#And i think more often i just like the proportions of shorter men better

[tambourineophelia]

.

[theladyragnell]

Hello!! Hmm, AMA - if the mood strikes, I would love to hear about your writing process! How do you set about coming up with naming schemes for a set of characters? Sending good thoughts your way~

I'll start with the generalities and then move on to the specific question you asked! (And whoops, I got wordy, so most of it's under a cut.)

So, my writing process seems to be in flux, which makes this a little harder than usual to answer. I think it's partly Pandemic Brain Drain and partly just that I'm writing more complex and mature stories these days, but for my original work, at least, I've just in the last year or two started outlining for the first time.

In the past, I'd have some characters, or a concept, and usually a few candybar scenes (generally romance-related), and I'd start off! I didn't plot so much as I narrowed possibilities. In the first scene, very nearly anything could have happened next, in the scene after that, a few possibilities got eliminated, and so on and on, and then generally by the time I got to 60% of the way through the story I would know how the rest of the work had to fall out based on what I'd written before. I like that method, and it's still what I use for fanfic (though that tends to be shorter, so the candybar scenes tend to take up a larger proportion of the story, which probably helps).

With my current WIP, I wrote the first ~10,000 words and then spent two weeks writing an exhaustive outline once I had that mood down. I made some vague use of a few plotting methods (the lovely @samyazaz is an absolute font of those), but mostly I did the extremely cut-down no-prose version of the plotting method above. It's not the most efficient way of doing an outline, and the outline is no doubt bloated as hell, but the writing is going pretty well? I'll keep refining this process, but it's where I'm at right now.

Character names! Truly one of the worst parts about writing SFF when I'm doing original work, even if I'm using real-world names for first names I usually have to do something about surnames. Names, though, are really where there's an intersection of character and worldbuilding, and I'm trying to get better about it.

Things I try to keep in mind when naming characters or coming up with names:

Language: Are the characters all from the same place? Are there common name endings or phonemes? Katherine Addison's Goblin Emperor does a gorgeous job with this--people with goblin heritage are really the only ones who have "kh" in their names, at least from what I'm remembering now, and part of the reason it was hard to read for me the first time is because there are common name beginnings and phonemes and things, and I kept mixing up my Csethiros and Csorus and Csevets. Though it won't come up unless there's an audiobook, Addison also makes a point of saying that elves and goblins have different syllable stresses even if their names are similarly constructed.

Gender: Do people of different genders commonly have different name endings or beginnings? Once again turning to Addison, among the elves men often have names ending in -a, while only women seem to have -o or -u, and gender also impacts the ending of surnames. (Maia's house name is Drazhada, his surname is Drazhar, his unmarried sister is Drazhin, etc.) Or, in my current original WIP, there's a location where a lot of women have names ending in -ie and a lot of men have names ending in -a, and -or, -er, and -ar are more gender neutral.

Class: Do richer people have more syllables in their names? More middle names? Longer last names? Conversely, are they shorter? Do last names hyphenate, and does that change based on class or location? Are there names or nicknames that one class or another prefers not to use?

Personality: This matters more with real-world names that you're assigning to a character, and that I do mostly by feel. But again, maybe you've got a very regal fantasy character, a real snobby prince type, and "Kod" does not feel regal or princely, but Kinrod gets closer, and Elkinrod Felforth III gets you all the way there.

And then there's various other things, like religion and subcultures and characters being named after other characters, like Tasha Suri's culture in her Burning Kingdoms trilogy where people of a certain religion are named for prophecies and only share those names when they're getting close to fulfilled and go by nicknames, but those are all Advanced Naming Things and I've been writing this for half an hour so I'm leaving it there!

[bbugyu]

finding something to do + kim mingyu

you had spent your better years bored with mingyu, and he thought holding your hand felt like holding his fleeting youth.

wc.4088 | almost smut, mostly fluff, friends to lovers/uni au, fem reader, that one trope where there is mutual pining but both of them think the other is gay, maybe like half an ounce of angst if you squint Really Hard, lots o swears

i usually make my fics hella neutral as far as gender and size and orientation goes but hahahaha this ones for the average sized bi girls! also just realized that i stopped using capitalization in my fics and yk what? im fine with it. this fic is based off of the song of the same name by hellogoodbye.

*

“stop honking, other people live here.”

mingyu grinned at you through the half-open passenger window, leaning over to pop open the door. the handle had never recovered from a giant cup of soda crashing into the side of his ride in the middle of a particularly rowdy summer shenanigan, the sticky substance soaking into the mechanics before he had gotten the chance to hose it down in a friend's driveway at 2am. now, you had to wait for him to open it from the inside on all future shenanigans, and you could only roll the window down half way, lest you have to laugh at mingyu aggressively pulling on the window between his palms as you pulled on the motorized switch to coerce it back into the closed position. you slid into the co-pilot seat and looked over to your best friend.

"if you answered your texts i wouldn't have to honk."

you rolled your eyes, tugging on the seatbelt. "go, gyu."

he laughed and shifted into drive, turning up his stereo as he pulled away from your apartment building, hand returning to the stick to shift up a gear. "thanks for coming."

"what else was i gonna do?" you slipped the slides off your socked feet and pulled your legs to sit cross-legged. "i finished rewatching avatar."

"study, maybe?"

you looked at him. he was right, finals were right around the corner, but you had an uncharacteristically light load this quarter (due to you not realizing you needed approval for one course before registration and it filling before you could sign up) and you weren't too worried about the three tests you would have to take in a couple weeks. "could say the same to you."

mingyu let out another laugh, suddenly singing along to the song as he ran a hand through his hair. you smiled at his profile, then pulled out your phone to update your instagram story. as you moved the camera over to mingyu from the streetlight-lit road ahead of you, he laughed midway through a lyric and practically yelled "mwoya" at you, gripping the wheel with both hands and jumping in his seat. 

you laughed hysterically, frantically saving the video before pointing the screen at him. he turned down the music to watch it, eyes flickering between your phone and the road. he laughed at the way it cut off on both of you screaming. "what was that?"

you giggled, swiping through filters. "you being dumb."

"you love me."

"you're right."

mingyu smiled at that, adjusting the stereo volume again, bobbing his head to the rhythm as he drove to the one convenience store in your town that sold his favorite mint chocolate chip ice cream, a mission he had called upon you for at 11:30pm. when it switched over to a song you knew, mingyu noticed your subconscious humming to the tune and a few lyrics falling out of your lips, the wind from the open window whipping through your hair.

by the time you reached a small parking lot across town, you had yawned probably half a dozen times.

"tired?" mingyu pouted as he rolled up the windows and unbuckled his seatbelt. "sorry for dragging you out."

you shook your head, following suit and pulling yourself out of the car. "i slept too late, i think. i'll be fine."

you followed mingyu across the quiet street to the convenience store the two of you frequented perhaps too often, finding yourself there after late night study sessions or mid-barhop for ramen, snacks, and most importantly, the mint choco ice cream bar of mingyu's affections.

after perusing the options as if you hadn't been there earlier in the week, you picked out an ice cream bar as well as a couple bags of chips. you walked up behind mingyu at the register as he was pulling out his wallet.

"i'll pay if you come over and play smash," he said, nodding at your hands full of snacks.

you eyed him. "what's the catch?"

"you can't be mad when i play meta knight."

you groaned, but put your things on the counter for the cashier that was likely the same age as you both to scan. "fine. i'll still beat you."

mingyu grinned at you, and you snagged your ice cream bar off the counter as he paid, the other snacks getting put in a plastic bag. you grabbed the bag and held it open as mingyu retrieved his own ice cream, both of you peeling them open as you exited the convenience store.

"mm," you let out, mouth full of ice cream as you leaned against the metal bar meant to lock up bikes on the sidewalk. "it's nice out tonight."

mingyu agreed, biting into his treat. "it's refreshing but not too cold."

you nodded, watching cars pass on the street. "i can't believe it's almost summer already."

"me neither," he said, squatting in front of you as he ate. "we're gonna be seniors next year."

you groaned. "have you decided if you're doing summer quarter?"

he shook his head. "i decided against it. i only really have to take one extra course next year so it didn't feel worth it."

you nodded, looking down at him. he was looking to his left, absentmindedly watching someone walk their dog across the street.

after the ice cream was finished and you threw away your wrappers, mingyu cursed slightly at the fact that he still managed to get his finger sticky despite doing his best to avoid meltage. after he popped open your door, he dug in the glovebox for some wet naps, playfully knocking your knees aside as you tried to sit. you laughed, waiting for him to be done so you could put the bag of snacks on the floor in front of you.

when you met mingyu sophomore year, your hair was shorter and he was blonde. he had sat next to you in your shared ecology lab and promptly fell asleep before the class had even started, and you had to nudge him awake when the professor was handing out the syllabus. 

"gah, fuck, i'm up," he waved a massive hand in your face, blinking away his sleep before focusing on you with furrowed brows. "you're not seokmin."

seokmin was his roommate, you learned, and also met a few weeks later when you went over to their dorm to work on assignments together. they've since upgraded to a compact but efficient three bedroom apartment and acquired another roommate. you stared out the window into the night sky as mingyu drove to said apartment, blinking heavily at the lure of a nap. you pulled your knees up to your chest and tried to listen to the song playing from the stereo.

only moments later, mingyu glanced over and noticed that your eyes had fluttered shut, your head lolling against the window. he wondered, staring at you in awe, how much longer he could pretend he wasn't in love with you.

when you and mingyu had first gotten to know each other, you admittedly had a bit of a crush on him, until you found out he had a boyfriend. even after they split almost four months later, and you had been there to bring him chicken and beer while he fumbled with the drawstrings of his sweatpants and rubbed his swollen eyes with the back of his hand, you decidedly resigned any feelings for him, knowing it was a lost cause for you to pine after a guy that didn't even like girls. hell, you barely even liked boys - you had gone on dates with six different girls, yet not a single guy since you came to university, and mingyu had sat on your bed while you tried to get ready, giving a concise "try again" when you showed him an oversized sweatshirt.

"why not this?" you asked, groaning.

"you have good proportions, bitch. show 'em off."

rolling your eyes, you rooted around in your closet for something less shapeless. your style had always skewed a little athletic, a little hip-hop. you bought mostly mens fit shirts, making the task slightly more difficult. you found a nice pair of high waisted jeans you hadn't worn in a while and paired it with a drop shoulder tee and a turtleneck, finally getting the approval of your best friend.

all of the facts laid in front of him led mingyu to believe you were completely and utterly gay, and even if you weren't, your taste in women suggested he was the exact opposite of your type. you liked petite girls. girls with long hair and that wore skirts and lots of rings. the kind of girls that you had to lean down to kiss. 

so he continued to try out the pool of eligible bachelors in your area that were within a respectable age range. he had even tried to date some girls, but every time they tried to suggest the dates go further, he would think of the way his best friend's fingers had sent electricity through his entire body just by brushing an eyelash off his lip, or how you would trace the veins that ran through his wrist as you watched a movie together on your couch. the way your touch set his skin on fire. the way he wished he could just admit the way he felt about you. 

he always smiled and said he'd call them sometime. he never did. it wasn't fair to them, but neither was him only ever asking them out because they reminded him of you somehow.

guys were easier, he thought. they didn't remind him of you.

mingyu was so caught up in the sight of you sleeping that he absolutely ran a red. he cursed under his breath when he realized the light he was passing under had been yellow for longer than he had thought, thinking how lucky he was that the cross street was empty. good thing he was almost home.

"hey, sleepyhead," he said when you stretched suddenly as he pulled into his parking spot. "do you wanna go home?"

you shook your head, yawning. "no, i need to eat chips."

he laughed and killed the engine. "you left a pair of house shorts here and you can borrow a shirt," he said, suggesting you crash in his bed when you got too tired for smash.

"what, you don't wanna carry me home?"

mingyu slammed the car door shut and shoved his hand in his pocket. "i'd rather not, no."

you stretched again, a hand reaching out to ruffle his dark hair as he tried to punch in the door code for you to enter his building. "mean."

he laughed at you again, leading you up the three flights of stairs to his apartment.

"hey, minghao," you said, waving at the shadowy figure that was seemingly melting into the couch, illuminated by the tv.

he raised a hand in acknowledgment, sitting with his neck at a 90 degree angle, a movie with subtitles on, and his phone face down on his chest. "yo."

"wanna play smash?" mingyu asked.

"no thanks."

mingyu dropped his keys on the kitchen counter. "we're playing smash."

"you're funny."

you laughed, and mingyu pouted. "please, myungho?"

minghao finally looked at his roommate. "i'm watching annihilation. the switch is handheld for a reason."

you watched mingyu roll his eyes with a smirk on your lips. he went over to the switch dock by the tv and grabbed the console, sticking his tongue out at hao. you giggled, following mingyu down the short hall to his room as minghao waved you both off.

"have i said that i like hao a lot?"

"yes," mingyu said. "like, every time you come over."

you smiled, throwing open his dresser and carding through the shirts that would surely be massive on you. "well i do."

the switch got tossed onto his bed and he sneaked around you to grab a pair of sweatpants from the drawer above the one you were looking in. he also pulled out the pair of shorts you had left, putting them on top of the dresser. "i'm getting naked now."

you shook your head lightly, knowing he was only changing his pants, but kept your back to him out of respect anyways. you picked up the shorts. "did you wash these?"

"yeah, i threw 'em in with my laundry last week."

you nodded, spotting the color you had been looking for. "aha!" you pulled on the ashy gray shirt, revealing one of your favorite things you had ever convinced mingyu to buy. an extremely soft, lightly distressed shirt with a tasteful rip along the neckline. "i'm getting naked now."

"clear," mingyu said, letting you know he wasn't looking as he flopped onto his bed, propping up the switch on his bedside table and setting up the controllers.

you pulled off your loose sweatshirt and swapped it for the borrowed shirt, then shoved the denim shorts down your legs, laughing lightly at how your sleep shorts completely disappeared under the shirt. you turned around, stretching out your arms to show how large the shirt was on you. "look."

mingyu rolled onto his back and propped himself on an elbow to look at you, giggling as you swam in his shirt. outwardly, he smiled, but internally, he thought this was simultaneously the worst and best idea he had ever had.

you looked absolutely stunning in his clothes, he thought, but only said that you were cute. he ignored the familiar feeling in his stomach and handed you a controller as you crawled onto his bed, settling on your stomach next to him.

he had to stop putting himself in this position. you were far too pretty for him to forget his feelings towards you.

but maybe that's what he wanted. maybe he didn't want to forget his feelings. maybe the few times you had told him his dates were attractive weren't just objective reassurances. maybe he held onto the sliver of hope that you could possibly be attracted to him, too.

you slammed your face into the bed as the game loaded. "why are all switch load times utter ass?"

mingyu adjusted so that he was laying on his side with an arm propping him up and flicked the back of your head. "because the console can fit in my palm."

your hand went up to swat at the culprit of the flick, and you pouted as you lifted your head to look at him. "that's not fair, your hands are huge." you wiggled onto your elbows to grab his wrist, pressing your palms together. "see?"

mingyu laughed, feeling his cheeks heat up. "well, you have baby hands, so." he punctuated his point by curling his finger over yours. you pouted again, then slipped your fingers between his, thinking about how nice his warm hand felt over yours.

you blinked, then pulled your hand away and grabbed the joycon as the game finally loaded the skippable intro, hoping you weren't blushing too much as you cleared your throat. mingyu stared at your pink cheeks for a moment, his mind reeling. was he seeing something that wasn't there? or was his hope in you validated?

you were clicking through the menu and felt his eyes on you, and all you wanted to do was hide behind your hair and avoid eye contact. you nearly jumped when mingyu cleared his throat.

