#three poppies brooch.

[world-of-wales]

CATHERINE'S STYLE FILES - 2021

13 NOVEMBER 2021 || The Duchess of Cambridge along with Prince William attended the Festival of Remembrance at the Royal Albert Hall in London.

[wintersongstress]

A Dream’s Winding Way

Part II — The Weaver and the Loom

Pairing: Arthur Morgan (high honor) x Female Reader

Summary: For as long as you could remember, you dreamt of falling in a love so whole and pure it was worth enduring the many griefs in your life. But the world, cold and cruel as it was, robbed that dream from you, and you believed you would forever be broken until you met a man who was scarred in his own way.  

Word Count: 10.8k

Warnings: sexual assault trauma responses, murder, canon-typical violence. 

A/N: Arthur will make his appearance at the end here ♥ thank you THANK YOU @the-halo-of-my-memory​​ for beta-ing 💞 

Part I | ao3 link

                              ~ II — The Weaver and the Loom ~

Snick. 

The bolts inside the cabinet lock slid free. Between your finger and your thumb, the tarnished key in your grasp opened a long-latched door, a swoosh releasing dormant air. Inside the stale cell, relics of the past awaited, felty with dust. A chatelaine belt rested on the shelf, ornate with filigree, alongside a satin pouch, a crystal hat pin, silver spurs with brass rowels, and a wedding bouquet, its once-white roses shriveled and decaying. You paused once, running your fingers over the cool rivets of a sapphire brooch, and overlooked it all, instead retrieving a new vase for the kitchen table—one that would not shatter into pieces when it fell—and a tattered recipe book. 

With the book settled in your lap you opened it with a crack. Antique, creamy pages inked with words fluttered past your fingers, food stains mottling the margins alongside cursive pencil scrawls. A flattened sprig of poppy bookmarked the page for an oatmeal pie recipe. You tucked it back in for time to keep safe. A few gentle turns later you found what you were looking for and rose from the floor of your grandmother’s room, relocking the cabinet, and shutting the door behind you. You donned an apron and began your work.

The rugs, the curtains, all were taken down and rolled up, flapped outside, and beaten with the handle of your broom. You swept the floors of broken vase shards and stray leaves, replenished the oil in the lamps, trimmed the candle wicks, tossed out last night’s dinner, laid a new tablecloth, filled the silver ewer from your grandmother’s cabinet with water and fresh flowers, and scraped the ashes out from the fireplace. Wood clopped as you piled it up in a canvas carrier outside and lugged it in. Soap suds splashed your wrists as you scrubbed the dishes spotless. All the while the clock ticked on, from hour to hour, the day waning, until you could no longer prolong the inevitable, and commenced your grisly task. 

You propped your family recipe book open on the counter and fetched a large stew pot from the wall rack. The cutting board hosted the full spectrum of ingredients you needed, so you set the pot over the stove flame and warmed a dollop of butter and olive oil. The yellow onions you chopped sizzled as you added them in, and, using a knife, you deployed your special ingredient from the cutting board. A few dashes of salt and pepper joined the mixture next, and once the onions popped their flavor, caramelizing, teaspoons of dried sage and thyme hand-picked from your garden snowed from your hand with clumps of chopped garlic. 

Stirring, mixing, curdling, after a few minutes a pour of red wine and a splash of vinegar came next, making the soup bubble fragrantly. You scraped the copper bottom with a wooden spoon, stirring the browning bits of onion and garlic around, and drowned it all in three cans of beef broth from the general store. Two bay leaves fluttered in last before you covered the pot with a lid to let it simmer. 

The Sheriff would have a fine last meal. 

When the first three stars appeared in the evening sky, your cottage was aglow with soft light and welcoming with the scent of a rich dinner. Fine dishes and silverware sparkled on your table with a basket of bread in the center beside a lit candelabra. A fire warmed the hearth, and the alluring shimmer of dusk slipped in through the clean curtains. All was set. You sat in your armchair and waited, staring at the flames. 

Hoof beats. Sweat chilled your palms as the sound drew nearer and you stood to peer out the window. The dot of a lantern bloomed in the distance. You tucked your shirt into your belt and clutched your shawl tighter, holding your heart to tame its wild beating, fingertips bumping the band of your mother’s ring, still hanging around your neck from a chain. The most important thing for you to do was breathe, slow and even, so your blood could thrum throughout your body as it was supposed to and give you strength. It flowed into your heart and you closed your eyes. 

“Ease up,” a voice called. His voice. 

A horse nickered, blowing out its nostrils. Leather creaked as he dismounted from his saddle and the bit tinkled as he hitched the reins, whistling. You could imagine it all, him fixing and grooming himself as he walked up, expecting a girl who would be so happy to see him and enamored with him that she made her home all nice to welcome him after a noble day of hunting outlaws. 

The jingle of his spur was as foreboding as a snake’s rattle as it marched up the flagstone path. You positioned yourself in front of the stove, bending over the pot with a spoon and stirring the flavorful broth, a smile schooled on your face. 

“Honey pie, you home? It’s me.” 

The picture of a perfect wife, you thought, standing in your inviting home in a cooking apron. He would only see what he wanted, blind to you being capable of anything else. 

“Door’s open!” You chimed, and the doorknob turned. 

Some change at once went through the room. In a heavy, dominant rush it all came back, like the strong winds the night before that rattled the window panes and made the trees plunge and bow. You spent all day distracting yourself from the flashbacks of his lurid words, the fondlings, and the sound of his labored breaths. Anguish seized your throat at the footfalls entering your home once again and the pillar of strength you constructed within, had leaned upon, began to crumble. 

You had a hangnail on your thumb. You discovered this while squeezing your fist tight, tethering yourself to the present. It was a welcome, soft twinge of pain for you to focus on and you picked at it, fixing your eyes on the window. The candle before it illuminated the glass, and you watched the sapphire heart of the flame waver, heard the little hiss of it, and glanced beyond. A sky wistful with waning blue, a sunset throwing gold on all that was green, a hush of wind passing through the leaves, and your reflection blending in between. To take it all in brought you forward in time, to a crackling fire and a bubbling soup, and a purpose hanging over your heart. 

It is not happening again, you reflected. And it will never happen again. 

You were safe, you reminded yourself, safe in the present, grounded, and irrevocably turned to face the man who hurt you in a way no one ever had. You looked at him without seeing him, a dish towel in hand. 

“Come on in, I have some dinner on the stove. It'll be ready in a jiff if you want to hang up your things.” 

“I would be delighted,” was his reply. 

He took off his Stetson, hung it on the hook. The sound of his coat being tugged down his arms and his gun belt unbuckling made your heart beat fast and your fingers curl into your palms again. Shaking, you gripped the edge of the counter. Steam from the bubbling pot kissed your cheeks.  

A chair scraped across the floor. “It smells delicious, sweetness. I’m downright famished.” 

You breathed in and out slowly. He folded his leather gloves beside his table settings and you prepared a dish for him. With a gulp and a clench of resolution, you dipped the ladle deep and unearthed the chunks of vegetables, pouring them artfully into a bowl, spoonful after spoonful.

“Any luck tracking down that gang?” 

He sighed, deep and tired. His elbows knocked on the table as he reached for the loaded bread basket. 

“They slipped through our fingers last night, but we almost had ‘em.” Pulling the loaf apart, he ripped a piece and tucked it into his mouth. 

You rounded the table and laid the baleful meal on his place setting, in a daze as he happily snatched up his spoon. 

“Oh my,” he marveled. The polished silver of the utensil disappeared in the broth and came back up replete with the softened wild bulbs. 

“These onions are quaint,” he commented. 

The lie came to your tongue easily. “They’re called pearl onions. I have them growing in the back.” 

And with a pleased grin, he feasted. You sat across from him with your own bowl, your spoon a special porous one so you could pretend to eat alongside him. He dipped his bread in the soup and drained his glass greedily, refilling it himself from the pitcher you set on the table earlier. Before long he scraped the bottom of the bowl and you replenished it. 

You tried not to pay attention to his sordid aspect. The way he sniffed loudly and chewed openly, the dirtiness of his face from riding, the grease slicking his unwashed hair and the matted tips of his mustache, his eyebrows also unkempt and overgrown. You fixed your eyes to the grain of the wood instead, ate your bread with a slice of cheese and a handful of walnuts, munched on the salad of spring greens you prepared, all the while waiting for time to take its natural course as the toxins of the ostensible pearl onions invaded his system. 

“You’ve been quiet,” he observed. His hunger appeared to sate as he scraped up the last dregs of his supper, affording his utmost attention back to his hostess. “Why won’t you look at me?” 

You lifted your chin from your palm. Something in his expression shifted with awareness. 

“Is this about last night?” he went on. When you remained simmering in your silence, he deflated. “Listen, I–I didn’t mean to get so rough with ya. I was drunk, and I’m sorry.” 

Your insides twisted and flamed, refusing to be quelled. You shot up, turning your back to him and crossing your arms as you faced the window. 

“You’re sorry?” you seethed. A drum pounded in your ears; it was the mad pulse of your heart. Tall in your judicial resolve, you whirled and directed your fury towards him in its full magnitude. “Not a bone in your body is capable of being sorry,” your voice shook, low in its tenor. “You saw an opportunity to take advantage of me and seized it. The way you spoke to me—degraded me—it’s impossible for me to believe you didn’t enjoy every moment of your vulgarity.” Split flew as you scoffed at him. “Regret is not within you. Not when I see now that you planned it. All along.” 

He broke into a laugh of disbelief and leaned back to survey you. The worst kind of smile distorted his face, as if your fit of temper delighted him. 

“Yer actin’ like you didn’t want it. Like your cunny wasn’t drippin’ wet for me–” you lunged forward, vision red and nostrils flaring, ready to seize his neck in your hands and crush his windpipe like the frail stalk of a vegetable, but stopped, grasping the back of your chair instead. You despised the idea of having to touch him and were reminded that you would not have to get your hands dirty to kill him. But you were prepared to. How much longer could you stand his gloating and his shameless iniquity? The wood of the chair’s cross rail creaked beneath your unforgiving knuckles. The Sheriff smirked at your little display. 

“I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it,” he argued, pointing his finger at you; then he shook his head. “What nerve you have, bein’ a little cocktease with me. But I didn’t treat you like those whores in town, no, I went out of my way to…to enamor you, bringin’ you flowers while you greeted me in your garden in your lace and your pretty smiles, a pie coolin’ on your windowsill. You know my dear Carolynn never blessed me with a child, and here you were,” he gestured to your frame and the home around you. “Takin’ on the responsibilities of housekeepin’ all by yer lonesome. All you needed was a man to take care of you, and I could be that man. Honey, I want to marry you. I could make you happy! Can’t you picture it?”

Flushed from his diatribe, he pleaded with you, half-rising from his seat until you thrust out a hand in warning. Surprisingly, he heeded your tacit command. Disgust curled your lips into a sneer. 

“Marry you?” you echoed, hollow with disbelief. Your vision blurred and you blinked against the mounting tide of revelation washing over you. His mindset, his reasoning, it was unfathomable, and you struggled to piece together a sentence. “This whole time…that was your object? And you thought that by—by trapping me, and giving me no other choice, that I would accept you?” 

His eyes rolled heavenward and frustration flashed across his oily face. “Lord knows I’ve been patient,” he gnashed his teeth, voice raising a note higher. “I didn’t want any other man to have you. What, you think you’re meant for one of those half-witted grangers in town? They don’t know the first thing about women, let alone how to keep one as pretty, smart, and pure as you. You know it’s downright sinful to keep such gifts to yourself.” 

His words were worse than his touch. You had not one to describe your own sensations; the shock of his inflicted on you completely suspended your power to think and feel. 

“Sinful…” you wandered over his meaning. “You’re a hypocrite.” Releasing the chair, you stepped away a few paces and shook your head, huffing to contain your brimming despisal for this man. You refused to listen to him any more. All throughout the day strands of thought had weaved through your head, firmly knotting into what the shame made you believe about yourself. That you were ruined. That you were worth less. He must have thought he was paying you some kind of compliment, saying what he said. The refutation rose in you to a forbidding height, like the dust before a whirlwind, and your lips parted to release your final judgment of him. 

“You don’t know the first thing about me: about what I want, or what I need. What you did was assume. You assumed I wanted someone to come around and sweep me off my feet, save me from my solitude, and you assumed that I wanted you. A gluttonous, arrogant, entitled pig who can’t take responsibility for his own actions, who would rather blame them on the beast at the bottom of the glass,” you spat with venom. Emotion began to wrack your voice, lifting and dropping it like the swell of a wave, but you plowed forward, pinning him to his seat with the fearsome gleam in your tear-stricken eyes. 

“The worst part about it is you could’ve made your intentions clear! I could’ve been spared from all this pain if you had only the stones to be straightforward. But I guess the prospect of your hurt pride was too much to endure. Deep down, you knew the only way you could have me was unwillingly.” 

Your hand clutched at your breast, wrinkling your shirt and tangling in your necklace chain. You let go and charged forward again, and this time, the chair rail snapped in your hands at your final word. 

“You had no right. You’re the most pathetic excuse of a man I’ve ever seen, and I’ll be glad to see you drop dead.” 

At the crack of wood he sneered. No longer tolerating this speech, he stood, and for a fleeting moment you shrunk back. Until his hand—his fat, pallid hand, still bearing a wedding band—braced itself on the tabletop and he wobbled on his feet. Blood rushed to his face and a delta formed in his forehead as he blinked at the ground, as if his vision was filled with spots while his legs drooped unsteadily beneath him. He clenched his gut and groaned. 

A griefless laugh croaked from you. “You know, they say that wishes and dreams have a winding way of coming true. It looks like you are gonna spend the rest of your life with me, Sheriff.” 

His sight fixed itself on the bowl in your place setting, at the spoon resting in it, and how none of your portion was consumed. He had the look of a man who realized something too late. The vein in his neck fluttered and his breaths sawed in and out of his lungs. Sweat dotted his temples and a thread of saliva spilled from his wobbling lip. 

“Wh–what did you d-do?” He choked out. 

The compass of your soul spun and whirred, before the ruby-tipped point settled decidedly south. 

“What I had to.” 

As his knees gave out beneath him, the Sheriff clutched the table’s edge, and the peaceful, law-abiding chapter of your life ended. The scent of bile fouled the air as he retched and retched, his body rejecting every morsel of the Death Camas he had stomached, and the pallor of his skin colored to that of fish’s belly before the monger’s crude knife carves it open. Not a twinge of sympathy or regret rippled inside as he fell helpless to the floor. Not at his struggle for breath, at his uncontrollable muscle spasms, or the chunks of undigested food dangling from his chin. He would lie there, wheezing and convulsing in a mound of his own vomit, until his heart stopped. You had no desire to watch, and you had no desire to wait any longer for your meteoric flight from this tainted place of grief and despair. 

You unlatched the trunk in your bedroom and sifted through your belongings. Two saddlebags quickly filled. You packed the essentials: bedding and a camp outfit, medicine and provisions, clothing for severe weather, and valuables to fence. Rummaging through the kitchen, yanking open drawers and cabinets, you moved mechanically, occupying your mind with a plan moving forward, all the while a man lay dying on your floor, twitching and choking, sightless and inert. His breath was a mere rattle as you dressed yourself for travel and long riding, laying your necklace with your mother’s ring inside a sack for safe keeping. This was not the time for thoughts and moral ruminations, it was the time for action. 

