Andie. You spoke of your time in London. How the streets were always crowded and the kids in your school weren’t any better. You spoke of your grandparents, how your gran always made the best Yorkshire pudding. Andie had smiled at that, saying she was pretty sure her gran made the best Yorkshire pudding.

It was only when a small voice from bellow caught your attention. Andie’s eyes had trailed down and suddenly she sighed, “it’s almost supper time. We’ve been up here for hours. We better get down and wash up”.

You nodded, not quite ready to go down back to real life. Back home. You could tell Andie thought the same. Could see it in the way she took one last look at little Kilton. “Thanks for this” she spoke.

“I’ve never had a friend like you before”.

You smiled, your little heart beating in your chest.

“I’ve never had one quite like you either Andie Bell”.

You let Andie go down first, following behind. It was only when your trainers hit the ground that you noticed the small blonde who had been calling Andie from bellow. You almost laughed. Andie had described her little sister well enough to you. You knew she loved her, no matter how oddly she showed it.

Becca Bell stood staring at the tree in wonder, blonde waves looking like she had just awoken from a nap. Her arms eagerly holding a small hamster in her soft fingers. The hamster looked calm, didn’t put up a fight. Perhaps he had known it wasn’t going to help.

“Andie! Mum wants you home for supper! That tree looks high! Did you almost fall off? Can I climb it?” Becca chatted of like a broken record. You couldn’t help but laugh at her cute little face.

Andie dusted her pants trousers, eyes on alert as she spotted what was lodged between her little sisters hands. “Becca Elizabeth Bell what have I told you about taking Roadie outside his cage!” Andie began, taking the hamster from her younger sisters hands, you watched as the little creature huddled into Andie’s warm hands.

Becca didn’t at all seem bothered by her sisters antics, you assumed she was use to her outbursts and spurts of emotions. She only shrugged her shoulders, “I know what you told me Andie but you should have seen the poor little things! He was thrashing against his bars like mad!! Mum let me take him out because his chattering was making her ill”.

“Is this your special friend Andie!! The one you told mum about? Are you the girl who helped Andie after she fell off her bike? I’m Becca!! I like candy floss and I have a hamster named Toadie!” She squealed of, making you smile. You adored her already.

“Pleasure to meet you miss Bell!” You shook her hand, and she smiled, blushing. “I like you. All of Andie’s friends are quite rude to me. Except Sal. I like him. Do you know Sal?”.

“I do. He’s a very lovely person. Very kind”.

“Can you teach me how to climb that tree?? Ooh! Can you play a game of what time is it Mr wolf?? Andie never plays with me” at this the small blonde loved forward, her eyes mischievous, “She’s a bit of a sore loser! Hates losing”.

You hid in your laughter. Andie had caught on and immediately took you by the hand, putting enough distance from her little sister, “y/n has no time to play childish games with you Becca. She’s my friend! Not yours!”.

You would have loved to hear those words if were not for the fact that Becca looked hurt. Her blue eyes had dropped and her bottom lip trembled. You slowly unhooked your hands from Andie’s. Giving her a pointed look.

“No need for a cry Becca” you began, instinctively you reached out for her, pulling her to your chest. Becca immediately wrapped her arms around you, “so you’ll play with me then?” She looked beyond happy.

You smiled.

“Of course! And Andie will play too, won’t you Andie?”

She just grumbled.

[ficnoire2]

A Little Legendborn/Bloodmarked Scent Theory Part Two

William Sitterson scent profile - Citrus/Fresh

“The infirmary is William’s domain.  He strides between the tables, his hands coated in silver aether so thick it looks like mercury.  The bright citrus smell of his aether signature fills the room.”

What can I say, I love William and his sunny, yet firm disposition.  Fruit in the citrus family include oranges, lemons, limes, grapefruit, kumquat, clementine, pomelo…you get the idea.

