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oksana-moods · 4 months

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Queens of Promise - Final Part

Summary: The journey is a work of art, they say. And if to grow one needs to bleed, then you certainly paid your price.

A/N: Writing this part was one of the hardest things I’ve done. Nothing seemed fit, nothing seemed good enough for a Last Part. There were some feelings or emotions that I couldn’t quite grasp, unfortunately, so to give you this part without stalling any further, I decided to move on with what I had. Hope you guys like it. Thank you to the ones who stayed or kept asking for the end of this story. Thank you everyone who spared a time of your life to read my work. And to the ones who shared some love, thank you.

As always, it means the world to me.

Previous Parts here

Warnings: Game of Thrones kind of violence, language. Mentions of blood and death.

“We were the Kings and Queens of promise We are the Queens”

Your limbs hurt, it feels like daggers are piercing through your skin with every step taken, yet you’re standing. It’s astounding.

Just like the people of Taharr, who gathered under the castle walls alongside the river shores from both sides. From your point of view they looked like ants, but there were more than thousands willing to pay their respects, their last courtesy to Queen Calanthe. The Strong Lioness.

The Lords, Ladies and other knights were allowed inside the castle walls and would attend the ceremony on the inner patio, the one with the river view.

However, you and a very selected few were in the winter garden, where there were statues of the former kings and queens, soon there would be one of Calanthe too. Too soon for your liking.

Many rivers grew or were born from a mountain of rocks, but the “Castle River” started from inside the boulders and rocks where Triskelion Castle was built in, its first appearance was, in fact, in the winter garden.

This spot of crystal clear water had a coffin boat on it, beautifully decorated with golden lionesses and adorned with chrysanthemums, your mother’s favorite flowers. They were simple - misunderstood she used to say, but they were always pretty.

Usually, the ceremony occurred on the seashore, at Pierce Coast, however, contemplating the attacks and the coup attempt, you had decided to stay and proceed with the burial in the capital, from the castle.

You knew how far you could shoot an arrow from this height and considering the winter garden stood close to fifty meters from the ground, would be a long shot. She deserved no less.

Three women covered from head to toe in full white gowns with golden lines forming some sort of pattern arrived at the garden where you stood and started to enchant their elder song.

It was always beautiful to watch, but the lines of the old druid poem touched a little too close this time.

The elder song was meant to guide the spirit to afterlife, the lines referred to the circle of life provided by the water. Every energy, every soul, everything was water. The flow of the universe.

You tried, but it was impossible not to share a tear or two as the last verse was sung. The song was about to end, your mother’s time as ruler was about to end. This was a reality that you did not want to acknowledge.

Your mother was gone.

And you were alone.

As the song ended, the men close to the boat looked at you expectantly, looking for your signal to release your mother on the river, to go down with the flow. As her boat was released, you tightened the grip around the bow on your hand.

Your knuckles hurt, but everything in you hurts, there’s nothing new.

You casted your eyes downwards, following the boat but also watching as the others knelt as it passed by, never stopping, the water flow was inexorable just as life was.

It was painful, it was raw. It was true.

The seconds passed and your eyes burned just as your heart was, it was time for you to shoot your arrow in flames, only you couldn’t. After your shot, there was no turning back.

Maria, who stood several steps ahead, looked back at you. Even without words you knew what she meant. It was time. But you couldn’t.

She nodded, encouraging you to lift your useless arm and loose the arrow as you were supposed to. But you couldn’t.

You looked down at the fire pit in front of you, waiting to kiss your arrow and, as the flames danced, you blinked your tears away. Your hands were shaken.

“How can you shoot so far, mother?” The childish voice made the woman look down at you and she smiled that tender smile of hers.

“Practice, love.” She approached you with her bow, beautifully crafted and adorned with rubies, she extended it to you and encouraged you to hold it properly.

Now, standing right behind you, she commanded. “Take a deep breath and, as you do, pull the string with your other arm.” You did as you were told and she kind of guided, kind of corrected your movement. “Take your aim and release.”

Your movement faltered. “How do I aim, mother?” You heard a snort a second later after your question.

“Both eyes open, love. Choose your target and point the arrow at it, that’s your aim.” She instructed and guided your little hands. “Never lose sight of it. inhale, exhale, release.” Her voice was soft in your ear.

It was a little overwhelming. Only ten summers had passed for you, but your training was intensive. You wanted to play gobstones, wanted to play pass the ball, throw your hat, all the games the other kids were playing, yet, you couldn’t. Your free time was scarce as a breeze during summer. As a future ruler, you were supposed to train, study, observe, learn. There was no time for anything else.

“I can’t do this, momma.” You muttered after a second, for your arms got too stiff and shaken, you lowered them before you could loosen the arrow.

“Why not?” She inquired, never leaving her place behind you.

“My arms hurt. I’m terrible at this.” You confessed. From all the activities she requested for you to take, bow and arrow was the worst. You were the worst at it.

A second snort was heard and she squeezed your shoulder lightly. “Your arms will hurt if you overthink. Do it swiftly.” After a light tap on your chin, you turned your face to her. “And you’re not terrible, you’re afraid of failure. Don’t be.”

“What if I miss?” You blinked as she laughed lightly at your question.

“If you miss, you go and take another shot.” Her smile could light up the whole world. “Failing is to give up, so there’s no failing, as long as you try again. Be stubborn.”

At this, your face lit up like a tree during the summer festivals. “I can be stubborn!” You offered as if this was all that was missing in your life for you to accomplish your goals. Maybe it was.

With renewed interest and spirit, you turned to your target once more and pulled the string again, following her guidance as if it was a recipe.

“Don’t overthink.” She muttered behind your ear and hell, you heard her smile when you did as told. Your hand let go of the string and your eyes followed your arrow until it reached the target, almost a hand away from the bullseye, it wasn’t perfect, but you were content.

You could be stubborn.

A hand on your shoulder brought you back to reality and you blinked again at the arrow on your hand, begging for you to bathe it in flames and let it paint the blue sky.

“You can do this.” Carol Danvers smiled softly by your side and you clenched your jaw.

Taking a deep breath, your arm pulled the string until it reached your cheek and you could see the flame dancing on the tip of your arrow, the boat caught on your blurred vision.

Inhale. Exhale. Release.

Thousands of eyes followed as the arrow crossed the sky on that pale morning. As it flew, your heart hammered your ribcage.

You let out a low whistle when the arrow missed the boat and dived a foot away from the boat where your mother slowly and continuously flowed with the waters.

You had missed.

You had failed.

All of a sudden, you felt a light breeze hit your face and you sworn by all heavens that your nostrils were invaded by your mother’s perfume. Your lungs burned as chrysanthemums claimed the air around you.

Another light squeeze on your shoulder and, handling you another arrow, Danvers stubbornly said. “You can do this.”

Stubborn.

“I can be stubborn.” You muttered, doing the same thing you did seconds before. You lowered the point of the arrow on the fire pit and soon pulled the string until it touched your cheek again.

Inhale. Exhale. Release.

The people on the banks of the river resumed the chant started by the White Ladies as the boat was engulfed in flames. It was beautiful, it was disheartening.

As the boat sank, you retreated into the castle. Your steps were heavy, stiffy as if walking took a toll on you.

Your mother’s sun sank into the fate's waters.

Your sun had just begun its ascension.

– – –

The chill in the air could almost be touched. The Winter Garden was taken by a thick haze, yet you could still see what was in front of you.

The stone, carved to resemble the woman your mother once was, felt cold, probably colder than it should be, but you touched it, nonetheless.

Almost a moon had passed and the crafters worked non-stop until this memorial statue was ready, you were adamant that it should be before your coronation. And here you were, hours away from officially being crowned the new Queen of Taharr, in front of the last queen, seeking comfort.

“I never really gave much thought of how this would be,” You spoke to the stone, it remained immovable, as you knew it would. “But I never thought it’d be this hard.”

Even with all the things you had to do after the last battle, known as the Battle of the Failed Coup, your head didn’t rest or stopped thinking about your mother. After a while, it became pretty common for you to speak out loud as if she was present and would engage the conversation.

You were past the point of feeling silly, now it brought you a mild sense of comfort. It was odd, you knew, but one should work with what they got and if you had to go through your grieving, you’d do it your own way.

“How am I supposed to move on?” You asked but your words were engulfed by the fog and died in nothingness just like all the others. You felt so not ready for this, completely unprepared and the urgency only drove you a little bit closer to the brink of the edge of your sanity.

She would hate to see you stuck in the mud like you were, and you’re afraid you’re becoming everything you hate. However, day after day, the weight of your decisions and their aftermath sometimes felt a burden too heavy for your shoulders. And you hated to feel so incapable, so defeated.

First, you thought you were listening to things, but then the unmistakable sound of shoes scraping the wet grass properly reached your ears and you knew you were not alone anymore, a person - not a ghost - was about to arrive where you were.

“Thought I’d find you here.” Maria Rambeau's voice filled the silence after she stopped right behind you.

You ignored her choice of greeting and fired. “What have I done, Maria?”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow, my queen.” The woman shifted, side walking to level her eyes with yours. You all but flinch at the measure, you’re still not prepared to be called the supreme ruler of Tahar. Still feeling undeserving of the title you’re supposed to bear.

“All this time, all the lessons and I feel like it was all for nothing. She’s dead and that’s because of me. It’s all my fault.” There you were, digging deeper into the mud of remorse and guilt. You felt like a wreck, beyond repair.

“If I may, I don’t see it that way, my lady.” Maria starts. “Queen Calanthe died a true queen’s death, fighting for her people feistily, as she always did.” She paused for a second to make sure you were listening. “Your mistakes or even Loki’s betrayal can’t and won’t diminish the importance of her sacrifice, of her strength.”

Her hands pointed to the castle you were standing on, as to emphasize her next words. “The enemy had us in a chokehold, yet Triskelion resisted, she endured and Taharr prevailed. There will be so many songs about this feature, my lady.”

“What will I do with songs?” You retorted like a petty child.

“Revel in them! For she’ll always be alive, in every ballad sang from a bard and in our hearts. In your heart.” She replied without missing a beat, adamant in making her point of view crystal clear.

“And now?” You inquired. Unsure to whom, if to the wind, to your friend or to the memory of your mother, you did not know. “There was so much to learn. There’s a whole kingdom waiting for me to guide them but I feel so lost.

“I don’t know if I should gather the army and seek revenge or if I should prepare for winter and reinforce the borders.” You continued your rant. “If I should reunite with the other kings to hold Hydrarr’s plans or if I should just stand here, waiting.” You balled your fists, irritated with one of the feelings inside your heart.

Being indecisive wasn’t a trait usually associated with you. Before, you’d say that is best to ask forgiveness than living a lifetime wondering what could have been. Before, you had your mind made up and set with a plan. Before, if things went wrong, you’d just go with the flow.

That was before.

“There are so many decisions, so many lives depending on me and said decisions. I feel like I’m crushing with the burden and crushing even further with each passing second.” You finish, now looking back to the stone, jaw clenched.

“Heavy is the head that wears the crown.” Maria interjected. “I used to say these words to your mother and it is only fitting to keep saying it, because it’s still the truth.”

Her words made you avert your eyes to your friend and there were so many thoughts running in your head, that it seemed difficult to organize or even prioritize given there was so much to be done.

Deciding on taking one step at a time, you shot. “Maria, remember that promise that you made me that you’d comply with everything I said after I became queen?”

“Of course I do, my queen.” Maria smiled softly. “Is this the moment where I pledge to follow every single command of yours, no matter how silly they are?” She humored, not really knowing why the hell you brought this up.

“No.” You turned back and looked at her. Your tone was so serious that you can see her forehead frowning. “I want you to be you. I want you to be my conscience… Would you do the honor of serving Taharr as High Advisor?”

She’s taken back by your bluntness. This wasn’t small, actually, you were asking a lot of her but giving just as much. It was the second most powerful position in this Kingdom, losing only, of course, to the queen herself. “M-My queen? Are you sure?”

“I am.” Few times in your life you felt that sure.

She’s speechless for a moment. Perhaps trying to read the catch on your request, maybe weighing her options.

“I won’t take shit from you if you try to play the queen card on me. If you want me to step in as Advisor, I want my voice to be heard and I don’t want blindspots.” Her face was devoid of that humor from seconds ago. She meant business and if you wanted her to take this job, there would be conditions. She wouldn’t pose as a mannequin

“Deal.” You offered your hand for her to shake and seal the offer. “That’s exactly why I need you. I want to be as good as my mother was, and to do that I need someone to keep me on my toes.” You sighed, now deflated. “There’s no one else here to do that.”

“You are good.” She intervened. “You’re worried about the right things, everyone makes mistakes.” Maria squeezed your shoulder affectionately, trying to pull you back from the sorrow abyss you were floundering in. “We just have to learn how to pick ourselves up now. We’ll do this together.”

You nod, but let her words simmer through your head while you take a few steps until the edge of the Garden, where you could see the city below. The sun had only started to rise and the fog was slowly dissipating around you or the city.

“Learn.” You try the word in your mouth as if a wine for you to taste. You had learnt so much in this past year. Hate. Love. Fear. Heartbreak. Grief.

“Can I ask you something personal, Maria?” You asked, briefly glancing at your friend then looking back down, to the small buildings bathing on the first light of the day. Maria barely nodded her head to signal for you to go on, then you fired. “How did you know Carol was the one?

She remained silent for a few seconds, looking down, you knew she had heard you, for this was her telltale that her brain was working on an answer. “Do you remember when your mother created the High Guard?”

“She asked for the mightest and greatest knights from every village in Taharr. It didn’t matter their status. First it was a tournament, then the best were selected so you’d fight against each other until only the best kept standing.” You remembered, despite being relatively young. It lasted for weeks and you were mesmerized by many warriors displaying incredible techniques and skills.

“Exactly. Carol and I were from different villages, so the tournament was the reason why we met and she challenged me in every possible way.” Maria began, eyes flashing with memories of a brilliant past, if the smile on her lips said anything.

“In the tournament she was my rival, but after, at the sparring turns, she came with everything she had. She was marvelous indeed: strong, fast, powerful, yet, I could always find a way to counter her attacks.

“We kept our little competition, even after the tournament, even after we were both granted our current titles for bravery and skill set, but there had always been this pull between us, you know?

“I’d both hate and love that smile of hers and she later confessed she both hated and loved my bossy face. When she finally let her guard down, I saw the woman behind the title, behind the Marvelous and she was beautiful - I simply knew Carol was my person.”

You nod as if to thank her for her explanation while you stood there contemplating her words and their meaning. Eyes still cast down, you’re able to discern some dots that you knew were people, moving around the streets starting, preparing for another day. Completely unaware of your inner queries.

“May I ask why you wonder, my queen?” Perhaps not only your citizens were unaware of the doubts clawing your guts.

“I-.” You sighed, unsure of what words to use in an attempt to explain the turmoil in your head and chest concerning a certain princess that has already been spoken for. “I thought Wanda was the one.” You felt stupid for still giving thought to a woman who misled you. “For me.”

Out of a sudden, you felt your back hurt again due the burden pressuring you as if to remind you of where your focus should be. It was not the time to think about Wanda.

And speaking of hurt, you stared at the burnt mark on your hand, a last minute gift from your pal Lord Vision, as punishment for your audacity of touching Wanda in a way you were not supposed to.

“For the first time in my life, I let myself be vulnerable and she did the same.” Your eyes met concerned obsidian orbs intently looking at you. “I swear she did and she showed me how wonderful she was on the inside.”

Fidgeting with your hands and the hem of your tunic, you continued, eyes cast once more on the people moving on with their lives. The way you couldn’t. “There were so many flaws, Maria, fears… I loved that Wanda no one else knew.”

A sad smile now adorned your lips. “And I hate to know she played me like a doll in a sick game. I hate to understand that I was just stupid for falling in love and believing that she loved me back.”

“You shouldn’t think that way, dear.” Turning to look at her again, you could see her eyes were soft, but there wasn’t a single trace of pity. “What your heart felt was your truth. I, myself, had a hard time believing that Princess Wanda was capable of something like this. But if she deceived you, that’s on her. She’s the one losing.”

Her lips twitched a little, trying to give way to a small but sincere smile. “You are a wonderful person and whoever you choose to be your queen will be the luckiest woman for sure.”

You narrowed your eyes a little. Maria wasn’t one known for throwing compliments at the wind for no reason. With a slight smirk, you asked. “Are you saying this because you’re my friend?”

She gasped, offended. “Of course not!” Then, the lines in her face turned a little less grave. “I’m telling you this because you are the Queen, my boss. Why else would I lie?”