It would buy you time–and perhaps forego a bounty altogether–if you buried the body. His absence from town would not go unnoticed, but—Oh, yours would not either. Regardless, your next course of action began to formulate itself. You would need a shovel, a rug or a blanket, and a lantern, for the sun had dipped below the horizon and would not light your path. 

As the night closed darkly in, the sunset folded its wings over the rib cages of clouds; the last pulse of color on the shore of the world a glowing, molten shade of marmalade. Insects clacked and clicked in the dusk as you stepped out in your hunting jacket, hoisting your supplies over your shoulder on the dirt path to the stable with a lantern swinging in your free hand. White moths flittered around the light and followed in your grim, resolved wake.

You hung the lamp on a hook behind the creaking door, illuminating the hay-strewn space. Bridles, bits, and martingales populated the wall inside the stable, with rakes and shovels propped up from the ground. An empty wheelbarrow served as a temporary home for your provisions, setting them inside so you could perch yourself on a stool in the corner to strap on your spurs. 

Willa shifted on her hooves to adjust to the weight of the various sacks and pouches you affixed to her saddle, but she complied with a trusting snort. You spoke to her kindly, stroking her forehead, knowing that she was listening in her own way and understood her importance to you. Without her, you would be alone. Without her your future, your freedom, it would all be infeasible. You led Willa out into the night, a shovel tucked under your arm and your lantern restored in hand. 

An owl hooted and a pack of coyotes yipped and yowled, the sound carrying throughout the valley. Willa’s keen ears flicked, along with her long tail, and you gestured for her to wait behind the cottage, hitching her to an oak sapling. You intended to trudge through the muck of the funereal situation as quickly as possible while the night breeze slipped cool fingers through the forest and snuffed out the last tendrils of daylight. You marched back into the firelit house for the last time.  

The stench hit you first. Foul and nose-wrinkling, you tugged your collar up against the smell and regarded the log of the Sheriff’s body, lying rigid. In death, he soiled his pants, as all men do. The body releases everything and the muscles stiffen and lock, blood stagnates in the veins, the skin purples, the tongue lolls out, and the eyes fix wide open to meet the unknown. Nature takes its course. Flies are drawn by some promising whiff of a feast in the air and consume the dead flesh in a quivering swarm of greed. Time passes. Maggots crawl. And bones will be all that remain, until, some day, they are dust for the wind to claim. 

He was the one you rushed to when you found your grandmother cold in her bed. He was the one who arranged for the church to collect and prepare her body for burial beside your parents in the local graveyard. He was one of the persons who offered you words of comfort during the funeral. 

He was the man who hurt you most in the world. 

And he was no more. 

It was a yawning, black moment, the one in which you stood, hesitating on some windy pinnacle, reflecting on not what will be, but what, long since, has been. Your throat choked around nothing. What has become of you? The future stretched out before you gray, interminable, and desolate. Thoughts crowded thick and fast in your mind, and you imagined carrying out the rest of this act—covering his body, dragging it across the floorboards, the weight of it, the slack look on his face, the creases of his fat fingers outstretched from his limp hand, and you knelt to the floor with a gathering horror of your deed, a tremor pulsing in your throat, your heart crumbling to the same ash dropping in the dim fireplace. 

A numbness possessed you to pull up the corners of the rug, to nudge his body to the center of it with your foot, to wrap the carpet around his form and tuck him inside. To do what needed to be done. Your mind turned off. It had to, for it was the only way to endure. There was no choice left for you. But you wished you had listened. To the night, to the change in the wind, for the footsteps of fate and the creeping shadow of the terrible god of chance stepping into your doorway, eclipsing your hope of escape from this dire strait. A darkness was gathering in the hush; the kind something crouches within.  

Fate is a weaver, poised at a loom; the spider over your garden gate. It works silently and unseen, amidst an intricate and silvery web, attaching invisible strands of possibility along a path leading to an inescapable epicenter. Fate, with its nimble clutches, spins and entwines, pulls one thread, wends the other, until the time comes when the unwary traveler reaches a pivot point, the moment when their life goes down one path or another, and the spider strikes the grappling victim caught in its web.  

Back first, you dragged the carpet bearing the Sheriff’s body outside your door. His boots stuck out from the roll, thumping along the ground as you grunted with the effort of transporting him, using the strength behind your legs to shuffle farther along. The light from inside spilled out along the flagstone path, and as you stopped to establish a stronger, more efficient grip, your ears pricked at a pair of unfamiliar spurs clicking and scuffing to a halt behind you. 

A pin-drop silence encased the air. 

Your heart froze. Ice enveloped your ribcage and crystallized the blood inside their elaborate vessels, each breath serrating through your chest like a razor. For a time, only the stars moved with their twinkling. Slowly from the ground, inch by inch, you turned your head and your sight rose to the face of the intruder, the sole witness to your grisly act, and you almost laughed at how twisted fate could be. 

A faltering deputy was fixed in place on the path, taking in the undeniable scene before him. He was no stranger. You recognized him in that slant of dandelion light by the curled tip of his nose, his ruddy cheeks, and the cleft in the middle of his chin. His beard was strong, a shade darker than his hair and not so red as his skin, and he had grown into his jaw, the line of which had become more pronounced and square. He wore wrinkled pants tucked into worn, dusty boots, with his lanky frame swallowed by a long duster, a vest beneath it buttoned all the way, and a gun belt sagging around his hips. Ungloved hands hung at his sides, fingers that long ago squeezed the curves of your budding body dangling emptily. 

Though he scarcely looked it, he was the boy from the orchard with russet hair and dimples all those years ago, whose mother treated you like her own; but he had grown since that uncomplicated beginning. How a broken collarbone led to a friendship, which ripened into an affection and concluded in bitter resentment, was unforeseeable at the time. You never guessed that the two of you would end up like this.    

“Gideon,” you breathed. “What are you doing here?”

The hungry, sweeping motion of his mouth against yours invaded your mind. In the blink of a moment like this, despite the current of the years that swept past and weathered away the discomforting, stony edges of the memory, you could relive the minutest details of your past with him: the sloppy tangle of tongue and teeth and the scratch of an adolescent mustache; the mopey, beseeching expression on his face, begging for more of you. A chill crept across your skin at the remembrance of his neediness and desperation, making it hard to look at him, shame rooted so deeply in you. 

He uttered your name in the same stunned tone, his mouth agape until he swallowed his alarm. “It’s been a long time,” he said, and his eyes, murky, silver, and cold—like a pond in winter—cut to the sagging roll of carpet in your arms. An unmistakable pair of boots stuck out. “And I see much has changed.” 

None of your muscles moved—but the weight of the deceased tired your arms and you ached to rest them. You slowly lowered the rug to the ground, your eyes never leaving one another’s.  

“This isn’t what you think it is.” 

A disbelieving scoff left him. “What I think it is,” he echoed. “I’m thinking that better not be who I think it is. I’m thinking ‘she went from breaking men’s hearts to stopping them altogether’,” his long legs carried him forward and your spine stiffened. His face came into the light. You shrank back. “Something tells me you don’t have one of Dutch Van der Linde’s boys wrapped up in there. See, I knew the Sheriff would be here tonight, and that’s his horse hitched there,” he jerked his thumb in the direction of the animal. “You have five seconds to produce the man I’m looking for alive and well or I’m taking you in.” 

You wished to heaven you could think of a way out of this. What vestige of freedom you could still secure was within your grasp and it made your teeth grit that the bitter waters of life would surge high once again at this crucial hour. It figured; the final wave for you to overcome came in the form of Gideon Taylor, the pouty boy who you had no remorse for jilting. Your fists clenched beside you and you lifted your head, standing tall, measuring and meeting the danger of his presence. 

Holding his stare unblinkingly, you pitched your voice low, words growing frost. “You should leave.” 

Though he had a gun and lasso on his hip and an inflated sense of superiority to empower him, Gideon hesitated. 

“I will, once you tell me where the Sheriff is.” 

His spurs jangled. He spoke to you cautiously, as if you were a skittish animal about to bolt for an impenetrable thicket, the flit of his eyes gauging your every move, and his hand rose out to you while he subtly reached beside him. 

Before you a narrow avenue of escape flickered, shrinking smaller and smaller like the last sliver of the moon in the dark of an eclipse. 

When lightning flashes, the precise amount of moments that pass between the initial burst of light and the thunder that follows measures the distance between the strike and the listener. A blink, a heartbeat, a slow breath. That was how much time you had to act, before the thunder came and the earth trembled. In that slow, blinking, beating instant, you knew how this would play out. 

When his gun began to clear leather your instincts kicked in, quick as a snap. You leapt backwards into the house, throwing the door shut. Fumbling with the bolt, the rusty metal bar slogged its way through the lock, making you cry out in frustration as you strained to jiggle it forward. The bolt slid home the instant Gideon’s shoulder rammed against the boards. 

Your teeth rattled at the battering of the frame. He charged against it repeatedly and your eyes, in darting about the room, snagged on a buffet table. Praying the old lock would hold, you rushed to push it in front of the door and the furniture groaned as you shoved it in place, only for Gideon’s attempts to break in to cease. 

“So, we’re doing this the hard way?” Gideon yelled through the door. Your heartbeat thumped in your ears and your face grew hot at the rushing of blood. You moved to extinguish all the lamps and candles, flooding the room in darkness and the lacy scent of candle smoke. His voice came again a moment later.

“Shit, what the hell did you do to him?”

The body. Beyond the threshold. He must have peeled back the rug, looked upon the Sheriff’s vacant eyes and felt his clay-cold cheeks. A leaden weight sunk into the pit of your stomach. There was no escaping what you did. But a small chance remained to evade capture. You could sneak through the back window and mount Willa quietly, get a head start before Gideon gave chase. You could lose him in the woods near Lady Face Falls and follow the water north—

A bullet crashed through the window. You dropped to the floor. Moving forward, you crawled towards the bedroom, covering your head with your hands whenever glass shattered and chunks of wood flew. Along the way your foot slipped through a sludge of the Sheriff’s vomit and your knee banged against the wood. You bit your cheek so as not to cry out in disgust and pain and shuffled slimily onward by the heels of your hands.

Gideon fired off six shots in total before you made it safely to the other room. Quietly, tortuously, you unlatched the window and pulled it up by the handles in increments to prevent any sound while outside Gideon cursed to reload his weapon faster. You winced as it gave a squeak, but the noise was muffled by the breaking of a window in the front room. A heavy stone’s thump followed after. 

Gideon called out in the dark. “Are you gonna come willingly or do I have to shoot you? There’s nowhere to go!” 

The night air beckoned. Without another thought you swung a leg over the sill and ducked out, making a break for Willa. Behind the cottage, you slid down a slippery bank of pine needles until you reached your moonlit mare, grasping the smooth horn of the saddle and clambering astride to get a move on.

“Ya!” With a kick to her flank, Willa gave a jolt and a toss of her head before starting forward. Moments. You had bought yourself moments to escape, merely. Snatching up the reins, you seated yourself properly and urged Willa through the grove of trees, hunching low to dodge the lash of branches. 

She moved with a swift determination beneath you. With hooves heavy upon the earth, she sensed your urgency. Twigs snapped and spears of moonlight shot through the pine canopy as you wove through a wide belt of trees, your breath coming hard and fogging in the air. 

The lane of a meadow came into view and you burst through the tree line, into the moon-bright open. Willa vaulted over a fallen log and landed in the muddy grasses, your rear hitting the saddle hard while pellets of ice flecked your cheeks as she scudded over a sheaf of unmelted snow.  

“Go, go, go!” Crying out, you nudged her flank again, and Willa obeyed, breathing hard. The prospect of speed and gaining distance from your pursuer outweighed the risk of exposure, riding in the open like this. Her pace transcended into a gallop. You clung tight, blinking against the cold air as it pricked your eyes. The thunder of her feet matched the beat of your heart and the landscape became a blur of stubby trees and boulders smudging past you. In the wind she made Willa’s mane flowed, and you trusted her completely to deliver you from danger. 

A gun fired off in the distance. You were forced to let up, arming yourself with your father’s hunting rifle, the stock firm against your shoulder as you peered down the sight and readied your aim. A quarter of a mile off a glint of moving light came from a lantern, and it struck your heart with a pang to do it—to fix your sights on the pulse of it and fire with violent intent. The sound split through the valley. The empty cartridge ejected. 

Astride his horse, Gideon shouted as it reared up. Your round pierced the dome of his upheld lantern and sent glass and kerosene raining. In the briefly purchased interval you prompted Willa onwards, back into the ponderosas that environed the open meadow and the darkness their bristling boughs afforded before he and his horse finished screaming. 

The farther into the woods you ventured the thicker the trees crept in, until you were forced to a walk. Into the silence of the night you listened, straining for any sound of pursuit. Nothing, only the cold shadows, dim moonlight, and scaly bark of pines passing by your knees. You propped the rifle against your thigh and loaded another brass round into the breech before hopping down from your mount. If the necessity rose again, it would be easier to aim on solid ground rather than swiveling on horseback. 

Pine cones and fallen twigs scattered at your step, and you took care to prowl lightly through the snowmelt. You held Willa’s bridle in one hand, her bit jingling, and led her until the murmur of flowing water pricked your ears. Miserable cold began to set in. At every rustle and riffle of leaf and breeze your eyes snapped to each corner of the woodland on high alert. More than anything, you wished for the warmth of your hearth—to be nestled in your favorite chair like any other evening spent in the solitude of your home. Not gripping a loaded gun in a dark forest, heart racing for your life. 

But at home, you remembered, lay the body of a dead man. To return to such a place was to hold to your ear a shell from the sea of the past, filling you with the hollow echo of what once was and no longer is. Those chapters from before fluttered away—as the seasons did. 

The soil turned mossy and spongy from the lush influence of the river, with trilliums springing up between tree roots and felled, sun-bleached logs. You let Willa walk on ahead, and the music of the water dampened the far-off sounds. Your breath came out slowly as you surveyed the wooded area behind you. 

How smart had Gideon grown in the past few years? Could he track you, undetected? Was he stalking you through the woods, with the patience and guile of a hunter?  In truth, you had no idea what he was capable of, and it made your fingers twitch towards the trigger. Then again, what were you? 

The treetops stirred. A gale whistled down from the mountains, hauntingly cold, and spliced through your jacket, meanwhile the starlight twinkled on. The moonlight turned the river iridescent. Willa drank her fill of water and you settled back into the saddle to trudge downriver. Gideon would lose the tracks you had no time to cover once he reached the stream, but could easily piece together your route. You stowed your rifle and formed a grip over the reins, knuckles over, and moved to fit your boots into the stirrups to give Willa a kick. 

You wondered how you could not have heard it: the low, whisking sound of a twirling lasso. By the time it dropped around your shoulders, it was too late. With a violent lurch you were dragged backwards from your horse into the numbing, snow-fed water. Hard and unforgiving rocks bashed into the side of your face as you slammed into the streambed, the taste of coins flooding your mouth as your teeth cut through your lip and tongue. You wrestled with the unyielding hold of the rope amidst the water flowing around you, the shock of which soaked ice in your blood instantly. Black flowers blossomed behind your eyes. A hard yank snagged the air from your lungs and pulled you free from the chaos of the current. 

Coughing, spluttering, blinking and gasping, twigs and gravel scraped your palms and before you could brace your hands against the silt someone else’s pinned them together and pushed you on your stomach. 

“You’re not gettin’ away now,'' a voice hissed. You remembered those hands on you years before, stronger since, and contempt flamed up in you, compelling the fight in your limbs to kick and scramble beneath Gideon’s hold. 