Citrus - Citrus oils and resins have the power to uplift our mood and bring peace to a space.  Think of all the household cleaners you use, how many of them have a citrus profile?  Ever wonder why you gravitate towards those scents?  Citrus has been used in many cultures for centuries and has healing and therapeutic benefits.  It is no wonder William is one of the few people that can calm Sel down in the heat of anger.  He is like a gray-eyed Yoda, even-keeled and level.  His tranquil sensibilities allow people to put their guard down and open up that much more. The history of the use of citrus in Ayurvedic medicine in India or in religious ceremonies in ancient Egypt is well documented for its ability to purify a space, bringing positive energy which promotes healing.  The sweetness of this scent can reduce stress and anxiety.   

My final cute William tidbit can be found in this quote: 

“After a while, William hands me a lime-colored cloth handkerchief.  I stare down at it, puzzled at the alarmingly bright fabric.  I hear the smile in his voice.  ‘It was my father’s.  The line of Gawain is what discerning people call ‘ostentatious’.” 

Limes - Limes and their oil represent the ability to cleanse the physical body and heal and purify the soul.  Next time you are at Tarjay’, grab some of that lemon/lime-scented Mr. Clean and thank the Scion of Gawain.  

Valechaz' scent profile - Soft Oriental, Dry Woods

“He leans into me slightly, and I get a whiff of something dark, spicy, and burning.”

“He steps nearer, until that leather and star-anise smell swirls thick in the air and my cheeks prickle.”

Valechaz’ scent profile is as spicy and sensual as he is.  In my reading, I found that his scent calls back to a time of old (much like Incense Daddy Erebus, but more on that later) which is fitting for the 205 year-old most balanced Cambion in the region.  

Leather- When used in perfume, leather scents are warm and rich, with a bit of musk.  There are smoky and animalistic notes.  Valec’s scent was described as burning (we know he brings the heat with him) and the way his eyes turn over red reminds me of a shark whose eyes turn over white before it bites.  The scent of leather denotes luxury, sophistication, and masculinity (whatever that means to you).  We know Valec is dressed to the nines daily, “Suited and booted” as the old folks used to say.  He is also not to be trifled with as he has demonstrated he is 100% with the shits.

Star Anise- Sweet and licorice-y (yes, that is a word), star anise is spicy and intense.  It is rich and exotic and is often added to oriental and gourmand fragrance compositions.  Star anise compliments a variety of fragrances creating harmonious blends that have endless layering possibilities.  Its presence enhances the overall scent, creates depth and complexity, and enables the creation of balanced, captivating fragrances. 

The essence of Valec’s scent profile is luxurious, seductive, and balanced on the razor’s edge of ferocity.  

Erebus Varelian- Scent Profile Woody Oriental or Woody Amber

“His aether signature surrounds me with scents I associate with ancient trees and holy places: myrrh and saps, incense burning.”

Erebus (affectionately known as Incense Daddy) is such an interesting and mysterious being.  He is calculated and opportunistic, and I imagine he has not survived this long without brutal and unwavering tact and a bit of street smarts.  His scent hints at his true identity and the power that lives within it.  

Incense - Spicy, resinous, and woody, the smell of incense creates a mysterious, warm, richly scented experience.  For eons incense has been used in cultural and religious practices dating back to ancient Egypt, China, and India.  Its spicy, powdery notes are seductive (like Valechaz’) and smelling incense when none is present can denote spiritual presence or messages from the spiritual realm. Incense can be associated with protection and spiritual growth.

Myrrh - Myrrh tends to go hand in hand with incense. It is described as having a balsamic, spicy, smoky odor.   Made from bleeding a Commiphora tree of its resin, in magical circles, myrrh is used with cleansing and purification rituals.  It can also be combined with incense for protection against negative energy and rituals related to banishing and breaking curses. 

It is no wonder Erebus’ scent is derived from tree resin.  Trees hold powerful ancient symbolism (strength, growth, protection) and represent an interconnectedness of all living things.  Erebus has been around the block in many iterations, hiding in plain sight.  His scent profile calls back to a time when Gods walked amongst men.

“Dark hair, olive skin, a long black jacket, and an aether signature older than the ancients themselves.  How many people has he killed, just to walk among us?”