At her words, a laugh erupted from your chest as if a bubble wanted to set free. Your whole body shook and you could see hers did as well.

For some reason, after this unexpected section of laughter, you felt a little less burdened, it was just tiny, but you felt a little bit lighter.

As the laugh died down, she elbowed you lightly and called. “Come. There’s a coronation for you to get prepared for.”

Wordlessly, you started to follow her, casually walking towards your chambers. Before your mind could travel to an unwanted, dark place of sorrow or worry, Maria’s voice found you again.

“Have you heard your friend Aria Stark is here for your ceremony?” She never gave you the time to reply, for she completed her own thoughts. “And that her sister, aka your ex-fiancé, Queen Sansa, came as well?”

“Oh.” It was all that you could mutter. You knew Aria should arrive soon, for she sent you a raven when she heard the news. Funny how a powerful friendship developed after you stumbled on a lost grieving girl in Braavos.

But you were specially surprised by Sansa’s presence, you supposed she wouldn’t want anything to do with you after you, politely, declined her proposal offer.

“‘Oh’” Maria mocked your tone. “I swear, you and your redheads.”

– – –

The raging storm knocked at the walls mercilessly, the thunder shook the whole castle as the lightning flashed the room alit every now and then. The fire in the fireplace danced erratically and you were surprised it still continued alive despite the wind making force through the cracks of the windows.

Staring at the cup of wine in your hand, you thought that maybe the weather was just mirroring the feelings in your chest. The taste of the wine faded from your tongue, but you could still taste Wanda’s love on your very lips.

It was amazing, actually, how you could all but remember your time with her when confined in your chambers alone. If not sad, it would be mesmerizing the way you missed her lips and not even the strongest alcohol could numb it in your skin, in your mind or heart.

You wished you could escape the assault of memories and tender moments together, however, all you seemed to be capable of was to stumble on the ashes of your once upon a time with the northern princess.

So much for your happy ending.

Heavy knocks on the door broke your miserable daze and you cursed them, and entertained the idea of asking for their head on a spike for interrupting your sulking, but you assumed it’d be Maria. It would be more likely for her to have your head in one.

Without waiting for your response, you were proven right, when she barged into the room as if she had run for miles. Her rapid breath made you anxious, for she hadn’t given you a single clue as to why she was so nervous and breathless.

“My Queen, you won’t believe-.” She paused for air, but you hated the drama she created. There were thousands of things you wouldn’t believe in, but they were all running through your head.

You wouldn’t believe it, but you entertained the idea of a dragon rampaging your realm. Or about flying whales passing above the city, with this storm, who could say?! Perhaps the Kree or Skrulls had organized and orchestrated a secret invasion and the city was doomed. Highly unlikely, but what if the same iced zombies that infected Westeros came to Noveria? After all, no one really knows what happens in Vormir.

“My Queen-” She resumed, putting your imagination to rest. “Barton is here, alive. And the Black Widow is here with him.” Her eyes portrayed nothing, and you did hear the second part. Lady Natasha, your enemy’s loyalist was in your castle, the nerve.

But you chose to focus on the first part, for lately, good news was just scarce as the leaves during winter. Your beloved friend, the one that taught you so much, the very one you thought you had lost - just another casualty to your naivety and recklessness, was back and alive.

At least this was definitely good news and yeah, this was something you couldn’t believe in.

You started to move around your room, gathering the minimum of clothes to be presentable before your subjects and you thought how much you have changed, a few months ago and you wouldn’t have minded if you were half naked.

As you approached your closet, you barked at Maria. “Take Clint and Romanoff to the Great Hall. Call the cooks and bring whatever they can prepare this fast and get a barrel of our finest wine.” The High Advisor nodded and started to leave the room, but stopped when you spoke once more.

“And for fuck’s sake send a word to Lady Laura, immediately.” A sharp nod and she fled to comply with your orders.

The fire cracked calmly in the fireplace, giving the foolish idea that everything was calm despite the thunderstorm raging against the walls, despite the storm increasing inside your chest.

As soon as you entered, you spotted three figures standing, close to the fireplace - Maria, Carol and Sam. And another two figures seated at the table, one in front of another, eating rather fast - they were starving.

The quietness of the Hall was violently interrupted by your heels clacking against the marble floor as you marched towards the people gathered and saw their heads rising from their meals to look at you.

Even a few meters away, you saw Clint limping from his chair and sunk his knees on the floor, looking directly at your eyes. “My Queen.” The weight of his eyes and tone showed you his grief, his – your ruefulness.

Before your hand could touch his shoulder, you saw Natasha Romanoff also kneeling slightly behind Clint, eyes cast on the floor and voiced. “Queen Lioness, my condolences.” The action surprises you, surely, but you’re mostly stunned because of her tone.

It almost seemed that she meanted what she had just said, that she was indeed sad about your mother’s death, even though her Kingdom, her army, was responsible for this fact.

Confused, you nodded. Then, resumed your previous action and pulled Clint by his shoulders, so he could get to his feet, and hugged him.

“I thought you were dead.” You confided, voice as far from a queen’s as possible, twice as weak. “I’m so glad you’re not.”

He returned your embrace just as tight. You knew what you had suffered, only the gods could know what this man had endured. “I’m sorry I couldn’t make it faster.” And by his words you knew he blamed himself for not being here during the battle, the coup attempt. Or the burial. He, too, blamed himself for Queen Calanthe’s death.

“You’re here now.” You patted his cheek and gave him a weak smile. You meant your words, but it still hurt, you wouldn’t deny it.

Taking a deep breath to help you fall into the character you were supposed to play, you raised your chin slightly and directed a hard glare at Natasha, with a matching hard tone directed at Clint. “Now you want to explain why there is an enemy, a Sokovian no less, still breathing inside my castle?”

– – –

“You’re lying.” You hissed, for the thousandth time. You just couldn’t believe what they, especially Natasha, were trying to say to you.

“Why would I lie?” She asked, tiredly, arms crossed in her chest. You amused the idea of putting her in chains, to make her understand her position, you even entertained the idea of taking her to her room, a cell in the dungeons, to retribute the hospitality.

But in the end, you gave in after Barton pledged on your friendship’s name for you to listen to them, to the both of them. The only problem is that they were suggesting absurd things to a very jaded woman.

“Oh.” You mocked confusion. “Why would a Sokovian lie, Romanoff?” You shot back venomously. “You’ve been lying this whole time! I don’t even know your reasons anymore!” At this, you threw the decorated invitation you had received earlier at the table.

The marks of burnt and crinkles of a parchment recently crumbled in a paper ball were visible, but also visible was its content. Without even trying to hide your disgust, you started to spat the words engraved not only in the paper, but also in your mind.

“Prince Vision, heir of Hydrarr, son of Red Skull, proudly announces his marriage to Princess Wanda Maximoff, heir of Sokovia, daughter of King Django and Queen Marya Maximoff, with the blessings of King Pietro, who announces his retirement due critical illness. The ceremony will be due in two moons. This invitation is extended to the friendly realms to Sokovia.”

Taharr wasn’t, obviously, a friendly realm to Sokovia. This was probably Vision’s way of taking an opportunity of messing with your head a little further. Or, perhaps, this could be Wanda’s doing. Who knew?

Whoever sent this, did on the sole purpose of fucking with you. And they succeeded.

Maria, Carol and Sam gasped at your words, they were just as shocked as you were. You knew about the marriage, it hurt like hell to see a confirmation, but you were completely in the dark about Lord Vision’s - now Prince Vision - origins.

Not to mention the news about Pietro’s retirement, since when does a King or Queen retire? All the ones you knew died and their rest would be in the afterlife. What the fuck was going on?

A more rational part of your brain understood the geopolitics involved in this marriage: Hydrarr and Sokovia would become one united Kingdom, with its forces and ruthlessness combined, who knew where they’d stop? With King Pietro’s retirement, Wanda and Vision would, respectively, become Queen and King of the combined territory.

With a start, you realized the only ones who did not bore impressed looks were Clint and Natasha. They already knew about this. And, for a split second, you almost doubted your friend. Almost.

“And that’s a coup.” Clint pointed at the paper while the Black Widow simply wrinkled her nose as if the parchment had a bad smell. “A very well orchestrated one, might I add. They’re overthrowing Pietro.”

Your eyes darted back to him and he continued. “I told you, Lord Vision has been contaminating Sokovia for years. Day after day, he’s working to make it more Hydrarr’s. And with this marriage? He’ll achieve it.”

“Harv Krickitt told you this?” You asked about the man, the jeweler, who crafted the piece of jewel the Black Widow assigned to kill you had received as payment. Barely a year has passed, but it felt so, so long ago, almost another life.

Remembering that day, that night, your eyes were hard and jaw so clenched it hurt, still, a pale contrast to the pain brought by the memories dancing behind your eyes.

“Kricket told us Vision was the one to ask for the necklace, with the lioness’ pendant. But he was asked to deliver it to Barnes’ care.” Natasha answered, voice as if made of stone. “He killed Steve during the attack. Those men, that day? They were a Hydrarr unit, a cover up.”

“As everything so far, my queen, this was a set up.” Clint completed. And you laughed at the absurd image they were trying to paint. Inwardly. Outside it looked more like a snort that could very well be mistaken with a choke.

“You want me to believe that Pietro, that Wanda,” Your voice failed, it’s been months since you last spoke her name out loud. You tried not to show any weaknesses, but your heart still skipped a beat and you hated it. “-had nothing to do with this?”

“Precisely.” His words were unwavering. He was certain and you seriously wondered how badly your friend had been compromised.

If you were the older you, this thought wouldn’t have even popped into your head, because it'd be straight away unfathomable, but the older you died after facing the treason of people so dear to you. Wanda’s betrayal was a stab in the guts, for sure, but Loki’s? It killed your heart.

So, who could blame you for asking?

“Did you turn?” Your tone was flat, devoid of emotion.

Across the room, your peripheral sight caught heads snapping at you or even the sound of an intake of a good amount of air. The other occupants of this room judged you had gone too far on your assumption and that this was not what someone with Clint’s reputation should hear upon returning home.

But you didn’t care that this could offend him or even if you were calling him traitor right on his face, you were the queen, weren’t you? You were entitled to.

To his credit, Lord Barton didn’t even flinch at your question, his voice, still unwavering. “I would never!”

Your eyes searched for his, scrutinized his soul looking for any sign of deceit but you found nothing. He was speaking the truth.

Nodding as to show you accepted his answer, you resumed the conversation. “What are you suggesting?”

“Vision has the Maximoff twins in a hook.” He fired back without wasting a second, if you were willing to hear him, there was no time to waste. And, as if on cue, Natasha expanded the idea started by Clint.

“Pietro is ill, that part is true, but Vision is threatening Wanda’s life if he does not step back.” This sentence ignited a fire in your whole being, even though you didn’t know what to believe. If all of this is true or not, it didn’t matter, the idea of someone hurting Wanda made you very angry. “And Wanda has to marry Vision, otherwise he’ll kill Pietro.”

Your head snapped at the redhead seated in front of you so fast it felt like a whiplash, at the same time, your heart rate skyrocketed to the moon.

“You mean she hadn’t agreed with this marriage on her own?” You carefully chose your next words, you wanted to make sure your ears and your brain were not playing games with you. “Are you telling me that she won’t marry him because she wants, but obliged to keep her brother safe?”

“I am.” Her confirmation blew the air out of your lungs.

Alarmed, you got off your seat and retreated to the fireplace, which still cracked, unbothered by the revelations these walls have just witnessed. You tried to remind yourself to keep breathing, because these past minutes were beyond intense.

Your head was still trying to wrap itself around the proposition the spies were presenting to you and, at the same time, your heart was trying to grasp the meaning behind these implications.

Wanda was about to marry a man because of her duty to her brother, to protect the last blood attachment she has with her family. And if she was forced to marry him, if Pietro was not involved, then could this mean-?

“Wanda would never betray you, My Queen.” Clint’s voice reached your ears as if he spoke from miles away, but he knew how fast your head and heart were running, he knew what sort of questions plagued your mind. “She was devastated, went berserk after she found the house you shared empty.”

Contradictory emotions clashed on your chest and you didn’t even know what those emotions were, for there were so many. And just like that, you didn’t know what to think or what to make out of this.

For so long, you believed and were led to believe that Wanda had participated, organized this ploy like a brilliant sociopath. You blamed her for your suffering, you hated her and called names in the confines of your room at night while tears ran free down your cheek.

You cursed the feeling she made you feel and now someone dares to say otherwise. Someone dares to say you got it all wrong, that you were lied to and the woman you loved had nothing to do with this?

“This is profanity.” You whispered, but somehow Clint heard, despite the heavy rain outside.

“I’m not lying.” He confirmed, as if this was all that you needed to accept this plot twist.

“You can’t possibly think that I’ll believe this, Clint. I was put through hell.” You cried, disregarding the others still present, you didn’t care if they saw you weak right now. This wasn’t news to them after all.

Without a word, Natasha pulled something from her battered purse and you were about to turn away again when she opened her hand, palm flat upwards, offering you its content. Your eyes narrowed due the feeble light, tiredness and to try and keep the tears from falling.

“Wanda gave me this.” The Black Widow spoke solely to you, for she knew the others didn’t know what was in her hand nor its meaning. “She said you would understand-” And by the looks of it, Natasha herself didn’t really know what was the meaning of what she was carrying either. “and I quote ‘It’s impossible to hold back the wind”.

It was dirty, but with a step or two you could very well distinguish the trace and pattern of a tied knot in a rope, it was unmistakable that it was the same piece of Aberdeen rope you had given Wanda in what felt like a lifetime ago.

The memory, though, surfaced as if it was yesterday.

Wanda watched as you absentmindedly ran a hand through your hair. “Why do I feel so tied to you?” She wondered out loud, after you settled down close to her at the cushions sprawled on the floor.

“I don’t know.” You smiled softly, offering her a cup of tea. “But if it makes you feel better, I feel just the same.” You countered and she smiled away.

It was unclear if your answer had pleased her or not. Sometimes you felt as though you knew Wanda like the palm of your hand and others, just like now, it was as if she was a stranger that had just arrived in the room.

Sometimes it was impossible to decipher her silence.

After a while, she turned to you with a bittersweet smile gracing her heavenly lips. “Do you think this will last forever?”

You were touched, paralyzed even, for you didn’t really know what she specifically meant with ‘this’. It could be the feeling of being tied or the tie itself - conversations like these with Wanda were like treading on thin ice or holding on a breakable thread. So you remained muted, waiting for further context.

“Forever. Don’t you think this is such a strange concept?” She chuckled humorlessly. “Forever doesn’t even exist, if we think about it.” She rambled with brows furrowed.

“Forever could last a lifetime.” You tried tentatively, still unsure of where this conversation was heading to.

“Forever could last a whole minute.” She retaliated without missing a beat. She wasn’t even looking at you anymore, but to a fix point at the wall as if it could show her the future if she stared at it for long enough.

“You don’t know how long your forever will last.” Now, your brows were also crinkled only your eyes were cast on the mug nested on your hands. “No one knows.”

“What do people do, then?” You looked at her, but her inquiry seemed genuine.

You laughed at the absurd. You had no clue about what they do with their forevers. To be honest, you didn’t know anything about this. “I don’t know. I guess, they live the best they can, nonetheless?” You supplied.

It was so strange, because during your whole life you’ve learnt a lot of things, but no one stopped even a second to explain to you what it was to like someone. To love someone. The ‘what to dos’ and the ‘hows’ were completely overlooked as you grew up.

Tilting your head up, as if the sky could be of any help, your eyes caught sight of a rope loosely tied to the canopy, it wasn’t big, but you took a piece with your knife and expertly started to knot it down, your skills from your time as sailor showing off, and you were highly aware of Wanda’s eyes focused on you.

You pulled the tip of the rope from both sides but the knot remained untouched, the tie was still perfectly strong, as if made of stone. Then, you offered it to her, heart pounding in your chest as if you were handing her your own heart on a silver plate.

She took it in her hands with a tenderness yet unseen, as if it was made of glass. “This tie could last forever.” Though you pointed to the piece of rope in Wanda’s hands, you both knew what tie you meant with your words. You just hoped she wouldn’t freak out with your naive, yet brave attempt to wish for impossible things.

You were completely conscious that a future with Wanda was highly improbable. Still, you couldn’t help but dream that the two of you would find a way and make it work. Somehow.

“Can we stop this?” She asked, but this time she stressed the last words of her sentence and moved her hand between the two of you. This time, she was crystal clear about what she meant.

“It’d be like holding back the wind.”