“Quit makin’ this harder for me than it already is!” he snapped. With force, he wrapped the rope around your wrists in a tight bind. All that was left to fight him with was your ankles and you thrashed your knees to shake him off, but the solid weight of him prevailed. 

“No,” you groaned, and it took all of your strength to. The rope bound your feet together, and a stupor sludged your limbs from the shock of the cold water. You were flipped onto your back, flinching at a face you were loath to look into. Gideon shook you by the shoulders and your eyes rolled.

“Tell me why! Why did you kill the Sheriff?!” 

The river still roared in your ears. Water dripped down your neck, bunched in your lashes. You thought they might turn into icicles, like the great big ones that hung from the cottage roof in the wintertime. Senses dulled and dazed, you could hardly see from the blur of tears and cold, but you caught the echo of his question, and the vial of indignation within you overflowed past the chatter of your teeth and the shivering of your limbs, unable to contain the seething words any longer. 

“You have no idea–” a cough interrupted your speech. “What kind of man you are defending.” 

Blood from the cut inside your lip spattered onto his face and he only blinked as if it were water. His astonishment was beyond expression. By the moonlight, the dark of his eyes narrowed, and you wormed beneath his glaring sneer. 

“He was a great man. Everyone saw the good he did. But you–” he yanked you up from the rocky bed by the elbow, your head lolling. “You were all he talked about. And I tried to warn him about you! You know what he did? He just laughed at me and said I wasn’t man enough to handle you.”

His statement stunned you into silence. Upright, your senses were slow to sharpen with the fog accumulating in your head. The idea of the Sheriff boasting about you to his fellow men sickened you more than the memory of his touch almost. But you had no time to harbor the thought before Gideon dragged you to his mount like a lamb to slaughter. 

Within the narrow, binding circle in which your ankles could shuffle you were pushed along, stumbling over pinecones and driftwood. You were too cold and cut up by the rocks to fight him, but you dug in your heels as you approached the tan horse’s flank, the gelding’s tail twitching. 

You rolled your shoulder as he shoved you harshly forward by the center of your back and searched for your horse desperately. Willa had taken off during scuffle, trotting down the opposite side of the riverbank. You whistled for her, and her head swung in your direction.

Gideon lost what little patience he had and pulled you up by your underarm. “Do I need to gag you as well?” You braced your arm against his horse’s side to keep your footing. “I think I should, since you’ll be savin’ your confession for the judge.”  

“Gideon, stop. Please,” you wheezed. “There was a wrong done to me.” You hoped the pain in your voice would make him pause and see the misery in your eyes, think about the weight behind your words. Maybe he would remember the girl you used to be, and recognize that she was gone, wondering what took the light from her heart. A minnow of doubt darted across his face and his grip nearly faltered, until the breeze blew cold and snuffed any flame of apprehension sparking inside him.

“And you call what you did makin’ it right? Killing a man is against the law,” he elucidated. His spit sprayed across your cheek and you flinched. “But I’ve heard all that I have an ear for. You’re spendin’ the night in a cell.” 

Gideon crouched and lifted you from around the legs, hefting you onto your stomach over the horse’s rump. Blood rushed to your head as your weight gravitated to your abdomen and your muscles strained to support it. The steed’s legs shifted underneath you and you lifted your head with a painful effort to speak your mind as he rounded the horse. 

“The law doesn’t tell you what’s right and what’s wrong; it only says there’s a price to be paid for certain actions,” you snapped. Disdain pulsed through your veins, your blood humming with contempt. 

“Yeah?” Gideon’s feet slotted into the stirrups and he gave a kick, gripping the reins and flicking them to the right. “And you are gonna pay—with your life. What’s that tell you?” 

You balled your fists and squirmed, the weave of the rope digging into your wrists. Gideon started forward, roughly, back into the darkened forest. Your chin knocked against the horse’s hide and you held your head up again. “Men like the Sheriff bend the law in their favor whenever it suits them to get what they want and never pay that price. The law doesn’t protect those beneath it.” 

“Spoken like a true degenerate.” He tossed you a look over his shoulder and scoffed. “God, if my mother could see you now.” At the memory of Mrs. Taylor and her old warmth towards you, you flamed up again, voice coming out in a growl. 

“Oh, you don’t have room in your head for more than one idea!”

“I know better than to listen to this. I know you. A man’s heart is your joy to play with–” 

“And it’s your joy to play the victim! Even now you can’t fathom why I despised you. You filled me with shame. Men like you and the Sheriff, all you care about is what I can give you. My heart, my feelings, they don’t matter. In the face of your desires they mean nothing. They don’t so much as cross your mind. The Sheriff took advantage of me and he would do it without a second thought over and over again unless I stopped it!”

“Shame?” Gideon turned back to you. The cold pinked the tips of his ear and nose, his knuckles also red from their place on the bridle. He went quiet for a moment before going on, the scenery passing by vaguely in shadows and shafts of moonlight. Your sternum ached at the pressure accrued from resting on it, and every time your head bounced along with the rhythm of the horse you glimpsed your bound feet on the other side. 

He spoke softer this time. “You must not remember how sweet I was on you when we were together. But the way you turned so sour so suddenly, when I could’ve sworn you liked me just as much…it made my head spin more than anythin’. I didn’t know what I did wrong.” 

The confession strummed a somber chord within you, twisting your expression grimly. You stepped out of the present, back into the years, while Gideon emerged from the cover of the woods and picked his way onto a pale ribbon of trail that wriggled ahead like a snake. A sign post at the fork heralded the one mile marker to the main road into town, painted white and chipping.

“We were so young. We were children, Gideon. It wasn’t love.” 

It struck you that, at the age you spoke of, you did not know how to say no—the word not being something girls were taught. What you knew of women’s’ relationships with men was the expected role they fulfilled: giving. Giving affection, pleasure, children, companionship. In theory the rationale was not so terrible. Love was a dream. To be in love was everything. But your tryst with Gideon acquainted you with a breed of men who were used to taking what women were expected to give. Your kiss, your touch, your embrace and your body, these were all special to you; a gift to be bestowed, the chance to do so reveled. Not things you were expected to surrender to the first boy who looked at you lustfully, unconcerned with your true, inner value. You wished you knew that then. 

The train of thought led you, for a glimmer of a second, to believe you could have stopped the worse act inflicted upon you by the hands of the Sheriff. As quick as it came it died. He would have found a way to get what he wanted, regardless of pleas, or strength, or precognition. You were not to blame. Bad people would always exist in the world and take advantage of others, and it was no fault of yours. 

Gideon shook his head, sighed, and muttered to himself. Pivoting, he looked down on you with a pinched mouth, his eyes hidden in the shadow cast by the brim of his hat. “Yeah, well. We still knew what we were doing.” The cutting edge of his words dismissed you and he spurred his horse into a faster trot. 

 I think you’re just ashamed and don’t know how to admit that you liked it. A ghost whispered. The soft choke of his death rattle gripped your memory and you flinched from it.

The hardheaded hold Gideon held on his grievances made your teeth clench. If only the perfect string of words existed to compel him to release them, you would draw the strands from the air, thread them together into a net, and cast their influence over his mind to pluck his heartstrings and make him remember the boy he once was; the one who looked upon you so fondly. But the notion came to a halt at that, for was he ever a boy capable of thinking beyond his own wishes, considering the thoughts of others? 

“You’re so selfish. You’ll never change,” you found yourself saying without thinking. But he did not catch your words, and you spoke up as your despisal surged anew. “Maybe you knew what you were doing when you groped me, and ground yourself against me, and kissed me slovenly, but I didn’t. Because maybe you’ve forgotten, but I just sat there. You only ever cared about making yourself happy.” 

He scoffed. “As much as I know you’d like to think it is, this isn’t about what happened between us. I stopped thinking about you in that way a long time ago, along with asking myself why. What you offered—” Gideon cut a withering look to your frame and grunted. “Wasn’t that special. There’s plenty of other girls out there. I’m just glad I didn’t end up in a goddamn carpet.” 

Further and further away your hope slipped. Your heartbeat pounded in your head, making it throb and ache as you hung over the horse’s side and your feet grew numb. Inevitably, water pricked your eyes. A chill breeze brushed past your nose and snot began to dribble from the end of it while your vision blurred and your voice broke.

“There is no getting through to you, is there?” 

In reply, Gideon only spurred his horse to trudge an incline in the road and leaned back in the saddle, steering away from the deeper patches of snow. A knot formed in your throat as you choked down useless tears. He owed you nothing. His nature was not understanding, or reflective, or critical of himself. It was self-righteous and vindictive. The conviction rested in his eyes as unyielding as the laws of justice. An ounce of sympathy from him was as likely as drawing blood from a stone.

Bitterly, your head fell, and you sucked your quivering, gashed lip. One last time, you tried to implore him. One last time, you sought your freedom, because it was the only thing you had left to lose. 

“You can let me go. I’ll never come back here! Whatever you’re trying to prove, you don’t have to–” 

And he slapped you across the face to shut you up. 

The strike stung like nettles and your ears rang. Shrinking away, your mind blanking with static and noise and blinding white despair, fresh blood spilled from your lips from the slap and your trembling body remembered how cold your dip in the river had been. Worse was the wind, billowing down from across the distant mountain peaks, and the shivers set in deep. The trot of the horse went on, up a hill and off the trail through the terrain once more.

In silence, in anguish, in defeat, you wept. Over the side of a horse, bound, slapped, and subdued, you wept and embraced the taste of salt. For your lost girlhood. For the grandmother who raised you and the mother who did not have the chance. For your life, for the ruination of your dreams, from the unfairness of it all. Was this the harvest of all that had been planted for you? Bone-weary, you slumped against the animal’s hide and let yourself rock with each step. If only sleep could take you. You were ready for all of this to be over, to be a dream you could wake from in a sweat and try your best to forget. Bleeding and shivering, you longingly ached for something to fetch you out of your present existence, and lead you upwards and onwards, but you had no heart left for anything. 

Glancing up at the sky, a bank of clouds enveloped the moon. Over wood, over water, the flood of its silver radiance receded, the ensuing darkness weaving a mystery in every drop of dew and creaking branch. An owl hooted, but its mate did not answer. The stars did not have any either as you searched for them.

The tall trees rustled, violently unsure, and the night breeze carried a sickly sweet scent in its passing, as if stirring something hidden under rotting leaves. As Gideon passed beneath them, the ragged shadows cast from the spruces closed in, and in the gloom an old stone rose from the earth like a grave. It may as well have been your own. Darkened by the color of moss and damp, the granite ledge presided over the forest, sundered by some glacial movement from the mountains eons ago while death and rebirth churned in the woods all around. 

Unable to face what was to come, you turned your head. But in so doing, you caught sight of Willa trailing you from a short distance, the spot of white on her forehead unmistakable, and your tears subsided. Your heart glowed and lifted; a wobbly smile dimpling your cheeks. Graceful and poised, steadfast and resilient, she trotted in the passing shadows like she was of its fabric, her coat the same shifting shades of moonlight while she moved like a river, the sinews of her forearms and chest a changeful, inky black above her socks of white. Her hooves were too soft to hear in the spongy dirt. 

Willa’s softly brown and gleaming eyes held a star in them. Every journey you embarked on, she was beside you. She carried your bushels of burdock root and feverfew and fireweed back to your cottage without complaint, conveying you home through the forests and switchbacks countless times, and in turn you took care of her since the day your grandmother bought her from the livery.

The events which occurred in the past day loosened your foothold on your sense of self. But in that moment, pondering Willa, it came back to you. You remembered who you were, and what you believed you were meant to be. A girl brought up to respect the Earth and revere it, who kept hope in her heart always, and dreamed that she could be loved. With crystalline clarity, your mind broke free from its chains and a wind stirred a flame back to life inside of you.

From a drained well of will, you gathered your strength, braced yourself for another struggle and one last trial of endurance. While you raced to think of a way to cut your binds, Gideon’s head snapped around, and you stopped. His revolver was drawn in a flash and his horse whinnied and raked its hooves. He fixed his eyes on the tree line and you strained for any telltale sound while his gelding started to canter to the side uneasily. Something spooked it.                                

“What is it?” you hissed. He ignored you.

A twig snapped close by. “Who goes there?” he called out. Not far off, a ribbon of campfire smoke wove up into the night air and you squinted at the shadows.

Gideon tugged the reins hard to the left and clicked his spurs, venturing to investigate and evade the open clearing. Your head joggled with the movement and you grunted. A patch of ground ahead, though sideways from your point of view, appeared odd, misshapen, the thick carpet of pine needles too obvious to be natural. But Gideon was not watching his tread and aimed his horse’s walk right over it.

A dire creak made you freeze.

“Look out!”

It was too late.

A shrieking snap, and next, the wind was in your ear as the earth gave out from beneath. With a cry, the horse stumbled and reared and everything went upside down. Your heart seized during a timeless, weightless, airless second as a lattice of concealed logs collapsed beneath the load of Gideon and his horse, and you all fell in an outcry.

The sap and pine scent of fresh wood rushed up your nose as it cracked all around you. Unable to reach out for anything or protect your face, the sharp edges of branches snagged at your clothes and stabbed at your sides, needles scraping and stinging your skin. When the slamming force of the ground ended it all, a spike of wood tore a scream from you as it impaled your thigh.

The tumult fizzled to a static in your ears. You roiled on the dirt floor of the manmade pit, curling into yourself like a pill bug at the hot, pulsing throbs of pain in your leg surrounding the intrusion. You cried out at the unbearable and debilitating burning shooting throughout your body. Throat raw, vision white, breath sawing raggedly, your senses came clear enough for half a moment to observe Gideon, still astride his hysterical animal, gripping the bridle and urging the horse out of the pit. He kicked it harshly to vault over the rim back to solid ground.

He spared you one glance before riding off, and left you.

Tears stung your eyes and you wailed out your pain freely. Scratching at the rope around your wrists was useless, your nails only drew blood. All over, your body ached with bruises and fatigue, and it depleted all of your strength to focus on your breathing alone. Frustration and pain tangled in your chest like a mass of snakes, warring each other, and all you could to do alleviate the pain was roll onto your uninjured side. Your leg gushed like an oil-well.

Once everything started to fade, time ceased mattering, and you slipped in and out of consciousness. You blearily wondered why you were still fighting. A cold sweat chilled your neck and your chest palpitated unbearably.

Sounds from afar, beyond the pit, invaded your ears. There were hoof beats. The shouts of more riders, pursuing Gideon most likely. He would be rounding up what was left of the Sheriff’s posse, going after this gang that has been troubling this valley the past few days. No doubt this pit was dug by them, a trap for someone who got too close to where they were camped out. The whole town would be in a frenzy, meanwhile you...fading, languishing in the dirt…no one would find you in time…

With a quavering sigh, you began to let go. There was only so much your body could take; it would so much easier to sink into this grave than crawl your way out. To breathe became like listening to a lake lap a shore with its waves, growing fainter, quieter, and more still.

The moonlight was serene, and the coolness of this cavity of earth was welcome. Tree roots poked from the stratified layers of dirt, worms and centipedes clinging to the moisture therein. Above, a scuff of needles and a snort announced the presence of your most trusted friend.

Willa whickered, eyes finding your curled form in the pit. She paced around the edges. What remained of your hope ached. Through a glaze of tears you tried to speak, to soothe her, but no sound broke from you other than a whimper. But you were not alone. Never alone…in these woods…these mountains…with these familiar stars above…until unknown, male voices dispelled the cloud hovering over your thoughts.