"hey, i have something i've been meaning to ask you."

your eyes met his briefly. "shoot."

"do you…" mingyu paused, trying to think of the right way to phrase his question. "i know you have exes that are guys, but is that something you're, like… still into?"

your ears burned and you wiggled until you could sit back on your own legs, fiddling with the hem of the shirt you stole and hesitating to make eye contact. "you mean, being with guys?"

"yeah," he said, watching you intently with his brows furrowed.

"yeah, i mean, i guess?" you shrugged. "i like both."

mingyu nodded slowly, watching your eyes as they stared at the wall across his small room. your cheeks were a rosy pink, and you were chewing on your lip. "me too."

you looked at him finally, your eyes wide. "what?"

he gave you a crooked smile. "i like guys and girls, too."

if you were blushing before, now you were blazing. "oh, my god, i'm an idiot."

he laughed. "what, did you think i was, like, totally gay?"

"shut up," you threw yourself down onto his bed, hiding your face in the blanket. in your defense, he had definitely called himself gay before, but you definitely called yourself gay constantly, so maybe you shouldn't put so much weight in those words. "shut up, i'm embarrassed. i don't want to talk about it."

hearing mingyu laugh next to you made you feel like you were on fire, then you felt the ghosting of fingers on your arm. you froze. mingyu's voice was soft when he spoke again. "do you wanna talk about how i have a massive crush on you?"

you slowly raised your head to look at him, cheeks burning red. he gave you a small smile before you choked out a "huh?"

"i ran a red earlier," he said suddenly, his fingers moving from your arm to absentmindedly brush your hair out of your face, then to your shoulder, then back. it was a reassuring touch, one you had felt from him before, but you still were caught off guard by his sudden succession of confessions. "you were sleeping and i couldn't stop looking at you. i totally could have crashed the car."

"dude, what the fuck." you stared at him, then lowered your voice to imitate him. "'hey i have a crush on you and i almost killed us both because of it.' that's you, that's what you sound like right now."

mingyu laughed in your face and you couldn't help the chuckle that fell out of your mouth. "sorry i almost killed us."

"i guess i can forgive you," you said, picking at your nails suddenly despite them being clean. "especially because i might have a crush on you, too."

mingyu kept staring at you with a fond smile, and you wondered if he could also hear how hard your heart was beating. "can i kiss you?"

you looked at him, trying not to stare at his lips. you nodded, almost hurriedly. his hand pulled against your back as you rolled your body to face him, and your hand reached out for his jaw as he pulled you into him. and when his lips crashed into yours, you yelped slightly, melting into him almost immediately. they were plush against yours, and he was gentle as he pushed your back onto the mattress, adjusting to hover over you slightly. when you let your head fall back onto the bed, he grinned at your blown out pupils and swollen lips, buzzing at the way your hands curled around around his neck, fingers digging into the hair at his nape. he adjusted again, a hand finding your waist as he pulled back to let you swing your leg across his lap. you pulled him back over you, enjoying the way his hips hit the back of your thighs as he caged you in with an elbow by your shoulder. you stared up at him, heart racing, eyes flicking down to his lips too many times for him to not take the hint.

mingyu had always enjoyed pleasing you. this definitely felt like the next natural progression.

he dove into you, and your arms wrapped themselves around his shoulders. mingyu was a hugger, and he also liked wearing very little clothing when he worked out, so you knew what he looked like under the plain white tee. knew what he felt like. but suddenly - with his hands slipping under what was technically his shirt to properly feel your waist, with how his tongue fought with yours - you really felt him for the first time. the way his shoulder muscles rippled just beneath the skin as he adjusted, clearly trying to not make his growing bulge so obvious. you considered the fact that you might get to see how much leg day really benefited, considering how much he posted about it with sweaty post-workout pictures on his story.

mingyu felt your thighs squeeze around his hips, pulling back slightly. "is this okay?"

"is it?" you responded, a hand pulling back to fall on his jaw. "i've wanted you for ages."

he laughed lightly. "god, we're idiots."

you had no time to respond before he was kissing you again, his hips rolling into yours, pulling a surprised moan from you. he ate it up, his fingers gripping your waist tighter at the sound. you felt his girth as it pressed against you, and you gasped. when was the last time you had been with a guy? high school?

when mingyu's teeth bit down on your lip, you were really glad he was the guy you were unconsciously waiting for.

he tugged on your hips as he rolled onto his back, pulling you to straddle his lap. you giggled slightly, settling back into the open mouthed kisses as he ran his hands from your ass up your back, slipping under the sports bra you were wearing.

then there was a knock. you yelped, burying your face in his shoulder as you heard the door swing open. "make room for king k r- oh shit!"

you laughed into mingyu's neck as he yelled for seokmin to get the hell out, his hands tugging the hem of the stolen shirt over your butt in an attempt to shield it from view. you heard him squeak out an "i'm sorry!" as the door shut again.

"i'll kill him."

you exhaled, the laughter still on your lips as you looked at his profile from where your cheek pressed against his shoulder. "bet he thinks we're secretly dating."

mingyu laughed, scratching an eyebrow before returning his palm to your ass. "not a secret now."

"oh, so we're dating now?"

mingyu craned his neck to look at you. "is that not what was going to happen?"

you giggled, sitting up and putting your hands on his chest. you adjusted your knees, fully aware of how the movement would rub you against his still hard bulge. "we have both fucked people without dating them afterwards, kim mingyu."

"ah," he said, digging his fingers into your soft ass and rutting into you gently, making you gasp. "we're gonna fuck? i thought we were just joking."

you slapped his chest, giggling still as you rolled your hips. "if you don't wanna, i could ask hao-"

"oh, shut up," he said, pulling you down to kiss him. "if you liked myungho like that you would have tried it ages ago."

you smiled, your thumb running over his adams apple as you placed gentle kisses on his jaw. "sweetie, are we jealous?"

"i don't deserve this, you know?" mingyu pulled your hips against him again, a low grunt tumbling from his beautiful mouth. "i haven't put my dick in a girl since i met you and now i'm with you and you're talking about my roommate? this seems extremely mean."

you giggled again, then placed your lips on his again. he instantly kissed you back, one hand leaving your ass to go to the back of your neck. "you're the only guy i ever think about," you whispered, getting repeatedly interrupted by mingyu's needy lips on yours.

the wolf-like grin that broke onto his face sent chills down your spine. "let's keep it that way."

*

seokmin's hand was still on the doorknob, his wide eyes blinking, when minghao paused his movie and sat up to poke his head out and look down the hall. "the hell was that?"

he puffed out his cheeks as he walked back into the living room, his palms clapping gently. "i thought you said y/n came over to play smash?"

minghao's eyebrow quirked up. "she did."

the eldest sat on the couch. "i thought mingyu was gay?"

"what?" minghao looked down the hall again. "wait, what? were they-" he stopped when he heard a muffled groan that was far too familiar.

seokmin grabbed the remote and pressed play, scratching his cheek as he turned up the volume. "what are we watching? catch me up."

[writinglionqueen]

My King Tribute Fic | The Boar’s Den

A very considerate follower made me a fantastic fanfic that coincides with my My King universe!!! @tinkerbell-has-chlamydia​ dedicated her time to create this masterpiece of a story and asked me to post it here to share with you all. Please give her some love and read this story. You won’t regret it. All credit goes to her. The only thing I can take credit for is beta reading this masterpiece. 

You considered your life to be very blessed, even by the standards of a Queen. You enjoyed the privileges that belonged to a lady of your status, but suffered very few of the entrapments that often followed it. The food you ate was always fresh and well prepared, but you were never forced to eat what was laid out for you, or forbidden from eating what you wanted out of fear that it would ruin your figure. The clothes you wore were tailored from the highest quality fabrics in the world, for you alone, and yet you always took charge in how you dressed, and by extension, what your day would consist of. You lived in the very castle that young girls dreamt of when they heard tales of brave knights and beautiful princesses, but you were never restricted as to where you were permitted to go. You could roam freely and enjoy your home and all that came with it, especially the training grounds which you happily frequented. 

 Above all, it was your husband that you were most grateful for. It was he that granted you all of these liberties. He gave them to you freely, and without hesitation. He took on your discomforts, your burdens and your displeasures as if they were his own and always made it his personal task to help you in any way possible. You admired his tireless efforts to give you everything you desired, both as a queen and as a wife, and you always made sure he knew you appreciated those efforts. There were times where you were even convinced that you lived the perfect life.

 This was not one of those times.

 You had been standing in a single room, that you could not leave, for hours on end dressed in quite possibly the most frivolous (and hottest) garments known to womankind, all while your hunger grew to almost unbearable proportions. However, what you hungered for was not food. It was the man sitting on the oaken throne before you, draped in furs and skins of wild beasts, with his copper and onyx circlet set firmly above his brow, listening to a tailor from a nearby village drone on about the prices of cloth compared to the price of thread.

 Drew had been on campaign for the past month, leading his men in battle against a rebel, who was calling himself the True King. He did call himself that. Now he would find it difficult to call himself anything with his head no longer belonging to his neck. Drew had also captured the rebel’s two generals. His sons, the traitor’s only living heirs, and he had imprisoned them; fully intending on executing them once the two revealed any and all plans for further rebellions.

 Nevertheless, the King’s long absence did have an effect on the realm’s day to day operations, and although you pride yourself on how you maintained your keep, the villages surrounding your castle needed their King. It had been mere minutes between Drew coming home bloodied and bruised, dragging the traitor’s two gigantic sons by their chains, throwing them in the castle’s dungeon, trading in his armour for regal clothing, and taking his place on his throne to hold court. The only interaction between your husband and yourself was when Drew presented you with the sword of his fallen enemy, and placed a chaste kiss to your lips as you welcomed his return in the courtyard with the other nobles of the castle. But even then, you were in such a... dizzied state for seeing your husband again that you allowed that sword (which looked rusted and dull) to cut your thumb ever so slightly. But above all, even though it was short and mostly for the sake of appearances, that kiss he gave you was all you were able to think about as you stood on the balcony of the great hall with the high ranking ladies of the court gazing at your husband’s profile as he tried desperately not to fall asleep.

 All you could think about was how much Drew must have been holding back when he kissed you in front of all those people. How much he wished he could just rip your clothes off, taking you then and there. You knew that when you embraced him after he dismounted his horse and proclaimed to the people that their King had returned a hero, he was desperately wishing that your hands were scratching down his back as you heralded him in a more excited and primal manner. You knew that when the people around you cheered, he imagined the clapping of their hands to be the pounding of your bed-frame against the stone wall. 

 You knew he was imagining it all, because you were imagining the same exact things. Though there were many, many great privileges to being Queen, being made love to by the King was by far the greatest. You were unsure of other wives, but when Drew let you know that you were to be bedded that night, you felt nothing but pure lust until he fulfilled his promise. Even when he was injured (which was often) he still managed to please you, powering through his pain to give you pleasure… and he always seemed to find his as well. 

 It was odd, though. No matter how much you desired your husband, no matter how much your body screamed for him to be inside you, no matter how much you wanted to make him feel the same way he made you feel, you always reverted back to a shy, tentative young girl when you were in his arms, just like you were on your wedding night. Drew had some other worldly effect on you that prevented you from initiating intimacy. Not fear. You had never felt afraid of him, but there always was this… hesitation. This expectation for him to take control, as if there were no other option. It never really bothered you, however. With the way that Drew took control over you, there never needed to be an alternative.

 As you stood there, suffocating in your ridiculous dress, watching the dust float through the sunbeams penetrating the glass of the windows inside this dry, wooden hall, you nearly hallucinated the scenes of what awaited you that night. You discretely swept your tongue across your bottom lip to only find it as dry as the air around you. The only source of moisture that you could sense in the entire room was pooling itself between your thighs. Every time you shifted your stance in a futile attempt to give your feet more comfort, you were sure that everyone in the hall could hear the sopping noise that it made. Your... wetness had trickled itself almost to your knee at this point, and it was completely unbearable.

 Then, if by some miracle, the tailor stopped droning on long enough for Drew to interject that something or other was to be done about his issue and that he could leave the court knowing that he had been heard. Then, the tailor bowed and left. He left. The demon that had been preventing you from heaven has been vanquished. 

 “One petitioner more. After him, this forum will be continued tomorrow.” Drew’s booming voice echoed across the hall. You swore that you heard everyone give a sigh of relief. As a page left to usher in the final person, Drew turned his head so that his eyes met yours. His devilish smirk met your beaming smile as he slowly nodded to you as if to say, “I know, my Queen. I know how you’ve missed me, and very soon, I’m going to show you how much I’ve missed you.”

 Then, Drew draped his arm over the side of his seat, and grazed his fingers over the engravings of it, in perfect view of you. His hand danced a bit more until it landed on a tiny gemstone, no larger than the bud of a flower. He then slowly swirled his fingers around the nub before shifting his muscles and pressing in on it for just a moment, before circling it again.

 You sucked in a breath and held your stomach where you felt heat bubbling inside you. You bit the inside of your cheek and suppressed a moan. It just wasn’t fair. Queen’s shouldn’t be teased. Not like this. Your face hardened as you tried to stay expressionless. Drew smiled and turned his head forward again, still working his hand. He knew the hold he had on you. To everyone else, it looked like the King was absentmindedly fiddling with the etchings in his throne. But you knew better. You knew much, much better.

 Then there was a bang that grabbed you out of your painfully bliss-filled trance. You turned your head and put your hand over your mouth. Not out of fear. Quite the opposite, actually. It was to keep from laughing. The man who had just burst through the door without waiting to be properly announced was shorter than yourself, and wearing a brightly colored… outfit, that no true Scot would ever don. You found the garment very hard to make sense of, so you didn’t bother to try. He wasn’t forced to wear it either, like a fool would be. By the way he took strides that his little legs shouldn’t have been able to take, he was very proud of his appearance. 

 You looked at Drew, whose mouth was slightly open as he stared at the little man who was barreling toward him. For the first time in hours, the King was sitting up at full attention. The walking curiosity stopped a few feet from the throne, dramatically bent his knee and gestured broadly with his hand.

 “Your Majesty. Before I begin, I beg of you to allow me time to praise your grand victory over the vile pretender-”

 “I am grateful for your praise, friend, and I’m sure that your words would move the ladies of the court to tears if they were to be spoken,” Drew quickly said. There were scattered laughs throughout the crowd. The little man just smiled and nodded. “But I must say that you entered this hall with such... urgency that I can say in full honesty... I would like to know your cause here today.”