You touched it with a gentleness that no one in the room judged you’d possess. It burst a fire in your chest and it was getting harder and harder to hold back the emotion slipping through the cracks of your heart.

It was impossible to ignore the hammering thoughts shooting through your head and there were so many, so loud that you thought you’d go crazy.

This piece of fabric meant nothing and everything at the same time.

“I need to think.” Without another word, your fingers closed around the material and your feet stormed out of the room to collect yourself in your own chambers, so you could ruminate about the implications laid upon you this night.

— —

“Stop this wedding!” Lady Danvers’ voice resonated throughout the Hall. “I’ve got an objection.” She looked sheepishly to the side and revealed a sly smirk and whispered for only you and her own wife to hear. “I always wanted to say this.”

If the moment wasn’t so daunting, you’d probably laugh or retort some snide remark, but your eyes were solely focused on the woman dressed in white in front of the makeshift altar prepared for the occasion.

There were shocked murmurs, metal clanging against metal, for you dragged the fight from the inner gates into the main hall of the castle, where the wedding was taking place. There were voices speaking, screaming words devoid of any meaning, for your ears ignored any and all of them.

Her eyes were locked on yours and your knees felt weak; she was a sight to behold and worship. Like a true goddess, Wanda Maximoff’s dress made her look ethereal, as if she was sent from another dimension to cleanse this Earth’s sins and her eyes cast on yours burn with something you couldn’t know.

The contrast of white and red, from her auburn hair cascading down her shoulders, was mesmerizing and it only made it difficult for you to think coherently. For a whole second you forgot where you were and what you should be doing.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Vision shot his hand to his sword, but with one look he realized he was outnumbered.

A sly smirk crossed your lips, tongue as sharp as usual. “Well, you did send me the invitation, have you not?” With a start, you realized that your sarcastic self hadn’t vanished for good.

You could make anyone mad with only a couple of words. And, oh, Prince Vision red with anger was one of your favorite sports. Just like he was.

“You’re invading my castle!” His voice boomed throughout the room, in a futile attempt to intimidate and stop your advance. Poor him.

“Last time I checked this was Maximoff’s.” You provoked, walking towards his direction, with the conviction that his goons would know better than to come your way. You were a woman on a mission and they wouldn’t stand a chance.

In fact, there weren’t many goons available anymore. Rumlow was dead after all, and Natasha had her dagger dangerously close to Bucky’s throat rendering him immovable. And the others… Well, they wouldn’t dare to cross paths with you right now.

Drawing his sword, Vision took one step towards you, but you could see that this action was just an automatic response, for his eyes darting around told you his head was running all the possible outcomes and, more importantly, how he’d get away from this.

He wouldn’t.

You were adamant in making him pay for every single word, or minute he made you suffer. For every lie, every single action and all the blood shared that he was responsible for. Especially your mother’s. Oh, you’d make sure he’d pay.

“One shouldn’t draw a sword if not ready to bathe in blood.” Your words were marked by each step you took, hand with a tight grip on your own sword. To be honest, it looked like he wanted to try his chances with jumping from the window instead of facing you, but you had cornered him now.

“You think I won’t kill you?” He threatened, lifting his sword so it’d be between you. Perhaps in his head this could make you stop.

It wouldn’t.

“Will you try it by yourself or will you ask someone else to do what you can’t?” You jabbed back, but remained immovable only a few steps away from him. You were ready to take matters into your own hands, you were ready to go to hell and back.

However you were a queen, threatening a prince under another king’s roof. Again, the older you, would be hands deep into Vision’s throat squeezing the life out of him, but your new version knew better. This was not your castle, nor your land.

No matter how much this man had made you suffer, no matter how many crimes he committed to you and to your people. This was still Sokovia, another man’s realm, there were rules and you should step down on shedding blood at your will.

“You should surrender, Vision.” King Pietro rose to his feet, taking the cue from your pause. It was visible how this illness had an effect on him even though he was trying to be tough.

The man, on the other hand, decided to ignore this modest warning and took another step, ready to clash his sword on yours, but before he could, another blade appeared under his chin, kissing the skin on his throat which made him stop in his tracks.

Perhaps Wanda had that sword under her dress this whole time, perhaps she took from some random guard around her. In fact, it didn’t matter where that blade came from, because her intentions were clear and menace was evident in every inch of her being.

“You’ll do what you were told.” Not that it was needed, but her eyes screamed danger. Vision could be many things, but he wasn’t crazy enough to ignore the threat underlining her words. “You’ll abide to the King’s order.”

Visibly cornered and defeated, the prince dropped his sword and looked up with a sorrowful eye, ready to beg for one of the Maximoffs for mercy.

“Take this idiot out of my face.” Pietro commanded no one in particular, not that he needed, and two guards pushed Prince Vision out of the hall, closely followed by Clint and Carol. They certainly would make sure he’d stay locked.

By then, all the guards loyal to Vision or Hydrarr were dead or arrested. It was the first part of the plan, designed in Triskelion: to take down Vision, they’d need to undermine his influence, take his minions to be able to weaken his power inside the castle.

The last part was the invasion itself and the dramatic wedding interruption.

Your head was highly aware that you were needed to stop this plot orchestrated by Red Skull. After all, Taharr was one of the most powerful realms in Noveria, even though shaken, Triskelion was still a stronghold against enemies in this continent. Taharr was the only realm that could prevent this coup.

No one else would be this effective, this fast or this invested. One could say that it was the smartest thing to do, that no other vengeance would be greater, but your heart hammered your ribcage looking at the redhead barely meters away from you.

There was nothing else greater than the way she was looking at you.

With a start, you didn’t know what to do now. All this time, you and your friends thought what needed to be done to stop the coup, your mind didn’t wander to the moment after it. Again, you were used to fighting, but what was expected to be done after the fight?

Even more, after those wonderful days in that cozy house, you’ve been running from her memories and the feelings she’d made you feel. You were clueless about what you and Wanda were - are.

Suddenly, you felt a body colliding with yours and it took you a second to understand what was happening and you closed your arms around her. And, once more, it felt as though you had been locked out of heaven.

The woman roamed her hands all over your body, your hair, assessing every single part to make sure you weren’t hurt. To make sure you were in one piece. When satisfied she rested it on both sides of your cheeks. Holding you in place. Eyes set on yours, centimeters away.

“By the gods, please, don’t tell me you believe in him.” Her voice sounded strangled, as if trying to keep herself composed was a strenuous effort.

“He was pretty convincing.” You replied without missing a beat. How could you think, when breathing her breath was so intoxicating? You were incapable of speaking something more elaborated and you knew she’d be upset with your answer, but Vision pulled quite the number.

For a second, she said nothing. She closed her eyes and rested her forehead on yours, letting her hands fall to your shoulder as yours instinctively found her waist. As if they belonged there, as if they have never left at all.

When she opened her eyes, it was perfectly clear how sad she was. “I can’t even begin to imagine what he put you through.” They were so genuine that your heart clenched. “I’m so sorry. For everything.” She whispered the last part and it was hard for you not to kiss her right then and there.

But you were a queen now and this was not your castle. You couldn’t just do whatever your heart desires. With a chaste kiss on her forehead, you disentangled yourself from her embrace and walked towards the limping form of King Pietro, only to realize Wanda had taken your hand on hers to hold as you walked.

“Lioness, I apologize for everything Vision did and I condoned.” The man was weak, very different from the one you met in his dungeons. But he was still as regal as someone of his position should be. “I know it can’t be erased, but your presence will be appreciated during his trials.”

Taking your nod as the only answer he’d receive, he turned to the crowd standing awkwardly in the hall, most of them without a single clue as to what had just transpired. Raising his voice, he said. “Now, I understand that there’s a feast to be served and I see no reason for us to starve.” Then, he turned to a maiden in sokovian’s colors and ordered. “Take half to the city and bring the rest for us, there’s an army to feed.”

– – –

You looked up to the sky and tried to spot any cloud but there was none. It was so impressive, because you swore you have never seen this shade of blue, it was as if the sky had been painted.

Wanda had told you that this was a rare occurrence during winter, but it was a welcome change to the permanent gray, common for the colder season. Also, she said that if the blue showed up more than once in a week, then it meant that spring was slowly lurching towards Sokovia.

It was the second time you were mesmerized by this impressive color and beauty. Surely spring was on its way.

Ironic, you thought.

‘I’ve learned to let myself get cut to always return whole with spring’. You felt as if you could hear your mother speaking these exact words to you. You felt as if you were a whole new person and somehow, these words made more sense now than ever.

It had been a rough winter. Metaphorical and not. The weather proved to be a ruthless enemy, without mercy, it wiped the crops, farms and you thanked the gods for the crown’s reserve, so there was food enough to aid the whole kingdom.

And, as a matter of speaking, your winter was just as hard. Funny to think you used to complain about all the training and study you had received when younger, because right now, you felt as though you should have been pushed harder.

Mastering all weapons, learning numbers and languages, geography and geopolitics, religion and history, nothing really gave you the mere idea of how to bear the weight of a crown. The younger lioness couldn’t even grasp the importance or the challenges a ruler would experience.

Granted, as the days passed by, you understood what you should do and knew what variables you were supposed to think of before making a decision. But nothing, and you do mean nothing, prepared you to understand that there is no right move.

People will get hurt, people will suffer. No matter what you choose, there will always be consequences. The trick is to look for the lesser of two evils and accept what you can’t change. It was this trick that you struggled the most, though.

It was ironic, indeed, how much you have grown after your trim. After your mother’s death, Loki’s betrayal and even Wanda’s, even though it was just another ruse, you had felt that, mourned that love, after all of these cuts and trims, you didn’t even know you could endure this much.

Life took so much from you, yet, here you were. Still standing.

Persevering.

Just another irony, if someone asked you, because that's what Pietro had said to you earlier in the meeting: ‘Spring is life persevering after a long winter.’ And you agreed.

Your philosophical moment was cut short with the arrival of no one other than Wanda. Her perfume announced her presence seconds before her hands found your back as she slid them until she was hugging you from behind. You snacked your arms around hers and closed your eyes for a moment, savoring her warmth, her scent, her company.

Right after the wedding-stopping thing, you learnt that Wanda basically became your shadow. Wherever you went, she was probably following not far behind. Unconsciously, she was probably scared of losing you again if she let you out of her sight.

And there was a shift in your relationship after the very much needed, long and exhaustive conversation about everything that transpired since that morning she left you in that house. Your point of view and hers.

It was hard. She had cried and you had cried, it was obvious that she was blaming herself for basically everything you had suffered. It was unfair for her to think like this, but she was adamant. And you knew, deep down, she was sad you had doubted her.

However, there was nothing that could be done on that matter. It was in the past.

With a kiss on your cheek, she let go of your waist and stepped to the side so she could take a look at you. Basking in the sun like this, she felt as though you were an angel sent from above.

You and your army saved her kingdom from certain doom. Funny, though, for Wanda never saw herself as a damsel in distress kind of princess, but her own and her people’s freedom was a gift, delivered by your hands.

“Pietro said you wanted to talk to me?” She started, tilting her head to the side in evident curiosity. When you left her this morning after breakfast because you had a meeting with her brother, she was quite surprised. Not that you two didn’t bode well, but because she wasn’t invited.

In fact, she was told to not interrupt.

“Yes. Thank you for coming.” You said, turning your body so now you were facing her, the balcony serving as a body support. “I was wondering if you’d take me on that horse ride to see the waterfalls?”

She smiled softly, her curious self giving way to the old Wanda who wouldn’t stop talking about the amazing waterfalls close to the castle. She thought about how endering you were right now, asking for her to fulfill a promise she never imagined would really become true.

“Say no more.” She grabbed your hand and fled the room. Not long till you were each on a horseback, riding to one of her favorite places in the world.

The ride to Ms Marvel waterfall was barely an hour long, but perpassing through fields, trees and the most beautiful sightseeing rivers. It was so pretty, so particular, that you felt as though you were walking inside Wanda’s memories, for she had described this place over and over.

The moment you set foot on your destination, you realized how thoroughly Wanda had been when speaking about this place. Every single pebble, rock, grass and the magnificent waterfall was just as she painted with words.

It was beautiful and magical.

Despite the weather, you shed your clothes and jumped into the cristaline water, followed suit by the princess. The redhead, however, was far more used to the cold waters than you were, but you always liked cold baths.

This one felt as though you were being cleansed. It was welcoming.

As Wanda swum towards you, it was easy to see a soft smile gracing her lips and a predatory look on her eyes. Hair slick back due the water, some droplets covering her face and you wondered if she wasn’t a siren, trying to lure into unknown waters, to your demise.

Somehow, her body was warm even though you were both chin deep into the waters and her embrace was something that you couldn’t find words to describe. And seeing this new side of her, so carefree, and not preoccupied with everything, made your heart soar in your chest.

Surely, your relationship wasn’t exactly a secret, but it was plain to see that, right now, there were no worries about who could find out. You were not the enemy anymore, there was no war and there was no one targeting you.

For Wanda, this was almost living her fairy tale dreams, right after emerging from her worst nightmares. First, she had lost you. She was a wreck after she realized she had not been as careful as she thought she was.

It was no mystery to her who had taken you but much to her dismay, Vision had convinced Pietro that you were secretly invading Wolfgang, taking advantage of her innocence to demoralize his image and power.

Wanda tried to explain to her brother, but to no avail for his mind was impregnated with lies and deceit. She tried to make Pietro understand that she loved you and though you had never used words, she pretty much knew you also had strong feelings for her, and you were definitely not using her as the Advisor had informed the king.

It was all part of the plan. It was a mess. However, the final strike was yet his boldest. Vision pledged Wanda was impure and no one would want her as wife, but he could take this burden for the sake of their friendship.

The nerve.

Curious enough, things got worse when Pietro started to believe her. One day, he showed up at her door and was utterly embarrassed for not believing her, he then explained to her that he had talked to you and there were no reasons for him to think you were lying.

Wanda’s heart broke all over, for she could only imagine how bad it must have been in the dungeons with the care of the likes of Vision and his loyalists. She was scared, she was hurt and she was desperate to set you free.

She schemed a plan with Natasha and Clint for you to escape, but her brother fell ill, probably poisoned by Vision even though they could not prove it, and they became hostages too. On their own castle. Each of them had a sword on their throats, each of them were ready to lose everything in order to keep the other safe.

Among all the other things, Wanda would lose the love of her life.

“I know I never said this to you.” Your voice brought her head out of her reverie. It was even and melodic, she found herself smiling. “And I think this is so silly now, trying to mask my feelings.” She felt, more than heard you chuckling, even under the water, your whole body shook. “I love you, Wanda.”

Her head snapped backwards so she could have a better look at your face. After all the time you spent together, she came to decipher whether you were mocking or not, yet, this voice, this tone was different. It was new altogether.

You were older, wiser and sadlier too, she realized, you were not the Young Lioness anymore.

“I mean it.” You finished, trying to convince her that you were not messing around.

Realizing her lack of answer might have led you to believe she was searching your eyes for a lie, she shook her head and smiled softly. “I know.” She did believe you. She really knew, she really felt.

You have told her, just not with words.

You couldn’t help but lean in and capture her lips with yours. When Wanda was about to deepen the kiss, you pulled back and looked down in time to see a small pout and you smiled softly at her attitude.

“There’s something else I want to talk to you about.” You ran your hand down her cheek, mesmerized with the perfection glued to your body. “Did Pietro say his plans for his future to you?”

Despite the intimate moment, or position, Wanda felt a slight shift in your stance and certainly the topic of the conversation. Seconds ago you were talking about feelings and now you returned to politics.

She didn’t not know what exactly you were talking about. Or what you really wanted to. But this question was just a preamble, that much she was certain.

“That he desires to step down from the throne to look for treatment and healing?” She asked, head tilting to the side and she was so adorable wearing that confused look of hers that your heart skipped a beat.

You only nodded and she asked. “Why?”

For hours, you had been trying to think of the best form to ask her. Being blunt, straightforward as usual or perhaps with a romantic flourish, but in the end, anxiety took the best of you and you were not sure of how to do it.

There were two Wandas. The one you were in love with, the simple woman with a heart, you usually knew what she’d do or say. But then, there was the feisty and strong princess, who will always think about her duty to her people before anything else. Even her own heart.

And that woman? She could virtually say or do anything, she was indomable and you were irrevocably devoted to her.

“I was thinking about what we always said…” You mentally kicked yourself for being so stupid and not knowing the right words. To be honest, you were afraid of her reply or even her decision. “About a time or place where we could simply be, where we’d have a choice.”

A quirk of brow told you she did not understand what your words meant and you sighed heavily. Deciding to take the bandage off, you shot. “Wanda Maximoff, will you marry me?”