I hope you’ve gotten a kick out of this as I have!  What did you notice about the scent families?  How do you think they are connected?  I have linked part one below as well as my other contributions to this fun little series. Now go on out there and find an "Incense Daddy" to smell.

Scent Part One

 Color Theory

Symbolism

[pwlanier]

An Important Jeweled American Torah Shield, Circa, 1910

This stunning Torah shield is a true work of art. The main decoration is an imitation of the breastplate worn by the High Priest in the Temple in Jerusalem, where twelve stones are placed for each of The Twelve Tribes. Here under each stone, the tribe name in Hebrew is expertly engraved.

Hallmarked "Millwood Sterling Silver".

The maker of this shield, "Millwood", was a jewelry firm in New York City until 1915. The shield was designed and decorated in the way Edwardian jewelry at the times was; a mixture of Art Nouveau elements, such as the leaves and colorful stone encrusted grape clusters seen at the top, along with more formal designs from the Neo-Classical era such as curtains/swags and ancient columns. Continuing underneath each base of four columns is the last point of Edwardian-style decoration; large stars filled with stones in an angular "royal" shape, as if it were a badge worn by a king. Underneath the base of the center column is a lengthy dedication in Hebrew, indicating it was a gift to the synagogue it was presented to.

What cannot be appreciated from photos alone is the amount of workmanship that went into creating this shield. All of the leaves seen at top, the large, bold Hebrew lettering above the crown stating "Holy to Hashem", is in repousse, that is, hand hammered from the reverse side. There is also a tremendous amount of "matting" on the shield, noticeable on the curtains and the space above it, this gives the effect of the shield moving, as it has texture. Notice how this shield was not entirely covered in gold-wash / gilt, but the gilding was only placed on some of the leaves and the drapes at the outer columns; this makes for a lively contrast with the rest of the silver color. Finally we have a crown directly below "Holy to Hashem". This crown, by itself, could be an exquisite piece of jewelry. The design of the crown and choice of alternating reddish-purple and clear stones is something straight out of a portrait of a Maharaja in India.

This Torah shield was not made by a silversmith; it was made by a jewelry firm, which is why it is so visually appealing, as fine jewelry is meant to draw the eye in. There is a built in hook on the reverse with loops so this shield can fit extra securely, locked into the staves of the Torah scroll itself.

We believe this is the most beautiful Torah shield ever created in the United States of America. We cannot understate it's importance regarding the history of Jews in America. This is most assuredly a one of a kind, specially commissioned piece that at the time, cost a very large sum.

Appel Auctions

[cynic-spirit]

Alliances i

Bucky barnes x ofc Maahira

In the dimly lit backroom of his upscale club, James Buchanan Barnes—known in the streets as Bucky Barnes—sat behind a mahogany desk that exuded both authority and opulence. His piercing blue eyes, sharp as a hawk's, scanned over the paperwork sprawled before him. The walls were lined with dark oak paneling, adorned with vintage photographs and an assortment of rare liquors that reflected his penchant for both luxury and danger.

Bucky’s reputation as a mobster was forged through a combination of ruthless efficiency and an unyielding code of loyalty. His long, dark hair fell over his forehead, contrasting sharply with the hard lines of his jaw and the neatly trimmed beard that added to his imposing presence. He wore a tailored black suit, the kind that hinted at wealth but concealed an edge of menace. A silver wristwatch glinted on his wrist, a token of his success and a symbol of his calculated demeanor.

The room was filled with a tense anticipation as Bucky awaited the arrival of Ajay Singh, a formidable mobster from India seeking to negotiate an expansion of their illicit operations. Bucky’s trusted circle of friends—Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam Wilson—stood nearby, each of them a testament to the ironclad loyalty and strategic acumen that Bucky valued above all else.

Steve Rogers, Bucky’s childhood friend turned loyal enforcer, leaned against the wall, his imposing figure a silent reminder of the strength that backed Bucky’s decisions. Natasha Romanoff, with her quick mind and lethal skills, stood with a calm yet alert demeanor, her eyes scanning the room for any hint of danger. Sam Wilson, sharp and resourceful, kept a watchful gaze on the entrance, ready to react at a moment's notice.