 At this point, Drew was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees and his hands under his chin. Not quite in a mocking manner, but in a manner of one who was asked an impossible riddle. The little man, however, was elated with the attention shown to him by the King. He stood up tall and proud with his bird-like chest puffed out. 

 “I am Slibhin Mac a’ Ghobhainn, and I am here to petition His Majesty for a company of royal warriors to assist me in retaking my home. My home... that was stolen from me... by my very kin.” Drew glanced at you, asking with his eyes if you and he were just sharing a dream one would have whilst they weathered a fever. You just shrugged your shoulders. Drew turned back to your guest.

 “I must say, your request has been the most... ambitious one that I’ve heard today. But, I have to ask you how I can give you my men to reclaim your home when they have just returned from defending their’s.” Drew raised his eyebrow. The man called Slibhin stood back a bit, comically intimidated by your husband’s small gesture. Nevertheless, he persisted.

 “I must confess, Your Majesty. This endeavor is not as… dramatic as I may have relayed.” He bowed his head in faux humility. “My father is… was... the blacksmith of your keep’s village, and with his passing, I should have inherited his estate and all intended incomes. However, my birthright has been… usurped by my… cursed sister. While I had been away on business these past few weeks, she has been, without my knowledge or consent, conducting transactions with the people of the town and has been calling my enterprise her own. Not only has she taken my means of income, but has destroyed my home and has turned it into a… boar’s den of the most unappealing state.”

 Your ears perked up at the word “sister.” You had always had a great admiration for smithing, and had always fantasized about creating something yourself, though you kept this secret. Not even your husband knew... yet. When the image flashed in your mind that a woman was in charge of a smithy, it brought a bright smile to your face that you didn’t even attempt to hide. Drew, however, let out a breath.

 “So, you are asking for the arrest of your sister?” You immediately frowned at that. You knew that Drew was compelled by his office to uphold the laws of the land, but… you both knew...  just by looking, that the man before you had no right (other than virtue of his sex) running a smithy. Slibhin showed his smile again. The smile that had amused you at first now was the cause for your most sincere disdain.

 “No, Your Majesty, that is not what I am asking for. You see, if my sister were to be arrested, then I would be without the means to make my fortune.” His smile deepened. Drew rolled his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. It was clear that as much as the funny dressed man was enjoying his showmanship, Drew was becoming agitated by it.

 “My late father was very keen on having his skills transferred through his children. When I didn’t immediately become a prodigy under his impossible training regime, he turned to my sister who, in an overwhelming need to be praised by him, showed something resembling skill in the field. As much as it pains me to say this, I need her to perform her duties. I  just need them done under my jurisdiction.”

 “Well, if your father raised your sister to take over his business, what right have I to disrespect a dead man’s wishes?'' the King asked, crossing his arms over his chest. You smirked in a slight satisfaction over that. Even though you knew this had nothing to do with you, it somehow felt like Drew was defending you. Though you couldn’t explain it, you considered Slibhin, the petitioner, as an invader. As a threat. Not a physical threat, not at all. You were certain that even in your present state you could make him bleed. Heavily. It was his mind that you felt put off by. He wasn’t clever, not by any means, but his way of thinking (if you could call it thinking) somehow disturbed you. He just felt so… entitled. Though he hadn’t done anything outrageous, there was something about him you just couldn’t trust. You had hoped that Drew’s questioning would have somehow disheartened the small man, but he just kept…  on…  smiling.

 “Your Majesty, like yourself, I am fortunate enough to have been wed this year...” He smiled and nodded to the space next to your husband. You gasped loudly. There stood your King’s cupbearer. A little girl with soft skin and wide eyes, no older than ten. It was a subtle nod, one that the vast majority court hadn’t seemed to notice, thank the Gods. But you had known what you saw, but you refused to believe it. Yes, she was the closest person to Drew and she was very well dressed, but surely no one could have possibly thought that she was their Queen, or that Drew would ever dare wed or… lay with a... child. Who looked at a child so young and innocent and thought: “wife”? Tears welled in your eyes. Drew leaned forward and inhaled to repute the gesture, obviously aware of what was implied, but Slibhin persisted.

 “But I haven’t married just any woman. I have married the daughter of a Laird.” He said the last word as if he were sampling a rare vintage. “Through this union, I have acquired a status that supersedes that of any blacksmith, alive or dead. By both my birth and my diplomacy, I have the right to that smithy. Now all I need is... well, physical support to take what is mine.”

 You could feel the veins in your forehead bulging as your eyes stung. You hated this man. Everything he said. Everything he thought. Everything about him filled you with a rage. He had insulted you and your husband. He believed his Queen was a child and his King was a senseless monster. More than that, he was stealing a woman’s right to work. Her livelihood. Just because he could. There was no way he could do this. 

 “Very well.” Your head snapped to your husband. Drew rubbed his temples under his circlet. “You’ll have some men to help you restore peace to your home, but that’s all. You cannot-”

 “WAIT!”

 Time stopped. Silence covered the room like a woolen blanket. Even the little gnats that were fluttering about seemed to be suspended in the thick, heated air. Every living thing in the world had turned into a statue, all with their heads turned to you, including Drew’s. Your face felt hot. Hotter than before, if that were even possible. You noticed that your hands were gripping the railing before you. So tightly, in fact, that your knuckles were the color of milk. You looked down at Slibhin. His smile was still plastered on his face, but his eyes were small and full of malice. You took some comfort in that you broke, if just for a moment, that boy’s jovial mask. It gave you the courage to speak.

 “If I may speak on this-”

 “Your King has already made his decree, my sweet girl.” said Slibhin quickly, hoping to put you down as swiftly and as kindly as possible. “I don’t believe he-”

 Drew quickly stood to his feet, causing the floor to quake in the process. 

 “Your Queen has chosen to honor you with her words. I suggest you listen. Kneel, boy.” As if his legs were cut at the knees, Slibhin fell back down with his head bowed once more. You could see that the little man was sweating… heavily, and not because of the blistering heat. Drew looked back at you, his eyes filled with admiration and encouragement. You felt some kind of power in the bottom of your feet, anchoring you to your castle. Your home. Your seat of power. Air gracefully filled your lungs and you spoke.

 “Perhaps it is just my female sensibility, or the fragile constitution that poisons my sex,” you said with an overly-sweet tone, so much so, that the ladies of the court tried to suppress their giggles, leaving the men confused, “but it seems to me that sending military force to settle such a small domestic dispute, even without violence, is very... uncivilized.” 

 You looked at Drew for support. He nodded slightly. “Well said, my Queen. What do you suggest instead?” You hesitated, but only for a moment. 

 “Send an ambassador. Someone to settle the matter diplomatically. I believe it would spare exhausted men more work, and inspire less resistance from the blacksmith.”

 The court murmured in support of your idea, but you couldn’t help but feel disheartened. You didn’t want to send an envoy to solve the matter. You didn’t think there was a matter to be solved. Let the damn girl smith in peace. However, you knew that couldn’t be. The small, hateful man that knelt before you had a right to his father’s business... and his sister’s life if she were not yet married. You just couldn’t bear seeing a young woman dragged out by soldiers to be humbled before her brother; a brother that clearly bore her no love.

 “It shall be done, my Queen. I can think of no better alternative.” Drew proclaimed, just happy that the matter was finally done with. “The crown will send the Laird of Commerce to settle-”

 “I will go,” you said. “Today.”

 Drew’s eyes widened. He turned to you and raised his brow. You did your best to not look directly at him, but instead kept your chin raised and your eyes on the frivolously dressed man. You knew what you had done. The place of the Queen was inside her castle, not in politics. Drew had allowed you some leniency just then, by giving you leave to speak, but that was just because he was so utterly exhausted. The repercussions that may fall on Drew for your actions were not lost on you. He could be seen as weak or incompetent. Your outburst could be seen as him allowing a woman, even if it was his wife, control him. You knew all of this.

 But you couldn’t let this happen. Even though you had never met this smith before, you felt a kind of womanly bond with her. You didn’t have a plan for when you met her, or how you could save her, but you also had no plan to speak out a few moments ago. Slibhin looked back and forth between the two of you, hoping that the King would somehow intervene. Though you had never declared your intention to have the girl keep her forge, he could sense your motives... and he didn’t like them. You could tell that he was just waiting for Drew to silence or perhaps admonish you in front of the court… all with that damned smile on his face.

 “I suppose you will be in need of an escort…” Your head snapped to your husband. He had a smile of his own. Sincere and cocky. “My Queen. I’d like to offer you my services.”

 Your heart fluttered and you nodded. A collective giggle escaped from the crowd. Him doing this not only showed that he approved of your plan, but if anyone dared to oppose you, they would have to go through him first. On top of all that, his attitude was a playful one, showing he wasn’t bothered by your actions at all. You let out a breath that you didn’t know you were holding.

 “The court is dismissed. Those in attendance will retire and I will go to fulfill my duties.” Drew’s voice boomed through the hall as the nobles and commoners alike scrambled toward the exit. The room emptied uncommonly fast either out of fear of their King, or because they wanted the ordeal to just be over already. It was most likely the latter. In a moment the only living souls left behind were yourself and Drew. Even the sniveling Slibhin was taken out and told to make his smithy ready for the royals’ arrival. 

 You walked down to the lower level to meet with Drew. The smile on his face hadn’t lessened, but it did change somehow. As soon as you were within reach your husband grabbed you and held you close. It wasn’t in a romantic way; it was in a very lustful way. Your face was forced into his chest. One hand gripped your hair while the other was pressed into your backside. Drew squeezed his hand and forced you to roll into his thigh. You tried to gasp, but found breathing impossible. The King lowered his mouth to your ear.

 “I know what you’re trying to do, little one,” he growled. “You’re trying to torture me. Trying to make me wait. Get back at me for teasing you. But let me tell you something, my Queen.” He let go of your hair and tilted your chin to look up at him. Your eyes were glazed over and your mouth hung open at the sheer sensation you were experiencing. Drew continued, “I may be beaten down, but I still have the strength to take you. I still have the power to ravage you. I still have the endurance to turn you into a whimpering mess. The only thing I don’t have is patience to visit that little idiot’s house and watch you comfort some crying welp.” 

 Drew lifted you and placed you roughly on his throne. He leaned over you and put his arms on either side of your head, caging you. Your chest heaved as your breathing became erratic. Your husband captured your gasping mouth in a fiery kiss and you moaned unabashedly. After a few moments of bliss, you felt a rough, dirty hand slide up the side of your leg. It reminded you that just a few minutes ago, you could feel yourself dripping as you dreamed of this exact scene. But something felt wrong. Your head was swimming and your thoughts were scattered, but you knew that you had forgotten something. Something important. 

 “Welcome me home, my Queen. Not like that little farce this morning. Give me a real welcome.” Drew growled and bit your neck, making you hold in a scream of pleasure... and a small amount of pain… just the right amount. “Come on my love. I want to hear you.” By now his fingers were pushing into your core, threatening to enter you. “Tell me what you want. Tell me what you want and I’ll give it to you.” He was whispering now. In the midst of his beast-like state, he still found softness to give to you. 

 You felt guilty for what you were about to say. You loved your husband more than anything in this world and you wanted to give him what he wanted. What he craved, but…

 “No, Drew. I have to go to that man’s house. I have to see that smithing girl. Today. I really truly have to...  Please, let me go.”

 Your husband froze. He didn’t even seem to be breathing. You swallowed and started to get up from the throne. Only then did Drew back off from you and in doing so, you felt his fingers leave your core. It was devastating. Drew stood to his full height and stared at you. His face was confusion incarnate. You got to your feet only to stumble forward and be caught by your King. Your legs were still shaking from what he had just done.

 “Thank you.” You were barely able to speak let alone look at him.

 “Are you serious? You actually want to go?” His voice didn’t have a hint of malice. But it seemed... small. Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded. The guilt you felt was immeasurable.

 “I’m sorry. I just… I-I… yes. Yes I want to go… and I need to go now. If-If we, um… share each other now, I w-wont be able t-to think of anything else.” You shook, hugging your husband’s chest. “I’m so sorry. I want to give myself to you. I want everything to be perfect when we…” You couldn’t finish your thought. You looked up at Drew’s face, expecting him to be angry, sad, frustrated, anything like that. But the corner of his mouth was turned upwards and his eyes were sparkling. You went to speak before he rolled his eyes and let out a breath of a laugh.

 “On we go then…” The King turned and lumbered away from you, shaking his head dramatically. “The things a man must do to bed a woman.” He spoke over his shoulder. “You’d think a King would at least have an easier time.” He stopped and turned to you. “Well? Are you coming?” 

 A broad smile covered your face as you ran to catch up with your teasing husband.

 The first word that came to mind when you walked through your keep’s village was “quaint.” Compared to the village surrounding your father’s keep, this was a bustling metropolis, but that wasn’t saying much. Every building looked the same, some just slightly bigger than others. The people also looked the same… some were just slightly bigger than others. Everything was a different shade of greyish brown. With a few splashes of specific colors to indicate different shops. You could tell that these people were poor, but none seemed like they were “in-need.” They had dirt on their faces, but they also seemed to have food in their stomachs. The noises that you heard were dull but plentiful. Men grumbling about prices, old women sharing rumors with one another, big wooden wheels of food carts crawling along on the soft peat roads.

 Luckily, your feet and the hem of your dress were safe from the filth. You rode on your horse a few meters behind your escort, your husband. Though he no longer wore his royal circlet, it was obvious to the village folk around you that he was their King. Everyone got out of his path. From the littlest children play-fighting with sticks to the largest men pulling wagons along because they couldn’t afford a mule, all stopped what they were doing and stared at Drew… from a safe distance, of course. You couldn’t help but feel prideful. You saw how the townswomen stared at your husband. How they lusted after him. They also must resent you for keeping him from them, as if they ever had a chance. You suppressed a giggle. All women wanted him, but he was yours by right. And you were going to lay claim to what was rightfully yours… very soon.

 “Well, would you look at that,” you could hear Drew proclaim. You craned your neck as the King slowed up to leisurely ride beside you. This time, you couldn’t contain the laughter that burst out of you at the sight of the little Slibhin sitting in the dirt, dizzy with pain as blood steadily dripped from his nose. It was a lovely sight. Drew looked at you and raised an eyebrow. Your laughter subsided a bit as a hint of shame plucked at you. That was very unladylike. Even Drew, who resented the little man almost as much as you did was able to maintain his composure. Still… it was funny. You didn’t think much of it.

 Drew dismounted and helped you off your mare. You looked at your surroundings. It consisted of hundreds of grey eyes fixed upon you. Some were trying to figure out who you were. Others were judging you for your outburst. Others still were looking on and wondering how a woman so small could lay beneath a man so large and not be flattened. You began to feel self-conscious and fiddled with your sleeve. You took in a breath to address the crowd before you felt the large torso of your King block out the sun as he stepped between you and the masses.