“I’m telling you, I heard something. Someone in pain.”

Footsteps, a pair of them. You fought to stay awake, aware, but your willpower was slipping like the final sands through the waist of an hourglass.

“It’s probably another one of them law boys,” someone grumbled. “Maybe we caught one.”

“As soon as Dutch gets back we need to skip town without kissin’ the mayor goodbye.”

“You’re telling me. We should’ve left after that business last night.”

A haze began to drift over you again, sweeping you under the blessed numbness unconsciousness promised. Your eyelids were so, so heavy.

Willa nickered, the white of her eyes showing as the pair of men presumably approached her.

“Whoa, easy there.” One of the men regarded her, gently shushing and calming her in a matter of moments. In a way only you could—

“Look.”

“It’s a girl. Tied up like a steer.”

A gun being holstered, a thump of feet, and you were no longer alone. A shadow passed over the moonlight on your face. It was too dark to see, to know if you were about to be saved or damned by whoever was crouching over you. Dimly, you hoped you looked too powerless and broken to be mistreated.

“Pl—please,” your weak words tasted of copper. The apricot glow of a lantern warmed your face, and you looked up into a pair of eyes you trusted instinctively.

“What happened here?” The man who asked you this was older, with graying blond hair swept beside his temples. You had never seen him before. He had deep lines beside his shrewd eyes and his mouth was grim, but a kindness of understanding softened his countenance. It had been such a long time since any sincere compassion had looked at you through eyes other than your grandmother’s.

“Deputy—was bringing me in—left me here—“a spasm of pain interrupted your slurred speech. Wincing, you gestured to your thigh with your chin, seeing the pool of red darkening your pant leg for the first time. “Can’t move.”

The older man’s companion joined him in the light of his lantern. He was younger; tall and well-built, with a gun belt slung across his hips replete with ammunition, the brass of his bullets shining. A satchel hung from his side and he unsheathed a hunting knife attached to his belt. The quick gleam of it filled you with uncertainty.

“Easy, miss,” he raised his hands. “We don’t mean you any harm. I’m just gonna cut you free. Hold still.”

In a few saws of the blade the rope loosened its pitiless hold over your limbs; the relief of clutching your wound with your own hands was enough to make you sob. The men grew quiet, considering your condition. All of the blood was draining from your head, like it was all racing to escape out of your leg. The chunk of wood was buried in it, likely holding back a gushing torrent of crimson like the river miles and hours back. You wanted nothing more than to yank it out. It had not gone all the way through.

“We need to take her to a doctor,” the older man asserted, and his companion made a noise of protest. “I don’t know if Susan and Bessie can patch this up.”

“No—“ you cut him off, as forcefully as you could. “I can’t—I can’t go back there,” your breath began to labor and dizziness crept in as you moved to sit with your back against the packed dirt wall of the pit. “They’re gonna—gonna hang me, for killing that awful man.”

Clutching the wound, the blood oozed out warmly between the webs of your fingers, the dark, iron scent of it pungent in your nostrils. Air hissed out sharply between your teeth.

The two men looked to each other in mute discussion.

It left you in a sad whisper: “You should just leave me here.”

“We’ll help you.”

“We will?”

“Arthur.”

The fading began in earnest. You were incapable of protesting what came next. A pair of hands grasped your elbows, guiding you to your feet, which only stumbled because there was no strength left in your legs. Boneless, a broad chest caught you, your head lolling in the pillow of an arm, your nose grazing the fur of a jacket, and you burrowed into the scent of smoke and forest with a groan.

“We need to get back.” The lantern flame was doused, and the arms surrounding you lifted you in their hold. Your lashes fluttered to catch a glimpse of him, the man who held you, but his hat cast a shadow over his gaze and the night around him was dark with blue.

“You’ll be safe with Arthur, miss,” a voice said, but you were far away, lost to memories and hollow dreams. They dragged you down deep with pictures of bluebells in a water puddle, of lightning flashes through a curtain, of useless wrists beside you.

Your last awareness was of a sky made of woods and branches, with all of its stars perishing.

[nyxcentury]

This was an idea i had in my head that just appeared.

Basically it's a reincarnation au and all the hermitcrafters and empires and possibly the dsmp people, are reincarnated years down the road. The new people are basically their descendants and get to learn about their history.

If anyone wants to know more, feel free to ask. I also don't know much about Scott winning his games or why exactly he decided against working with his soulmate Pearl during double life.

***************************************

"Listen closely class. These four statues each tell an important story, which had any of you been paying attention, you would know about that." The teacher announced, knowing full well only some of her students had actually read the material.

She points to the first statute. The man is short with curly hair and a big sweater. He also has wings slightly outstretched and is holding a crown with a sun on it above his head. His hands seem to be bleeding due the thorns in them. He is also wearing an amulet with an open eye that once was purple but has since faded.

"Grian was the first winner and much like the sun that he has come to represent, he both cared for and hurt the ones he was meant to protect. He was also the first known Watcher on the side of the players."

The next statue is of a taller man with a crown of stars in his hair. He has no physically defining features and wears a simple open button up shirt. He holds a poppy in his hands in front of him.

"The next winner was Scott. He chose the stars which are known to burn bright and fast. He was also known for not killing anyone during his game."

The statue that faces north, is the only female and has two wolves that sit at her feet. She wears a cape of red that has a heart brooch which appears to be broken. Unlike the other two, her crown does not have a physical moon but instead lines up with a window that when the moon is full, shines on her.

"The third winner was Pearl. She was also known as the Scarlet Wolf. Her soulmate had rejected their bond-"

"Who was her soulmate?" Asked a student who was a mix between a human and an axolotl.

"Why did they reject the bond?" Asked another student that was a avian with owl wings.

"Josie, Scarlett. Did neither of you read the book?"

Their sheepish looks answered her question and the teacher sighed.

"Would someone like to explain?"

"I will!" Terrance said excitedly, eyes glowing green as he summoned his vex magic.

"Thank you Terrance but no magic please."

He nodded and started to explain.

"Scott was her soulmate and he decided to work with ZombieCleo, who had also been rejected by her soulmate until closer to the end of that game. If i remember correctly, no one was really sure why."

"Correct. And here we have the last Statue, facing west. Martyn was the winner of the four game, named Limited Life. He chose the sea because he changed sides and was loyal to no one."

Martyn held a bloodied sword in front of him and a crown of coral was wrapped around his brow.

"Now class, this was our final room. You may explore the museum until noon when everyone needs to meet in the cafeteria for lunch."

The students scatter almost instantly, leaving the room vacant except for her and three of her students. The ones who were constantly looking into their history and at the top of their history class.

"Anything i can help you with?"

Solaris raised his hand then lowered it as his brothers giggles.

"Shouldn't there be five statues?"

"Why five? There were only four games."

"Well i looked into it," he trails off as he gets elbowed by both Ranger and Asher.

"Okay okay we all looked into it. There was someone who always died first. We could only find the name Canary."

"Ah yes, Canary. Sadly there isn't much information on him because of him always dying first. Perhaps the three of you could put together a report by next Friday on Canary?"

"Okay!" The brothers left the room and she had to focus on her breathing.

No one had mentioned Canary in a very long time and for his own direct descendants to bring him up, she feared the past would no longer stay buried.

[smallrainclouds]

Made To Break

Yandere!Hypnos x reader (gender neutral)

Word count: 5k

Warning: Yandere bevaiour, dubcon/noncon, sex in later parts

No beta. Read at your own risk.

A/N: part one of two. Enjoy.

Your father was a fool.

But perhaps You were just as foolish.

💮

When the letter arrived, you couldn't believe that the same man wrote it.

Your father always wrote in neat, tight letters but the letters You got were loopy, large letters that fused together at odd parts.

You sat in your car outside your childhood home. The front yard was nothing but overgrown grass now. You could see the lack of care the home had gotten over the years in the cracks and chipped off paint. The overcast skies and trees with just a few leaves holding on only added to the depressing picture.

You bit your lip as you pulled out your father's letter from your bag.

With shaky hands, you unfolded it again for what must have been hundreds of times.

'My dearest child.

I gave it all up. I have found a way to eternity. But it cost me everything.

Forgive me.

I just wanted to see your mother again.

Father.'

"Madness. Simply mad." You murmured. You could feel the tears welled up in your eyes, you knew your father loved your mom. Her loss had slowly eaten him alive since you were a child.

Now he was just a body in a hospital room. It was unlike any coma the doctors had seen before.

The doctor, an older woman with short gray hair and sharp blue eyes, had felt more like a grandmother than a doctor.

But even with her kind face couldn't soften the blow that your father will likely never wake up again.

You sniffed as you used your hoodie sleeve to rub at your eyes.

"Okay. Okay. You got this. This was your home too." You tried to smooth yourself with little success. With a deep breath for courage, you made your way to the house.

When you got inside the dark house, you stubbed your foot on the piles of books by the door and they promptly fell over into a heap.

"Urg, fuc-owww. Okay, Y/N great start.Just amazing." You pulled out your phone. You could make the numerous texts from your partner-no, now your ex but you just bypass those for the flashlight.

You shone the light around, there was nothing but a big mess. Books and papers had overtaken the house and you can smell the old fast food bags that piled into the corner.

You could see on one wall, writing in wasn't in English and strange markings. A single gold and red eye stared back.

"Fuck."

💮

Hours later, you had made headway in the madness that was now your childhood home.

At least your room had been mostly spared. Only some odd books here and there. And the many, many dried poppies on your floor.

You tossed the broom on the floor as you flop down along with it. You didn't realize how bad it had gotten. You only got your room back to normal, let alone the rest of the house.

Guilt swelled in your chest, you should have been more aware. You knew your dad wasn't the most stable person which isn't good but this was something else.

But…

But...

You had been busy dealing with your 'friends' group, the breakup and the last of your exams.

You covered your face, you already cried three times today and you weren't not about to start again.

Your phone buzzed, and you couldn't stop the laugh. Speak of the devil.

You rolled over to your side and pulled your phone close to you.

You swipe away the message, you were not dealing with any of your former friends right now. Your cheating jerk of an ex could keep them all. You had far more important matters to attend to now.

You opened up the gallery app, you took many photos as you could with the last of the daylight left.

You zoomed in on the writing, you had thought it was nonsense at first but after a few more looks,you could see the repeated words. You just didn't know the language.

There was something deeply wrong in this house. You could swear you could feel something was in there with you. But if friend or foe you weren't sure. You tried not to think about how your only protection was your childhood baseball bat.

But what did your dad do? You normally are able to pick apart what your dad was doing but this was something else unknown. You kept checking the pictures with the creepy red and gold eye in hope of finding something.

Slowly you could feel tiredness sinking in your bones, and before you knew it, your eyes drifted shut.

💮

A warm hand cupped your cheek, and you pressed into it with a sigh. You couldn't remember the last time you were touched so tenderly. You think for a moment it was your ex but they never did that before.

The hand left but then you were lifted up against a warm chest. You heard murmurs as sleep pulled you under again.

💮

Rushing water reached your ears and for a moment, you thought you could hear the sounds of birds.

It took you a moment to notice that you weren't in normal clothes but a tunic that went over one shoulder. You saw a brooch with two wings in its place. You should be more worried but you felt too tired to care.

You turned your head with a yawn. Whose lap were You using as a pillow? Before you could look, a hand covered your eyes.

"Not yet, You still need more time." A man's voice... but You didn't recognize it. You made a questioning sound but he hushed you gently.

"Blood and darkness, you are just as beautiful as I remember."

You reached up and stroked his hand, trying to understand what was going on.

"I don't remember… you." You slurred quietly.

"I know. It's not your fault. All it matters is that I found you again."

His thumb rubbed your cheek, "Now go back to sleep. I will be there soon."

You sighed as you sunk back into sleep.

💮

You stared at your bedroom wall, not able to breathe. There was someone else here and they apparently tucked you in bed, blanket pulled up to your chin and all.

You took a breath and tried to listen to any sounds. You waited, surely you would hear footsteps or something.

But there were no sounds, none at all.

It took all of your nerves to get out of bed. You grabbed your childhood baseball bat, it was small but you could still get a good hit in.

You remembered you left your phone on the ground and turned to look for it. It wasn't there, not on your nightstand or desk.

'Great, some creep definitely got my phone.' you tighten your hold on the bat, and after listening for a moment, you slowly push the door opened.

Without saying a word, you slowly walked out though the house. You were sure you would find out who invited themselves in.

The mess was still the same, the writing on the wall was still there. You went through the house twice and found nothing.

You heard the sound of a single bird singing in the backyard. You followed the sounds, it almost felt like it was calling you.

The bat dropped from your hand and You couldn't stop the tears in your eyes.

The backyard had been overtaken by red poppies, there was almost no grass left. the singing stopped when you stepped outside. But a soft hoot had You stared up into the tree and saw a single little owl stared back at you.

It's eyes were light yellow.

💮

It was late morning now, the overcast skies have darkened and You are sure it will start snowing soon.

You had given up finding your phone. You s out of your bedroom.

"Fine, you can have it! Good luck guessing the password, you jerk!" You shouted into the backyard. There was no response but you didn't expect one. You had already tried to find the owl but it must have flown off.

You couldn't stand the smell of the old food anymore and tossed it. You found some tea that was still good and stood in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil.

You changed out your tight jeans and hoodie for a pair of much more comfortable jeans and an oversize sweater.

Thankfully, like your bedroom, the kitchen was also mostly clean. You found as many candles as you could, which wasn't many. Two kept the kitchen dimly lit.

You checked the light bulbs, nearly all of them had burned out. Just one more thing for you to fix.

You rubbed your face with a sigh, at least all the appliances were working. And you won't have to go without water either.

You flipped through your dad's notebooks in hopes of finding something. It was in the second notebook you finally found a name. It had been underlined and circled.

"Hypnos?" You murmured, "Who the hell is that?" It doesn't sound like a human name you heard of.

You made your tea, tucked the notebook under your arm. After cleaning off the big armchair and side table, You began going through the books in the living room. Nearly all of them were about ancient Greece, which you knew nothing about.

Your eyes went to the wall writings, that would explain why you didn't know any of the words.

Did your dad believe this stuff? You looked down at the open notebook in your lap. You skim some of the pages, the only name that came up was Hypnos.

"The god of sleep, huh?" You looked at the stacks of books. Why would your dad care about some god of sleep?

You keep looking though, and found a basic guide to Greek mythology. You flipped through the pages, "Come on Hypnos babe, where are you…"

You grinned when you saw the name in bold print. You skim past most of the information, but one part caught your eyes.

Despite being considered as a gentle and kind god, he has been known to strike others down. In the death of his lover by a human warrior (whose name had been lost to time) he had caused the world to go into a permanent state of sleep, never to waken again.

Only his mother Nyx, goddess of night, was able to talk him down or fight him depending on the storyteller and restore the world. In oral storytelling that has been recorded, it is said that he still uses dreams in hope of finding his lost love.

"Oh dad. No wonder." Your heart twisted, sad that your dad's last days have been spent on some myth. He must have been so far gone to think any of it was real.

But was he wrong? You stared out the window, knowing there was somehow a field of poppies waiting.

Your gut flipped, and told yourself it was just one of those freakish nature things.

💮

You didn't quite realize when you fell asleep. You sighed when you felt a hand touch your forehead followed by a kiss.

You tried to wake up, but the voice murmured something and you just hummed. Your eyelids are too heavy to open anyway.