The door to the room creaked open, and Ajay Singh stepped in, flanked by his own entourage. Singh was a man of imposing stature, his presence commanding immediate respect. His tailored suit and sharp eyes spoke of both his wealth and his ruthlessness. Bucky rose from his desk, extending a hand in greeting, but his eyes remained wary, measuring the man before him with a practiced gaze.

As Singh and Bucky exchanged pleasantries, the room was charged with an undercurrent of tension. Both men were acutely aware of the stakes involved. Bucky’s club, with its clandestine backroom dealings and opulent façade, was a front for much darker operations. Singh’s interest in expanding into Bucky’s territory was a move that promised to either solidify a powerful alliance or ignite a dangerous conflict.

The meeting began with courteous words and calculated smiles, but the true nature of their discussion lay beneath the surface—a negotiation that would determine the future of their criminal empire and test the limits of their trust and cunning. In this high-stakes game, Bucky Barnes remained the enigmatic and dangerous figure whose every action was calculated to preserve his power and expand his influence.

As Ajay Singh arrived at Bucky Barnes' club, his imposing presence was matched by the entrance of his sister, Maahira Singh. She moved with an air of quiet elegance that immediately drew attention despite her reserved demeanor.

Maahira was strikingly beautiful, her appearance radiating an understated grace that captivated anyone who glimpsed her. Her long, jet-black hair cascaded in smooth waves down her back, contrasting with her porcelain skin. Her eyes, a deep and mesmerizing shade of brown, seemed to hold a world of unspoken thoughts, framed by delicately arched brows. Her features were refined, with high cheekbones and a slender, graceful nose that gave her an aura of timeless beauty.

She wore a flowing, deep emerald-green dress that accentuated her figure while maintaining an air of sophistication. The dress hugged her silhouette just enough to highlight her elegance without being overly revealing. Maahira's silence spoke volumes; she moved through the room like a whisper, her presence both delicate and powerful, commanding respect without uttering a single word.

While her brother engaged with Bucky and his team, Maahira kept to the periphery, observing with a calm and thoughtful gaze. She offered no greetings, her focus solely on her brother and the proceedings of the meeting, embodying a serenity that contrasted sharply with the charged atmosphere of the room.

As Bucky Barnes observed Maahira Singh, he found himself unexpectedly enchanted by her quiet beauty. Her serene presence, marked by an elegant grace and an air of aloofness, stood in stark contrast to the rough-and-tumble world of his club.

Her every movement was a study in subtlety, her long, dark hair shimmering under the dim lights and her eyes—deep and reflective—captivated him. While he maintained a professional demeanor in his interactions with Ajay Singh, his gaze frequently drifted toward Maahira. There was something profoundly intriguing about her reserved nature, a sense of mystery that piqued his curiosity.

Bucky, known for his usually composed and strategic demeanor, found himself momentarily lost in thoughts about her. Her understated beauty and the calm aura she projected seemed to pull him in, creating an unexpected diversion from the high-stakes negotiation at hand. Even as he engaged in business discussions, part of his mind remained preoccupied with the enigma of Maahira Singh, contemplating the allure behind her quiet composure.

After the deal was finalized and Ajay Singh, along with his sister Maahira, departed from Bucky’s club, the atmosphere in the room shifted back to its usual rhythm. Bucky, however, remained uncharacteristically distant. His thoughts were consumed by the image of Maahira Singh, her quiet beauty and reserved demeanor lingering in his mind.

His friends—Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanoff, and Sam Wilson—quickly picked up on the change in Bucky’s demeanor. Steve, leaning against the wall with a thoughtful expression, noticed the distraction in Bucky’s usually sharp gaze. Natasha, ever perceptive, caught the subtle shift in Bucky’s focus, while Sam, with his characteristic sharp wit, observed the uncharacteristic depth of Bucky’s thoughts.

“So, what’s with the distant look, Bucky?” Steve asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and concern. “You seemed pretty engrossed in the meeting.”

Natasha, joining the conversation, added, “Something on your mind? You’re not usually this lost in thought after a deal.”