 “Royal business. On with your day.” Drew grunted. Like ants after you pick up the slab they were hiding under, the people disbursed. You reached out and squeezed his hand in thanks before you turned to the building behind you. 

 Under a shoddy overhang, there stood a gigantic forge with multiple anvils, crafting tables, whetstones, and pieces of different metals and ores grouped together by size and type. Your first thought was that no one man could work this forge alone, let alone one girl. On the wall hung more smithing tools than you knew existed. Each one grimy and well-used. Even the wooden handles of the hammers seemed to be rotting, but you couldn’t help but admire how well organized everything was. As Queen, you were in charge of keeping the largest estate in the country in the best shape it can be, and even you could never be this organized.

 You swallowed hard and looked at your husband. By now he had taken the reins of your horses and led them to a water trough. You watched as he sat on a nearby overturned barrel and looked at you. You gave him a weak smile, pleading for some gesture of encouragement. Drew smirked and replied by spreading his legs. Under his kilt, you saw his already glistening cock jutting straight out of a roost of thick, black curls. Slightly less noticeable were the black and purple bruises that seemed like knolls in the tree trunks that were his thighs. They had to be extremely painful, but he didn’t seem to care.  Drew gave you a look. “Don’t take too long,” it said.

 You turned and knocked on the wooden door in front of you. Slibhin gave a groan of pain and mumbled something incoherent. You just rolled your eyes. The big door creaked open a sliver and you saw two pale blue eyes meekly peer out. You blinked a few times in surprise before crouching to be level with them.

 “Umm… may I come in? I believe you’ve been expecting me.”

 The two beautiful eyes nodded before retreating behind the door to heave it open with both hands. This was not how you expected the visit to start, but now you were more curious than ever. You hiked up your dress, stepped over the threshold and entered the house.

This was a home. You could tell that these people were richer than most, but they put nothing they owned to waste. The chairs were cushioned, but with makeshift pillows that seemed to be sewn from very fine, but very torn silks. Suspended from the ceiling beams were little figurines of colored glass that others would put in a cabinet and never dare breathe on for fear of shattering it. They gave the house a comforting glow when the light hit them the right way. In the wooden support beams and rafters were etched runes that you didn’t understand, but liked to look at. They had little statues and figures carved from wood that must have been imported from somewhere far away, but they weren’t for decoration. They either had overcoats draped over them or cooking utensils in their hands. Expensive looking urns and pitchers had been stuffed with soil and sprouted mixed clumps of different wildflowers, giving the house a sweet, clean air. Everything had a purpose, and even fluffy, expensive furs that even the highest of  nobles would keep locked away safe, were used as carpets and doormats. 

 You couldn’t quite explain it, but you felt… safe here. It was like a child’s nursery in a way. While you admired the house you were in, the door closed, and your ear twitched at dainty little ghosts of footsteps. You turned.

 Standing there was a woman that was somehow even smaller than yourself. Her half-braided hair was so light that it appeared silver in the few beams of sunlight that filtered through the shuttered windows. Somehow, her skin was even more fair, with a sweet but extremely shy look on her face. If you were a child, you would have believed her to be a fae. She wore an extremely well made and expensive looking dress... that appeared to have the sleeves, collar, hem, (and practically all areas that caused discomfort in a woman) torn or cut and resewn. It didn’t restrict her in any way. You would be lying if you said you didn’t envy her. You silently cursed yourself for not changing out of your ridiculous gown before making the journey into the village.

 It was only then that you remembered that you had come here to speak with a smith. You quickly glanced at the girl’s arms, noting them to be as weak and as elegant as a willow’s branch. Her fingers were small and lithe, like strands from a spider’s web. Her back and neck … unbent as if it were an icicle, not at all like the hunched over men you had seen working your keep’s smithy. 

 “My Majesty. I am having a great honor, now, to be receiving your person at my little homestead.” 

 You were taken aback by her broken speech, but her voice was absolutely beautiful... like the ringing of a bell. She got on her hands and her knees before you, a bit excessive, but you understood her intent. You began to question if you should reciprocate her absurd amount of formality.

 “Arise, my good hostess. A woman should never have to kneel in her own home.” You gave her a warm smile, and after a pause she rose to her feet but kept her head down.

 “Please have forgiveness for me, Highness. I am stupid to your traditions of the South.” 

 “You’ve done nothing wrong, sweet girl,” you were quick to reply. “I’ve come here as a friend. Please, don’t feel that you’ve insulted me.” The silver girl nodded understandingly, but her shoulders were still tense. You had never met this woman before in your life, but you desperately wanted to reach out and embrace her. To stroke her hair and whisper comforting words to her, like you would a frightened child during a storm.

 “I believe you know why I’ve come here,” you gently pressed. The woman nodded.

 “Yes, to discuss the business of this family. I am begging you, now, to possess a chair of mine.” You smiled at that. The way she spoke was adorable to you. You grabbed a seat and almost gasped as you sank into the cushion. It was just so comfortable. The girl moved to the chair opposite you as if she were gliding on a frozen pond, and nervously sat. A long unnerving silence blanketed the room until you were finally able to find your words. You deeply wanted to just get it all over with.

 “I would just like to tell you that I do wish I could support your claim to your father’s forge. In fact, I- I admire you. Ladies are often not as… bold as you are about your talent.” You spoke about her “boldness” with great hesitation. You have never seen a more meek person in your life, but she must have some bravery in her. If you had learned anything from being the wife of the King, it was that people are not often as they appear.

 The young woman tilted her head and furrowed her brow in confusion. You were afraid that she didn’t understand you and were prepared to repeat yourself in simpler terms, when you noticed her eyes widening. She flung her hand over her mouth to hide a gigantic smile as her shoulders bounced in an attempt to suppress giggles. While it was comforting to see your hostess joyful, you were the tiniest bit offended that her newfound laughter was directed at you. 

 “I am sorry. I am sorry, Queen. Do you… Do you believe that I am the smith?” Her eyes were playful and innocent. A wave of embarrassment flooded over you as all the color was drained from your face. Of course she wasn’t a smith. Any idiot could see that. Just lifting a hammer would exhaust her. The girl gestured to herself. “I am the wife.”

 That sentence caught you by surprise and you looked up at her. Then you remembered that Slibhin had bragged about marrying the daughter of a Laird. She did carry herself like a noble, but… the way she spoke showed that she was certainly not a native of Scotland.

 “Of course. Forgive me, but your accent…” you tentatively asked. The girl nodded.

 “My mother was Norse. She raised me in the old language, being very prideful of her people and of her land.” Your eyes followed her right hand as it played with her left wrist. It was adorned with a pale silver bracelet. Obviously, it had a connection to her mother. “Yrsa,” you heard her whisper to herself, sadly. She took a moment before seemingly returning to the present. The girl continued. “She was for my Scottish father, a reward. A chained bride from conquest. His only desire was to breed savage boys with cold blood. And she did give to him two sons who were strong and brave and warlike... however  he was plainly not content with my birth.” She kept looking at the bracelet, speaking as if you weren’t there. “It was his demand for her to swaddle me by the sea and have the waves take me… he sent my brothers along to witness my death, and to force my mother if she were unable to do it… but she did not do it… and my brothers did not force her. She hid me and when I was able, I played the role of a servant-girl. My brothers aided my farce.” She gave a weak smile. “I will now have been dead by his own hand if he had known of my living. By the time he was made aware of me, I was too old to kill quietly and I proved useful for marriages... in exchange for weapons and armour.” 

 She looked directly at you. Both pride and pain shined in her eyes.

 “I am Sigrdrífa, my Queen. The fruit of a mother’s defiance and two boys’ mercy.”

 At first, you didn’t know what to say. It was good that you finally knew her name, but you were at a loss for words. You only wanted to hear more of her story. Who was her mother? Was she still alive? Did she know that her husband was lying three feet from the door, knocked silly?

 “Sigrdrífa... are you-”

 Just then, outside, you heard a loud thump followed by a comical wail of pain. Slibhin must have been struck by something.

 “This is the smith, my Grace.” Sigrdrífa muttered, almost amusedly. You were suddenly filled with an excited nervousness. This is why you were here after all. To talk with the smith. If she was anything like this little Sigrdrífa, this would be more interesting than you imagined it to be this morning, and you were imagining quite a bit. At least you would have an easier time understanding her.

 The door was busted open with a kick.

 “Oi, te’ foockin’ cunt’s still bleedin’ by te’ nose! Ah dun’t even use me good han’! Ah shoulda done tha’ years ‘go! ”

 She was massive. Her body nearly filled the door frame, blocking out all the light. Her broad shoulders and arms that were left exposed by her leather jerkin were wonderful advertisements for her trade. Her head was shaved, and you couldn’t tell if the brown that sat on her head was stubble, or layers of ash and dirt that seemed ingrained in other parts of her skin. You suspected it was both. She had no indication of a womanly figure. Her clothes were clearly meant for a grown man, and they fit her perfectly. In one fist, she held the necks of several ducks.

 She opened her mouth to speak again and froze. Her eyes were the color of newly unearthed ore with clumps of dirt still clinging to it, begging it to return to the ground. Rough and unrefined, but strong. You felt that her gaze alone was strong enough to knock you down, and it was fixed on you. 

 You smiled and stood, intending to walk towards her, curious, and only the slightest bit intimidated. That all changed when her once toothy smile was swallowed by her tightening lips. Her nose crinkled and you saw her jaw tighten. You swore you could hear her teeth grinding. She took her tree-trunk of a leg and kicked the door closed. You stopped before you could even take one step. 

 You suddenly felt yourself suffocating. Not like you were in the morning, with boredom and stillness, but you couldn’t find your air out of fear for the giant before you. You felt like a caged animal, not a dangerous animal that could fight back, you were something small like a hare or a field mouse. There was just no way you could do anything physical to her. The smith tilted her chin up to as if to speak over  you. The veins in her neck were bulging, but she still stared at you.

 “Te’ son ofa whore wun’t bluffin’. ‘E got te’ bleedin’ Queen… Ya let ‘er in?” Her voice was surprisingly soft. There wasn’t much anger in it, more like she had been slapped in the face… by someone who could actually reach. You looked back at the meek little girl you had just met. She stood up straight with her eyes locked on the smith, not showing one bit of fear. If anything, she seemed annoyed.

 “She is here to be settling your business.” Sigrdrífa spoke slowly, as if explaining to a child. Patronizing. The big woman sneered and stared you down.

 “She dun’t look li’e she’s ready to settle anythin’ wit me.” Your eyes moved to her free hand, where she used her thumb to crack each of her knuckles. Loudly. You gasped when you felt Sigrdrífa’s tiny hand grab your arm. She spoke to you.

 “I give you apologies, my Queen. She speaks harshly for she fears losing her-”

 “Ah’m naw ‘fraid. Notin’ ta be ‘fraid of. Et’s naw gonnae ‘appen.” The large woman continued to stare at you and raised her eyebrows, as if daring you to challenge what she had just stated. You heard forceful, purposeful footsteps come from behind you. You watched as your tiny protector marched up and met toe-to-toe with the mountain at the door.

 “You are behaving as a boar does.”

 “Ye’ eva jump inta a boar’s den? Tear ye’ foockin’ guts out, they will. Rightf’lly so.”

 “You will lose your neck for speaking so.”

 “They’re welcome te’ try ‘n take et.” She still looked directly at you, never breaking eye contact. A ghost of a smile played with the corners of her mouth. She was cocky. She knew that she could do whatever she damn well pleased to you. This was her den, and you had just stumbled blindly into it.

 “Yer naw takin’ me forge. Et’s mine.” The smith just would not stop staring at you.  Sigrdrífa pushed against the smith’s chest. Her porcelain skin seemingly red with anger. 

 “She has been sent here to keep the peace.”

 “She’s been sent ‘ere ‘cos they don’ t’ink ah’d lay a hand on te’ Queen... Bu’ ah can, an’ ah will.” You felt faint. Your head swam in a freezing kind of heat. You wanted Drew here. You wanted him to barge through that door and rescue you. But you knew he wouldn’t. He only escorted you to keep up appearances as King. He let you walk into this house alone. He must have seen the gigantic girl walk in and kick the door shut behind her. He trusted you to settle things here. He wasn’t coming. If you screamed his name, the smith would still get to you first. It was up to you to save yourself, and you were too terrified of the scene before you to conjure anything that could remotely resemble a rational thought. 

 The smith saw this, and was loving every second of your horror and fear. She opened her mouth to say something else when the woman in front of her began to sob. For the first time since she saw you, the giant took her eyes off of you and looked down at Sigrdrífa, her face now immense with concern. She dropped the ducks in her hand and shot her arms up to hold the trembling woman. Sigrdrífa swatted her hands away and punched at her vest.

 “You are not made of metal! You think that you are, but you are not!” The smith went to hold her again, but again she beat away her hands and continued to wail on the giant’s chest. “You will fight the whole of the King’s army? Yes? You will fight every soldier of this Scotland? You will kill every soldier of this Scotland? You will fight the King? You will kill the King?” The smith took in a breath to respond, but was cut off. “You will be KILLED! You will be dead, and I will wish to be dead!” 

 Sigrdrífa’s strength seemed to fall away instantly. Her hands stopped their pounding and fell to her side. She fell forward, directly into the chest of the monster, who immediately wrapped her arms around her, giving her the support that her wobbling legs failed to provide. Sigrdrífa’s shoulders heaved as she wept, and the giant just... held her. You couldn’t believe the scene that was unfolding before you. You didn’t know what to think. Sigrdrífa spoke again, her voice barely above a whisper. You strained to hear. 

 “You are selfish. You are selfish to try and fight the world. When you are dead, I will have lost all of me. When you are dead, there will be nothing to stop him-”

 “No.” The smith spoke with a stern and clear voice. “‘E won’t touch ye again. Even if ah lose ev’rythin’ else, ‘e will never touch ye again. Ah promise, little one.” 

 Little one.

 Your heart skipped a beat.

 You immediately looked up at the big woman. Her eyes were fixed firmly on Sigrdrífa in a state that you instantly recognized. Her eyes were focused, but so soft. Her mouth ever so slightly curled in a contemplative smile, despite the dire circumstances. Her head was tilted to the side. Her breath was slow and even. She looked at Sigrdrífa the same way Drew often looked at you. Just after you caught him staring, and just before he averted his eyes, pretending he didn’t even see you. It was a look of utter adoration. Pure love. 

 Your eyes darted down to Sigrdrífa. Her posture was different than it was a few moments ago. Though she was still distraught, she sought refuge in the person she had just been fighting, as if she had nowhere else to go. She nuzzled her head into the smith’s chest, as if she was trying to disappear into it. 

 Everything clicked into place. Your heart sank. Sigrdrífa was married to Slibhin, the smith’s brother. A brother that she clearly had no affection for... and a man that clearly had no respect for his wife or his sister. They had found refuge in one another. The smith was unapologetic about her brutish nature in front of the dainty girl, and she in turn felt safe to scold this monstrosity of a human without any fear or hesitation. You quickly looked around the room again to recognize the oddity of it all. The unorthodox nature of it. They had taken useless, idle things that Slibhin had most likely purchased using the money that his sister made, and had used them to serve their own comfort, something that Sigrdrífa desperately needed. These two had made a home together. 