When the arms scooped you again, you just sighed and curled against the chest.

💮

You felt soft grass tickle your face. You pushed yourself up quickly. You were in the tunic again and you could see a sea of poppies and other flowers surrounding you.

A thick fog of sleepiness tried to pull you back but you ignored it. Not again, damnit.

You stood up, your legs felt so wobbly like a baby deer. Dispise your best attempt, You fell on your knees, the call to sleep overpowering.

You gasped when a hand covered your eyes. You grabbed his wrist, "No, I don't want to go back to sleep." You could feel the fog of sleep growing stronger. You kicked at his legs but got nothing but air.

"I'm sorry, but not yet." His voice came next to your ear, you could feel his breath on your skin. You tried to move away but you fell against him. Your head lolled upward against a shoulder.

An arm wrapped around your waist and held you firm.

"Soon, I promise. I just have to handle a few more things. I will be here when you wake up." A kiss was pressed against your temple.

You wanted demand for answers but you were already falling back into the darkness.

💮

"Not again." You moaned. You sat up, the blanket pooled in your lap. What in the world was going on?

You were back in the oversize sweater and jeans. You press your fingers against your temple. Those kisses felt so real.

Are you going mad too? Just like your dad? You gulped, feeling so very alone.

An hour later and some crying, You somehow found the willpower to make it out of bed. Snow was falling down now and a healthy inch was already on the ground.

You made it to the living room when you saw him by the window, snow falling down against the glass. His sheer size made the living room seem smaller. He was reading one of your dad's notebooks in one hand, a quill floated around next to him.

Some part of you, deep inside of you knew were looking at Hypnos, God of sleep.

"It's you." Your voice cracked. His shoulders tensed up as he turned. Bright, yellow eyes stared at you. "Oh you were the owl too weren't you?" You said numbly.

He nodded slowly, "You've been crying again." He said concerned, his eyes scanned you up and down. He tossed the notebook to the side as he took a step toward you.

Unable to tear your eyes away, you grabbed for the first thing you could reach, a thick and heavy book. And with all of your strength, you launched it at his head.

"Blood and darkness!" He ducked to the side. You reached for another and hurled it.

"It's you!" You snarled, feeling like a rabid animal. "You did this! What did you do to my dad?! To my fucking phone?!"

The bastard ducked again. "Hey, I didn't do anything he didn't ask for!" He held up his palms, stretched out to show he wasn't a threat.

"I won't hurt you. I would never lay a finger on you, Y/N." His voice was soft, kind like he was dealing with some animal.

You stared for a moment, rage overtaking any sense you had. "You've been the asshole putting me to bed every night." You grabbed another book and hurled it. "How dare you!"

And of course, he sidestepped the book. Which just made you angier.

"I don't care if you're a god. Make my dad go back to normal. Or I will find a way to hurt you somehow!"

"He didn't tell you anything did he?" The god asked, a wry smile on his face. You picked up another book, and he just sighed. "Have you tried aiming? Sounds crazy, I know but maybe you could actually hit me this time?"

"You don't get to be disparaging, not with all the trouble you made for me." You gestured with the book as if it would help make your point.

You stood behind the armchair, using it as a shield. You knew you wouldn't win in a physical fight but you weren't going to make it easy for him.

Hypnos sighed, "No, no you're right. I'm sorry." He ran a hand through his curls, a soft smile on his face.

"I'm happy though, you are still as courageous as you always have been. I wasn't sure what I would find after all this time."

"What are you talking about? I have never seen you before. I think I would remember meeting an ancient god." You snarled, not enjoying whatever game the god was playing with you.

"Most people don't try to fight a god with books, my love. Not even other gods." Hypnos smiled.

"If I had something stronger, I would beat you with that. Be happy that I don't have my bat on me. You still didn't answer anything."

You pointed at the wall with writings. "I want answers and I want them now. You said we met before, when?"

Hypnos was silent, his eyes tracing the words on the wall. He stepped closer to the center of the wall, his fingers traced the words. "So that's where he messed up. I told him to check with me before doing anything." He murmured to himself.

After a moment, he looked at you.

"In your past life, you were going to be my consort. I've been looking for you for a very long time.."

You stared, quiet in your disbelief. He waved a hand toward the wall, "Problem is that the spell got messed up. I think your father was rushing and couldn't finish the spell the proper way. That's why you don't remember anything."

You shook your head, laughing "No, none of this makes sense."

"Y/N, stop hiding behind that ugly chair, and we can talk more about what happened." Hypnos' voice tried to sound calming, but you heard an undercurrent of eagerness. Of hunger to it.

You shook your head, "No, and don't take another step toward me. I can see what you're doing. That lighting thing your fingers are doing, Hypnos." You tighten your grip on the book, cursing yourself for leaving your bat up your bedroom. Not that it would be much better.

Hypnos' fingers abruptly stopped the magic spell. His smile faded and his eyes stayed on you, waiting for your next move.

You eyed him, you haven't been able to land a single hit on him but you didn't see any signs of super speed yet.

You might be able to get out of the house and into the car before he could get you. But what if he just could teleport or something you haven't thought of?

It was a risk you would have to take because since you saw him, he watched you like you were some prey for him and you didn't want to stick around to find out what Hypnos had planned.

The living room front way will be no good but the backdoor was in the kitchen, if you could make that, it would be a longer run but you would have far more chances for escape…

You dropped everything and took off like a shot into the kitchen. You almost sailed into the sink but used the motion for more speed.

You heard Hypnos yelled your name followed by something you were sure was a swear word in Greek.

The yard, full of poppies and snow greeted you, you hissed as your socks got soaked from the snow.

You almost made it to the gate, and past that, you could see your car.

Freedom.

You didn't see the root sticking out of the ground, but you saw it on the way down.

The breath knocked out of you when you slammed into the cold ground and mere seconds afterwards, you felt hands on your shoulders followed by a pressure against your back. Hypnos leaned down, his lips against your ear, and he spoke in must have been Greek.

"No. Nonono." You gasped, fighting for breath but he just shushed you. His fingers brushed against your cheeks almost lovingly.

Your eyelids slided shut.

💮

When you woke up, your fingers were curled against an unfamiliar red blanket. You sighed as your eyes drifted shut, you couldn't remember the last time you felt so….warm and safe.

You heard the sounds of paper moving around and your eyes fluttered open.

Hypnos must have cleared off the sofa and placed you there. You could see the written wall behind him, post-it notes dotted between the words and some of them were covered with lined paper, new words on it.

Hypnos was sitting on the ground, notebooks and paper surrounded him. A quill tip between his teeth, his golden eyes almost glowed in the dim lighting.

It took a moment of staring but you noticed Hypnos's cloak was gone. Your fingers tighten when you realize you were under his cloak. You took a moment to look at him as he kept reading the notebook

While he wasn't the broadest person you've ever seen, there was a solidness to him. You could see the lean muscles in his arms and shoulders. The gold bands he wore only highlighted the muscles.

You tore your eyes away. 'Jerk.' you thought even as your cheeks warmed.

"I don't like you very much." You spoke, voice rough with sleep.

Hypnos looked up to you, not saying anything. He took out the quill and twilled it between his fingers.

You rolled your eyes at him, unmoving your spot under his cloak. He stared, looking thoughtful for a second before he leaned toward you with a wide smile on his lips, "If you don't like me then you should return my cloak."

"No, it's mine now." The words slipped out your mouth before you knew it.

You blinked at his laugh. You thought he would be upset.

Hypnos chuckled fondly, "Word for word."

At your questioning look, he continued.

"You don't remember yet but the first time we met, you were trying to find medicine for humans. I think you were upset at me because you got lost in my cave. I brought you back home and I gave you my cloak so you could get warm."

You sat up against the arm rest, holding on to the cloak. Not ready to give up the feeling of safety yet. You bit your lip, not quite sure what to say.

His eyes glazed over, the quill still spinning between his fingers. His voice turned quiet. "You were so beautiful, so strong, so determined. You fought for humanity, not that they even remember, those worthless animals, the whole lot."

He seemed lost in a memory so you just waited it out, letting him talk.

"You hated the fact I took half of their lives away from them. And that I often took more."

His eyes meet yours, and his whole face softens. You flushed at the realization that you could make him do that, to have that much power over another being let alone a god.

"I couldn't give up the half, it was mine by birthright but I was slower afterward, let them have more time to themselves. And I never took more than half. The only reason I got called a kind god was because of you."

You stood up, still holding on the cloak and walked over to him. His eyes never left you, and you had to tell yourself to ignore the butterflies in your stomach.

You kneeled next to him and after a second, you reached out to touch his shoulder. You were surprised at how warm he was, how human-like he felt. Maybe you were wrong about him.

"Hypnos. I-I I'm sorry you lost them. I can hear how much you love them, especially after all this time. But I am not whoever you think I-"

"How much I love you." Hypnos interrupted, his hand covered your own. "I never stopped looking for you. I just need more time to fix this." He waved a hand to the wall.

You shook your head, "I am not then though. You are just like my dad, always looking for a person who isn't there."

"No, your father was. The woman who birthed you died and is in the underworld now. You, however, are here in front of me." Hypnos leaned closer, he tightened his hold but it wasn't painful, it was almost comforting. "You are them, your eyes, your lips, your nose even the way you move and talk. You are them, given life again."

"How?!" You said despairing,surely even he could see what nonsense he was saying? "How could a god become reborn as a human? Or even go back to being a god?"

"There are ways. There is always a way." Hypnos replied darkly. He took your other hand and held them between his own warm hands. "You haven't even let me talk to you, to tell you what happened."

"I don't want to." You whispered, "I don't need to know what happened. I just want to know what it will take for you to understand that I am not them."

Hypnos didn't say anything for a few minutes and the silence grew heavy.

"Did he summon you?" You asked, trying not to feel guilty, looking at the swirls of words on the wall, in the middle of the circle was a single red and gold eye staring back.

Hypnos stared at the wall along with you, "He really didn't tell you anything did he?"

You dug out the letter from your front pocket. "This was the last thing he wrote to me. This isn't his normal writing."

Hypnos read the letter, his eyebrows rose and reread it again. "Blood and darkness, what a damn fool."

"Hey, that's my dad you know." You murmured, "Also you guys are both doing the same thing, you with me, and he with my mom."

"No, not nearly the same thing." Hypnos scoffed. You rolled your eyes at his words. You moved on, tired of this fight for now.

"Where did dad get this information anyway?" You asked.

Hypnos sighed as he rubbed his forehead. "From me. I loaned out the books I have for this kind of stuff. He told me that he could handle the translation since it had to be a two person spell, think of it as a bridge, your dad could visit your mom every time he dreamt. But I had to be on the other side to help build it."

"You trusted him? I mean you seem like you don't like humans."

"I didn't. This whole mess just proved my point. But…" Hypnos shrugged, "I knew you wouldn't let me just take you without making sure your dad wasn't alone. I wanted you to want to come back to me, especially after everything I've done."

You brushed your fingers along the cloak, "Are you talking about when you put the whole world to sleep?"

"And most of the gods." Hypnos added. "I still don't remember much of what I did. My mother or brother still hasn't spoken to me since then."

Hypnos looked so worn down, his brow furrowed and you wanted to smooth the stress away from him but you held back. You already let him touch you even if it made you want to run. Toward him or away from him you couldn't say.

"I've been so blinded by the thought of having you in my arms again, I didn't foresee him going rogue on me." He murmured quietly.

Hypnos fixed his gaze on you, but you looked away, cursing the flush on your cheeks.

"I took care of the stuff he wouldn't have been able to do. With the underworld and stuff. But he fucked up, he changed the spell without telling me. And he did it badly. He tried to bring her from the underworld and you can't do that, and now he has to deal with the punishment."

"Well, can't you just erase it? Or do a new spell? I mean, you are a god right? Do you even need this stuff?"

Hypnos slid his fingers under your chin, making you look at him. "Listen to me." His serious tone kept you from pulling away. "No one can't take the dead from the underworld. Not me, not Hades or even my mother. It's the cost of life. Right now, he is being punished for his pride and when he does die, there is a good chance he won't be able to find your mother."

You swallow, your heart breaking, "Is there nothing you can do?"

"I don't know." Hypnos said. "I was already putting my neck on the line just to let them have a link."

"What if I agree to go with you, to see if I am the one you are looking for? I will do whatever you need me to." You asked.

Hypnos didn't respond, his eyes glazed.

"Hypnos, please." You begged, "I can't just let him die like this-"

He spoke finally, "I will talk to Persephone. I can't promise anything. I'm still banned from the house after the 'Great Sleep'."

"Thank you! Thank you, Hypnos." You felt dizzy with relief and hugged him. You squeezed him, and buried your face in his neck. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me yet." Hypnos chuckled, his hands on your back,"You might not like what you'll get."

[knit-wear-it]

A Sneaky Peak

♦️♦️The Rabbit Hole, Ch 11 ♦️♦️

Jonathan —

Crane watched from the observation room as Pamela reached out to Julian Day, but did not touch him. Her eyes were closed like she was focusing hard.

He glanced at Strange, who had arrived just as they were planning the experiment. Strange had been giddy at the prospect of exploring Pamela’s powers again. Whether he had noticed how distraught she was, Jonathan couldn’t be sure.

The door to the observation room opened and a woman Jonathan didn’t recognise stepped inside, projecting a sense of authority and entitlement that made his eyes narrow. She had curling auburn hair that fell to her shoulders and a doll-like face, with large eyes and full lips. She wore a long, expensive-looking camel-coloured coat with a green scarf draped around her neck, a large gold brooch pinned to her lapel.

“Ah, Ms Al Ghul,” Strange greeted her, sounding pleased. “So good of you to join us.”

Crane looked between the woman and Strange sharply.

“Al Ghul?” He demanded.

“Do not be so surprised, Dr Crane,” Talia al Ghul drawled, shooting him an amused smirk. “How do you think you were able to find the Blue Poppy again?”

Crane pressed his lips together, a sense of foreboding sweeping through him as Talia al Ghul stepped up to the observation room’s viewing window, folding her arms as she watched Pamela through the glass.

Before he could complain about being left in the dark, Pamela started to pant unevenly, and Jonathan’s eyes darted toward her. Her brow was furrowed in half a grimace, her shoulders heaving like she was struggling or in pain.

“What’s happening to her?” He demanded.

No one answered. Strange was watching passively, his eyebrows raised with interest while Talia had drawn so close to the glass she was nearly pressed against it. Rosa and three orderlies were in the room too, all of them staring at Pamela through the observation window, enthralled.

Pamela still hadn’t touched Day, but he was struggling hard against his restraints, the heart monitor beeping wildly. Her outstretched hand began to tremble, her cheeks turning red as she screwed up her face and cried out like she was in pain, just as she had in the greenhouse.

Crane shoved Strange aside and fumbled for the button to activate the microphone.

“Pamela,” he croaked. “Are you alright? What’s happening?”

“Evolution can be painful, Dr Crane,” Talia breathed, gazing Pamela through the glass.

Crane shot her a bewildered look before turning to Strange, who stroked his goatee thoughtfully as Day’s heart rate crept higher and higher, dangerously elevated.

Deciding it had gone far enough, Jonathan started for the observation room’s door, but he stopped short when Pamela’s eyes flew open.

Her eyes were almost feverish as they darted around exam room No 3 like she’d never seen it before. She turned her attention back to Julian Day, and one corner of her mouth curved up as she closed her outstretched hand into a fist.