She opened her mouth, but then the words hit her and you saw her eyes grasping their meaning as it sank in what you were asking. What you were really asking her. What you were really asking of her.

“How?” She asked, doubt written all over her face.

For sure, you had hoped for an easy ‘yes’ even though you already knew it wouldn’t come. However, a how it was far better than a no.

A smart comeback made its way to your tongue, but you swallowed it down just as fast. “If you’ll step up as the new queen of Sokovia, why wouldn’t you as Novi Grad’s?”

Her jaw dropped a few inches at your proposal and everything that would surely entail, regaining her composure after her stupor, she fired back. “Is this political?”

She tried to disguise the hurt perpassing her being. She wanted you, but were you suggesting just a political maneuver?

“No.” You were quick to clarify. “I want to marry you because of what I feel for you. But I understand that this is not simple. Between the two of us, we can’t take one thing without the other.”

For several seconds she looked at you and said nothing. Her eyes scrutinized every freckle, every inch of your face and eyes. You were so beautiful and she hated how much she loved you, how desperate she was for your touch.

The possibility laid upon her was far too tempting. She was aware of her needs and duty and for a long time she wished she could split her heart from her responsibilities, but right then and there, this was her chance, your chance to finally combine both.

It wouldn’t be needed to sever one thing from another, the both of you could take your place as required without breaking your hearts in the process.

“Are you sure?” You were not convinced of what she was really asking. What should you be certain about? Your love, your offer or everything in between?

“I’m sure of what I feel for you.” You replied and her eyes, once lost, finally focused on yours. A soft snort told you that this was not of her concern. Good.

“I know, darling. I love you too, you know this already.” Her smile was soft but not more than her words. “I was just… Do you think we can reunite the realm?” She asked more directly this time and you understood her fears.

The Golden Accords existed for a long time and there would be resistance, there would be fear, but there would also be reunion, there would be peace. And that was the very thread you were holding on.

“In my humble opinion? You and I together can do anything.” Certainty coated every single word rolling out of your mouth and that made Wanda’s smile go wider. She always loved - after she had hated - your confidence.

– – –

If you squinted, her dress looked like a waterfall, cascading down her back, feet and beyond and Wanda, once more in full white, looked like a fallen angel. Her eyes, her smile… everything in her glowed brighter than a star. She was perfect.

After your vows, Pietro took your hand and Wanda’s and laced it with a red piece of satin. It represented your bloods, your souls intertwining themselves, tying the eternal knot between your lives.

Her smile was broad and you were certain it shone for miles, when Pietro spoke the last sentences of the ceremony. “I now present you the Queen of Taharr and Queen of Sokovia. All rise to the Queens of the Great Realm of Novi Grad.”

The crowd was loud to the point you couldn’t even hear your own thoughts and you swore the earth shook when you leaned in and Wanda sealed your promise with a kiss.

The promise of union, the promise of peace, prosperity and love.

After all, you were the Queens of Promise.

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sleep-nook · 1 year

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Hello all!

I'm new to tumblr, but I think this place would be great for me to share my hobbies! Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Sleep - I am currently in graduate school studying for my master's in Information Science (I want to be a librarian someday!). I have a bachelor's degree in Hospitality as well, which I hope to experientially use to start my own coffeehouse in the distant future! I enjoy gardening as well! I recently started a garden in my backyard and there are all kinds of fun little sprouts inhaling their first hello to the world. I also am starting a small business where I design chokers with polymer clay charms! I'm still getting used to it, but I've come a long way with it and am in the current stage of stocking up my listings - so keep an eye out for any posts with chokers! I may include a discount code :p I am what many would call a book dragon - I hoard numerous books and only read a select few of them. That doesn't mean I don't like or plan to read the ones I haven't touched! I actually really hope I get to read them someday when I have the time and mental capacity XD I love quotes and poetry as well! They reach the heart with the most unique and witty rhetoric, so I might have a habit of reposting and even discussing quotes from poems and works. I promise I'm not having a mental breakdown, haha! Feel free to ask me anything too! I'm happy to talk to new folks and interact with my communities - sharing interests is something I take the most pleasure in :)

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finishinglinepress · 25 days

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NEW FROM FINISHING LINE PRESS: Solstice by Helene McGlauflin

On SALE now! Pre-order Price Guarantee: https://www.finishinglinepress.com/product/solstice-by-helene-mcglauflin/

Solstice, Helene McGlauflin’s third collection of poetry is a sweet selection of poems written for and during the dark days before the winter solstice. Helene’s poems utilize imagery from the night sky, root cellars, fireflies, gestation in darkness, birth to remind readers to search for light, wait for light, hope for light, see light. Her poems are an accessible, welcome comfort in these times of uncertainty when every soul needs the reassurance of the beauty and faith found in poetry.

Helene McGlauflin, MEd., is a poet, writer and retired educator. Her numerous articles, stories and poems have appeared in books, small presses, magazines and professional journals. Solstice is Helene’s third collection of poetry, preceded by Tiny Sabbath (2010) and Teacher, I Honor You (2016) both published by Finishing Line Press. She is also the author of Calm and Alert: Yoga and Mindfulness Practices to Teach Self-regulation and Social Skills to Children (2018: PESI Publishing) her legacy from a long career as a school counselor and yoga teacher. Helene is a parent and grandparent and lives in Midcoast Maine with her husband Bruce. Contact Helene at [email protected] or visit calmandalert.com

PRAISE FOR Solstice by Helene McGlauflin

In her lovely poems, Helene McGlauflin reminds us of the mystery of darkness, that state in which the stars appear and bulbs lie, not dead, but dormant and waiting. These compelling poems reach out to their reader and offer fresh and surprising variations on the search for light in our dark hours. Nothing is excluded. There is “the honesty of sludge,” and a unique vision of the three wisemen relinquishing their pomp. In a poem addressed to the super moon, dated November 2016, the poet sees in the moon a “non-scorching reprimand” and asks, “How could we have mistaken darkness for light…?” The gift of at these poems is that they don’t. They search and discern, question and embrace, facing the darkness but moving steadily toward a sustaining light that is “luminous, waiting.”

–Betsy Sholl, As If a Song Could Save You.

In the Lateran relics collection, in Rome, there is a sealed tube. Within it, they say, is light from the star followed by the three kings – relics and miracles, always about faith … and light.

The poems in this collection sing light into darkness, but celebrate the darkness as well, singing out from that liminal space where things are always beginning, just before dawn, just before solstice, the time to “wait for sunrise, walk together into a future”

–Gary Lawless, How the Stones Came to Venice

Helene McGlauflin‘s Solstice takes us on a soulful journey into the yearnings of the human spirit to find light, hope, and peace in the midst of a changing and complex world, asking us to consider questions like “what is left after//virus rages/fire destroys/winds howl…hate spews”? Like in her poem “Root Cellar,” these poems quietly but confidently ask us to take stock of the spaces and things that restore us: “. . .as cold and despair lurk outside you, you/will never starve if you can descend, return to your store/sit in a corner among jars in the gloaming, trust the quiet,/the silent light as a promise from the root cellar”. And, like in her poem “A Single Star,” these poems insist on our ability to find “the quixotic promise visible at dusk . . .” and like “miners . . . find a beam as the mountain/crumbles underfoot and light abandons the shaft, then be cheered by/your capacity to save yourself and those around you from collapse.” These poems are very feminine in the way that they remind us that light and hope are products of a life lived simply, a life lived with the understanding that babies, community, and the natural world can indeed save us because “a single point of light in darkness matters.”

–Marita O’Neill, Evidence of Light

Please share/repost #flpauthor #preorder #AwesomeCoverArt #read #poems #literature #poetry

#poetry #flp authors #preorder #flp #poets on tumblr #american poets #chapbook #chapbooks #finishing line press #small press

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absentcaryatid · 1 year

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The Library Patron

A LA POEM Minseong fanfic by AbsentCaryatid

Your work as a small-town librarian is brightened by a favorite patron with wide-ranging taste in songbooks.

1.9K words, Content note: all ages, gender neutral reader, food mention ~ Now that the months were colder, you had settled into the off-season routine of a quieter workplace. As a librarian you were always in demand, but without the bustle of vacationers looking for the latest beach read or series for their kids, you could devote more time to the smaller number of locals. Of course, there were also always people who made their way to your small town for the special collection of European songbooks donated ages ago as part of the library's founding. Over the decades the selection had been supplemented by newer purchases to broaden the scope to music from around the world and the modest building become quite a regional draw for those interested in the topic.

“It feels good to be surrounded by books again.” The somewhat imposing man with a beard that did not quite hide the size of his chin stood before your desk. You could hear him inhale the familiar scent of aged but well-preserved paper. “I miss the music library at my old school in Germany.” The man with the wistful smile introduced himself as Jeong Minseong and came with a substantial list of books he hoped to access on his visit.

You already felt warmly toward the new patron with his wide-ranging music interests including classics and opera. A good number of the items were present and could be checked out with the non-resident library card you promptly issued. As you waited for the lamination machine to warm up, you assisted with others he was searching for. Some of the research would take time and you promised to keep him informed when anything came in for him. Arms stacked high with books, and more in the library supporter tote bag on his shoulder, he left with a smile on his face and a promise to return them on time.

The three weeks passed quickly. Enjoying the hunt, he had you delving into some of the most obscure libraries in the world to arrange inter-library loans, often managed through the help of an interpreter. Mr. Jeong had a strong passion for Chinese lyrics from the past thousand years, but also made requests for music from various other continents and in every language imaginable. He soon became your favorite patron both for the challenges he brought and his kind personality.

Knowing how much he was putting you to work, including the time you went above and beyond to pick up a songbook yourself from another library, his regular visits became accompanied by a bakery item in thanks. He understood you would have to save it for your breaks keeping your hands clean for handling books, but his genuine gesture of appreciation touched your heart. It was about this time you stopped using family names with each other.

The habit developed from then on for Minseong to join you at the picnic table out back, weather permitting, and enjoy the break time treats he would arrive with, now supplemented by coffee for two. He'd listen with an arm on the table, head propped up by his hand as you would talk about anything, seemingly as happy to be in your presence as you were in his. The alarm from your phone dragging you back to work life always felt too soon as you could never get enough of his pleasant company.

Months passed and every time he appeared with a new desire it was a pleasure marshaling all your research skills to locate the treasure. Usually you could proudly email that the book he sought had come in, though there were also times you had to make do with scans of books too precious to travel. Occasionally, what Minseong was after was long out of copyright and sometimes turned up after careful internet sleuthing. It also helped the library had access to database subscriptions the sweet man did not have access to on his own. His taste for learning had you swooning because you were strongly drawn to people with deep knowledge of a subject.

There were physical aspects to your appreciation as well. Minseong carried himself with something akin to stage presence. Even his attractive, low-pitched voice was ideal for library discussions that would not disturb the few other patrons. Lost in thought on his latest visit, it took a while to notice Minseong had quieted as well. Shaking yourself back to the present, you noticed his interest fell on the flier displayed upright on the desk. As the year had moved on to warmer weather, the library's annual fundraiser concert was approaching. It was a big deal in your little town, a casual night providing the most amateur of entertainment.

In a snap decision that was far more successful than you could ever have dreamed, you let Minseong know it was not just for locals. “You seem musical based on your reading history, you are welcome to join in if you wish. Perhaps you play something, or like to sing?”

Minseong's smile was enigmatic. “Your concert to raise library funds sounds like something I would enjoy participating in, especially for such a good cause, but I need to check my schedule.” Within the week he called with a yes and the request to be last on the program. As the staff member in charge of scheduling, this was something you could promise.

The day came and the weather held beautifully despite earlier hints of rain. Balconies of the apartments nearby, really just subdivided houses, were full of neighbors ready to enjoy the amateur entertainment. Everyone was welcome, voluntary donation or not, and the festive evening began. Casual musicians and singers took the makeshift stage at the outdoor concert with supporters on lawn chairs or picnic blankets spread out on the library's lawn. Some couples on the periphery took the opportunity to dance along to a few of the songs.

On the off chance you could persuade Minseong to join you before he closed the event, you had made sure to pack dinner for two and luck was with you. He had arrived early and generously assisted setting up, then eagerly took you up on the offer of a seat at your side. Between bites, he listened attentively and had nice things to say about each act, even able to praise enthusiasm when talent was yet to be developed.

At last his turn came and your co-worker acting as master of ceremonies welcomed Minseong to the stage. Wanting to remember this night, you took the opportunity to ask for permission to record his song on your phone. Minseong must have been sure of his abilities, for he agreed with a slight modest head bow that still let you see a grin.

He made his way to the stage and took a moment to introduce the song. “Those of you who have seen me spending hours at the library with my head buried in classical music tomes might be surprised I know a few current songs too. Usually I song this with three of my friends, but tonight I'll be on my own. I present 'Answer' by ATEEZ sung without accompaniment.”

From the first few lines you realized the kindness it was that no one would have to follow Minseong's presentation. What you and everyone else in earshot discovered was that your favorite patron was no hobbyist singer. His rendition of 'Answer' was majestic and you were left in awe of his ability.

The night ended with a standing ovation. Minseong thoughtfully waved all the other participants back up to share in the copious applause. Your job then complete, you left cleanup to the breakdown crew and the star of the evening walked you to your vehicle. Many people came up to congratulate Minseong on his skill. It made a nice change from the apparently standoffish attitude you had witnessed from the other patrons because when engrossed in his reading Minseong could appear quite intimidating. It pleased you to know others had now seen a different side of him, the one you were more familiar with.

Right on schedule three weeks later, Jeong Minseong, soloist and member of the crossover group LA POEM arrived with the latest books to return. A little internet sleuthing based on his name had told you quite a lot about your friend's high-profile. You chuckled. “Here I was thinking you were an academic with all your research and then you wowed all of us with that amazing voice. Our library’s YouTube channel has never had so many views and we’ve been getting donations from all the globe thanks to the finale you let me post. Thank you so much for that.”

Minseong blossomed at your praise, again giving a shy smile you found endearing.

“I had no idea you were a professional, and with a worldwide fan base too! No wonder you have such an extensive knowledge of music across quite a range of time periods.”

“I was glad my label Studio JAMM got permission from KQ Entertainment to let me help this way. This place, and you in particular, have been necessary to my research. It felt good to support your library that has given me so much.”

Now it was your turn to glow from his words. “Our collection of songbooks will grow thanks to you. I'm so grateful.” Taking a wrapped gift from your desk drawer, you handed the thin rectangle to Minseong.

Gingerly he unwrapped the delicate object revealing a book he had been trying to locate for months.

“In the end I found a copy for sale instead of at a loaning institution. This is yours to keep.”

“You could have added it to the library's collection for me to borrow.” Looking up in wonder, he joked, “I hope you are not trying to get rid of me.”

The vehemence of your answer startled both of you. “Never! It is the highlight of any day when you come in. I love talking with you.” A little wistfulness crept into your voice as you concluded, “I could see you forever.” You abruptly cut yourself off. That was far more than you had intended to admit, and about a library patron too.

Minseong smiled. “I wasn’t going to say anything because, well, you are at work and you could be that friendly with everyone, but perhaps I have my answer. May I take you to dinner in thanks for this much desired book?”

“You owe me nothing, I have had the pleasure of resolving your quest and did it to thank you for your service to the library.” Catching the way his face began to fall at your apparent denial, the reassurance came quick, “And yes, I would like that very much.”

Relief apparent on his face, that very afternoon began the first of many times Minseong would pick you up from work. In no time at all he became your boyfriend, then live-in partner once you relocated to his apartment. The lengthier commute to the library was more than compensated for by the ability to see each other all the time. Your workplace was also flexible, granting you time off as needed to be with Minseong on tours. That understanding worked in the library's favor as you often returned with a suitcase full of new library acquisitions from far-flung cities.

With little coaxing from Minseong, all the members of LA POEM began to use your library's resources regularly. Sunghoon found an endless supply of French songs from all eras to add to his repertoire and Kihun discovered the same for the genre he was drawn to, Italian classics. Their leader Chaehoon spent more time browsing the modern collection, and even he came away satisfied with some discoveries suitable for future concerts, some of which they later put on for the library's benefit.

Masterlist

#LA POEM #Kpop Fanfic #Kpop Fluff #Jeong Minseong #diverseinsertknet #gender neutral reader

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taurusadvice0 · 2 years

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Searching Obituary Records Could Be The Proper Way To Find People

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#funeral program

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thewayshedreamed · 3 years

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The Next Life

Written for Nessian Week 2021, AU day! (Even though my post is late because I fell asleep. 🤦‍♀️

Hope y’all enjoy this Nessian meetcute, inspired by some of their interactions/ dialogue in acowar.