 And you were about to take it all away. You couldn’t do that to them. Even if one of them had just threatened your life. You understood why she did so. Drew would have done the very same thing if someone had threatened to hurt you. Actually, he wouldn’t even utter a word of a threat. He would just kill them then and there. You gasped and held your heart. If Drew knew that this girl had threatened you, she would be killed. You had to do something.

 “I support your claim to your forge.” You felt your throat resonate with sound even though you didn’t even feel your lips move. You didn’t feel yourself rise to your feet and take several steps toward the pair, but that’s exactly what you did. Though the smith’s attention was still on Sigrdrífa, you saw her eyes rise up to meet yours. They were red and threatening tears. Somehow, this gave you confidence.  You had to take advantage of it.

 “Also... no one sent me here. I demanded to come here and settle this matter myself.” The smith stood to her full height once again, but still held the girl. Sigrdrífa turned around in her embrace, wiping her eyes in shame of her outburst. Both of them, waiting for what you were going to say. For the first time since entering the house, you felt like the Queen.

 “I may be willing to forgive you for your childish threats if you sit down and let me speak.” Your back straightened and you lifted your chin. In a way, you were trying to emulate Drew when he spoke to his undisciplined recruits. Sigrdrífa gently pushed the smith’s arms away from her, as if they weighed nothing, bent over and gathered the ducks off of the floor, holding them in her arms like a newborn. She took small, slow steps towards you.

 “My Queen, may I ask you to pardon me? I must be preparing these for supper.” Her voice quaked. She was completely embarrassed. You felt pity for her. She was most likely the most gentle woman you have ever met, and she was thrown into the middle of all... this.

 You nodded and gave a ghost of a smile. She bowed her head and retreated to the fireplace. She sat in a rocking chair and began plucking the feathers from the ducks. The chair and fireplace were extremely close to the table. She was well within earshot and could easily talk business with you, but you understood that she just wanted to disappear. You at least could give her that courtesy. 

 You looked back at the smith at the door. She was walking toward you, but stopped in her tracks.

 “Ah was just gonnae sit down. Ah wun’t gonnae do nothin’ else.” She put her hand up, as if swearing an oath. You had to suppress a smile, keeping your regal composition. Even though you were touched at the big woman’s devotion to the smaller one, and even though you desperately wanted them to live happily with one another, free from the little monster that plagued them both, you still were the Queen, and you had been not only insulted, but threatened by your subject. It was your turn to be intimidating, even if your target was just a stubborn, rough, protective giant. Just like Drew.

 “Sit down.” She almost lunged to the seat opposite you. The ground shook with her every step. Even when she was seated, she towered over you. Frankly, you still had trouble believing that she was really that big. You took your own seat. She folded her hands together and hunched forward, clearly trying to show that she was listening. However, in doing so, she took up most of the table. To answer this, you leaned forward yourself and watched in glee as she retreated into the back of her chair. This time, you did smile. Proudly.

 “Tell me why you should keep your forge.” 

 “Ye said ye s’pport me claim.” The big woman was tensing up again. She knew she was being toyed with, but she could do nothing about it. 

 “I do, but I only support your claim because I don’t want to support your brother’s.”

 The smith smiled at that. A broad, toothy smile like the one she wore when she first entered the house. Her teeth were square, and she had a small gap between the front most two. Just like Drew. She was delighted that someone hated her brother. She looked into your eyes, hoping that you would return her smile, and lighten the mood somewhat. You didn’t return anything. Defeated, the smith cleared her throat and spoke.

 “Ah’m te’ furst born. Ah’m from me da’s furst wife. ‘E said I’d ‘ave te’ forge when ‘e died… ‘E died. ”

 “When did your father die?” You tried to formulate some sort of timeline. You didn’t know what for. You knew you shouldn’t get involved too much in their family affairs, but curiosity got the better of you.  The large woman hitched her thumb back at Sigrdrífa..

 “Same day Slibhin brought ‘er ‘ere. Died in ‘is sleep,” she huffed and rolled her eyes, clearly insinuating that that was not, in fact, the way her father truly died. But surely there was no way to prove any foul play. When a dying old man finally passes, nobody really questions why, or how. You got your thoughts together. So Slibhin brought back his wife and then his father ‘died in his sleep,’ meaning that she never truly had power over the forge. It had just passed from her father to her brother. But something wasn’t lining up.

 “Then… when did you... take control of the smithy? I mean, why is your brother begging for help now?

 “Te, King an’ soldiers wen’ off te’ war. Nob’dy te’ enforce it.” She looked at you like you were stupid. You weren’t sure if she realized what her facial expression was offensive or not, but you didn’t like it. Your cheeks grew hot at that insult, but you didn’t pursue it and further.

 “So you’ve been in the head of the house for about… one month?”

 She nodded her head. You opened your mouth to ask another question about the previous whereabouts of her now unconscious brother, but the smith cut you off, already knowing.

 “E’s been livin’ in a whorehouse fer te’ past month. Anythin’ else? Can ah keep goin’?” Her patience was wearing thin, and even though she didn’t intend to scare you, you felt fear creep back up into your chest. But before you were able to even inhale to steady yourself, you heard the faintest sound of someone clearing their throat. You looked back up at the giant woman, who looked confused in turn. You saw her turn in her chair to meet Sigrdrífa’s gaze. 

 The smaller woman didn’t say a word, just narrowed her eyes, pursed her lips, scrunched her nose and gave the smith a curt nod. The universal way a wife signaled to her husband that he was being inappropriate. The smith’s head lowered and she let out a big sigh, causing her shoulders to loosen and drop. Her hand went to rub the back of her neck in embarrassment as she slowly turned back to you, not daring to make eye contact.

 “Ah’m sorry, my Queen,” was all she said. You immediately stopped yourself from forgiving her… and calling her ‘Drew.’ In that moment, you saw your husband in that smithing girl. Utterly and completely. That was the way Drew always apologized to you. From the body language to the facial expression down to the cadence of her words; it was an exact match.

 “Continue,” was all you said. The smith nodded and did just that.

 “Ah’m te’ one tha’ smiths. Ah’m te’ one tha’ earns te’ gold. Me brothe’ dunt kno’ an’thin’ ‘bout makin’ deals wit’ nob’dy. ‘E’s a cunt. Nob’dy want’s te’ work wit’ ‘em. Townsfolk don’ li’e me much, buh… ah’m sure tha’ ah’ve dun be’er than ‘im.. makin’ deals, ah mean...”

 You genuinely nodded along with each point that the smith made… well, the ones you were able to understand. With every breath she took, you wanted more and more to give her the rights to her forge, and it pained you knowing that you couldn’t do so. Even though you didn’t like the girl, you knew that she cared about what was hers, and she was willing to fight for it. Just like Drew.

 “-Wit’out ‘im, ah’ve made more gold ‘n ah’ve eve-”

 “What’s your name?”

 That caused the smith to freeze, mid sentence. She looked at you as if you’ve just grown three heads. You didn’t think what you had asked was difficult… Perhaps she didn’t understand the question? The woman opposite you rubbed her knuckles across the palm of her other hand and bit her cheek.

 “Brynhildr... Ye’ Grace.” 

 “Brynhildr…” you repeated. The guttural pronunciation forced the name to get caught in your throat, causing you to cough a bit. You composed yourself and smiled politely. “That’s an interesting name.”

 “Et’s a’ ugly name,” she corrected you, looking almost apologetic. “If et’s easier, ye’ can call me ‘Breun.’ Most evr’yone else does.”

 Breun, you knew that word. It was Gaelic for something. You took it upon yourself to learn the language, but your teacher became very… excited in hearing you speak the ancient tongue and often cut lessons short to… reward you for being so studious. You had heard the word before. You just couldn’t remember what it was.

 The smith read your mind. “Et means ‘filthy… stinkin’... beastly...  t’ings li’e tha’...” she rolled her eyes and smiled sadly as she told you. Her voice was much softer than when she first walked in, as if she were trying not to upset you. Her eyes were somehow less harsh-looking than before, but just as strong. You felt like they could hold you up and support you, reliably, just by virtue of them looking at you. You stammered for something to say. Something that would give her comfort. 

 “Why- why would they call you that?” Stupid question. Anyone could see that breun was a perfect description of her, and she knew that perfectly well. She gave you a small smile and turned her hands over on the table, palms up, presenting herself as evidence. You quickly shook your head, trying to spare her feelings. “I will not call you that. That’s cruel.” She shook her head.

 “Et’s true. Well... et wa’ true a month ‘go. Now ah git scrubbed bloody e’ry foockin’ sundown.” The smith tilted her head back when saying that, clearly not talking to you.

 “It would not be necessary if  you did not insist on ending every day by wearing a coat of ash,” a soft voice chimed in. You leaned to the side to look at Sigrdrífa, who had not taken her eyes off of her work, but was sporting a shining smile and a deep blush on her cheeks. You chuckled as you imagined the scene of this colossus sitting in a tub too small for her, with a sour expression on her face as the tiny, dainty, soft spoken girl scrubbed her back with a horse brush and reprimanded her for being too dirty… while blacksmithing.

 “Tha’s naw all et means.” Your attention returned to the smith’s face. “Breun also means bold, loud, an’ unladylike.” She shrugged her shoulders. “Dun’t soun’ too ‘orrible te me.” Her eyes sparkled with pride. “Ah won’ be ‘ffended ef ye call me ‘Breun’, Ye’ Grace.” She offered you a smile once more, and this time you returned it sincerely. It must be a family trait, smiling. Her brother Slibhin, you remembered, often sported a smile when speaking to others, but his was snide and arrogant while her’s was humble and giving. 

 “Breun, it is,” you conceded with a nod. “It actually is a fairly handsome name, in my opinion.”

 Breun’s chest swelled as she took a deep breath, trying not to shed a tear. It dawned on you that you may have been the first person to say something truly kind to her. Well, one of the first people at least. She leaned forward to say something, but froze as she just began to open her mouth. A flush of confusion and a tiny bit of fear washed over you.

 You started to speak. “Excuse-”

 “SHHH” Breun scrunched her face up and held a finger uncomfortably close to your mouth. Your heart began to race once more. Sigrdrífa stood up and moved to stand by Breun, putting her hand on her shoulder. The smith seemed completely statuesque. The only part of her that moved was… her ears. They seemed to twitch. You closed your eyes and tried to focus your hearing. 

 At first, you could hear nothing, just stillness. Then, the lightest, faintest dinging sound. It was constant and even, purposeful. Like a musician beating a drum. It was clearly coming from the outside. Drew would be able to see what was happening.

 Breun slammed her hand on the table and pushed herself up, leaving cracks and splinters where her palm hit. She almost sprinted over to the door and flung it open, shouting incoherent curses. You looked over to Sigrdrífa for answers. She just closed her eyes and shook her head.

 “What man would be foolish enough?” What was she talking about? What was foolish and who was doing it?

 “Ah don’ gev a SHITE if yer te’ Fookin’ King o’ Scotlan’! Tha’s MY fookin’ ‘ammer!”

 Oh no.

By the time you were able to hike up your ridiculous dress and run outside, Breun had already tackled your husband to the ground and was in the process of wrestling a hammer out of his hands. Both yours and Drew’s faces were full of surprise and confusion. No one had done this to him before. Many have attempted. Mostly it was just  soldiers who wanted to earn the respect of their King, but they had fallen from him like raindrops against a stone wall.

 At the realization that he had a real challenge before him, Drew’s face quickly turned from shock to savagery. Your husband pushed Breun back and kicked her in the chest, nearly launching her ten feet across the dry, dusty ground straight into the side of an anvil. The girl let out a loud grunt and doubled over. Drew then got back to his feet and looked at you.

 “I thought you said that you could resolve this matter quietly!” The King was about to yell some more when he was knocked into the dirt again. Breun had already gotten back up and charged him, this time focusing on his right shoulder, the arm of which was holding her hammer. Surely enough, he dropped it, and like an attacking hound that had just been called back to her master, she pushed herself off of Drew, grabbed her tool from the dust, and pointed it at him.

 “Right... now fuck off.” 

 That was the clearest you had ever heard her speak. Probably because that was the calmest she had ever looked, satisfied with her performance. Drew, on the other hand, was furious. Even though he had sustained injuries that would render a normal man bedridden for weeks, the mere fact that he had been knocked over was enough to make his blood boil. As Breun stepped over your husband to put her hammer away, he grabbed her ankle and tripped her. She fell flat on her chest, causing the ground to shake and a cloud of dust to explode around her.

 Breun scrambled back to her feet and threw the hammer on a nearby workbench. Drew got up as well, slower than he should have. You called out to him, but he couldn’t hear you. The two stared at one another, and though you couldn’t tell who initiated it, the two locked up as if they were two bulls. You noticed that Breun was about one head shorter than your husband. Drew started pushing forward, causing the stubborn smith’s feet to skid backwards in the dust until her back hit the stone wall of her house. Her eyes went wide as she realized that she couldn’t best your husband in strength. Drew wore a smirk on his face. He knew he had won. The King raised his eyebrows, taunting his opponent. Breun’s face became flushed with fury and embarrassment. 

 You didn’t know if it was out of defiance or desperation, but you watched on in horror as Breun cleared her throat and spat in Drew’s face. You heard gasps behind you. You spun around to see that a gigantic crowd had formed to see their King. Maybe it wasn’t a terrific idea to not have any guards accompany you and your husband to the town. Just then, you saw a woman cover her mouth to silence a scream. You turned back around to see Drew with his arm raised and the hammer in his fist. You bolted forward, trying to intervene, when you saw a flash of silver. The next thing you saw was Sigrdrífa hanging about Drew’s neck, trying to stop his movement somehow, but only having the same effect as a silk scarf would. 

 Although the girl was light, her screams and pleas alerted Drew to her presence. Annoyed, more than anything, he dropped the hammer, shook Sigrdrífa off, and forced Breun to her knees before giving her a swift knee in the gut for good measure. He then marched over to you, wiping off his face.

 “I’m sending the soldiers to settle this mess. They’ll humble that little bitch and we’ll be done with the matter. She had her chance to submit peacefully and she wasted it.” Drew looked at you, waiting for your response. You couldn’t think of anything, except...

 “Why did you take her hammer?”

 That stopped your husband in his tracks. He twisted his face in confusion, and then shook his head. “I figured I could make a full set of armour for every man in Scotland before you finished talking in there.” His answer was mean-spirited and sarcastic. You knew that he was feeling aggressive and embarrassed at the moment, but it still hurt you that he would speak to you like that. You took a step back from him. Drew sighed and rubbed a hand down across his face. 