Sam, with a knowing smirk, leaned in and teased, “Yeah, you’ve been staring at that spot on the wall like it holds the secrets of the universe. Something or someone catch your attention?”

Bucky glanced up, shaking himself from his reverie. “Just thinking about the deal,” he said, attempting to deflect. “Ajay Singh’s people are… intriguing.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “Intriguing? That’s not the word you usually use.”

Natasha’s gaze remained steady, her analytical mind piecing together the clues. “Or maybe it’s someone in particular.”

Bucky’s usual composure faltered for a moment before he masked it with a half-hearted smile. “Just caught me off guard. It’s nothing.”

His friends exchanged knowing looks, understanding that Bucky’s distraction was more personal than professional. As the evening wore on, the club’s usual bustle continued, but Bucky’s thoughts remained fixed on Maahira Singh, her image haunting him in a way he had not anticipated.

Steve’s comment hung in the air as he raised an eyebrow, his tone a mix of teasing and curiosity. “Maybe it’s his sister that has got your attention, Bucky?”

Bucky's gaze flickered briefly before he managed to regain his composure. He took a slow breath, trying to process the unexpected turn of the conversation. His friends were perceptive, and it was clear that they were not going to let this slide easily.

“Come on, Steve,” Bucky said with a wry smile, attempting to play it cool. “It’s just… she has a certain presence. Nothing more.”

Natasha, who had been observing closely, leaned in slightly. “Presence, huh? You seemed pretty captivated. She didn’t even say much.”

Sam chuckled, “Looks like someone’s a bit smitten. You’ve been off your game ever since they left.”

Bucky sighed, running a hand through his hair. “Alright, fine. Maybe I was a bit distracted. She’s just… different from what I’m used to.”

Steve’s grin widened. “Different in a good way, or…?”

Bucky shrugged, though his eyes betrayed his genuine intrigue. “In a way that I didn’t expect. I don’t know what it is, but she’s been on my mind.”

Natasha nodded thoughtfully. “Sometimes it’s the quiet ones that have the most impact. Just don’t let it get in the way of business.”

Bucky chuckled softly, appreciating the support from his friends, though he knew this was a distraction he couldn’t easily shake. As they continued their conversation, his mind kept drifting back to Maahira Singh, the enigma who had managed to capture his attention and stir feelings he hadn’t anticipated.

part 2

[emyn-arnens]

6 for finwe, 15 for feanor, and/or 31 for fingon for the prompt thing! :D

Finwë/Indis, G, 350 words | Fëanor & Indis, G, 874 words (from this prompt list)

6. poured forth their joy in music and song + Finwë | AO3

A soft breeze ran rippling through the fields as Finwë walked through the bobbing stalks. The light of Laurelin, now nearing its noon and the fullness of its splendor, shone warm upon his back and limned the fields in gold. Larks winged over the fields, and their bright songs warbled through the air.

Finwë’s heart felt lighter than it had in many a year, so light that he felt that if the breeze were stronger, it might bear him up over the fields on the wings of the wind. Were he inclined to dancing, he would have leapt through the fields.

But dancing was Indis’ part, dancing and singing as fair as that of the maidens of Nessa. Indis, to whom he was now betrothed, against all hope.

The sound of singing, as deep and golden as the honey that dripped from the combs of the beehives of Yavanna, spilled over the friths and fields, and Finwë, smiling, quickened his step.

In the field ahead, Indis walked singing. In her arms was a basket laden with bright fruit, and her hair, the color of cornsilk, hung plaited down her back. 

He called out to her, and she turned, and her song rose with joy at the sight of him. Setting aside her basket, Indis ran barefoot through the fields to greet him, and he swept her into his arms and spun her around. Her laughter fell upon the fields like rain, and Finwë felt it wash over his heart, welling up in the cracks that he had thought would ever remain after the loss of Míriel.

As he set her down, Indis slipped her hand into his, and her upturned face shone with radiant joy that he knew was reflected upon his own face. “Sing with me,” she said.

“I have not the voice of one of the Vanyar,” Finwë said, smiling.

Indis’ eyes glittered with mirth. “Sing with me.”