@nessianweek

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There was something therapeutic about a casual stroll through a bookstore. Nesta hadn't wasted any time of making a full-blown coping mechanism out of it years before, allowing the smell of paper and the musings of various writers to distract from her own life.

She walked through the new releases and found herself in the poetry section, as she often did. The selection was vast; everything from Homer to Edgar Allen Poe to a tiny assortment of contemporary prose.

Nesta slid a finger down the spine of a book of poetry, watching the letters slide behind her fingers and reappear. She remembered seeing the poet's name on social media and quoted in the forwards of some of the books she'd read most recently. He was everywhere, and he'd apparently released his second collection not too long ago. How Nesta hadn't managed to get her hands on the first in his series by that point was a shock.

Nesta fanned the pages with her thumb, relishing in the way the draft of air felt across her cheeks. She stopped at a random page to sample the content; her usual method to see if she cared for the writer's style. Her eyes trailed the ivory paper and took in the minimalistic, black font. Rarely did a sequence of words, an innocuous string of letters truly make her breath still, but the burning in her chest proved that they could.

I have no regrets in my life but this. That we did not have time. That I did not have time with you.

I will find you in the next world— The next life. And we will have that time.

I promise.

— e. nalius

Nesta blinked at the page, blinked again. There was something so beautifully tragic about the message; how unfortunate that he'd found a half of his soul on borrowed time. She couldn't claim to be a hopeless romantic by nature, but Nesta believed in something bigger than herself. That meant that she understood very little about her universe and anything beyond, and by logic alone, the concept of soulmates was possible.

Maybe she was a little romantic.

She flipped through a bit more, scanning another couple of short poems before tucking the book into the crook of her elbow. The poetry collection wasn't as balanced as she would imagine for Temple Books, which led her to believe that another display existed somewhere. It was a bad day for Gwyn to have the day off.

That left Nesta the options to wander around aimlessly to look herself, or worse, speak to someone to ask them if they knew of another display. She strolled through a couple of sections, weighing the costs of each option against her desire for the companion to the book in her grasp.

Her eyes stayed locked on the various books as she moved from one aisle to another, and she added several to her mental "To Be Read" list along the way. The store wasn't busy since it was week day, which meant she could take her time perusing the other genres in her pursuit of the poetry section she still wasn't sure existed at all.

She rounded a new aisle, stopping short when a broad form came into her periphery. A man shared the space with her, still nearly 12 feet down the aisle, but his presence startled her nonetheless considering she'd grown used to being alone.

He was impossibly tall, broad-shouldered. His forearms were so long that he managed two stacks of books in his hold side-by-side, pressed against his side. His brows were furrowed as he scanned the various titles and moved to place them in the appropriate place. Admittedly, she could do much worse for herself if she was forced to ask a clerk for help.

Nesta approached him on quiet feet, careful not to startle him out of his concentration. "Excuse me?"

He oriented toward her, his eyes dragging from a title on the shelves before his attention snapped to her fully. His height was even more disorienting up close. That was without mentioning the way his scent; clean, yet smoky somehow, complimented the smell of books around them.

His bronze skin was the perfect backdrop for his features; onyx hair and eyebrows, full and dark eyelashes that framed bright hazel eyes. Nesta swore she saw three different shades of green alone.

"Hi," he greeted, a soft smile on his lips. His very full lips, if she was the type to notice such things.

Her cheeks heated, but she refused to seem affected by his attention. This was business, after all.

"Sorry—" she stammered. "—I'm sure you're busy." She took a deep breath. "You're clearly busy. Anyway, I was wondering if you all have another display or table of poetry? Contemporary, specifically?"

His lips quirked up in a sideways smile, his amusement drawing a thread of gold through all the greens she had noticed before.

"I really wish I could help, but I don't know much about poetry, and uhh—" He gripped the back of his neck. "I don't work here?"

Nesta bristled at her mistake and felt her defenses rising to the occasion. "Are you asking me?"

A chuckle bubbled out of him, and despite herself, a small smile spread across Nesta's face. Even she had to admit to being unfair.

"I come here from time to time, but no. I don't work here."

How often did he end up in her bookstore? Surely she would remember someone like him wandering around among the mere mortals, but she supposed her nose was most often in a book.

"I'm sorry I assumed. I saw you with all those books," she said, gesturing with her hand. "I thought you were putting things away or stocking the shelves."

The man looked at the heaping stacks in his arms and smiled sheepishly at her, a faint pink dusting his cheeks. It was hardly fair for him to be so handsome and seem so human all at once.

"Ah. Now that I think about it, that's fair. I'm actually shopping for a friend's birthday, but I overestimated my skills in picking something out for her. I've been here an hour already."

It was Nesta's turn to chuckle. She turned to place her book on a nearby shelf with her keys and phone, then turned toward him and extended her hands.

"Have you narrowed it down to genre, at least?"

She curled her fingers in a gesture to hand some of the books over. He paused for a second before snapping into action, transferring a few titles into her hold. His fingers brushed against hers in the process, and the contact sent a wave of heat all the way down to her toes. As much as his nearness made her heart quicken, there was something so familiar, so comfortable about him that made her feel as though he would appreciate the small favor.

"Historical fiction. Regular fiction. Some fantasy." he listed, brow furrowed again as if she'd asked him to recite Pi up to twenty decimal points. "Romance."

"So, you have too many options. That's the problem."

He looked up at her with one of the most earnest expressions she'd ever seen. "Yes. Exactly."

This had an unprecedented ability to force a smile over Nesta's face, but she didn't waste time picking that apart. Instead, she launched into problem-solving mode. They had narrowed down his haul to two books in a matter of minutes, and he decided then that the universe must have wanted him to get Mor two books for her birthday.

Nesta couldn't help her disappointment at knowing her name rather than his. They'd been talk too long for her to ask now, though, so she soldiered on with the hope that he'd offer it up casually.

"Just think, if I hadn't come to say hello, you could have been here for another 5 hours," she teased as they re-shelved the other books. Two of them never made it back to their original spot in favor of Nesta's own haul.

"I don't know if you can count mistaking me as an employee as 'saying hello'." He slid a playful glare her way through his side eye, daring to bump her shoulder with his. "Plus, I think you actually said, 'excuse me', Sweetheart."

Nesta rolled her eyes. "If that's what you call me, you don't know me well enough." She paused, allowing his laugh to skitter up her spine. "You know what I meant."

"I do." He turned to her with a serious look she hadn't yet seen. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, seeming to buy him a moment to gather his nerve. "For what it's worth," he rasped, "I'm glad you came over."

Her cheeks might as well have been on fire. She looked away to hide her blush, gathering the books she'd kept from their reject pile, along with her keys and phone.

"Right. Well, I'd better take off. I lost track of time and have some other errands to run before I get home."

Without so much as another glance, she turned to walk away. The man sounded as though he meant to call after her, but before he could get the words out, Nesta called out her goodbyes over her shoulder.

She lost herself several aisles down, trying and failing to convince her heart to stop beating roughly against her ribcage. There was a war raging in her mind, the interior of her chest. The intensity of what she felt around that beautiful stranger was terrifying, but there was a song in her blood that came alive in a way that she'd never experienced a day in her short life.

If she was the queen of anything, it was self-sabotage. Their interaction should have been something positive and exciting, something to revisit at another time in the interest of knowing him better. Instead, she'd gotten in her own head the second his behavior had even hinted that her interest was reciprocated. Her legs had carried her away as if the floor was on fire beneath her, and she hadn't even managed to get his damned name.

With another half-hearted pass by the center tables and several additional aisles, Nesta gave up her original search. She had the two she kept from Mr. Blood Song, so that would have to do for now. She gripped them tightly to her on her journey up to the check-out line, cursing her internal melodramatics.

The line moved quickly, and blessedly, she was soon walking up to one of the cashiers. The young girl was chipper, as sweet as could be, but Nesta could barely force her politeness over her need to escape. She wasn't sure she could risk running into him again after her more than embarrassing display of nerves.

As she set her books on the counter, she let out a low, rough curse. The cashier's eyes grew large, assessing Nesta for anything that could have been a sign of her wrong-doing.

"Miss, is everything alright?"

"Oh, yeah." No. "Well, kind of. I just realized I left a book that I meant to buy on a shelf somewhere."

The first damned book she had picked up. In her haste to grab her things— well, make a fool of herself, in hindsight— she had completely forgotten the book of poetry that had initiated the whole mess. Her smoothness knew no bounds.

"Would you like to go grab it? I'll hold these for you!" Nesta had to give the girl credit for her willingness to hold the two of them together with her enthusiasm.

She considered, but two things were of concern. First, the line had continued to grow behind her, and she didn't want to be that person who cut to the very front or held the line up altogether. Second, that book was somewhere near where she'd spent her time with the charming non-employee, and subsequently embarrassed herself. She wasn't enthused about the possibility of bumping into him when he likely thought her to be a crazy person.

"No, that's fine," she insisted, shaking her head. "I'm here enough. I'll pick it up on my next trip."

The girl nodded and completed the rest of the transaction. Disappointment threatened to settle over Nesta's shoulders at her decision, for multiple reasons, but she clung to a small silver lining to keep from sinking into it. Perhaps the second book would be in stock by the time she visited again, and she could pick them up together. She moved through poetry pretty quickly, so having the second one on standby was the better option.

Offering her thanks to the cashier, Nesta gathered her keys to unlock her car. Just as she eased the door open to slip inside, a distinctly male voice sounded from behind her.

"Miss!"

Was he talking to her? His voice wasn't familiar, so it was more likely that he meant to capture someone else's attention nearby.

His voice sounded again. "Ma'am!"

Nesta paused, turning toward him slowly and making no attempt to mask her skepticism. The guy that approached her was young, and upon further inspection, she recognized him as one of the other cashiers from inside. He carried a small bag in his hand, holding it out to her as he approached.

"You left this behind. Glad I caught you before you drove off." He smiled, his eyes darting to his hand and back to her face in question.

"I have my bag right here," she countered, pointedly looking toward the bag hanging from her fingers. "I think you may have the wrong person."

"No, this is for you. The receipt is inside and everything. I meant to catch you if you didn't end up at my register, but I lost track of time." He deposited the bag into her hand, walking backward toward the store. "Have a great rest of your day!" With a broad smile, he was gone.

She looked in her own bag to see if maybe her own cashier had forgotten to bag both of her books, but they were both there. Something he said resonated with her while she settled into the driver's seat of her car, piquing her curiosity further.

I meant to catch you if you didn't end up at my register.

That insinuated that it had been there before she checked out. There hadn't been any books she'd pre-ordered recently, nor did she have anything on hold. Compelled by confusion and a base need to figure out the chaos of her afternoon, she shoved her hand into the other bag. She pulled out the contents to reveal the book of poetry she had insisted she would pick up later, E. Nalius' first collection. Her fingers danced lightly over the cover, offering her some mindless action to ground her while she thought through things.

There was one last variable to investigate before she allowed herself to be properly sketched out. She opened the cover gently to reveal the receipt that had been jutting out of the top. Flipping it over, she noted the sharp, sleek penmanship on the back. The full smile she allowed herself was as genuine as the flutter in her stomach while she read the short message.

The next time, I'll come say hello.

— Cassian

----------------------------------------------------

#nessian #nessian au #nessianweek2021 #nesta x cassian #nessian fluff #meetcute #acotar fanfic #acowar #the next life #twsd fics #twsd writes

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waltwhitmcn · 3 years

Note

what are some of your favourite poems?

First, let me preface this by saying that most of these poems are accessible online. I am aware of how difficult buying books can be, so I made sure that most of these were somehow easily found from a quick google search. These are some of the poems I love the most! I selected a few of my favourite passages from each one of them in hopes that you might want to read them in full. One of my most-used and favourite website, the Poetry Foundation, has many, many poems available. You can read them for free. Their podcast, VS, hosted by poets Franny Choi and Danez Smith is also brilliant! Just putting this out there in hopes that you might be swayed into giving it a go, you can find it on Spotify (I don’t have Spotify premium and can still download the episodes) and Apple Music, I think. Enjoy! <3

Mayakovsky [“I love you. I love you, / but I’m turning to my verses / and my heart is closing / like a fist.”],

Aus Einem April [“Fingers more breathless than a tongue laid upon the lips / of the hour of sunlight, early morning, before the mist rolls / in from the sea; and out there everything is turbulent and green.”],

Poem (That’s not a cross look its a sign of life) [« everything / seems slow suddenly and boring except / for my instable thinking towards you / as you lie asleep completely plotzed and / gracious as a hillock in the mist from one / small window, sunless and only slightly open / as is your mouth and presently your quiet eyes / your breathing is like that history lesson »]

Steps [« oh god it’s wonderful / to get out of bed / and drink too much coffee / and smoke too many cigarettes / and love you so much »],

and Having a coke with you (and many more) by Frank O’Hara [it is hard to believe when I’m with you that there can be anything as still / as solemn as unpleasantly definitive as statuary when right in front of it / in the warm New York 4 o’clock light we are drifting back and forth / between each other like a tree breathing through its spectacles »]

Fog by Carl Sandburg [“The fog comes / on little cat feet. It sits looking / over harbor and city / and then moves on.”]

The Promise We Live By by Simon J. Ortiz « So I’m not sure this morning when I step outside, / and suddenly it’s not winter anymore but some / warm mask that molds the contours of my face / with unbidden warmth. »]

On the Back Porch by Dorianne Laux [« I want to stay on the back porch / while the world tilts / toward sleep, until what I love / misses me, and calls me in. »]

Sanity by Caroline Bird [« I change nappies. Donate my eggs. Learn / a profound lesson about sacrifice. Brunch. / No singing floorboards. No vents leaking / scentless instructions. My mission is over. / The world has zipped up her second mouth. »]

The Love Cook by Ron Padgett [« Let me cook you some dinner. »] (that’s all you’re getting, go check it out on poetry foundation)

America by Allen Ginsberg [« America I’ve given you all and now I’m nothing. »]

Onions by William Matthews [« How easily happiness begins by / dicing onions. A lump of sweet butter / slithers and swirls across the floor / of the sauté pan, especially if its / errant path crosses a tiny slick / of olive oil. Then a tumble of onions. »]

A Phonecall from Frank O’Hara by Anne Waldman [« I was living in San Francisco / My heart was in Manhattan / It made no sense, no reference point / Hearing the sad horns at night, / fragile evocations of female stuff »]

New York by Valzhyna Mort, translated by Franz Wright [« new york, madame, is a monument to a city »]

#answered #asks #notice a pattern LOL #mostly frank o’hara #and food #and domesticity #poems #my favourite poems #poetry #poetry recommendation #recommendation #literature

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fatehbaz · 3 years

Text

Scientists and naturalists in Britain and the US (holding prestigious positions with allegedly esteemed institutions or publications like Scientific American, MIT, American Naturalist, Kew Gardens, and elsewhere), especially from the Victorian era through the 1920s, were just like: “OK, time to describe women and non-white people as insects and carnivorous plants in hyper-sexualized ways that cast them as oddly-alluring threats to established hierarchies, colonialism, and Empire.”

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Carnivorous or insectivorous plants have long induced fascination [...]. There are many amateur botanical societies that focus upon them. The first living specimen of Dionaea muscipula Ellis ex L. came to the attention of the populace of London in 1768, an event that ‘caused a sensation throughout Europe’ [...]. Prior to this event, John Bartram had sent Patrick Collinson, a London botanical collector, several plant parts, after the specimen sent by Governor Dobbs of North Carolina had failed to arrive (Magee, 2007). Bartram used a popular name for D. muscipula, tipitiwitchet, a somewhat ribald Elizabethan term for vulva (McKinley postscript to Nelson, 1990). This connection between female sexuality and carnivorous plants continued into 19th century England and may have had something to do with their popularity and continued public fascination. [...] These ‘queer flowers’, as Grant Allen described insectivorous plants in 1884, reached a zenith of popular and artistic attention during the mid to late 19th century. Allen’s essay demonstrated the lure of the insectivorous plant as a floral femme fatale and in richly descriptive language described its ‘murderous propensities’ [...].

Source: Mark W. Chase; Maarten J.M. Christenhusz; Dawn Sanders; Michael F. Fay. “Murderous plants: Victorian Gothic, Darwin and modern insights into vegetable carnivory.” Botanical Journal of the Linnean Society, Volume 161, Issue 4, December 2009.