 “Let’s go.” Drew grabbed your arm, being purposefully gentle, and screamed for the crowd to disperse once more as he led you over to your horses. He untied your mare and lifted you onto her saddle. You saw him grimace in pain at performing the action, but decided that you could say nothing. You had failed. The forge would fall back into the hands of Slibhin (who was still unconscious at his own doorstep) and the two girls you had just met would go back to their miserable lives that they fought so hard to escape. You went to wipe a tear that was forming in your eye when you saw Drew looking at you. He gave you a small smile in an attempt to comfort you, but you turned your head from him. For the first time since your wedding day, you didn’t want to look at your husband. Drew just sighed and started untying his own horse from the wooden beam, only to be stopped by a small hand grasping the hem of his bearskin cape.

 “My Majesty. I beg you to have forgiveness.” Drew turned around and looked down to where the small voice was coming from. Sigrdrífa looked into his eyes and grabbed his hand with both of hers. “The smith... she thinks with her strength, and not her head. She fights before she knows what else to do.” Drew’s eyes softened just a tiny bit. He looked back at Breun, who was staring down at her feet. She nodded in agreement. Sigrdrífa spoke again. 

 “Your rage for her is within me countless times over. I begged her to be quiet... to be calm... and yet she could not do that. But, you cannot ask the waves of the sea not to crash. It is willed to happen by nature. She has no choice. She did not mean to disrespect her King.”

 Drew took a deep breath and rubbed his neck with his free hand. You couldn’t believe what you were seeing. This fragile little thing... speaking to the King of Scotland with such grace and calmness after everything that had just happened. And he seemed to be receptive to it all, as well. You couldn’t help but be the tiniest bit jealous of how... regally she was handling everything. The people around you all seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for him to say something, anything. But before he could, Sigrdrífa let go of Drew and reached up to a rip in his shirt that must have been made during the wrestling match a few moments ago and opened it up with her fingers, revealing a deep purple, almost black bruise that was trickling with blood. In a small voice, you heard her almost whisper.

 “She did not mean to hurt you.”

 In an instant, Drew’s eyes were filled with fury once again. Though she didn’t know it, Sigrdrífa had just insulted the King in the worst way imaginable. She suggested that he was hurt. Your husband refused to ever acknowledge pain around other people, especially those who hurt him. No one had ever heard him even grunt in pain when soldiers sparred with him and landed what would be a devastating hit for any other man. Even you didn’t feel comfortable enough yet to ask to clean his wounds when he came back from battle. He did so himself when he believed you to be asleep. When he bedded you during those times, he would behave much more aggressively, often causing you some pain without realizing he did so. It was an attempt to show you that he was just as much of a man as ever, even when in dire need of rest and healing. 

 It was the worst possible thing the girl could have said to Drew.

 He slapped Sigrdrífa’s hand away... hard. You could hear a multitude of gasps join your own as you tried to process what you had just seen. Sigrdrífa didn’t make a sound. She didn’t even seem to flinch. You figured that she must be used to suffering that sort of pain in silence. Breun was ready to lunge at your husband when Sigrdrífa yelled something in her language, and that prevented the smith from taking a single step. You couldn’t help but marvel at the control the tiny girl had over the beast. Drew hesitated for a moment, clearly regretting what he had done, but knowing that if he were to do anything to apologize, he would appear to be weak. Drew looked at Breun.

 “This time tomorrow, members of the royal guard will have come by to inspect the forge. If they find that you are still defiant in obeying your brother, they will do all that is necessary to restore order.” Drew pushed the girl away, and she fell into the dust. Breun ran to her and wrapped her arms around her, almost completely shielding her from the world. Not even paying any mind to Drew. “Does anyone else have any objections?” the King roared. Everyone in the crowd looked at their feet. No one in their right mind would even look into the King’s eyes after everything that had just occurred. Though, you did notice when you scanned your eyes across the masses, that many of the people looked somber. You remembered the smith mentioning in passing that the townsfolk preferred dealing with her over her brother. Through your husband’s decree, not only was Breun losing something, but the village was as well. But you doubted that anyone was going to bring that to his attention.

 Drew untied his horse and put his foot in the stirrup. His steed jumped, as if he didn’t recognize his master. Drew grabbed the reins and jerked the animal’s head to keep it obedient. You couldn’t quite tell why, but a wave of terror spread over you. 

 Watching your husband climb laboriously into his saddle was almost torturous. You saw him bite the inside of his cheek and hold back grunts of pain as he hoisted himself up. When he sat straight, his gaze fixed itself upon you. For a moment you considered turning your head away from Drew, but found it impossible. Be it out of pity, fear, or a mix of both, you were unable to look away from your husband as he stared at you, accusatory.

 “You shouldn’t have gotten their hopes up.”

 You inhaled sharply, intending to speak in your defense, but after a second, you just bowed your head in defeat. You didn’t want to fight. You didn’t have the strength to say a single word of disagreement. “Yes, my King,” was all you could say.

 Drew nodded and moved his horse forward. You followed suit. The sun had just reached its noontime peak. Lunch would do your husband some good, you decided. You were unsure if you would be able to eat anything. Your stomach felt knotted and tight. At least it was all over now.

 “Ye cheated.”

 Drew’s shoulders tensed. He cracked his neck and turned his horse around, as did you. There, a few yards away, holding the frail silver woman was that stubborn smith who just didn’t know when to quit. 

 “Say that again.” Drew’s teeth were clenched. Tight.

 Breun grunted as she rose, holding the silver girl like a bride. She set Sigrdrífa on her feet, and duster her off, subtly tucking a stray hair behind her ear in the process. You heard a quiet “thank you” from the girl. Breun then smiled and gently pushed her off to the side, to relative safety.

 “Ye cheated. Ye were gonnae bash me ‘ead in wit me ‘ammer.”

 “You spat in your King’s face.”

 “Yer naw te’ King when ye fight!” Breun sounded appalled. “A fist cannae tell te’ diff’rence ‘tween comm’ners ‘n nobil’ty. Yer jus’ a man when ye fight... An’ ye cheated.” 

 Of all the things to be concerned with at the moment, you couldn’t believe that the smith was attempting to rationalize and delegitimize her loss to Drew. You didn’t believe that Breun had much wits about her, and clearly it had hurt her pride, but standing back up after she had been humbled and challenging him again wasn’t just stupid, it was suicide. You looked to Drew, but surprisingly, his face was stoic and unreadable. 

 “‘You’re just a man when you fight,’” Drew spoke very slowly, as if contemplating each word’s meaning. There was something in his voice that unnerved you. It seemed... cunning and dripping with malicious intent, like Slibhin had sounded when he was petitioning for some soldiers. Leaning forward in his saddle, the corners of his mouth turned up ever so slightly and he raised his eyebrows.

 “Is that how you feel when you fight? Like a man?” Drew let out a small chuckle. The crowd around him burst with loud, deep laughter that shook the air itself. The smith had told you that the townsfolk didn’t like her, but you didn’t expect this level of animosity. Breun herself didn’t move a muscle. Whether she was petrified by the comment or it had passed her by, unimpactful, you couldn’t tell. She seemed to be waiting for the laughter to die down so she could speak. She seemed very unamused. 

 When the thunderous laughter fell into a dull roar of mocking quips and insults from the crowd, Breun walked toward her forge and picked up the blade of an axe that hadn’t been fitted to a handle yet. The crowd went dead silent. You even saw a few men break out into a sprint away from the scene. That would have made you smile and maybe giggle, but you were too preoccupied with all the stupid things that Breun might do with that blade. However, she just looked it over.

 “T’is wha’ ye’ were werkin’ on?” She didn’t take her eyes off the axe-head, purposefully avoiding looking at Drew, as if to insult him. The King’s grip on his reins tightened and he gave a curt nod.

 “Aye.”

 “Aye? Et’s’ done.”

 “It’s hideous.” You couldn’t disagree with your husband there. The blade was a dark grey color, not at all like the glimmering pieces that your husband would present to you. It seemed warped and strange, like it was rotting. In short, it was hideous. It didn’t even look sharp. But Breun just sighed and shook her head, as if she was humor in the matter. 

 She rolled her shoulders back, and took a deep breath, closing her eyes. Sigrdrífa took a small step back and covered her ears. You wondered what was going to happen when you saw Breun open her eyes and let out a monsterous yell. As she did so, she swung her arm around and smashed the blade into the corner of her house. Sparks flew and you heard the most ear-piercing, shrill shriek that you ever thought possible as the stone was hit. Your horse bucked, and it took everything in you to not fall to the dirt. You shushed and calmed her as you stroke her side. You looked to Drew, but his unfriendly gaze was still fixed on the smith. You doubted that he even noticed that you nearly fell from your horse.

 Breun looked at your husband and smiled. The then let her fingers uncurl themselves from the blunt side of the blade and dropped her hand to her side, leaving the axe embedded in the stone. She raised her chin and called out.

 “Calhoun!” 

 You heard an elderly man’s voice ring out through the crowd. “Aye!”

 “Ye’ got any logs stronger ‘n stone?”

 “Nae!”

 “T’is’ll do fine then! Et’s gonnae be ready t’morrow!” Breun then promptly ripped the blade out of the stone and tossed it back onto the side of the forge, never breaking eye contact with the King. She smiled. 

 “Ah’m better ‘n a man. Ah’m a better smith ‘n tha’ fookin’ King.”

 You lowered your head. You truly felt pity for Breun. This was all she could do. Trying to show her strength as a last ditch effort to save something that she had already lost. Like a bear cub would roar in an attempt to terrify the hunter who had already stuck it with a spear. She had nothing left, all that she could do was put on her little show and try not to make a fool of herself any further.

 “No you’re not.”

 Your neck nearly snapped itself as you whipped your head to look at your husband. Being this close to him, you were able to see the features of his face that you couldn’t before. The corners of his eyes were red from lack of sleep. Directly under his nose was a fair amount of blood that had dried and clung itself to his dark facial hair, effectively hiding it from view. His chest was moving, as if just breathing was a great challenge for him. He clearly wasn’t in his right mind, or else he would have dismissed the insult as a fruitless attempt to provoke him. 

 But she was getting to him, and she knew it. Breun’s eyes lit up when Drew took the bait. She walked over to the wall where her tools hung and grabbed two identical hammers. Your eyes widened. She was going to challenge him. For the rights to her forge. Either she knew that something was wrong with your husband or she felt confident that she could out-smith the King. You looked to where Sigrdrífa was standing in the doorframe of her house. Her eyes were closed and her head was turned to the ground, she knew what was happening, but didn’t seem optimistic about it. 

 “Prove et.” Breun stood in the dirt road a few yards away from you, her arm outstretched with a hammer, the handle pointed at Drew. “Prove tha’ yer a better smith ‘n me.”

 This couldn’t go on any further.

 “Stop!” you heard yourself shout from atop your horse. All heads, including the one of your husband, turned to you. You swallowed hard. You despised yourself for what you were going to say… but it had to be said. “The King and I have both indulged in your childish games for long enough! You work at your brother’s forge, under his authority. Whatever chance you believed you had at persuading myself to pity you has been killed by your idiocy and your lack of respect for your King. It is over, smith. You’ve lost.” Breun still didn’t budge. Out of desperation, you added, “ Just today my husband has killed a man far more powerful than you believe you are. Trust me, I am protecting you. To protest any further would be suicide.”

 You raised your chin and gave a definitive nod. Turning to your husband, you saw the smile of satisfaction that you prayed he would have after you had spoken. You looked back at Breun, whose face was unreadable, though she no longer held out her arm. You dared not look at Sigrdrífa. You knew that what you had just said had broken that girl’s heart, betrayed her trust, and damned her to a husband that… you didn’t even want to think about it. You wish you had never learned her story. You wish that you never grew to care about the two women whose lives you were destroying. You wish that you had never seen the home they made together. You wish that you had just kept your mouth shut at Court, and ran to your bedroom to have Drew fuck you until you couldn’t see straight, leaving you in ignorant bliss.

 But you had made a choice, and now you were paying for it. The shame that you felt was masked by the inviting grin that you gave Drew, hoping that he would forget about all this and rush you both back to the keep. Just to be safe, you leaned toward him and whispered.

 “I would like to give you your apology for this mess… along with your welcoming, as soon as we arrive home.”

 A cruel giggle bubbled inside of you. It was extremely ironic. This was the very first time you spoke, or even acted provocatively toward Drew. The first time you initiated intimacy… and it was insincere. But Drew didn’t seem to notice. Or if he did, he didn’t mind. He gave one last look at Breun, who appeared to have taken a few steps toward you and your husband. He didn’t say a word, but simply nodded his head and pulled the reins of his horse, showing his back to the smith. You followed suit, not daring to look the woman in the eye as you turned, knowing that if you did, you would run back to her side and beg the King on her behalf, and the whole Hell you had just endured would start all over again. This was all your fault. Your need to interfere in these women’s lives was the cause of all this suffering. You knew you had to leave before you caused any more harm. You urged your horse forward.

 “Good on ye’, Yer Grace. Ah nev’r took ye’ fer a man tha’ listen’d te ‘is wife. Et’s a rare virtue.” 

 You did your best to keep moving forward. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Drew’s jaw tighten. He was angry, but at least he was still ignoring her. Everything could still work out.

 “Ye’ must love yer Queen. Well… ah least more ‘n yer first one.”

 All the blood drained from your face as your entire body went cold. You closed your eyes and let your head fall into your hands. You heard Drew rear his horse around to face the smith, but it sounded like there was a barrier between you and the rest of the world. As if you were in a bubble. As if you were drowning. 

 “You speak of my wife again, you’ll wish you were never born..”

 “Ah men’ no ‘ffence, Ye’ Grace. Ah jus’ tha’ well… y’know…”

 “WHAT!” Drew screeched, uncharacteristically.

 Even though your eyes were closed tight, the vision of the smith standing there and Drew’s enraged face was burned behind your eyes. You could still see what was happening, and you just knew that Breun was smiling. She thought she was playing your husband perfectly. Riling him up, making him question himself. She thought she knew what she was doing. She thought she was going to get him to fall for her trap, but there was no way she knew how close to terrible, horrific pain and suffering she was, even if she would be spared from death. That was probably for the best. No other man would ever face Drew if he knew what The King was capable of.

 “Et’s jus’ tha’... we,” Breun took a pause, most likely gesturing to the crowd around her, “found et… odd tha’ when sh’ died… ye’ wed ‘gain awful quick-”

 “WHAT ARE YOU SAYING!” Drew screamed. You almost lifted your head and attempted to calm him, but you found yourself unable to move.

 Breun’s voice dropped all of the mock friendliness that it held moments ago.

 “Riches’ woman en te’ world. Lives in te’ world’s bes’ castle. Owns te’ world’s bes’ furs. Et’s te’ world’s bes’ food... Dies of a... chill?” 

 Your hands gripped at your hair as you shook your head. You felt your heart beating faster than it ever had before. Your breaths became shorter and shorter. You felt like you had been poisoned.

 “We jus’ wonder wha’ kinda man ye’ are.” You heard the smith take another step toward him. “Wha’d she do? Got too loud? Too ‘pinionated? Not as pretty as she was when ye’ furst saw ‘er? Squirmed too much when ye’d try te’ force a son in ‘er?”