With a fond, indulgent smile, he joined his voice with hers, and the song of their joy spilled over the fields, and all who heard it felt their hearts lighten.

15. feign love + Fëanor | AO3

Indis stood before the fountain in the courtyard, a figure of gold beneath the silver light of Telperion. All was quiet but for the splash of the fountain and the songs of nightingales, singing in the garden beyond.

It might have been called peaceful.

Fëanáro stopped several paces away from Indis. “You summoned me?” His voice was curt.

India turned to face him, a graceful smile upon her face. Ever poised, she had always borne his displeasure with grace, hiding any true emotion that she might feel, which served only to stoke his ire further. 

His mother had never hidden her moods or thoughts. She was rock, staunch and unwavering in her opinion, and Indis was water, the placid stillness of a fathomless lake, ever slipping through his fingers before he could discover her true nature and purposes.

“Walk with me, Fëanáro,” Indis said. She had begun to use his mother name of late—an attempt, he suspected, at winning his favor.

It had not. He loathed to hear the name his mother had given him fall from Indis’ lips.

“I will make my words plain, Fëanáro, for I know that you do not care for indirect speech,” Indis said, opening the gate into the garden that spread behind the courtyard. “I have long sought to be for you the mother that you have lost, but I have come to realize that doing so was foolish. I can never fill her absence, as much as I might wish to to try to ease your pain—and I do wish for that, though I know you do not believe it of me.”

Fëanáro set his jaw and looked away at the silver-gilded branches of a nearby oiolairë, caring little for the direction the conversation was taking.

“I know also that you do not care for me and never have, no matter my actions,” Indis continued. “I have taken the place of Míriel, your mother, and I know that must be very difficult to bear.”

Fëanáro’s mood turned dark at her mention of his mother. “Such words fall easily from the lips of those who have never known such pain,” he said, nearly spitting the words at her.

Indis’ face softened, and Fëanáro looked away in anger. He cared even less for her pity than he did for her feigned empathy. Better if she had looked stung from his words than this.

“The words are paltry, to be certain,” she said, “for no one can understand the depth of what you have lost—not even I, though I have seen the great grief of your father.”

She paused, then again picked up the thread of the conversation. “But I wish you to know that I do not seek your love, not anymore. I know that I cannot turn your heart toward me through any effort of my own, though I will show you the same kindness I extend to everyone.” 

“I do not desire your kindness,” he said.

Indis stopped and turned toward him. “Let me speak very plainly. I wish to propose a solution to our discord, for the sake of your father and my husband, and for the sake of any children that come of our union, and for the sake of our people.” Her face was calm and placid, as if she were merely commenting upon the quality of a bolt of fabric or the taste of a dish served at a feast. 

“It is not good for the Noldor to see the House of Finwë thus divided,” she continued. “Therefore, I would ask you this: Show unity within the house when we are before our people—feign it, if you must. I have done all that I can to adopt Noldorin customs and honor my husband’s people, but I cannot keep the House of Finwë united by my actions alone.”

Fëanáro met her gaze evenly. “I cannot feign love that I do not hold, nor respect that I do not bear.”

Indis studied him. “Not even for the sake of your father and his kingship? He will not long hold the respect of the people if his own house is divided and marked by strife.”

“I did not cause it to become so,” Fëanáro returned, looking her in the eye. “I will not take blame for faults I did not cause.”

Indis was silent for a long moment, and her features were inscrutable. If his words had met their mark, she showed no hurt. “Think on what I have said,” she said at last. “You are often away among the hills and spend little time in Tirion anymore, and as such, occasions for displaying unity are few—but their employment would be beneficial for all.” She turned to leave. “Goodnight, Fëanáro.”

Fëanáro remained silent as she left, watching the dappled light of Telperion fall upon the ground through the long leaves of the lavaralda whose branches bent overhead and netted the stars in their interlacing arms. The leaves whispered overhead, stirred by the breeze carried in from the sea, and he watched the shadows of the leaves shift upon the ground.

There could be no unity among the House of Finwë for as long as Indis and her children remained in it.