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And while Gothic monsters can express a multitude of alienations, the particular anxieties evoked by botanical monstrosities at this time were tied to imperialism [...]. Like the corpse flower, perilous plants were closely associated with the tropics in the Victorian imagination. This was a deliberate manufacture: in 1874, the American Edmund Spencer (not to be confused with his more famous, earlier English namesake) presented as fact a fictional explorer’s encounter with an African tribe that offered human sacrifices to a man-eating tree. [...] Such plants therefore became part of the imperialist mythos about the bizarre and dangerous recesses of the so-called primitive parts of the world, there to test the mettle of white explorers. [...] An entire genre of imperial gothic literature evolved to deal with the perils of foreign elements invading English bodies and English lands, as the colonizers had themselves inflicted on distant countries. Either out of provocation or opportunism, the once safely remote monsters of the colonized world retrace the explorers’ steps back to the metropole. Such monsters range from Kipling’s heathen curses to Haggard’s sorcerous queens, but also includes potential ecological threats such as H. G. Wells’s “The Empire of the Ants” (1905), in which organized, aggressive ants establish themselves as potential rivals to Britain’s global dominion.

Source: Zoe Chadwick. “Perilous plants, botanical monsters, and (reverse) imperialism in fin-de-siecle literature.” In The Victorianist: BAVS Postgraduates. October 2017.

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[Extreme content warning for this one: child abuse.]

A comparison of the personiﬁed “European” ﬂowers with those from the other continents in The Temple of Flora reveals some of the Orientalist, racial, and gendered conventions that connected plants to colonial experiences or aspirations. In The Temple of Flora, Thornton deploys images and texts based on both the iconography of the Four Continents and the Linnaean sexual system to emphasize the productive yet dangerous sexuality of Europe’s others. These personiﬁed images of plant life embody British attitudes toward colonized people and resources, and the tenuous boundaries between personiﬁed plants and objectiﬁed humans become blurry. [...] Dr. George Shaw (1751-1813), the keeper of the natural history section of the British Museum from 1807 to 1813, personiﬁes this plant [stapelia] for Thornton in a commissioned poem, describing the stapelia either as a “hag” with a “gorgon shape, rough arms, and scowling eyes,” a “dire enchantress” who casts “horrid spells” in her “magic rites,” or a cannibalistic, bloodthirsty “mother” who bears maggots and lures poisonous animals like toads and snakes close to her and eats them […]. The cannibalistic female allegories of America ﬁnd their counterparts in Thornton’s ﬂesh-eating American plants. For male botanists in the eighteenth-century Atlantic world, the venus ﬂytrap deﬁed classiﬁcation as a specimen on the boundaries between animal and plant. Naturalists such as John and William Bartram, Benjamin Rush, Peter Collinson, and others attributed humanlike passions and sensitivities to the plant […]. The object of peculiar fascination, of both scientiﬁc curiosity and eroticism, the venus ﬂytrap was named in Latin after the goddess of love and was later commonly referred to by the salacious nickname “tipi-tiwitchet” or “twitching fur stole.” Botanist Peter Collinson (1694-1768) exclaimed that he was “ready to Burst with Desire for Root, Seed, or Specimen of the Wagish Tipitiwitchet Sensitive.” He hoped to obtain one from the botanist and North Carolina governor Arthur Dobbs (1689 -- 1765) but lamented that it would probably not be possible because the seventy-three-year-old man had already married a fifteen-year-old bride, whom Collinson referred to as a “Tipitiwitchet,” for him to “play with.”

Source: Miranda Mollendorf. “Allegories of Alterity: Flora’s Children as the Four Continents.” In: The Botany of Empire in the Long Eighteenth Century. 2016.

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“The transformation of cleaning from a matter of dilettantish dusting to a sanitary crusade against ‘dangerous enemies within,’” in Ehrenreich and English’s words, placed women ideologically (though never materially) at the center of a new discourse of national health oriented around the home as an ecological space. This scalar revisioning of the domestic – what Jennifer Fleissner calls the dis/course of the “the great indoors” – proved a kind of mirror image of the Rooseveltian Wild West, with women at the front lines of a new frontier harboring both danger and the promise of revitalization. “Our enemies are no longer Indians and wild animals,” writes Ellen Swallow Richards, MIT’s first female professor and founder of the American domestic science movement, “[t]hose were the days of big things. Today is the day of the infinitely little. To see our cruelest enemies, we must use the microscope.” [...] During the latter half of the nineteenth century, developments in the fields of public health and domestic science transformed the modern home into a space of dangerous multispecies entanglements. In response, state-sponsored hygiene initiatives aimed at the reproduction of white futurity recruited housekeepers as domestic guardians against nature's encroachments. [...] By the turn of the century, the highest level of insect research in the country, the Department of Agriculture’s Bureau of Entomology, had fully absorbed the emergent cultural discourses around women’s newfound proximity to their domestic co-inhabitants. A widely circulated public memo titled “The House Centipede” written by Bureau Chief Charles Marlatt, begins with the assertion that “the house centipede, particularly within the last 20 or 25 years, has become altogether too common an object in dwelling houses in the Middle and Northern States for the peace of mind of the inmates.” It may often be seen darting across floors with very great speed, occasionally stopping suddenly and remaining absolutely motionless, presently to resume its rapid movements, often darting directly at inmates of the house, particularly women, evidently with a desire to conceal itself beneath their dresses, and thus creating much consternation. Posing as a practical, informative tract “of interest to housewives throughout the United States,” the memo in fact deploys a complex rhetorical vocabulary that figures housekeeping as kind of psychosexual drama between woman and insect, the stakes of which are nothing less than the security of both home and nation. “The house centipede is a Southern species,” the memo notes, “its normal habitat being in the southern tier of States and southwestward through Texas into Mexico.” [...] To be sure, the Bureau’s memo fits neatly into a familiar [...] historicist narrative whereby domestic discourse – understood as a kind of “soft” or “maternal” power – works toward the consolidation of American empire and the reification of sexual difference. From this perspective, the document’s recourse to the logic of [...] the unreciprocated love of centipedes for women [...] can be said to link what Kyla Schuller calls the “biopolitics of feeling” with what Amy Kaplan theorizes as “manifest domesticity,” such that the (white) woman’s heightened capacity to be affected by her environmental milieu consolidates her authority “to police domestic boundaries against the threat of foreignness both within and without.”

Source: David Hollingshead. “Women, insects, modernity: American domestic ecologies in the late nineteenth century.” Feminist Modernist Studies. August 2020.

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Considering the broader selection of newspaper hoaxes alongside the dozens of botanical fictions that appeared around the same time, one will also notice certain repetitive themes and settings accompanying the Darwinian unease. For one, we can observe the pronounced influence of the so-called “orchid fever” that still gripped Europe in the later 19th century, a time when orchid hunting in exotic locations had become a pastime for the more adventurous gentlemen of means, and, in fiction, the most common excuse to write a tale of a monster plant. ]...] In fact, in America during the late 1920s and early 1930s, we see another surge in the popularity of monstrous plant narratives, precisely around the time that the evolution controversy had come to a head during the national media sensation that was the Scopes Monkey Trial. This was also the dawning of speculative fiction’s pulp era [...]. The monster plant narratives of the pulps no doubt inherited this tension from their turn-of-the-century forebears, a simultaneous recognition that these animal-like monsters must be somehow natural, like the real carnivorous plants so carefully anatomized by Darwin, and that their very existence also threatens to destroy distinctions between the animal and plant kingdoms – as well as the hierarchy that those distinctions support.

Source: T.S. Miller. “Lives of the Monster Plants: The Revenge of the Vegetable in the Age of Animal Studies.”

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Imperial dis/course constructed India as a land of white ants, held India and its inhabitants responsible for the white ant problem, and reinforced the civilizing rhetoric of imperial ideologues by defining white ants as a hallmark of the lack of civilization. [...] Insects were ubiquitous and fundamental to the shaping of British colonial power. British rule in India was vulnerable to white ants because these insects consumed paper and wood, the key material foundations of the colonial state. The white ant problem also made the colonial state more resilient and intrusive. The sphere of strict governmental intervention was extended to include both animate and inanimate non-humans, while these insects were invoked as symbols to characterize colonized landscapes, peoples, and cultures. [...] Contemporary writers in the imperial age, many of them British, appropriated the question of white ants to assert civilizational differences. [...] An article published in the Scientific American in 1891 entitled ‘White ants in India’ implied that in consuming white ants, ‘the Africans’ shared the eating preferences of lizards, toads, and birds’. [...] Before he acquired his notoriety as the pioneer of eugenics, Francis Galton had written a travellers’ manual, first published in 1855, in which he argued that natives of ‘wild countries’ (as distinct from ‘civilised and partly civilised nations’) dug holes ‘in the sides of’ white ants’ nests and used them as ovens for the purposes of cooking. These writers believed that unlike what was to be expected in contemporary ‘civilised England’, white ants were integrated within various social practices [...] of West Africa, in the so-called wild countries and in ‘the east’. An article in the American Naturalist in 1876 argued that advancement of ‘culture’ was antithetical to the proliferation of white ants. It claimed that in Africa and India, ‘where a century ago massive ant-hills were to be found near the shore, now some days’ journey inland have to be made to find them’. This period, according to the article, coincided with the ‘step by step…retreat of white ants…in front of a rapidly advancing culture’, when ‘mankind’ took control over white ants, forcing this representative of ‘nature (to) step behind’. Therefore, the hundred-year period that marked among other developments the advent of colonial rule in Africa and India, this article implied, went hand in hand with ‘the advance of culture’ and the ‘retreat of white ants’. Meanwhile, in India, white ants were described by British naturalists like EHA as ‘the foe of civilization … the Goths … of Indian life’.

Source: Rohan Deb Roy. “White ants, empire, and entomo-politics in South Asia.” Cambridge University Press. 2 October 2019.

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miss-choco-chips · 3 years

Text

North star

Core disaster week Day 1: Bart’s Birthday// First kiss

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

Cassie smiled, sitting down in the picnic blanket. There was so much fucking food- it was awesome.

But not as awesome as being together, all of them. It’d been a while since they managed to meet like this. Kon, particularly, had been hard to pin down and convince to come; but exceptions had to be made on certain days, and Bart’s birthday was the height of special occasions.

Tim, too. She risked a glance at him, stony and silent, and smiled sadly. It truly had been too long.

Sitting each on one end of the blanket, like a flesh and blood compass rose, she smiled again at the unintended philosophy of it all. Bart to the east, bringing the sun into their lives, his energy and warmth a hope for the new day; Kon to the south, lost in memories of the past but a steady, firm ground beneath them; She herself to the west, holding the weight of it all on her shoulders like the sky held the heaviness of sunset; And Tim, sweet, depedable Tim, was undoubtedly their north.

“Cassie? Wonder-honey-baby-dearest girl?”

Snapping out of her reverie, Cassie waved Bart’s concerned face off.

“Don’t worry, just lost in thought. C’mon dude, it’s your day, we can’t start eating until you do!”

A little unsure, Bart sits back on his spot, glancing to his right at Tim. He hesitated a bit, something extremely unusual for a speedster presented with a widely varied menu (Kon and her had flown all over the world picking and choosing his favorites from every possible country- there was a lot).

“He doesn’t mind”, interrupts Kon softly, before anything else can be said.

Taking his word as the gospel it is, Bart’s face broke into the biggest smile and cleaned up his first plate of ‘a little bit of everything’ in less than a blink, already reaching out for more. Without even pausing his chewing, he started babbling out at Tim, who for once didn’t reprimand him on his table manners, nor tried to use a napkin to clean his chocolate-stained cheek. Cassie tried very hard to hide the pang that surprise-attacked her heart.

Desperate for a distraction, she turned to her right, to Conner. He was looking at the other two fondly, a small smile breaking through his face of steel like it was butter.

She remembered back when they were younger, just children, before all the tragedies and the losses; he had smiled easier, then. Wider, unprompted, freely. Giving that handsome smirk like it was candy on halloween.

“It was a good idea to come here”, he acknowledged, once again making her snap out of her head.

“One day, you’ll just accept that all my ideas are good.”

“Do I need to remind you about the deal with the beet demon?”

“That wasn’t that bad.”

“Cassie. We had to eat borsch for every meal. For a month. I don’t think Bart ever forgave you about that.”

They both waited for a second to see if the speedster was about to interject, but he seemed to have missed their conversation, regaling Tim with a tale of his latest training session with Wally.

“Anyway”, Kon coughed, drawing her back to their moment, “it really was. I… I know I wasn’t the easiest person to convince, so..”

“‘The easiest person’? I had to track you down across an entire hemisphere, lasso you like a wild animal and drag you here kicking and screaming. Literally. My bruises have bruises.”

“Anyway, thanks. I… needed to see you all again. I never thought we’d be able to just… sit here and enjoy ourselves, without… you know, all the…”

“Angst?”

“... yeah. How did you even manage to secure us this spot?”

Cassie smiled, leaning back against her arms, enjoying the sun on her face.

“You can thank Tim’s brother for that. I made him promise to make sure no one interrupted us today.”

The other meta snorted.

“It’d be a cold day in hell before I thank Nightwing for anything.”

She winced a bit, but refused to let the implications ruin her good mood. “Come on, you know he’s not my favorite person in the world, but he’s really doing his best to be here for” -a quick glance, Bart still talking his heart out to Tim- “the new Robin. If you can bury the battle axe...he’s not so bad, nowadays.”

Unsure, he shrugged.

“I don’t really care if he discovers the cure to cancer and spends the rest of his life in seclusion as a monk. If I see him on fire and I have a big water bottle, I might help him put it out- after taking a few drinks, first. But that’s as far as I’d be willing to go for him.”

Considering the numerous times Kon had tried to outright attack the older vigilante, Cassie was going to take it.

“How's Jon?” she asked, subject change as unsubtle as a kick to the chest, taking a delicious french pastry between thumb and forefinger and examining it.

He copied her, selecting something brown and salty-looking from the assorted items

“Nothing new. He’s still a better mentor than Supes, though his choice in friends leaves much to be desired. Still, like I told you, I’m… better? I think?”

A pause, as he washed down whatever he ate with a raspberry slushie. Bart’s incessant chatter, once annoying, was now a beautiful background noise. He was just so damn happy, Cassie felt more accomplished even than the time Diana first told her ‘good job’ after a spar. All he’d asked her for his birthday, soft and broken among his tears, had been this; just the four of them, together.

And she’d done her best to make it happen, securing this place and guilting Kon into accepting. She’d done it, and the memory of Bart’s genuine laugh as he told Tim about his last caught villain would -hopefully- be enough to deter the nightmares sure to come with sunfall.

“Anyway, he’s good. What about Donna?”

Cassie let her head fall back between her shoulder blades with a groan, closing her eyes against the glaring midday sun.

“Ugh, don’t remind me. I love her to pieces, but honestly? I can see why my mom has so many grey hairs. Diana is lucky she’s perpetually young and perfect and thus doesn’t need to deal with stress lines. If this is what I was like when she trained me, I have a lot to apologize for. Starting, but not limited to, our days in Young Justice. We did so many stupid things back then.”

“So, the Titans are a riot?”

“They are a bad influence, and I hate how they taught Donna to disobey when I tell her to go to safety and let me do the fighting, but honestly, it’s so much like looking at our past, I can’t help but want to wrap them up in a blanket and wish them luck.”

“I wish you luck. This is why I refuse to take a younger hero under my wing. Too much responsibility.”

“You are a weak bitch. Even Bart is mentoring someone. We have to nourish the younger generation, Kon. Think of the children.”

“You are nineteen, stop talking like you just turned seventy.”

“Well, Cissie is retired. It’s not such a stretch.”

“I’ll tell her you said she’s old.”

“Don’t you dare.”

After those first few hiccups, the rest of the afternoon went smoothly. Uncharacteristically restrained of them, no food fight ensued, but even so it was a pretty fun day. They caught up with each other, teased about past exes and questionable fashion choices, and every silent, solemn moment was endured with joined hands and hearts, a united front against the grief.

Bart’s wet eyes shone, filled with gratitude, when he blew the candles. Cassie caught the exact moment on camera, having learnt the value of getting those precious seconds immortalized forever somewhere other than her own mind.

He kept his wish to himself, but it wasn’t really a mystery. Just by the way he glanced at Tim, they could harnett a pretty solid guess.

Heartache was a familiar, almost comforting feeling to her now, but the wave of raw emotion that almost washed her away at Kon’s crystalized eyes and Bart’s trembling hands gave her pause. Cassie looked away from them for just a second, giving herself this moment of weakness, and in the fleeting light of sunset, she could have sworn she saw a familiar face, looking over them from the shadow of a tree, smiling fondly.