 You heard Drew hop off of his horse and land on his feet with a pain-filled grunt. You breathed in the dust he had just kicked up, making it harder for you to get any air into your already strained lungs.

 “I’ll show you what kind of man I a-” Drew stopped mid-sentence as you heard a whirring sound of something being thrown and the soft pat of him catching something. It had to be the spare hammer Breun had been holding. You wanted to look, but you were... paralyzed by some invisible force. You felt a cold sweat on your forehead and under-arms. You wanted someone to hold you. Drew. But at the same time, you wanted to run from him. You urged your arms to at least cover your ears so you wouldn’t have to listen, but you couldn’t even do that.

 “Tha’ ye’ will. Ye’ Grace. Tha’ ye’ will.”

 You could hear Breun pacing in the gravel, like an actor on a stage.

 “Now, ye’ can thrash me wit’ tha’ ‘ammer. Beat me ‘till ah’m bleedin’ tru’ me arse, if ye like. Ah’ll recover in a few days... But, if ye’ can win a smithin’ contest ‘gainst me? Ah’ll never wannae show me face ‘gain. Ah’d be broken. Me life’d mean not’in’. Smithin’s all ah am. ‘T’s all ah’ll ev’r be. If ye’ beat me... ye’d kill me.” You heard her footsteps grow louder as Breun took slow steps toward Drew. “And ah t’ink ye’ really wannae kill me.”

 A heavy, sharp silence rained down upon the crowd. You felt dizzy. It’s as if you were frozen solid, but constantly being urged to move, as if lightning strikes flowed through your veins. You closed your eyes tighter, hoping that someone would come and take you away from all this, but praying that no one even noticed you. 

 “We’ll both make pieces. Doesn’t matter what. Better smith wins.” You heard Drew growl. 

 “An’ te’ judge?”

 “The Queen.”

 You tried to react, but there was nothing else your body could do. Nothing else you could possibly feel.

 “Te’ fookin’ Queen? Naw.”

 “The Queen. No one else.”

 “Naw.” Breun seemed unbothered, her demeanor was of someone who was trying to figure out what to wear for the day. “She’d choose ye…” You could hear her stance shift. Her voice became gruff and accusatory.

 “Ah kno’ wha’ ‘appens t’ girls who defy thei’ belov’d ‘usbands.”

 Drew inhaled sharply. More murmurs rippled throughout the crowd. Through it all, you heard footsteps that were heading towards you at an alarmingly fast pace. You gasped as you felt a hand touch your thigh and, as if by some invisible force, you opened your eyes.

 Standing there, looking up at you, was a delirious and bloody Slibhin.

 “My Lady, what have you done?”

 And with that, the world went black around you.

Your fingertips twitched and your eyelids fluttered as you slowly began to regain consciousness. Underneath your fingers, you could feel soft, clean linens covering a mattress. On top of you, you felt the gentle weight of a blanket. You gently moved your head and felt the lenient, forgiving pillow cradle your neck. Your eyes fluttered open, and though your vision was blurred, you could tell instantly, that you were in your room. A contented sigh left you as you turned your head once more to look out of your balcony window, as you did every morning. 

 However, something was different about the sky. You squinted and tried to make sense of what you were seeing. Instead of it’s usual rosy, periwinkle coloring, this morning boasted a sky of bright amber and indigo. You turned over to ask your husband about this, when you found his side of the bed empty. There was not even an imprint left behind by his massive body, as there usually was on the embarrassingly common occasion that he woke before you.

 You made a confused face and sat up in your bed. When the blanket fell from your chest, you saw that you weren’t dressed in your nightgown. Instead you were wearing that damned dress. The tight, itchy, uncomfortable thing that now seemed stuck to your skin by your sweat. You rubbed your forehead and saw dried dirt flake from your skin. You gasped as everything came back to you. The petitioner, the smith, the fight, the shame. Everything. You began to cough uncontrollably as the dried dirt entered your lungs. 

 Enraged, and with tears in your eyes, you fell out of your bed and ran to your bedroom door. You were sure that the sound you made while kicking the door open would be heard clear across the sea. Servants and guards ran to you as you marched down the hallway, unyielding, as if you were made of metal. 

 “Your Majesty! Your Majesty please return to your bed!” you heard one woman yell. “We’ll draw you a bath and bring you some food, my Queen.” you heard another shout. The torches and tapestries all seemed to blur together as you rushed past them. By now, two guards had positioned themselves at the end of the hallway, waiting for you to meet them so they could stop you.

 “Saddle my horse!” your voice boomed throughout the keep. You came up to the two guards.

 “I’m sorry, Your Majesty, but we can’t do that. The King gave us direct orders to-”

 “Where is the King? Where is my husband?” you asked with fire in your eyes. You were trying to hide the fact that you were panting, exhausted. A strand of hair fell into your eyes and you violently pushed it back.

 “The King is dealing with official business. He will be back shortly. Please let us escort you back to-”

 “Where is he? I must speak with him. Now.”

 “As I said, My Queen, the King is dealing with-”

 “Where.”

 There were no mirrors about, but you could tell from the look in the guards’ eyes, that you resembled a madwoman. You decided to use this to your advantage. 

 “His Royal Highness is not the only monarch here who knows what it is like to brutalize her enemies. Do not give me a reason to doubt you.” The two guards stood frozen. Now, you knew very well that you couldn’t defeat these two in combat, at least in your present condition, but they recognized your power, and recognized that antagonizing you, in your present condition, would be a very stupid thing to do.

 “His Majesty is dealing with the smith,” one guard whimpered. 

 “They have been… negotiating since yesterday and all of today,” said the other, meekly.

 A million different things rushed into your mind. First, the smith was still alive, at least for now, and had a chance of keeping her forge. That means that Drew must have accepted her challenge and the two had found another judge. Secondly, you had been unconscious for an entire day and a half, and your husband didn’t stay by your side. Thirdly, and arguably most importantly, you knew that you had to be at the scene. You didn’t care about how you looked. You didn’t care that you had disgraced yourself in front of your entire village. All you knew was that you were heavily involved in creating this mess, and you had to be very heavily involved in stopping it.

 “Saddle my horse.” you repeated, gravely. This time, you were greeted with nods and servants rushing about, trying to appease their Queen, or at the very least, avoid her wrath.

As the sun set, you rode fast and hard back to that damned smithy. As you approached, you saw that the entire village had gathered to watch this apparent contest. People had set up tents, and vendors weaved in and out of the crowd, trying to sell their wares. Children sat atop their father’s shoulders. Torches littered the streets, lighting up the town as if it were a festival. Even royal guards were mingling with the common folk. Your brow furrowed as this somehow enraged you.

 “Move!” you yelled, hoping to clear a path for yourself. However, your voice was so small compared to the cacophony that was the crowd, that you yourself could barely hear it. Luckily, if the villagers couldn’t hear the weak plea of an angered Queen, they would still run from a charging mare.

 You ignored the hundreds of eyes that followed you as you rode by, and finally came across the smith’s house. There, you saw everything. 

 First, your eyes went to your husband. Drew was shirtless, hammering away at an anvil. His face was almost unrecognizable as it was completely covered in ash and soot. His eyes were a deep red with irritation caused by the forge’s fumes. His hair had become undone and draped along his shoulders. His shoulders. You could see his muscles spasming with every movement. His body was shutting down, you could see it. And yet, these people cheered him on.

 Your eyes switched over to Breun, who stood beside Drew at another anvil. She had shed her leather jerkin and now only wore a shirt that she had obviously ripped the sleeves ripped off when she bought it. Curiously, the cambric clothing that she wore revealed that she did have a surprisingly female figure. Her breasts were large… well an average size if not a bit smaller than what was proportionate for her. Her waist was by no means slender, but did appear so due to her wide hips. And yet it seemed like there was no place on her body that was not insanely muscular. Not muscles like Drew had, where he took care in making sure he kept in shape for battle (and for you). You could tell she gained her strength from working. She didn’t meticulously sculpt her strength, but she had it all the same. In an odd way, it seemed completely reasonable for men and women alike to be both repulsed by and lust after her form. You knew that if she were able, she would shed the undershirt altogether. Her neck craned and was clearly cramped. She was clearly in pain as well. However, you noticed that her hammering was just a touch faster and harder than Drew’s.

 Suddenly, you saw Breun drop her hammer on the table, grab what appeared to be tongs, pick a small piece of metal and rush to the other side of the area. She dropped it into a barrel where a man made a tally mark onto parchment, before rushing back to her station and taking up the hammer once more. You blinked, and Drew copied her exactly. Then, another man made a tally mark on another piece of parchment.

 You looked around, as if searching for someone to explain to you what was happening. You called out for Drew, but he didn’t hear you. You shouted for a guard, but your voice drowned in the sea of shouts and cheers made by the townspeople. An old man came up to you and tried to sell you some small bird he insisted was pheasant. You shooed him away only to realize the pangs in your stomach. You knew that you hadn’t eaten since this morning, but it shouldn’t be this bad. You felt lightheaded and practically fell off your horse, somehow landing on your feet. The world spun around you as the blood pumped in your ears.

 “My Majesty?”

 That voice. That beautiful little ringing bell of a voice. You gave a sigh of relief and turned to face the sound. But when you turned and saw Sigrdrífa, you were not put at ease. In fact, the exact opposite happened. You saw her there, still as clean and healthy as she was when you left, but dressed in a new gown, one that looked more expensive and more uncomfortable than anything you cared to own. Her hair was fashioned in a gaudy kind of bun, stuck with pins and ribbons. She stood next to an ornate and ridiculously expensive looking canopied seat where her now cleaned off and re-dressed husband, Slibhin was reclined and sipping what appeared to be wine from a goblet (that was also ornate and ridiculously expensive looking.) Soldiers stood beside the two, obviously appearing to guard the two from any unruly peasants or troublemakers, but you knew they were put there by Slibhin to make sure his little wife stood by his side.

 Sigrdrífa took in another breath to speak to you once more when her husband gave an annoying “Ahh!” after finishing his drink and, without looking at her, practically threw the goblet into the silver girl’s hands. This caused her to stop in her tracks and look at the ground, obediently. Like she was a beaten dog. 

 In an instant, you had forgotten your hunger and weakness as you marched straight toward that gaudy throne. One guard looked at the other and nodded toward you. They both pointed their pikes toward you.

 “Careful, witch,” one guard warned.

 “Stay back now, we don’t want trouble,” tried the other.

 You looked at the two guards incredulously. They stared back at you, confused. Slibhin, without looking at you, rolled his eyes and tossed a bronze coin in your general direction. It fell into the dust a few feet away from you.

 “There, now get out of my sight… begging whore,” he spoke under his breath. Sigrdrífa’s eyes widened and she covered her mouth. Again, your anger made you forget your appearance and you practically growled through your clenched teeth.

 “Is that how you treat your Queen?”

 You had never seen someone’s eyes widen so quickly. Slibhin flopped from his chair and into the dirt, groveling and weeping. You saw Sigrdrífa smile ever so slightly at that. The two guards began to walk toward you with immense concern in their eyes.

 “My Queen, let us escort you back to-” You put your hand up to stop them and beckoned for Sigrdrífa to follow you. She went to you immediately, but the guards were not yet done. “Please, the King has ordered all of his guards to keep you-”

 “Fuck the King’s orders!” you screamed with impunity. “If my husband demands something of me, he will tell me to my face. You-” you pointed at Sigrdrífa again. “You’re coming with me.” You grabbed the girl’s hand and walked toward the front door of her house. You paused as she opened the door for you and you looked back at Drew. He had just finished another piece of… something, and he was running to drop it in his barrel, which made him run directly toward you. 

 His eyes were upright and you could have thought they were staring at you, but you knew deep down, that he was staring through you. It’s not that he didn’t recognize you. He didn’t know you. You had seen that look in his eyes before, when he was training in the yard. His intensity and focus always inspired the new recruits, but he always snapped out of it when he saw you. But this time it was different. You had seen him prepare for battles before, but right now… he was in battle. And he was terrifying. Donning only a kilt and boots, your King was fighting for his life.

 You came to when Sigrdrífa took your arm and attempted to lead you into her house. You ripped your arm away from her and looked back at Slibhin who was attempting to follow you in. “No.” was all you had to say before he fell down once more and crawled back to his guards and his ridiculous chair. You turned once more to Sigrdrífa and nodded curtly before walking into the house before her.

With your head turned down, you marched toward the table and chairs that you remembered from your first visit nearly two days ago. You needed something, some kind of base to hold you up. Some sort of comfort. You plopped down into what you remembered to be a blissful, makeshift pillow, and yowled in pain as your backside fell into flat, hard wood. Your body wanted to hop back up to a standing position, but your legs wouldn’t let you. You stayed seated on the most uncomfortable seat imaginable. 

 You opened your eyes wide and were greeted by a pristine, beautiful home that held you in like a prison. All of the… personality you saw two days ago was ripped away, crumpled up, and thrown into a far corner to be thrown out later. Replaced by sterile and beautiful… things. The only sign of life you could detect was a hint of embers burning beneath a simmering pot. You opened your mouth to comment on the change when you heard a little grunt and the closing of the front door. Sigrdrífa turned to you and curtsied. 

 “Hello again, my Queen. Are you well?” She smiled. Like a little doll, she was. Her back straight, her hands holding each other in front of her. Just like your servant girls did when they were awaiting an order. Her smile was perfect. It made her ears perk up and showed a small, charming crinkle in the corners of her eyes. Her eyes, oddly enough, were the ones that betrayed her. They were full of fear. She didn’t feel safe. Her husband had control over her once more, and her only friend in the world was practically killing herself, unable to keep the promise she made of him never touching her again. She wasn’t sure if she could even trust you. She was all alone. This was her only form of protection now. Her beautiful, dutiful doll-like demeanor was all she had for armour. 

 You stared at her for a moment. She stayed perfectly still, as if she were made of marble. A wave of sadness washed over you and for a moment, all of your anger and confusion subsided. You opened your arms out toward her. It only took a moment before her mask cracked, and she ran to you, falling to her knees and sobbing into your lap. You just held her and stroked her long, silver hair, gently shushing her. 

 Her shoulders heaved with each gasping breath she took. Her heart beat as quickly as a mouse’s, almost like it was humming. You wanted to let her cry. Let her expel all the fear, sadness, and hatred that was festering inside of her little glass heart. But you knew you couldn’t do that. You needed to act. And in order to do that, you needed answers. You took your hand and gently lifted the girl’s chin so that her red, swollen eyes met yours.

 “Sigrdrífa,” you gently tried, “What is happening here?”

 She just closed her eyes tightly and shook her head before seeking refuge again in the folds of your dress. You took a sharp breath before taking her chin once again and forcing her to look at you. This scared her, but you held firm.

 “Tell me. I need to know.” 

 She looked at you for a moment, not saying anything. You silently kicked yourself for your aggression. 

No matter what urgency you felt, it would be cruel of you to take advantage of this disadvantaged girl. You smoothed your thumb over her cheek, wiping away a tear.

 “Please. I don’t know what’s happening.”