Day began convulsing in his chair—not just struggling, but experiencing a full Tonic-Clonic seizure while Pamela stared at him with wild, excited eyes, her smile growing wider.

He stopped moving all at once, the heartbeat monitor flatlining into a long whine as his heart gave out.

She’d killed him, Crane realized.

She’d killed him without touching him.

Before he could find words to voice his concern, Pamela’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she slumped bonelessly in her chair, unconscious.

Talia al Ghul slapped her hands over her ears and let out a horrible scream. Rosa and the two orderlies joined in, their faces contorting as they wailed like a chorus of harpies, making Crane’s ears ring.

He looked to Strange, who was watching it all unfold with an academic curiosity rather than the alarm Crane felt the situation called for.

The screaming stopped, and Talia, Rosa and the orderlies bolted out of the room in unison, scrambling to get into Exam Room No 3 where Pamela was slumped in her chair with Day dead across from her.

They crowded around her, kneeling at her feet and their faces in her arms, her hands, her legs, her lap. Rosa was sobbing, and Talia al Ghul stroked her face.

Jonathan watched it all unfold with a sense of growing horror. He didn’t understand it yet, and he didn’t know what it meant, but he knew to be horrified all the same.

“Well,” Strange observed jauntily. “That was quite.”

Disclaimer: I’m not saying there’s an update this weekend but I’m not saying there’s not an update either. I edited this opening scene today after reading @squooshybrainmeats comment (god love ya, my dude) and I really enjoy this scene so here you go. 🥰

[sassyfrassboss]

Poppy Delevigne’s fascinator at Euge’s wedding was horrible. It’s been three years and I still hate it. It reminds me of the ugly step sisters from Cinderella at the ball.

I can't put my finger on what the hat reminds me off...a ton of arrows or something. Weird is that giant ass brooch.

[agxthahxrkness]

I've got a few. So here we go:

abatina :   is there anything in life your muse has changed their mind about over time   (  due to becoming more educated on the topic ,   certain experiences  ,   etc . ) ,  or that they   would   change their mind about under certain circumstances ?

aloe :   how does your muse handle grief ?

lily :   how does your muse view their mother ?

poppy :   what comforts your muse ?

zinnia :   how has the loss of fallen comrades and/or loved ones affected your muse ? has it taught them anything or given them any new perspectives ?

BOTANICAL HEADCANON || OPEN

Abatina:

"Oh plenty. You don't just live three centuries and keep the same opinions. If I had to pick something specific, however, I would like to point out humanity. It seems to me, no matter how time passes, that the core of humanity remains the same. A select few people with too much power controlling those they deem inferior or other... I let the first world war pass me by... but the second, oh, the second I had a few things to say. I know a witch hunt when I see one... and I never have liked dictators."

Aloe:

"I tend to... dwell... when it comes to grief. As time rolls on, you move past it, but it did take me roughly a century to accept the loss of my first love. I still think about her."

Lily:

"My mother!?... Mother..." she pauses for a moment. "She was a cold woman, unwavering and unmoving. She didn't accept failure or insubordination... She was also fearful of the unknown. I'm not sure if I keep this brooch because it's a memento... or a trophy."

Poppy:

"Nature. Nature is my comfort. The small forest that has been saved and preserved here close to the historical Salem village has been a place of solace for me. It's familiar. Although it may be dark and mysterious... I find it comforting."

Zinnia:

"It taught me that time keeps moving. Things and people are forgotten, smothered by time and it's endless march forward. Some pains fade and others turn into something else entirely. Sometimes the loss becomes a hole in your chest... sometimes it becomes a lesson."

[princesscatherinemiddleton]

WALK, WALK, FASHION BABY | The Duchess of Cambridge wore Roland Mouret’s Asymmetric Neck style dress to the Festival of Remembrance in 2018. Catherine carried the Jimmy Choo ‘Celeste’ clutch and wore her Jimmy Choo ‘Romy’ heels. She also wore J Crew Pearl and Crystal Cluster earrings, alongside her three RBL poppies, and a brooch, borrowed from the Queen.

[laresearchette]

Monday, October 25, 2021 Canadian TV Listings (Times Eastern)

WHERE CAN I FIND THOSE PREMIERES?: ALL-AMERICAN (Showcase) 8:00pm BELOW DECK (Slice) 9:00pm 4400 (Showcase) 10:00pm

NEW TO AMAZON PRIME/CRAVE/NETFLIX CANADA/CBC GEM:

CRAVE TV THE THING (1982)

NHL HOCKEY (SNEast/SNOntario/SNPacific) 7:00pm: Leafs vs. Hurricanes (SNWest) 7:00pm: Flames vs. Rangers (SN1) 7:00pm: Capitals vs. Sens

WOMEN’S HOCKEY (TSN5) 7:00pm: Canada vs. USA

JANN (CTV) 7:00pm: Jann, Nate, Max, and Dave go on a romantic mountain getaway, but Max has a problem with Jann's new boyfriend.

NBA BASKETBALL (TSN4) 7:30pm: Bulls vs. Raptors (SN Now) 7:30pm: Wizards vs. Nets (TSN4) 10:30pm: Trail Blazers vs. Clippers

MURDOCH MYSTERIES (CBC) 8:00pm: At Halloween, Murdoch pursues a killer dressed as a clown who is terrorizing young couples.

THE BIG BAKE (Food Network Canada) 8:00pm:  Host Brad Smith asks the bakers to create a cake featuring aliens and robots in a futuristic battle; the teams must stun judges Eddie Jackson, Ron Ben-Israel and Harry Eastwood with their flavors in a scrumptious showdown.

MARY MAKES IT EASY (CTV Life) 8:00pm: Not every meal needs to have meat as the star; Mary shows how simple and delicious Meatless Mondays can be.

NFL FOOTBALL (TSN/TSN3/TSN4) 8:15pm: Saints vs. Seahawks

UP THE DISH (CTV Life) 8:30pm: A fun and playful cooking show that reinvents favorite classic dishes; hosted by chefs Tiera Singh, Poppy Sandler, Missy Hui and Micah Trainor.

VICTORIA (CBC)  9:00pm: News of the famine in Ireland reaches the queen, who is met with opposition when she announces her government should be doing more to help.

CALL ME MOTHER (Out TV) 9:00pm (SERIES PREMIERE): Three drag legends, Peppermint, Crystal and Barbada adopt the next generation of talent into their new drag houses and mentor them through the mother of all drag competitions.

ALL THAT GLITTERS (Makeful) 9:00pm:  The jewelers work to craft covetable collars that are truly off the chain before tackling a commission from Chris, who is looking to gift his wife a sweetheart brooch for her next tour of duty.

HIGHWAY THRU HELL (Discovery Canada) 10:00pm: Greg responds to a crash after black ice forms on the Coq; heavy winter rains launch MSA into an epic fight with a big machine in a mudpit; an accident hits close to home for Brandon; Scott mentors the next generation on a defiant wreck.

ROAST BATTLE CANADA (CTV Canada) 10:30pm:  Olivia Stadler vs. Paul Thompson; Cassie Cao vs. Hunter Collins.

[kyotakumrau]

2019.07.07 SUGIZO HALF CENTURY ANNIVERSARY FES.

It was a rainy day but such a happy day!

Arriving at the venue a bit after 4 I saw some fans already lining up for the entry. I managed to still go up to the second floor and see the flowers before staff closed the area in preparation for door time. They should have started earlier as by 5 there was still a lot of people outside and the show had to start 20 minutes late.

Also, earlier on SUGIZO announced (and staff reminded fans between sets) that taking pictures will be allowed during his performance, but not when any of the guests are on stage.

(so I will include few pictures from SUGIZO's performance but I don't have any from other times)

S.T.K.

When I arrived at my seat a few minutes after 5 the DJ/keyboardist (?) from S.T.K was already on the stage, but they haven't started the proper set until 5:20ish.

When SUGIZO came on stage many fans greeted him with happy shouts and small applause!

I knew nothing about S.T.K besides the fact it's SUGIZO's project, but I was very nicely surprised. I think the best way to describe their music is 'soothing' or 'sounds of earth'.

First song had SUGIZO on electric violin, the other man on keyboard. For the second song (or mid performance?) a female singer in a white dress joined them, she had a really beautiful voice. I remember SUGIZO also used his bow to 'play' wind chime. The backscreen had images of nature or 'the moon logo'.

lynch.

After a quick stage update (all lynch. instruments were ready during S.T.K's set, so they just had to remove few things) it was lynch.'s turn! Fans chanted and clapped to welcome them on stage. Their set had a good mixture of songs!

And I felt lucky that around me were lynch. fans (or double lynch/torii-chans like me) and we had a lot of fun headbanging, singing and dancing.

Hazuki had to do some MC, because.

First was a disbelieving 'So SUGIZO is turning 50? Seriously??' Yeah😂 then Hazuki was explaining his theory that one birthday a year is not enough, there should be 2 birthdays or more!

He was addressing all fans and commenting - 'hello to soul's mates (SUGIZO's fans), ah everyone is here in the front. sukekiyo and Kyo are someone I respect, I'm really happy to be able to play at the same event with them. So sukekiyo fans... are you called Torii-chan? I guess I will say Torii-san (all present ⛩ちゃん burst laughing).

And... lynch fans. Meh lynch fans are just called lynch fans.'

Fans rotfled😂

Hazuki commented that lynch fans are mostly in the back or on the second floor.

He kept addressing fans, he announced a guest to join their set, he asked everyone to become SLAVES (LUNA SEA fans) for the upcoming song and Sugizo came to join them for a LUNA SEA cover! They played IN FUTURE!! It was super fun!!😁

Somehow I didn't think they would cover any songs (maybe I was too focused on Zessai), but I'm so glad they did!! It sounded great! The amount of fanboying from Hazuki was priceless. He was the number one SLAVE😂

Announcing _pulse was also fun! Hazuki's calling included 'women of our senpais! Let's have fun!!!'😂

And finishing their set with MOON was such a nice nod to SUGIZO and LUNA SEA😁

During the break between sets I run to have a look at SUGIZO's guitars, electric violins, Gumpla and costumes. It is mind blowing to realize he is playing music for as long I am alive. His collection of guitars only is absolutely amazing!

sukekiyo

Their set started so suddenly! The BGM was cut and lights just dimmed and went off. Takumi played piano, the members stood ready, when Kyo walked on stage Guuzou moratorium started.

They had back screen with (as far as I can tell) the same videos for songs as their solo in Nakano last month.

Fan who had seat in the first row reported on twitter that SUGIZO was watching sukekiyo's set from the side of the stage.

Kyo first was facing the back screen which showed the (video) close up of his face, on the video he had a suit with diamondy CHA NEL brooch. Real Kyo on the stage was was wearing the black outfit with an 'open back'.

During THE WAIZATSU Kyo turned around and kept dancing. I wonder how other bands' fans felt with the very flashy video after dark moratorium 😂

YUCHI as usual came to the middle and Kyo danced with him as YUCHI was headbanging.

utA came closer to the edge of the stage and kept jumping, raising one leg and jumping. He was totally owning 90s v-kei style - he had sheer sleeves, floaty clothes tied with belt, long boots, old v-kei puffed up hair (he changed later and photo with Takumi shows him in the event t-shirt).

And it matched the song they covered so perfectly! They played SHADE. Woah.

Takumi started playing unknown piano intro and I knew there was a cover song coming!! Excitement level over 9000!! HOW FRICKIN AMAZING THIS WAS ❤❤❤

And I think they made it theirs, it sounded like it could flawlessly fit in on IMMORTALIS. I have just listened to the original and they definitely swapped one guitar for Takumi's piano. As they were playing I couldn't help but remembering when at SUGIZO's tube Kyo and SUGIZO talked about reviving older, fast LUNA SEA's songs.😁

But what a flawless choice, both lyrics and story wise as well - it fit so well with INFINITUM theme!

As sukekiyo started there were random few standing fans here and there on the 1st floor but the whole 1st floor stood up for the cover, dancing and waving their hands with music, and stayed standing since then.

Honnou okotowari was so powerful.

I'm very sure that Takumi played the slow piano melody of Tada, mada, watshi. that they used for the story breaks at their solo Nakano show, but this time it was shorter and went into anima.

And the warm feeling of the poppy field again. 忘れりない

YUCHI took his jacket off before hyohaku flavour - yup, he really was giving his all!

The atmosphere went darker again.

Kyo was dancing and was so lost in it he dropped his mic too early, but he just picked it up and continued singing to dance again and drop it one more time later.

Seeing them leaving one by one from the second floor looked so different, especially that the stage looked so big compared to the space they took with their equipment.

When Takumi finished the last piano notes they got a very fierce applause!! ❤

SUGIZO

When the staff prepared the stage for SUGIZO's set I could see why they needed a stage that big. The front of the stage was left open for SUGIZO, in the back they set three stands, two percussion sets and one for keyboardist.

To me SUGIZO's solo music is either ethereal or quite dancey, something you can play when you need to relax or need something inspirational when painting.

But not gonna lie - Zessai was the highlight for me.

Kyo came on stage wearing a suit, he changed into his more fitted grey piece. For Zessai SUGIZO and Kyo shared the space in the middle. Guitar and microphone.

It was so powerful, so perfect, so beautiful.

I can't remember at all what kind of video they had for it on the screen, my whole focus was on two of them on the stage.

Steady and soft.

When the singing part was over Kyo just left, which probably surprised some people. But this was SUGIZO's anniversary.

As reported by a fan from the very front SUGIZO still said 'thank you, Kyo-chan' turning to the side of the stage (where Kyo quite possibly stood).

They played two more songs which I enjoyed dancing. The light and laser show also looked amazing. Then SUGIZO introduced the musicians who performed with him, threw few things and they left after bowing deeply.

Fans gave a loud applause and kept clapping, some shouting SUGIZO's name.

Then, instead of calling for encore many fans started using flashlights and singing Happy Birthday song.

Of course SUGIZO came back.😁

He gave a speech thanking everyone for helping him to create this event. He also talked about caring for earth and clean energy...

'Sorry for interrupting!!' - came the cake delivered by yours one and only Hazuki! As he shouted his arrival he wheeled the caked in on trolley covered with a black cloth.

They called the rest of lynch. back on stage, then called sukekiyo. Almost all of them changed into the event t-shirt with an exception of Kyo and Takumi. lynch members stood on the left side of SUGIZO and sukekiyo on the right.

Hazuki prompted fans to sing Happy Birthday again.

They took a picture with all bands members. It made me feel so fluffy inside to see how Kyo was herding other sukekiyo members to go stand closer to SUGIZO, to go ahead in front of him. But photographer asked everyone to squeeze more and Kyo's plan failed as SUGIZO motioned Kyo to sit next to him, sukekiyo and lynch. members around them.

(atm we are all waiting for them to publish the photo!!)

There was another very important thing. Hazuki (having a new job of the MC which suited him perfectly) announced that the Minister of the Environment (also the Minister of State for Nuclear Emergency Preparedness), Yoshiaki Harada will be joining them on stage.

He also gave a speech, a cute part was 'I knew he was a skillful musician but I didn't realize Sugi-chan was so popular' - he said he knows SUGIZO through his work related to hydrogen energy. He was full of praise especially that the show in Nakano was fully powered by hydrogen energy!!

SUGIZO received an official recognition for his work for environment, with Harada very formally handing him a letter.

When bands members were leaving the stage they all stopped by SUGIZO to shake his hand, bow and share some words. Kyo was last and he extended his hand but SUGIZO gave him a warm hug instead.