But it was missing with her next blink, so she just shook her head to dispel any traces of wistfulness and turned back to her boys.

It was in silence that they picked up their stuff. Super speed would have made it a chore of just a millisecond, but none felt the urge to run away, so they took their time, hands brushing and then clutching while they cleaned up this sacred place they had borrowed for the day.

Cassie really needed to thank Damian for coming through for her on this. As much as she had despised the other vigilante in the past, a leftover feeling from Tim’s own feud with his older brother, she had learned to forgive and forget. It was, she’d come to accept, the only way she could move on.

Basket finally full with the blanket, empty plates and chocolate stained napkins (Kon’s hand had trembled as he cleaned Bart’s cheek in their leader’s stead), they stood together, arms around each other with the birthday boy in the middle. One by one, they said their goodbyes. It hurted a little less than the last time they could manage to do this, perhaps helped by the fact Kon hadn’t stormed off midway this time.

Cassie smiled. It was sad, it was raw, it was heavy. But it wasn’t broken. She-they- weren’t broken. A puzzle with a missing piece was incomplete, not shattered.

The hand not around Bart’s shoulders stretched, as Cassie’s finger traced the poem they had Bruce engrave in Tim’s tombstone.

“He was my North, my South, my East and West,

My working week and my Sunday rest,

My noon, my midnight, my talk, my song;

I thought that love would last forever: I was wrong.

The stars are not wanted now; put out every one,

Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;

Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood;

For nothing now can ever come to any good.”

The kids that had chosen that poem as immortalization of their grief had been drowning in it, she knew. Had needed a way to let the world know “we are not okay, we’ll never be okay again”. It was, maybe, what saved them back then.

But she wished she could crouch down in front of those lost, overwhelmed kids and tell them ‘you never stop missing him, but you learn to be happy again; and he brings you all together, just like the first time’.

So Cassandra Sandsmark, former Wonder Girl (now something more), lets her head fall back, looks at the setting sun and smiles. Because she can. Because she’s alive, and she’s gonna fucking smile for him, if its the last thing that she does.

-.-.-.-.-.-.-

The shadows of the coming night hide him, embrace him, want to keep him; he puts a stop to that, let’s himself be kept from wandering eyes but avoids the eternal retaking. He’s seen that side of the road and is under no hurry to visit it again.

Instead, he watches the young heroes, bathed in light and laughter, sitting around a dead bird’s grave.

He yearns. He wants, more than anything, to go to them. To join them in the warmth, in happiness. To go back to the only home that never felt anything else than welcoming.

But he has work to do; there’s a new Robin in the streets, and he needs to ensure that what happened to him doesn’t happen to this frail, rough around the edges and full of life bird.

He waits until they pick up and leave, before donning his suit and walking in the opposite direction. Hopefully, a time will soon come when he can smile with them again.

But, for now, the Red Hood has a clown to hunt and a criminal underbelly to conquer.

#my writting #tim drake #kon el kent #cassie sandsmark #bart allen #core disaster week #core four #day 1 #Bart's birthday #angst #hurt comfort #kinda #don't yell at me #I'm sorry I didn't edit this #I'm in Sk8 the Infinity hell right now #no thoughts head empty only Renga from Sk8

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moonlightserenadeeznutz · 3 years

Text

Hands

Sad (?) wolfstar oneshot, based entirely on the song Hands by Flatsound (the lyrics of which are used within the story).

~ Remus liked to write. He especially enjoyed writing poems, though he was convinced that he was terrible at it, so he never showed anyone.

His feelings were locked away inside himself, somewhere unreachable, safe from the outside and everything that hurt. But sometimes they escaped, using a quill as a tunnel and parchment as a raft. They’d land on the page, unleashed in a moment of rare passion.

But they didn’t truly escape. They were simply transferred from one locked box to another, and never saw the light of day.

Remus wrote about Sirius.

He couldn’t help it. His feelings were unpredictable and he never planned what he was going to write. His feelings decided for themselves. And they had decided that Sirius’s curly hair and his barking laugh and the dimples that appeared when he smiled, and the sparkles in his eyes that were impossible to extinguish were all they wanted to latch themselves onto.

Sirius never saw the poems of course. Remus couldn’t stand the thought, the humiliation. Half the poems he wrote ended up on the fire, too scared as he was of someone finding them and spreading them around until they inevitably reached Sirius. But some poems, Remus just couldn’t bring himself to throw away. And he never knew why. He had no confidence in his writing, so he struggled to find a reason to preserve his poems. But a select few just wouldn’t be destroyed. The raft refused to sink. So he kept them in his wooden box in his trunk, locked away and protected with spells.

Four poems were kept. The box was opened five times. Four times to put the poems into, and once more to take them out and rip them into pieces.

“How could you do that to me, how could you possibly think that was okay?!”

“Remus, please, just listen-!”

“You’re a bastard. Stay away from me.”

And the poems became confetti. Sixth year and one prank. And one more poem was written. It wasn’t put into the box. It was placed in an envelope that would never be sent and kept on its own at the bottom of Remus’s trunk.

He was angry. He was hurt. He was betrayed. So many feelings, more than he’d ever felt, and they were so determined to escape. And they did.

Remus never showed his poems to anyone. He never showed them to Sirius. But one poem was found.

Remus was gone. Sirius was gone. The pain was gone, but it was immortalised on a yellow piece of parchment and slightly smudged ink. A piece of parchment held in the hands of the son of a friend who looked just like his father. Found in the house of the mother of a boy who died without knowing anything.

A boy who liked a boy. A boy who was angry, hurt and betrayed. A boy who wrote poetry and never showed anyone.

A boy whose poetry was beautiful.

Hands

I always liked how your hands looked And not just in comparison to mine. They were an artist’s hands Calloused from building walls and Skin covered in clay that cracked as it dried. You see, I have two thoughts Before touching someone’s hands. Are they soft? I hope not. Not too soft. Because four years ago I fell into a hole. So as soon as they touch I wonder if they're strong enough To help pull me to the top. And are they cold? God I hope so. Because mine are so cold That anytime someone touches them They ask me if something's wrong. I know that most people have walls but I just don't think mine are the same. You are hiding away. I am trying to escape. I am inside of a cave Trying to retain the memory Of the last time that I saw the light of the day, And I told you that where I am felt permanent And you told me to give it time because nothing is. But the minute our hands touched I felt something click, Because they were strong With the force to dig your nails into the earth And make the world suddenly stop. And they were cold. Like the metal gears and glass casing Constructing a clock. And I know that I'm not moving fast enough, I know that so much time has already passed us up, And I know that it must be frustrating to stand in front Of someone who keeps promising you that they'll get better Without the evidence to back it up. But you have to trust me. The past is ugly. But I'll make it to the other side as long as I know That when I get there I'll have somebody. Please, I know that I can do this I just need another half a month I can pull through this I just need our hands to touch.

You said that you would always look for me in the crowd With the same eagerness that a child sifts through the lost and found, Searching for anything that felt missing Never considering what would happen the moment you stopped, As if the moment you're not looking for an object Is the moment it stops being lost. I get it, you were cold, But I wanted to be more than just a coat Clinging onto a body that I was never constructed to hold. Or a mirror to look into when your reflection Stopped looking like a person that you know. I know that you know the feeling of new clothes, But do you know what it's like To sit at the bottom of a box every night Replaying the fantasy of cold hands reaching inside To take you home?

You said you felt lost when you were found out, The death of our hands on your couch Was the birth of discovery That someone elses hands Could feel cold. And in that sudden rush I thought of all the hands That could help me build a home And none of them looked like yours.

#this is probably terrible #but my god this song suits them so much #and Remus definitely writes poetry please #harry potter #wolfstar #wolfstar oneshot #sad marauders #remus lupin x sirius black #marauders angst #hp oneshot

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besanii · 4 years

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shattered mirrors 49

WangXian ; 1729 words

The low table by the window catches his eye the moment he walks into the room. It stands a little over knee height and a metre in length, with flowing clouds engraved along the edges of the paulownia wood; the slip of light blue silk draped across the top is embroidered with silver characters he recognises as musical notations for the guqin. The instrument itself is missing, but he knows instinctively the owner of the instrument without confirmation.

He allows himself a small smile as he traces the notations on the silk until he hears footsteps in the corridor and retracts his hand quickly; moments later, Lan Wangji walks into the room. A young man follows a step behind, carrying the guqin in its white wrappings on his back. Wei Wuxian dips his knee in welcome.

“Wangye,” he says, lowering his gaze. “Welcome back.”

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji greets him in that stubborn way of his, refusing to call him anything but with the name he had long discarded. “Have you been well?”

Hands slide beneath his elbows to help him to a standing position; he raises his eyes to meet Lan Wangji’s through his lashes and offers a sweet little smile.

“Xian-er is very well today, thank you very much for asking, Wangye,” he replies demurely. “Please, have a seat. I’ll pour the tea.”

One of the large hands at his elbow shifts to his back, its gentle pressure guiding him over to the larger table in the centre of the sitting room. He shies away as Lan Wangji moves closer to help into the seat, masking the way his breath hitches with a soft laugh when his fingers trail over the sensitive skin of his palm, instead reaching for the tray at the centre of the table. Lan Wangji holds himself still as Wei Wuxian moves away, his fingers curling into fists and lowering back to his side; he sinks into the seat quietly and keeps his eyes fixed on the cup that is placed before him.

The sharp fragrance of the tea is immediately familiar, as is the light hue of the tea itself in the fine ceramic cup.

“Wangye seemed to enjoy the Longjing we served on your last visit, so I took the liberty of serving it again,” Wei Wuxian explains when he notices the focus of Lan Wangji’s attention. “I hope I have not been too presumptuous.”

“No,” Lan Wangji says. “Not at all.”

Wei Wuxian smiles as he takes his seat beside him, the folds of his pearl-grey robes settling around him with a sigh. It is not a colour he usually wears, but the material was a gift from one of his wealthier clients and he had been insistent on seeing him wear it—afterwards, well…it would have been a shame to waste a beautiful set of robes. He turns his attention instead to the young man hovering just inside the doorway, turned away from them politely, the guqin resting on the floor in front of him, held up between his hands.

“What have you brought with you today, Wangye?” he asks.

“I thought we might have some music,” Lan Wangji says, raising a hand. “Jingyi.”

The young man jumps at being addressed out of the blue and turns to Lan Wangji with a quick bow before carrying the guqin over to the small table. The care with which he unwraps the instrument is offset by the way his eyes dart back and forth between his task and Wei Wuxian with interest; Wei Wuxian inclines his head politely in his direction when their eyes meet and he flushes, fingers fumbling over the tassels as he sets the guqin on the table. The thud it makes is loud enough to make the poor boy wince and Lan Wangji’s eyes narrow, but the task is otherwise completed without further issue and he backs away quickly.

“Wangye,” he says with a low bow. Lan Wangji inclines his head.

“Thank you, Jingyi, please leave us.” He turns back to Wei Wuxian as the boy leaves the room quietly. “Please excuse him, he is…excitable.”

Wei Wuxian laughs softly. “He is still very young, Wangye.”

“He is old enough to learn the values of restraint,” Lan Wangji replies with a frown. “And he carries the name of the Imperial family. He would do well to learn the lesson early.”

A twinge of sadness passes through Wei Wuxian at those words and for a moment he looks at Lan Wangji and sees the seventeen-year-old boy behind the man, tall and proud and so very lonely. Once upon a time he had hoped to chase away the loneliness in those eyes, had promised to never leave his side—but the promises of children have always been foolish, and they are so very different from who they once were. But regret is an emotion he prefers not to dwell upon, so he laughs again and rises from his seat to inspect the guqin.

“This is a very fine instrument,” he says admiringly. “Is it yours, Wangye?”

The instrument is carved from the finest paulownia wood in the simple, elegant Zhong Ni style, with blue clouds curling across the smooth, dark lacquer on either side of the strings. There is the tiniest of dents in the lacquer just above the bridge, no bigger than the tip of a hairpin, that catches his eye—a pang of recognition makes his heart clench, and he passes over the spot quickly in favour of plucking the first string. A clear, mellow note rings out from the guqin.

“Yes,” Lan Wangji replies, watching him carefully. “It has been passed down in my family for generations.”

But you already know this, goes unsaid.

“I have long heard the qin of the Gusu Imperial Family are unmatched in all the kingdoms,” Wei Wuxian says, feigning ignorance with the lightness of his tone. “Er-wangye especially. I confess my own skills are sub-par in comparison.”

“You play?” Lan Wangji asks, surprised. Wei Wuxian looks at him with a playful little smile.

“Only very little,” he says with a hint of embarrassment. “I would not dare to compare myself to someone as talented as yourself, Wangye.”

“I would love to hear you play,” Lan Wangji tells him. The sincerity in his voice makes his heart ache. “If you are willing, of course.”

Wei Wuxian inclines his head. “If that is your wish, Wangye, then Xian-er will display my inadequacy and play a piece for you.”

He shakes out his sleeves and takes a seat in front of the guqin. He adjusts the tuning quickly for his chosen piece, his fingers darting over the strings and the hui with practised ease, each harmonic ringing loud and clear. When it is properly tuned to his liking, Wei Wuxian takes a deep breath and places his hands in position.

The piece he chooses is slow and sorrowful, a song of parting, and he plays each note with careful deliberation: lingering with each downward slide, ending each phrase with a trembling note. It is a piece he knows well and plays often, pouring a little of himself with each new interpretation of the score, coaxing the yearning of the original poem from silk strings against fine wood. When the last note fades into silence, he releases the breath he had been holding, the ache in his chest petering with the music. Only then does he dare to look up at Lan Wangji.

“Yangguan Sandie,” Lan Wangji murmurs. There is an odd light in his eyes Wei Wuxian cannot place. “Why did you select this piece?”

“It is one of my favourites, Wangye,” Wei Wuxian says, resting his fingers lightly on the strings. “I will admit it is one of the simpler pieces, but the merit of a song should lie in the feelings it evokes in the listener rather than the complexity of the technique—wouldn’t you agree, Wangye?

“‘The fragrant wine is limited, but this regret is boundless’,” he continues, when Lan Wangji does not answer. “‘Boundless grief, grief, and grief again.”

He lowers his eyes and draws his hands back into his lap. His chest feels hollowed out, empty, and he is grateful for the table’s edge that hides the way his hands tremble. Perhaps it had been the wrong piece to play, he thinks in the wake of Lan Wangji’s silence, he should have picked something livelier instead of a song of the yearning, heartbreak and sorrow of farewell—

“‘After today’s parting, in both places our mutual yearning will grow’.” His heart stops at the sound of Lan Wangji’s voice, deep and warm and gentle as he murmurs the words. “‘But to whom can we speak them?’”

The words hang in the space between them, weighted with meaning. Wei Wuxian stands up, heat rising to his cheeks as his heart thrums in his chest; he moves over to the open window in a bid to hide his face, careful to keep his movements casual despite their swiftness. Lan Wangji remains by the guqin table, watching him silently, an unreadable expression in his eyes.

“The song is one of your favourites,” he says thoughtfully. Wei Wuxian curses himself internally for giving even that little fragment of information away. After a pause, Lan Wangji exhales. “It has also brought me great comfort over the years.”

Wei Wuxian forces himself to laugh, turning around to face Lan Wangji again.

“Now that I have demonstrated my mediocre abilities on the qinin front of a great master such as yourself,” he says, pitching his voice higher as he smiles. “I believe it is your turn, Wangye.”

Lan Wangji hums.

“I am no master at the craft,” he disagrees, taking the seat Wei Wuxian has vacated. “Merely one who is dedicated in its practice.”

“Begging your pardon, Wangye, but I have heard very differently,” Wei Wuxian tells him with a teasing smile. The flirtations come easier now that his heart has settled again, and he is able to meet Lan Wangji’s eyes with his usual humour. “I am very honoured to be able to have Hanguang-wangye play for me personally.”

Lan Wangji smiles, his eyes already turned to the guqin.

“If it pleases you to hear it,” he says quietly, “I will play for you every day.”