❤❤❤

And when Kyo was walking off from the stage he sent some foxes to the audience🦊

SUGIZO talked more about his projects, including explaining the costume he wore, coat jacket created by tenbo, the design was made using drawings created by children from Irak suffering from cancer, the inside of the coat had photos of some of the children. SUGIZO talked about the collaboration with tenbo (check their website here). I think he said something along the lines that the state some of those children are is very similar to the comdition in which were children in Hiroshima after bombing.

Hazuki interrupted him before with the cake, but he was interrupted again as suddenly a backtrack music started to play 😂

But this time SUGIZO finished his thought before they played two more songs.

Synchronicity was such a soft, perfect ending!

SUGIZO once more introduced all musicians, they bowed together and left, leaving only SUGIZO. He took some selfies with the whole audience (we're waiting on those photos, too!), threw some water bottles and picks and walked away while waving to fans.

An amazing night!

[malkalaila]

Remembrance Day Recap 2018

Catherine, and William creeping in the corner, attended the Festival of Remembrance at Royal Albert Hall in 2018. Kate wore the most gorgeous Roland Mouret dress with an asymmetric neckline and a silver zipper running all the way down the back. The dress is no longer available for purchase.

According to What Kate Wore Kate’s shoes and clutch are both by Jimmy Choo and both are velvet. The clutch is their Celeste style and it’s still available for purchase here but it would need to be customized for the color and gold hardware.

I also found the shoes here but in suede, not velvet, and they are the Romy 100--the shoes are available with lower heel heights for those of us who are not as graceful as Kate. I wondered briefly if Kate was in fact wearing suede instead but there’s a shine to the shoe that’s common for velvet. 

Her earrings are thought to be J. Crew, thanks to  Kate’s Closet for the I.D. They were originally thought to be another loan from the Queen but they much more resemble the J. Crew earrings below. 

The good news is, they are still available for purchase here for $68 USD. 

The brooch LOOKS like it’s just paper poppies clustered together. But in fact, under the poppies is a brooch on loan from the Queen. 

The next morning, Kate attended National Service of Remembrance held annually at the Cenotaph in Whitehall, London. This service is held on the 2nd Sunday of November as it falls the closest to the 11th of November. Family members who do not participate in the service stand watching on the balconies of the Foreign and Commonwealth Office overlooking the Cenotaph.  

And we got the most ICONIC photo of Our Queen and next two Queen’s in waiting

This photo right here, THIS is the moment Catherine arrived. This is a confident woman who know’s what she wants in life, how to get it, and is ready to be the next Princess of Wales. This is forever the moment, in my mind, that Catherine was completely ready to take on the full responsibility her role required in taking up the mantel of the Princess of Wales and eventually Queen. 

This fierce coat is by Alexander McQueen and by far my favorite Remembrance day look. The white collar, the red epaulettes, the silver buttons, all on that black, perfectly tailored coat? Perfection. 

Her hat is Lock and Co and just whimsical enough for this look. Catherine wore her hair up with a braided chignon and it looks gorgeous. I like this bun more than her side buns which look a little haphazard--this is neat and beautifully done. 

Catherine’s earrings are Cassandra Goad Cavolfiore Pearl Studs which she debuted at Prince Louis’ christening earlier in the year. They are still available for purchase here.

For her poppies Kate chose three paper poppies along with a brooch from the Royal British Legion Poppy Shop and is still available for purchase here. 

And we saw Kate ONE more time that day. William and Kate attended a service at Westminster Abbey with other members of the Royal family to mark 100 years since the Armistice.

Taking a step away from all the black, Catherine rewore a green bespoke, double breasted Catherine Walker coat dress with velvet collar, cuffs, and pockets. This dress was worn previously on St. Patricks Day in 2017 and for an arrival in Paris for a short tour which started on the same day. 

Sticking with the velvet theme, Kate wore her velvet Romy Jimmy Choo’s and her velvet Celeste Jimmy Choo clutch from the night before at the Festival of Remembrance with more details above. She also wore a new velvet hatband by Jane Taylor. 

Her earrings are the same Cassandra Goad Cavolfiore Pearl Studs from earlier in the day but she switched out her brooch for another by the Royal British Legion Poppy Shop and it’s still available for purchase here.

And that’s 2018! We’ll be seeing the outfits for 2019 very soon!

[world-of-wales]

CATHERINE'S STYLE FILES - 2023

11 NOVEMBER 2023 || The Princess of Wales attended the Royal British Legion Festival of Remembrance at the Royal Albert Hall along with Prince William and other of the Royal Family.

Catherine opted for -

↬ 'Jorgie' Ruched Crepe Dress in 'Black' by Emilia Wickstead

↬ Queen Elizabeth II's Bahrain Pearl Drop Earrings

↬ Queen Elizabeth II's Three-Strand Pearl Necklace

↬ 1st The Queen's Dragoon Guards Brooch in Silver

↬ Paper Poppy Pin by Royal British Legion

↬ 'Muse' Clutch Bag in 'Black Suede' by Stuart Weitzman

↬ 'Purist 105' Pumps in 'Bllack Suede' by Aquazzura

[skippyv20]

Lovely!  Thank you😁❤️❤️❤️❤️

The Trumps gift the Queen a Tiffany brooch and an Air Force One jacket

President Donald Trump and first lady Melania Trump gifted Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip a Tiffany brooch and an Air Force One jacket during their state visit to the UK. 

As part of the long-held tradition of heads of state swapping official presents, the Trumps showered the royal couple with gifts on Monday, the first day of their three-day trip across the pond. 

The Queen was given a silver and silk poppy brooch from Tiffany & Co. in a custom red leather White House jewelry box, according to the White House. 

Presents: President Donald Trump and first lady Melania Trump gifted Queen Elizabeth II and Prince Philip a Tiffany brooch and an Air Force One jacket during their state visit to the UK

Gifts: The brooch that was given to the Queen is likely the Elsa Peretti sterling silver and red silk brooch that is retailing for $650 on the Tiffany & Co. website (left). Meanwhile, the Duke of Edinburgh received a personalized Air Force One jacket. Former President John F. Kennedy’s Air Force One bomber jacket is pictured (right)

Melania’s spokesperson Stephanie Grisham told CNN that the first lady was ‘very involved with the gift selection.' 

'Working with the State Department, Mrs. Trump takes great care in selecting meaningful gifts,’ she said.  The piece of jewelry is likely the Elsa Peretti sterling silver and red silk brooch — called Amapola after the Spanish word for poppy — that is retailing for $650 on the Tiffany & Co. website. Meanwhile, the Duke of Edinburgh received a personalized Air Force One jacket, which has been worn by many US presidents over the years. 

It is usually navy and features the presidential seal with the embroidered words Air Force One in white on one side of the chest and the wearer’s name in italics on the other.

History: Air Force One jackets are usually navy and features the presidential seal with the embroidered words Air Force One in white on one side of the chest and the wearer’s name in italics on the other. Former President Gerald R. Ford’s Air Force One jacket is pictured in 2006 

History: The Duke was also given a signed first edition of World War II air commander James Doolittle’s autobiography titled, 'I Could Never Be So Lucky Again’ (right).  General Doolittle is pictured (left) 

Air Force One — which can be any Air Force aircraft carrying the American leader — usually refers to specific planes equipped to transport the president.   

Prince Philip, now 97, was an accomplished pilot in his day and gained his RAF wings in 1953, his helicopter wings in 1956, and his private pilot’s license in 1959. 

The Duke of Edinburgh was also given a signed first edition of World War II air commander James Doolittle’s autobiography titled, 'I Could Never Be So Lucky Again.' 

General Doolittle was an aviation pioneer who led the daylight air raid on Tokyo and other Japanese cities four months after the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.   

The Duke, who has retired from public duties and spends much of his time at Wood Farm on the Sandringham estate, is not taking part in the official engagements as part of the US state visit and did not meet the Trumps at the palace behind the scenes.  

Queen Elizabeth II presented the commander-in-chief with a first edition copy of Winston Churchill’s 'The Second World War.’ A newer copy of the book is pictured 

The Queen also gave Trump a three-piece Duofold pen set — a fountain pen, rollerball pen, and ballpoint pen with EIIR cipher — using the obsidian design exclusively made for her.

Presented after a private lunch at Buckingham Palace on Monday, the crimson book features gold tooled decoration on the cover, spine, and inner cover, an EIIR cipher in gold on the front, silk endpapers, and hand-sewn headbands in colors of the US flag with all pages edged in gilt.

Donald Trump is a known fan of Churchill’s and he restored the bust of the former prime minister to the Oval Office immediately after he assumed the presidency. 

Melania, meanwhile, was given a specially-commissioned silver box with a handcrafted enamel lid from the monarch.

Custom: The monarch gave Melania a specially-commissioned silver box with an enamel lid featuring roses, thistles, and shamrocks to represent the ceiling of the palace music room

Prime Minister Theresa May and her husband Philip (pictured on Tuesday) have also presented the Trumps with gifts 

Some thought it was 'sexist that May gave Melania a bespoke tea set made by designer Emma Bridgewater, while Trump was presented a copy of Churchill’s personal draft of the 1941 Atlantic Charter…

Estimate: It’s unclear how much Melania’s custom design cost, but a large 'Purple Pansy’ teacup and saucer retail for $61.95 on the Emma Bridgewater website

[lovingtheroyals]

Outfit Details of the Bride and Bridal Party

The Wedding Dress: Clare Waight Keller for Givenchy

Ms. Meghan Markle’s wedding dress has been designed by the acclaimed British designer, Clare Waight Keller. Ms. Waight Keller last year became the first female Artistic Director at the historic French fashion house Givenchy.

After meeting Ms. Waight Keller in early 2018, Ms. Markle chose to work with her for her timeless and elegant aesthetic, impeccable tailoring, and relaxed demeanour. Ms. Markle also wanted to highlight the success of a leading British talent who has now served as the creative head of three globally influential fashion houses – Pringle of Scotland, Chloé, and now Givenchy.

Ms. Markle and Ms. Waight Keller worked closely together on the design. The dress epitomises a timeless minimal elegance referencing the codes of the iconic House of Givenchy and showcasing the expert craftsmanship of its world-renowned Parisian couture atelier founded in 1952.

The Design

True to the heritage of the house, the pure lines of the dress are achieved using six meticulously placed seams. The focus of the dress is the graphic open bateau neckline that gracefully frames the shoulders and emphasises the slender sculpted waist. The lines of the dress extend towards the back where the train flows in soft round folds cushioned by an underskirt in triple silk organza. The slim three-quarter sleeves add a note of refined modernity.

The Fabric

Following extensive research by Ms. Waight Keller in fabric mills throughout Europe, an exclusive double bonded silk cady was developed. Perfect for the round sculptural look required, the silk cady has a soft matt lustre whilst the bonding process and pure white colour chosen by Ms. Markle and Ms. Waight Keller bring a fresh modernity to the dress.

The Veil

Ms. Markle expressed the wish of having all 53 countries of the Commonwealth with her on her journey through the ceremony. Ms. Waight Keller designed a veil representing the distinctive flora of each Commonwealth country united in one spectacular floral composition.

The Commonwealth family of nations – of which Her Majesty The Queen is Head –will be a central part of Prince Harry’s and Ms. Markle’s official work following   His Royal Highness’s appointment as Commonwealth Youth Ambassador. Ms. Markle wanted to express her gratitude for the opportunity to support the work of the Commonwealth by incorporating references to its members into the design of her wedding dress.

Significant time was spent researching the flora of each Commonwealth country and much care was taken by Ms. Waight Keller to ensure that every flower is unique.

The veil is five meters long and made from silk tulle with a trim of hand-embroidered flowers in silk threads and organza.

Each flower was worked flat, in three dimensions to create a unique and delicate design. The workers spent hundreds of hours meticulously sewing and washing their hands every thirty minutes to keep the tulle and threads pristine.

In addition to the flora of the Commonwealth, Ms. Markle also selected two personal favourites:

Wintersweet (Chimonanthus praecox), which grows in the grounds of Kensington Palace in front of Nottingham Cottage, and the California Poppy (Eschscholzia californica) the State flower from Ms. Markle’s place of birth, California.

Symmetrically placed at the very front of the veil, crops of wheat are delicately embroidered and blend into the flora, to symbolise love and charity.

A selection of flora distinctive from every member state of the Commonwealth is listed below:

AFRICA:

Botswana - Ear of Sorghum and Cat’s Claw (Uncaria tomentosa)

Cameroon - Red Stinkwood (Prunus africana)

Gambia - White Variety Orchid

Ghana - Caladium (Caladium)

Kenya - The Tropical Orchid

Lesotho - Spiral Aloe (Aloe polyphylla)

Malawi - Lotus (Nymphea lotus)

Mauritius - Trochetia Boutoniana

Mozambique - Maroon Bell Bean (Markhamia zanzibarica)

Namibia - Welwitschia (Welwitschia mirabilis)

Nigeria - Yellow Trumpet (Costus spectabilis)

Rwanda - Torch Lily (Kniphofia uvaria)

Seychelles - Tropicbird orchid (Angraecum eburnum)

Sierra Leone - Scadoxus (Scadoxus cinnabarinus)

South Africa - Protea (Protea cynaroides)

Swaziland - Fire Heath (Erica cerinthoides)

Uganda - Desert rose (Adenium obesum)

United Republic of Tanzania - African violet (Saintpaulia)

Zambia - Bougainvillea (Bougainvillea)

ASIA:

Bangladesh - White Water Lily ( Sada shapla)

Brunei Darussalam - Simpor (Dillenia suffruticosa)

India - Indian Lotus (Nelumbo nucifers gaertn)

Malaysia - Bunga Raya Hibiscus (Hibiscus rosa sinensis)

Pakistan - Jasmine (Jasminum officinale)

Singapore - Vanda miss Joaquim Orchid (Miss Joaquim)

Sri Lanka - Blue Water Lily (Nymphaea nouchali)

CARIBBEAN & AMERICAS:

Antigua and Barbuda - Agave (Agave karatto)

Bahamas - Yellow Elder (Tecoma stans)

Barbados - The pride of Barbados (Caesalpinia pulcherrima)

Belize - The Black Orchid (Encyclia cochleata)

Canada - Bunchberry (Cornus canadensis)

Dominica - Carib Wood (Sabinea carinalis)

Grenada - Bougainvillea (Nyctaginaceae)

Guyana - Victoria Regia Water Lily (Victoria amazonica)

Jamaica - Lignum Vitae (Guiacum officinale)

Saint Lucia - The rose and the marguerite

St Kitts and Nevis - Poinciana (Delonix regia )

St Vincent & the Grenadines - Soufriere Tree (Spachea perforatais)

Trinidad & Tobago - Chaconia (Warszewiczia coccinea)

EUROPE:

Cyprus - Cyclamen Cyprium (Cyclamen cyprium)

Malta - Maltese centaury (Cheirolophus crassifolius

UNITED KINGDOM:

England - Rose

Wales - Daffodil (Narcissus)

Northern Ireland - Flax flower

Scotland - Thistle

PACIFIC:

Australia - Golden wattles (Acacia pycnantha)

Fiji - Tagimaucia (Medinilla waterhousei)

Kiribati - Bidens Kiribatiensis

Nauru - Calophyllum

New Zealand - Kowhai (Sophora microphylla)

Papua - Sepik Blue Orchid (Dendrobium lasianthera)

Samoa - Teuila (Alpinia purpurata)

Solomon Islands - Hibiscus (Hibiscus)

Tonga - Heilala (Garcinia sessilis)

Tuvalu - Plumeria (Plumeria frangipans)

Vanuatu - Anthurium (Anthurium)

Jewellery

The veil is held in place by Queen Mary's diamond bandeau tiara, lent to Ms. Markle by The Queen. The diamond bandeau is English and was made in 1932, with the centre brooch dating from 1893.

The bandeau, which is made of diamonds and platinum, is formed as a flexible band of eleven sections, pierced with interlaced ovals and pavé set with large and small brilliant diamonds.  The centre is set with a detachable brooch of ten brilliant diamonds.

The diamond bandeau was made for Queen Mary and specifically designed to accommodate the centre brooch. This brooch was given as a present to the then Princess Mary in 1893 by the County of Lincoln on her marriage to Prince George, Duke of York.  The bandeau and the brooch were bequeathed by Queen Mary to The Queen in 1953.

The Bride is wearing earrings and bracelet made by Cartier.

Wedding Shoes

The wedding shoes are based on a Givenchy refined pointed couture design made of a silk duchess satin.

The Bride’s Bouquet

Prince Harry handpicked several flowers yesterday from their private garden at Kensington Palace to add to the bespoke bridal bouquet designed by florist Philippa Craddock.

The spring blooms include Forget-Me-Nots which were Diana, Princess of Wales’ favourite flower. The couple specifically chose them to be included in Ms. Markle’s bouquet to honour the memory of the late Princess on this special day.

The Bride's bouquet is a petite design, pulled together in a gentle, ethereal, relaxed style with delicate blooms also including scented sweet peas, lily of the valley, astilbe, jasmine and astrantia, and sprigs of myrtle, all bound with a naturally dyed, raw silk ribbon.

The myrtle sprigs are from stems planted at Osborne House on the Isle of Wight, by Queen Victoria in 1845, and from a plant grown from the myrtle used in The Queen’s wedding bouquet of 1947.

The tradition of carrying myrtle begun after Queen Victoria was given a nosegay containing myrtle by Prince Albert’s grandmother during a visit to Gotha in Germany.  In the same year, Queen Victoria and Prince Albert bought Osborne House as a family retreat, and a sprig from the posy was planted against the terrace walls, where it continues to thrive today.

The myrtle was first carried by Queen Victoria's eldest daughter, Princess Victoria, when she married in 1858.

Bridal Hair and Make-Up

Ms. Markle's hair was styled by Serge Normant, with make-up by long-time friend and make-up artist Daniel Martin.

Bridesmaids’ Dresses

Clare Waight Keller designed the six young Bridesmaids’ dresses in the Givenchy Haute Couture Atelier in Paris.

The dresses were designed to have the same timeless purity as Ms. Markle's dress.

Each dress is sculpted in Ivory silk Radzimir, and is high-waisted with short puff sleeves and hand finished with a double silk ribbon detail tied at the back in a bow. The Bridesmaids’ dresses include pockets and pleated skirts to create a relaxed and luxurious silhouette.

The Bridesmaids are wearing white leather Aquazurra shoes; each pair is monogrammed with the Bridesmaids initials, and the wedding date. The shoes are a gift from Ms. Markle to the young ladies as a keepsake of the special day.

Bridesmaids’ Flowers

The bridesmaids each have flower crowns selected by Prince Harry and Ms. Markle, which have been designed by florist Philippa Craddock.

The Bridesmaids' flowers replicate the flowers used in the bridal bouquet.

Page Boys' Uniforms

The four Pages are wearing a miniature version of the Blues and Royals frockcoat. The uniform draws its insignia from the Blues and Royals, which is an old Regiment of The Duke of Cambridge and Prince Harry. Both are also wearing Blues and Royals frockcoats for the Wedding Day.

The frockcoats are made from blue doeskin, single-breasted in style with a stand-up collar and completed with figured braiding of Regimental pattern. The figured braiding has been scaled down for the Pages, as otherwise it would have gone above their shoulders.

As a special memento, each Page has their initials embroidered in gold on their shoulder straps. The Pages are not wearing hats or white waist belts for practical reasons.

Their leg garments are made from blue/black wool barathea with three-quarter scarlet stripes fastened with a leather strap.

The uniforms were cut and made by the tailors Dege & Skinner in Savile Row.

Mother of the Bride's Dress

Ms. Ragland wears a custom dress and day coat designed by creative directors of Oscar de la Renta, Fernando Garcia and Laura Kim.

Ms. Ragland's shoes are designed by Edgardo Osorio of Aquazurra, and her custom hat was designed exclusively for her by British milliner Stephen Jones, O.B.E., whom Ms. Markle has worked closely with since moving to the UK.

Stephen Jones was also commissioned by Ms. Markle to create custom hats for several of her closest friends.

LINK

[duchessofostergotlands]

Is there a significance about the number of poppies HM, Kate and Anne are wearing? I’ve noticed that they all have more than one poppy on. Also how mad do you think the tinhats are that Meghan and Harry are sat in the back? 😂

No I don’t believe so. Sometimes they wear more than one and it’s usually three. Maybe it just makes a nice pattern. Kate’s kind of looks like a little tree with the position of the brooch haha. I’ve been informed there have been comments. I have a message about the seating though I’ll chat a bit more about that later 

[sincerelybluevase]

Fanfic Friday: Twin Rooms, Chapter Two

Patrick had managed to secure a bottle of wine, some bread, and some cheese. He was halfway up the stairs when the electricity died.

“Hell’s bells,” he cursed. He slipped the wrapped cheese in his pocket, tucked the bottle and the piece of bread under his arm, and used his free hand to feel for the banister. It was cold as ice, but guided him safely to the right floor.

By that time, his eyes had gotten used to the dark just enough to allow him to walk in a somewhat straight line down the hallway. He touched the patterned wallpaper with his fingertips, trying to count the doors. It was no use; he didn’t remember if their room was five doors down, or three, or maybe four.

I wasn’t paying attention to the scenery, Patrick thought, memory of Shelagh’s well-formed calves flowering in his mind. She’d gone up the stairs ahead of him as he carried his suitcase and their two bags, providing him with a very pretty view as he struggled to carry all their luggage to their room. They hadn’t meant to bring much with them, but they’d stopped at a little town on their way to the hotel, and had strolled through the shopping street after lunch, entering several dress shops as Shelagh looked for a pair of gloves that matched her pale winter coat. He had urged her to try on a lovely dress with a poppy pattern, and then another one with a neckline a little lower than she usually wore. Then, he’d asked her to try on some blouses, and a skirt…

I can’t help it. She just looks so good in everything, Patrick thought a little helplessly. She was a bit of a tight-fisted Scot, but every now and again she allowed him to indulge, and then he’d buy her a nice skirt, or a brooch. Today, he’d bought her a little more than that.

At least she has that pink suitcase. We can stuff most of the shopping bags in there, and minimise the risk of me breaking my neck going down these stairs.

His hand encountered smooth wood that gave way as he pushed. Had Shelagh left the door open for him, so he could find his way back? Or was this someone else’s room? He peeked inside, squinting to make out shapes in the darkness. A bit of moonlight splayed on the floor, illuminating the corner of a suitcase. Its colours were washed out.

Is it pink? It was a light colour at any rate. How many women did have such a suitcase, anyway? Besides, there were no other people sleeping on this floor, apart from the Dockerills.

Shelagh was asleep, curled up and buried underneath the covers. Patrick shut the door as quietly as he could, put the food on the nightstand, and slipped out of his clothes. He threw them on the ground haphazardly, not really caring where they landed. He could sort all of that out in the morning.

Shelagh’s breathing was deep and regular.

So much for a younger wife, he thought, tenderness flooding through him. She worked so hard it was little wonder she was exhausted.

He decided not to wear his pyjamas; if she woke up and decided she wanted more shenanigans, he didn’t want to bother with buttons and fabric; Shelagh loved skin-on-skin contact.

Patrick got into bed. The mattress dipped under his weight. He sighed, and pressed his nose against the pillow. It smelled like perfume. How scents can change, he thought, I don’t remember Shelagh’s perfume smelling like this. Maybe she put some of that new perfume on before falling asleep. It smelled faintly familiar, at any rate.

He wanted to reach out and hold her, but she was sleeping so soundly... Besides, if he woke her now, he doubted he’d get any sleep at all, and if he was honest, he was tired as a dog.

Patrick was drifting off when a small scream next door rudely dragged him from slumber. Groggily, he rubbed his eyes, and listened. The creaking of bed springs, a muffled thud.

Trixie and Christopher seem to be enjoying themselves, he thought.

A deep groan, and more creaking of bed springs.

How could he sit at the breakfast table tomorrow and look them straight in the eye if they kept this up?

“My God… can you hear that, Shelagh? Is that Trixie and Christopher?” he murmured, touching his wife’s shoulder.

She spun around to face him, her hair a pale smear against the pillow. At that moment, the electricity came back on again.

Fuck, Patrick thought. The woman next to him was definitely not his wife.

Trixie let out a high-pitched sound reminiscent of someone stepping on a squirrel, and fell out of bed in her haste to get away from him. Patrick stumbled out of bed, bruising his knees.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He put on his clothes in record-time whilst muttering excuse after excuse.

Trixie slipped on a bathrobe and stood in the corner of the room, eyes big. She put her hand near her mouth to tear at her nails, then let her hand flutter down. She tried not to look at him, but Patrick felt her eyes burn holes in his back regardless.

She’s like a startled fawn. What would she have done if I’d tried to kiss her, or touch her? He was not a religious man, but he offered up a tiny prayer to thank whatever power had stopped him from reaching out to the other side of the bed.

“So sorry. The electricity was off. I thought this was my room.” He looked at the pink suitcase near the door. “Shelagh has a pink suitcase.”

“We have the same suitcase,” Trixie said. She sobbed.

Patrick ceased trying to get every button to go through the right hole, and turned to her. “Trixie, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”

She wasn’t sobbing; she was laughing. Her eyes, though red-rimmed as if she had been crying recently, were full of mirth.

“Do you think this is funny?” he asked, hating how crimson his cheeks were.

“Don’t you, Doctor Turner?”

How am I ever going to work with her again without thinking about this?

“I mainly find it mortifying. How am I going to explain this to Shelagh? And to Christopher?”

As if on cue, someone next door emitted a low moan. Patrick locked eyes with Trixie. “If this isn’t my room, and Christopher isn’t here, then who is it we’re hearing?”

Patrick was through the door before making the conscious decision to move. He pushed the handle of room 207 down, but the door was closed. He rapped on the wood with his knuckles. “Shelagh? Shelagh, are you there?’

“Don’t you have a key?” Trixie asked.

Patrick patted his trouser pockets, extracted the key to his room, and tried to get it to fit inside the lock. There was no need; the door opened before he managed to get the key in. Shelagh stood before him, wrapped in a white blanket that was covered with rusty stains. Her eyes were very big, but that may have been because she was not wearing glasses, and had to do her best to focus.

“Why is there blood on you?” Patrick asked. Already he reached for her, trying to assess the damage.

“Because she broke my nose,” a muffled voice said.

“Christopher!” Trixie slipped past Patrick and into the room, to her husband. He sat on the edge of the bed, pressing a wet towel to his nose.

“I didn’t mean to,” Shelagh said, stepping aside so Patrick could come in. She closed the door behind him with a soft snick. “He startled me. It was a reflex…”

“You should teach self-defence classes,” Christopher said, and smiled. His teeth were stained pink. Some blood dripped down his chin. Trixie tutted at him, and pressed the towel against his bruised nose.

“He thought this was room 205,” Shelagh said.

“I saw a pink suitcase. I thought it was Trixie’s.”

“Doctor Turner is familiar with the problem,” Trixie said, grinning at Patrick and giving him a wink.

“Have you set his nose?” Patrick asked Shelagh, doing his best not to blush.

She nodded. Her hair was delightfully mussed. Through the thick wave of shame came soft-padded arousal. I need the Dockerills out of this room, Patrick thought.

“Did you go into the wrong room, too?” she asked, picking up her nightgown with the hand that she wasn’t using to keep the sheet around her closed.

“I thought it was ours.”

Patrick sat down next to Christopher, and turned the other man’s head towards him so he could look at his nose. It had already swollen considerably, and turned blue and lilac. “If you’re unlucky, you might have two black eyes come morning,” he said. He threw Shelagh a glance over his shoulder, unable to keep from looking impressed.

“Be glad they weren’t your teeth,” Trixie said. She used a wet corner of the towel to wipe away some of the blood that had crusted on his chin.

“I’ll still have to tell my patients some kind of story. I can’t very well tell them that I got into bed with the doctor’s wife, and she gave me two shiners as a result,” Christopher said.

“We’ll think of something,” Trixie decided. She looked at the Turners. “I’ll take him back to our room to clean him up.”

“I’m really awfully sorry,” Shelagh said.

“Don’t be,” Christopher said. “I should’ve looked before crawling into bed. Besides, women do love a bit of a rugged look on a man.”

“Better looks are the last thing you need, dearest,” Trixie muttered under her breath. She shook her head, and said, “Men.”

“I’ll come in a bit to get my food,” Patrick decided.

Trixie winked at him again, helped Christopher up, and stepped into the hallway.

Patrick closed the door behind them, and inhaled deeply before turning to face Shelagh. “You broke his nose,” he said.

She sat down on the bed, twisting her hands. “I didn’t mean to,” she repeated, “but he startled me. I wanted to push him away, not smash his face in.”

“You broke his nose,” Patrick repeated, and started to laugh. He couldn’t help it; Shelagh looked so guilty, and so terribly sexy at the same time…

“It’s not funny,” she told him, lips pursed.

“Isn’t it?” He made an effort to stop. He sat down next to his wife and slung his arm around her. Spasms of laughter made his stomach ache. “I’m glad Trixie’s first response is flight over fight.”

Shelagh looked at him, two worry lines between her eyebrows. “Did I gather correctly that you saw a pink suitcase, thought it was mine, and went into Trixie’s room?”

He told her how he went into room 205, thinking it was the right room, how he’d undressed and slipped into bed with someone who turned out to be his colleague and his wife’s friend rather than his actual wife.

Shelagh groaned, and rubbed her eyes. “Remind me next time to make sure that we pick a hotel far away from everyone we know, and to check whether no one we know stays there at the same time.”

“Remind me not to startle you. Ever.” Patrick took her hand in his. Her knuckles were red and raw. He pressed a kiss to the swollen flesh, then fetched another damp towel to wrap her hand in.  

“I had such good plans for us,” Shelagh said, fingers twitching as he pressed the cold fabric to her skin.

“Do you need two hands for them?” Patrick asked, smirking.

“Patrick, really. I’ve just assaulted a friend. I couldn’t possibly…”

“Couldn’t you?”

“Patrick!” She slapped his arm lightly.

Patrick fell from the bed. “Oh no!” he moaned. “I think you’ve broken my arm. My super strong wife…”

Shelagh rolled her eyes, then extended her hand to him to pull him up. “You’re ridiculous. You know that, don’t you?”

“Ridiculously in love with you,” Patrick said. He cupped her face and kissed her. “And also ridiculously needy right now,” he said, touching her collar bones and drawing a gentle line from one end to the other.

Shelagh shivered under his caress. “I remember you saying something about getting us food and drink,” she murmured.

“I did. Are you hungry, my love?” He nipped her ear. Her hand startled open, allowing the sheet to slither down.

“A little bit, yes,” she admitted.

“Let me take care of it,” Patrick said, and kissed her again.

 One more chapter to go, guys!