Notes:

hui - the note scales on the guqin (similar to frets on a guitar), marking places of positive integer dividends of the string length

Zhong Ni style - one possible shape of a guqin. It is the one I’ve found most similar to Wangji as it is drawn in the donghua

Yangguan Sandie (阳关三叠) - Three Refrains on Yang Pass, a song inspired by a poem by Wang Wei that laments the parting of friends [ WATCH ON YT: / watch?v=nHNdgfoxvvo ]

Master Post is here: /shattered-mirrors-master-post

// buy me a ko-fi : besanii //

#wangxian #mdzs #shattered mirrors au #王爷机 X 花魁羡 #shattered mirrors fic #my writing #wei wuxian #lan wangji #Xian-er arc #featuring Wangji the guqin #阳关三叠 is one of the first pieces i learned on the guqin #and i have a special love for it #so yeah #sorry for the long delay between updates #my brain has not been working lately

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bpdcarmyberzatto · 3 years

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devotion

Nicky x Yusuf (+ Booker), kidfic, 1004 words

I tell you this to break your heart, by which I mean only that it break open and never close again to the rest of the world. Mary Oliver, "Lead", New and Selected Poems Volume Two

There’s a rustling coming from the bedroom. It’s a distinct rustling, like little hands and little feet through boxes and plastic garbage bags. Nicky pauses his chopping and listens in as the rustling continues. He knows who it might be but he promised not to go into the spare bedroom only hours before. Joe is upstairs painting and he can hear his rumbling hum from the kitchen. There’s a sudden bang and the rustling immediately stops. He turns his eyes skyward and wipes his hands down.

“Yusuf, your son is in the spare room! Where he shouldn’t be!” He yells and the hum cuts off with a grumble. He can hear Sebastien giggle through the wall and he smiles, shaking his head.

“Why is he my son when he’s in trouble? He gets that from you!” Joe calls back as he makes his way down the stairs, knees cracking. Nicky purses his mouth and reminds himself to get him to go to the doctor. They have enough money and good enough insurance that he can get knee replacements but he still hasn’t gotten them. His hair is tied back, curls escaping as paint covered hands and forearms grip the staircase.

“It might be from me genetically, but you’re the one he watches,” Nicky replies serenely, leaning back against the bench, chest tight and taught with old top surgery scars as he crosses his arms.

Joe huffs as he comes over to press a kiss to his lips and loop his arm around his shoulders. Some of the tension leaks out of him with the contact.

“I best go see what the villain is up to,” Joe sighs and his arms slip back from around his shoulders. “He could be plotting to steal the last of his birthday cake from the fridge for dinner!”

The giggle is back again, high pitched and sweet. Nicky grins at his husband's motions for him to move along and he does, with comically loud steps until there’s a squeal and laughter as he brings the boy back out to the kitchen. The boy is hanging upside down in his husband’s arms, long dirty blonde hair hanging off his head and his missing teeth comical when seen upside down. Joe drops him slowly to the ground and he scrabbles to jump up, his mop of hair righting itself and falling all over his pale face.

“Daddy!” He exclaims and runs up to him, throwing his arms around him and squeezing. Nicky knows this behaviour, he’s sucking up to him but damn if he doesn’t enjoy it and leans down to press a kiss to his head. Time to be the hardass parent.

“You know you shouldn’t be in the spare room, Seba, it’s dangerous!” He scolds, dampening some of his son’s joy with it, but he takes his face into his hands and tries to pick out Yusuf’s features where they don’t exist. He wouldn’t wish for anything different about his child but he does secretly wish he could truthfully see Yusuf in his features. But it does not matter, as his son tries to turn himself away, to close down what he’s feeling, but Nicky won’t have it. He can’t follow the same route of his father, stowing everything away and hoping it won’t come back.

“I’m upset but only because I’m scared and worried for you. Your baba and I wouldn’t know what to do if you had gotten hurt.”

The boy presses himself to him, his face hidden in his stomach and he runs his fingers through his hair as Joe watches along quietly. Sebastien has needed support in different ways than a more regular child would but it is fine with them, they’re suited to a child needing more help than others. That it’s their own child, while surprising, isn’t that big of a deal. The subtle shuddering breaths that Sebastien had been making had quietened down to deep rhythmic breaths.

Nicky loves his son with everything he has in him and that’s why he has to stem behaviour similar to his at the source. He won’t have his son be emotionally vulnerable when he needs to be strong, to get through the unfortunate prejudice their little family will be subjected to.

“Sebastien, we simply want you to know that it’s okay to feel things, to feel bad, and sad, and even mad. There’s no need to hide it so long as you can keep yourself on top of it, even if it takes time,” Nicky says as he rhythmically strokes his fingers through the boy’s hair. He squats down in front of him, bringing himself to the boy’s height.

“There’s no need to hide your emotions away, they aren’t bad and you aren’t bad for having them, either, but we can’t let them control us. If you feel mad and can’t stop, come find us, or a teacher at school. It’s always better to ask for help,” Nicky finishes as he stares up into the eyes of his flighty son, who doesn’t seem to quite believe him, but it’s okay because the message will fit there in the end, instead of nothing at all. They can help him develop proper coping strategies. He reaches out and grasps his little hand with his and marvels at the size difference, and at how big it is in comparison to its size when he was a toddler and an infant.

Sebastien fidgets under the gaze of both his parents.

“Can we still have my birthday cake? Please daddy? Baba?”

There’s a stroke of silence before Yusuf chuckles, reaching out to brush the back of his hand against Sebastien’s cheek.

“Of course, buddy, as long as it’s okay with daddy?” he looks at Nicky with a minute nod and he nods back.

“Of course, piccolo, go help baba get it out and we’ll finish it all off until next year,” he says with a smile, wincing as he straightens his legs back to his full height.

The boy cheers.

#cao posts #my writing #trans nicky au #kaysanova

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borhap-au · 3 years

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“No one understands”

Part two of Eugene Sledge x Black Reader.

“Courage meant overcoming fear and doing one’s duty in the presence of danger, not being unafraid.” - Eugene Bondurant Sledge

They talked long hours about inequality and the need for change. Neither of them even realized how late it was, until the room was completely empty and Eugene’s friend came to tell them they need to close the coffeehouse. They took their things, thanked the boy and went out of the shop.

“Well, I promised to get you back home safely,” he smiled while Angel shook her head.

“Oh, no. The only person I don’t want to mess with in this world is my dad. And he won’t be happy seeing me with a boy,” she chuckled quietly and he nodded his head.

“I understand,” after he said that, she felt a little bad. The real reason she did not want to let him walk her home, was because she promised her friend she will not be that “stupid.” However, she talked to him for hours and she grew to really like him. She did not want it to be their last meeting.

So she added, “but you know what? I finish my classes at 3 PM tomorrow. How about we meet in the coffeehouse around 3:30? I would like to talk to you some more,” she gave him a warm smile.

“I’d like that. You taught me a lot today. I’d love to find out some more,” he admitted. She fascinated him. Angel gave him a double thumbs up.

“Oh, no worry. I will bring a whole new set of facts and figures tomorrow. I must admit, you were a great student. I’m proud,” she chuckled quietly.

“And you were the best professor I’ve ever had. If only others could talk as interestingly as you do. Learning would be much easier,” he complimented her and she was really happy to receive such a compliment. Some guys complimented on her looks, others liked her personality and sense of humor, but she hardly ever received a compliment about her intelligence, which was the most important thing for her that anyone could point out about her.

“So, do we have an arrangement?” she asked, waiting for his reaction. “Will we see each other tomorrow?”

“Oh, most definitely. I wouldn’t keep a lady waiting,” she smiled in response. They said their goodbyes and each of them went their own way. Eugene turned around a few times to see her again. So did she, right before she turned to a corner she would not see him from, and their eyes met. They both smiled embarrassed. She was the first one to wave at him. He waved back. Then he lost her out of sight.

When he came back home, he kept on thinking about everything she said. Her words resonated in his mind. She was so right, about everything. Before that, he always thought not being a part of a problem was enough. That day he understood how important it was to actually be an active participant in the fight for justice. Fight other than physical, which was the only type they taught him in the military.

The next day he came a little early, as usual. He sat in the same corner and drank his coffee, waiting for her to show up. He really hoped she will not stood him up. He liked her and wanted to get to know her better. Minutes passed by, and she still did not show up in the door of the coffeehouse, despite Eugene observing it closely.

“I’m sorry for being late. They kept me longer in class,” she smiled apologetically, throwing her purse on the chair and sitting next to him.

“Oh, it’s not a problem. I hope you got home safely yesterday,” he started a conversation after the waiter brought her order.

“Yes, I did. It’s pretty close to my neighborhood. We all know each other there, I always feel safe,” she smiled and sipped her coffee.

“The sense of community is always nice,” he said while nodding his head. She wondered whether she should ask that question, but she couldn’t really help herself.

“Just like the army, right?” Angel looked at him biting her lip. She was not the one to be scared of tough conversations. Her topics were usually difficult, since she didn’t like a simple small talk. She wanted her life and her relations to be deeper and more meaningful than just that.

Eugene looked at her surprised, not expecting this kind of question at all. He put his coffee away and took a deep breath.

“You were in the army, weren’t you?” she asked, not wanting to let go that easily. She wanted to get to know him, and his army experience was obviously a huge part of his life.

“Yes, I was. For over three years,” he liked her. He wanted to be honest with her, but it really wasn’t the kind of topic he wanted to explore.

“My friend’s brothers all went to war. Most of them even returned. They enrolled even though their father was doing everything he could to get that idea out of their heads. His own father was born into slavery and he could not understand how could anyone risk their life for a country that enslaved their ancestors, tortured them and raped the women to create more free labor. But they went anyway. You know why?” he shook his head. He had some ideas, but preferred to let her speak. “Because that is their country. It was created on slavery. Slaves made the United States. Not to mention all those asshole who’d say we cannot decide for this country if we didn’t fight for it.”

Eugene nodded his head. He remembered very well all the slurs he heard directed at the Black community. He reacted every time, but unfortunately it rarely changed anything other than the soldiers’ opinion of Sledge.

“Not to mention the Double V. Victory in Europe and victory here. Have you heard about it?” she asked looking at Eugene.

“Yes, actually, I did. I support the cause wholeheartedly. I can’t imagine how it must feel… It’s already hard enough coming home from war, feeling estranged and misplaced. I can’t imagine how it felt for them, coming back to a segregated country that doesn’t even allow you to sit in the front of the bus, even though you risked your life for freedom of that country…” he scoffed and shook his head. “The greatest democracy in the world, fighting with the nationalistic regime of Germany whose segregated country used the US as their role model for that separation.”

She raised her eyebrow and he nodded, confirming what he has just said is true.

“In the 30s, when they were isolating Jews from the rest of the society, they looked at the American model of segregation. I read a report on it. I guess the United States must be really proud to be such a great idol for others,” he said ironically.

“That’s just outrageous…” she sighed and then looked at him. “Can you tell me the stories you have of Black soldiers? I ask this question to anyone I know who went to war.” He hesitated, not being happy about speaking of war, but finally agreed, since he did not have to talk about himself specifically.

“The situation was no better than the one back here. The troops were segregated. At the beginning they didn’t even allow none of the Black men to carry a gun. I guess they were scared of a revolution, or whatever other thing white men thought they obviously deserved for their actions. So the Black men were used for other things. They unpacked the trucks, cooked, drove cars. Only later, when we were short of men, they allowed Black troops to actually fight. A lot of them became great pilots. I really respect their courage, cause after all they fought for a country which doesn’t even treat them like full citizens…”

“’Like actual humans,’ that’s what you wanted to say. You don’t have to be afraid of the truth,” she interrupted him. “It’s because of the Double V. We need justice all over the world, we need to stop racists in America, Europe and everywhere else. We don’t stop here, it’s just a start. We managed to win in Germany, so why not here?” she smiled, and her smile was full of hope that one day things will be better.

“I understand their reasons now. Thank you, it became cleared to me,” Eugene smiled. He already loved listening to her. She spoke with such energy and faith in her cause. “But I have to tell you, their determination was like no other’s. Because I don’t know a single white man who would keep on pushing and trying to get in combat for a country that segregates army’s bathrooms… Hell, they segregated even blood donations! Can you imagine that? As if Black blood was any different from white… I mean, it’s red. It’s blood.” She just shook her head with disapproval and disgust, but she was not surprised at all. What for him was a shocking news, for her was everyday life.

“There’s a great poem, I don’t know if you heard about it. It’s called ‘Beaumont to Detroit’ by Langston Hughes,” she looked at him expecting a reaction, but he just shook his head.

“I’m sorry, I never heard of it,” he admitted, ashamed he was not familiar with it. She took a book out of her bag. It was a notebook with a handwritten title: “Poems of Freedom, Justice and Equality.” She opened it on selected page and began to read the poem to him.

“’…I ask you this question/Cause I want to know/How long I got to fight/BOTH HITLER – AND JIM CROW,’” she finished reading the poem and looked at him for reaction. He did not say anything for a long moment.

“That’s… That’s a really good poem. And it touches all the painful spots. I’m just really sorry, on behalf of all men…”

“No, don’t apologize for them. They wouldn’t apologize. They don’t apologize and they won’t apologize. They don’t feel sorry. You feel sorry, and you have nothing to apologize for. You’re one of the good guys. We don’t judge people because of what they ancestors did to us. We judge people by their current actions. We want to be heard, acknowledged. We understand that living your whole life in a country based on slavery might’ve made you turn a blind eye on some issues. We understand that the systemic racism made you believe in certain things. We really know all of that. But it doesn’t excuse anyone from learning. The problem is very often ignorance. People just assume something is this way because it’s ought to be this way. Or they say something in supposedly good faith, and when we educate them about it being a wrong thing to say, they don’t want to acknowledge their mistake. That I don’t understand and I won’t accept. Everyone makes mistakes. As a white man, you cannot know about all the issues a Black woman faces. But you should be willing to learn about them and fix your mistakes,” Eugene thought to himself that this girl should be a universally known speaker. She spoke with such respect, intelligence and charisma. She knew how to put the issues so that everyone understood her. She could’ve been the next Sojourner Truth if they let her. And it was then when it hit him. Why has he heard of so many Black male orators, but so few women? Was it that the system wanted to silence Black women in particular? Was the problem rooted not only in racism, but also in sexism? Yes, of course it was. Eugene could not believe it took him so long to see how oppressed were the Black women, who had to fought not just with white men, but also with white women, who did not want to acknowledge their femininity, in order to cut them from the feminist movement.

“So teach me. Tell me, please. If you want to. What are the most common mistakes white people make? I’ll try to teach others about them, so we can all know better,” she smiled hearing that. She thoroughly enjoyed having such a clever student.

“First of all, stop with the ‘I don’t see color’ thing. I’m glad you acknowledge that a color of one’s skin shouldn’t be a reason to treat them as a lesser human. I mean, it should be obvious, but unfortunately it isn’t. But it’s not a good thing to say things like that. Because by ‘not seeing color’ you don’t acknowledge the pain and struggle Black people have to endure every single day. Another thing – could the white ladies just stop asking to touch our hair? We’re not their puppies to pet. And don’t assume you understand. Don’t talk about those issues as if they were yours. It’s not just for you specifically, of course, is directed at all white people. I hear all too often them discussing our experience as if they were all-knowing. You have no idea. You have just the point of view of the oppressor, even if you don’t oppress anyone knowingly or purposefully. You didn’t live the struggle, so respect the fact you don’t know how it feels,” he actually took out a notebook and wrote down some of the things she said, as she continued to lecture him. They talked about race and social issues, and then their conversation turned more casual. They talked about books and poetry and exchanged some names they might like to read. Finally, Eugene found the courage to ask the question he thought about for some time.

“Would you like to maybe go out with me? Like… Not for a coffee, for a dinner for example,” he smiled and then looked down, being a little shy. He did not ask a girl out since he was in high school, apart from that one ball after he returned from the war, but neither he nor the girl enjoyed their time there.

Angel smiled slightly, but needed to remind him of something that he did not realize as he usually did not have to live with it. She was not surprised he did not know. Most white people do not think of such things before making plans, because the issue did not involve them.

“If you can find a restaurant that will allow us to sit there, sure,” her smile was a little sad. In Washington maybe it would be easier, but they were still in Alabama. “They usually don’t allow mixed couples in the public eye, you know, not to ruin their reputation. Black people are hardly allowed in any fancy places anyway.”

“So… I invite you to my house. I’ll cook the dinner,” he smiled. Of course, he did not think of the reputation his household will have among his neighbors after that event, but if anyone reminded him of it, he would say he did not care. If they had a problem with that, then it means they were racist, and he did not wish to affiliate himself with such people. “I can pick you up from wherever you want. I assume your father may not appreciate my presence at your house.”

“Oh, no. Just give me the time and address. I will definitely be there and get there on my own. I cannot wait to see what you’ll make for that dinner,” she gave him a big smile. She wrote down the address and they agreed on the time. They were both really happy about the meeting. Neither of them commented on how happy they were, because they did not want to jinx it or appear weird, but they definitely could not wait for the Saturday to come. And it sure looked promising.

20 notes · View notes