 The girl nodded her head. She slowly stood up and sat in the chair opposite of you, bracing herself against the hard, unforgiving wood. She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. Her voice shook.

 “The smith and the King are in contest, My Queen.” She sniffled and cleared her throat. “They have been smithing to see who can first make one thousand…” she trailed off, her mouth slightly open and her brow furrowed as she tried to think of the correct word. You leaned forward to try to encourage her. She sighed. 

 “Nagl.” She said, and made a hammering motion.

 “Nails? The first to make one thousand nails?” you gently pressed. Her eyes lit up.

 “Yes. One thousand nails. It is claimed that in order to be known as a true smith, a man must first make one thousand nails. The greatest of these smiths can forge a single nail in less than one minute, I have heard.”

 You immediately tried to calculate in your head how far along those two must be if they had been smithing for almost two days, and if what Sigrdrífa said was true. But your head was too cloudy to come to any kind of answer. You closed your eyes and pressed your palms into your temples. You could feel the world spinning around you. 

 “My Queen? What is wrong? Are you to become sick?”

 You absolutely felt that way, but somehow, you were able to look the silver girl in her concerned eyes and compose yourself.

 “I’m fine… I just…” You had to think of something to say. Anything. “How did they get all that metal?” Sigrdrífa looked down. You figured she didn’t understand the question. “For the nails? I don’t remember seeing enough metal to make one thousand nails in the smithy.” The little woman shuffled her feet for a moment before speaking to you deliberately and slowly, as if careful not to offend you.

 “The metal was taken from the royal forge. The King ordered it to be brought here after you… were taken back to the castle.” 

 You nodded your head, accepting the answer. Everything started to make slightly more sense. Forging one thousand nails would eliminate the need for a judge. Also, you supposed that the nails could be used to rebuild houses in the countryside that had been destroyed by the recently ended war. You sighed. Everything seemed more reasonable than it did a few moments ago. It felt like a small victory in a way, understanding what was happening around you when it felt like the world was trying it’s very best to confuse and scare you. You wanted to know more, as if it gave you more power over your situation.

 “So, what happened while Drew and I went back to the keep? Did the entire village swarm the house and set up this… festival?” You asked in a lighthearted manner. This caused Sigrdrífa to pause and hold her hands to her chest. She murmured. 

 “The King did not follow you…  He stayed and arranged the terms of the contest with the smith.”

 Your heart sank. Drew, your beloved husband, hadn’t even followed you back to the keep? How did he know you were safe? How did he know you were even alive? Did he not expect you to wake up before he had won? And if you did wake up (which you did), did he not expect you to come back to him? The one thing that you had always believed to be true about your husband was that Drew protected what was his. No matter what. And all of a sudden this truth was no longer true. You felt your eyes sting once again, but you held those damned tears back. You had cried enough.

 Sigrdrífa leaned forward and gently took your hand, cradling it as if the bone were broken. She took a few breaths before looking you in your eyes.

 “My Majesty, is the King… good to you?” she whispered, as if she were telling you a secret while sat in a crowded room. 

 But, you had been asked this question before. For the first few weeks you were married to Drew, you had received dozens of  letters from your parents asking about how your new husband treated you. You assured them in many, many responses that you were being treated well, and that Drew showed you nothing but respect and adoration. However, this time the question put you off, quite a bit actually. You understood her concerns, considering the fact that she had only ever seen Drew as this seemingly aggressive tyrant. But he had only ever acted that way because he was being provoked. Sure, you didn’t appreciate how he was behaving, but you at least understood why he was behaving that way. Breun hadn’t even tried to come to an agreement in a civil manner. She had never even spoken a civil word to Drew after their first interaction... which was her tackling him. Hell, the only reason she had even listened to a word you said was because Sigrdrífa forced her to.

 You wondered to yourself how this little thing could control a giant. You looked back at the silver girl sitting opposite of you. Her face was leaned in and attentive. Her eyes were wide with curiosity and care. 

 “Yes, sweet girl. The King is very good to me. He is just very…” You searched for the right word. “Frustrated.” You paused and raised your eyebrow. “And... I’m positive that the… boarish actions of a certain smith haven’t helped him very much.”

 You were wondering what reaction you would get out of her. You suspected she would be embarrassed or ashamed of her sister-in-law, eager to apologize for her actions. Instead, she wore a smirk on her face and let out a small huff. 

 “I am afraid that the smith’s behavior is my doing,” Sigrdrífa murmured. “When I was newly brought to the village, she never even spoke. She only ate when the food was tossed to her. At night she would lie on straw and rotting furs on the outside of the house, but never close her eyes. Flugur would buzz by her; crawl on her skin, bite her, and she would allow them.”

 That was a shock to you. You wracked your brain, trying to imagine Breun as docile. How could someone so hardheaded be so passive? Sigrdrífa said herself that it was in Breun’s nature to be confrontational. 

 “When did she become so… protective?” you asked her, trying to sound nice. Sigrdrífa’s face turned red and her eyes refused to meet yours.

 “Because… I needed to be protected, my Queen.”

 There was shame in her voice. Guilt, even. A tear fell from her eye as she shook her head, as if trying to bring herself back to reality. A million things flew through your mind; mostly images. Images of Sigrdrífa cowering in fear. Slibhin with that damned smile on his face, touching her. Breun finally taking action against him for the first time in her life. The look Breun gave Sigrdrífa, letting her know she was safe. Sigrdrífa showing Breun the first kindness the smith had ever known. The most fragile beginnings of trust connecting the two as they both tried to navigate how to live with happiness. 

 Your thoughts were interrupted by the ringing of a bell and the raucous cheering of the crowd outside.

 “Only a few nails left,” Sigrdrífa murmured to you. 

 You turned back to her. “Who has only a few nails left?”

 “The King, of course. Why else would the people cheer?” Sigrdrífa crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself. She let her head hang low. “It’s almost over.” You saw a few tears splash down onto her lap. You didn’t reach for her though. Instead, you were confused.

 “You don’t think Breun will win?”

 Sigrdrífa shook her head. “Her body is too worn.”

 You opened your mouth to ask why she was worn, but your hostess guessed your question before you asked it.

 “She has been forging my mundr… my bride-price. I was traded to Slibhin for weapons and armor; the smith had to make these to pay for me. She had been working for months to complete things for my father, my brothers, and their favorites. She pushed herself so far... if she did not complete them in time, I would have been taken back by my father. AND... after she had finished those, she still did not rest. No, she worked twice as hard to finish her work for the villagers that she had missed during that time! Only a few days ago could I convince her to sleep the whole night, and eat all of her food! Now she challenges the King to-”

 Sigrdrífa cut herself off with a huff, clearly frustrated. You had to suppress a giggle at how flustered the girl was, but you understood the fear and anxiety she felt. She believed that Breun had no chance against your husband. However, you knew that not to be true.

 “Sigrdrífa, the King may not have as much of an advantage as you might believe,” you confessed. “He has been battling a rebellion for the past month, don’t you forget. And he hasn’t rested since returning.

Sigrdrífa, his body is worn as well. I don’t even know how he’s able to stand upright.” You shifted in the uncomfortable seat and cringed at the dry creaking sound it made. Sigrdrífa placed her hand on the side of her head, embarrassed that she hadn’t remembered the rebellion. To be fair, it was a smaller army that took up arms. You weren’t even sure of the name of the traitor, yourself.  Sigrdrífa bit the inside of her cheek to suppress a smile, but you saw hope return to her eyes. There was a change Breun could be the victor.

 “Who do you think will win?” She asked the question rather quickly. 

 “I don’t know.” It was a diplomatic answer, but to be fair, you truly didn’t know. At first, you believed Breun would win only because of your husband’s injuries. But now, you sincerely weren’t sure. However, you knew that that answer wouldn’t satisfy the girl across from you.

 “Who do you want to win?” The question stung, as if it were accusatory, even though the tone in which it was asked was innocent. It was a test. An evil test. Of course you wanted Breun to keep her forge and live happily ever after, that went without thought; but you didn’t think your heart could take seeing Drew be defeated after everything you had put him through. Yes, you were angry with him for not staying by your side when you were unconscious, but he only because Breun had insulted you… and Drew’s first wife. You didn’t like his rage but you understood it. You did want Breun to win, but you didn’t want Drew to lose. You looked back up at Sigrdrífa who held your gaze firmly, and answered.

 “I want the man I love to win, as any wife would.”

 The silver girl nodded. “I would expect nothing else.” Her eyes were sad, but intelligent. Your words had caused her pain, but she understood that you didn’t mean them to. You expected her to read between the lines, but what you didn’t expect was a small breath of a giggle escaping her throat.

 “It is strange then. That we are the same, but… enemies. Sitting here speaking as if friends.” You gave her a smile, showing her you understood, but the girl continued. “Two small women with the same, but opposite hope; for their lover to defeat-”

 Your smile disappeared. Not because you were unhappy, but because you saw Sigrdrífa’s face somehow turn even whiter than it already was. It took you only a moment to realize what she had said.

 She had called Breun, her sister in law, her lover. 

 You hadn’t been Queen for very long, but you were well aware of what would happen if the town learned of what she had just said. There would be no saving either of them. The two would be hunted down to the corners of the kingdom. The common folk would torture them, treat them like demons; like animals. What would happen to the two girls, you wouldn’t wish on your worst enemy. If someone knew about this, it would be well within the law, and the interest of your simple-minded subjects, to have both women put to death.

 But someone did know about it. You knew about it. And you certainly had the power to enforce the law, and swore to have the interests of your simple-minded subjects at heart. You looked at the frozen girl across from you, her eyes desperately trying to read yours. Trying to figure out what you were about to say... or do. 

 It took you less than a second to come to your conclusion.

 “You misspoke, Sigrdrífa. I know this isn’t your best language. You used the word ‘lover.’ You meant to say ‘family.’”

 You couldn’t help but smile on the inside as Sigrdrífa sucked in three lungs’ worth of air and let out a long sigh of relief. The rosy color returned to her cheeks. She gave the quiet laugh of an exhausted woman and placed her hand over yours.

 “We both love our family.”

 You reached forward with your other hand and covered hers in turn. You felt something scratch against your skin and looked down. Around her wrist, the girl had tight sleeves embroidered with prickly threads. They were very beautiful.

 You grasped the fabric with both hands and tore it apart. Underneath, you saw her irritated skin finally touch the air. You looked at her and raised your brow. She gave you a toothy smile and immediately presented her other sleeve to you, and you ripped that as well. After that, she grabbed at the fabric wrapped around her neck and tore that collar away as well. Beads and other small gemstones flung themselves from her throat and skittered across the table. You reached out and undid the ribbons in her hair, letting it fall loosely around her waist. Sigrdrífa kicked off her shoes and freed her legs from her stockings and underskirts. She stood up, knocking her chair to the ground, and took fistfuls of lacing that tied the back of her dress, yanking it loose. 

 You let your laughter ring throughout the house. The sight of Sigrdrífa dressed in the most expensive of rags…

 “That cannot be very comfortable.” The silver girl pointed at you.

 She was right, of course; but you could never destroy your dress. You already looked unpresentable as Queen; covered in filth and hair strewn about. The heat of the last two days left you drenched in sweat. You were certain that if you wrung your sleeves a steady stream of the putrid liquid would spill out. The accumulation of dirt and filth that clung to your body itched to no end. That sweat caused the heavy fabric to cling itself to your skin and that dirt made you feel every wrinkle and crease as if they were gashes and gouges of your very own flesh. You had been through so much already, ripping up your dress would just be… be… 

 You balled up the fabric of your underarm and yanked as hard as you could. A small ripping noise came from your dress, but not much else. You heard light footsteps come towards you and two white hangs join your fist. The next thing you knew, your arm was completely free from it’s silky prison. You waved it around in nonsensical patterns, just wanting to feel the air brush past your skin.

 You didn’t even consider the state of your dress as you relished your newfound partial freedom. Sigrdrífa’s giggle resounded throughout the house as she held your sleeve in her arms. Bunching up the fabric of the inside of your other arm, you let out a yelp as you ripped it open. A few more tugs, and your forearm was completely naked, with it’s coverings hanging by a thread by your elbow. 

 “How do you feel now, My Majesty?” There was a kidding nature to her words. You took in a breath to laugh and became very aware of the restrictive waistline that held your stomach in. You clawed at your back trying to get a grip on any seam or hem that you could use to tear it apart.

 “Help me undo this damned sewing and I’ll finally have enough breath to tell you.” 

 She hadn’t even taken one step toward you when you heard the roar of the crowd outside once again. You looked at Sigrdrífa, your eyes asking what that noise meant. The only thing you saw was a flash of her hair as she raced toward the front door. 

You tripped over the threshold and stumbled out of the house, crashing into the dirt. Luckily, no one seemed to notice. It seemed that every head in Scotland was turned toward The King and The Smith. 

 “My Queen!”

 All except for two. The guards that had greeted you when you confronted Slibhin rushed toward you, grabbing you and helping you stand upright.

 “My Queen, allow us to escort you back to the castle.”

 “Your Grace, please come with us.”

 You pushed them off of you. Though there was no strength left in your arms, the soldiers heeded your warning, standing at attention from a very respectable distance  (probably doing everything they could not to upset you considering their introductions to you.) That was when your eyes locked onto Slibhin, who stood at the edge of the crowd, wringing his hands in desperation. He was planning something. You just knew it. Those hands were the hands of a schemer. You almost laughed at how different they were compared to his sister’s. His hands were spotless, well groomed, but weak and feeble, and he used them to plot. To gesture and accentuate his honeyed words as he tried to ruin lives for his own benefit. In contrast, Breun’s hands were scarred, rough, and ugly, but strong and efficient. They were used to make useful things, powerful things. Her hands were like the weapons that she made: grotesque, but practical. 

 Just like that unfinished axe she had forced into the stone wall of her house. It didn’t look like much, but if you weren’t careful, it could hurt y-

 Slowly, you lifted your hand to your eye, gazing in wonder at your thumb. The nick from two days earlier had almost healed. 

 “My Queen? Are… you alright?” The two guards looked at you with apprehension. You turned your body fully to them, and they snapped back at attention.

 “Go and get me the sword of the rebel. The one Drew gave me two days ago.”

 The two men didn’t move. Perhaps they were uncomfortable with the idea of a less than stable monarch wielding a deadly weapon in a heavily populated area, but you soon put those worries to rest.

 “If you don’t, I may mention to my husband that a certain pair of his soldiers believe that his wife is a witch.”

 The two men raced off as if their lives depended on their task at hand… which was probably the case… You truly did hope that there would be no need for what they were fetching. You truly hoped that the contest would end in a clear way, or that Slibhin didn’t dare to protest the eventual outcome, whatever it may be. You prayed that you would be able to look the two guards in their terrified eyes and order them to take it back to the castle before the King learned that it had been “stolen”. But you needed the traitor’s sword just in case. Just in case.

 At last, you turned your attention back to the task at hand.

 The blurred faces of the spectators didn’t hold the fascination and awe that they did when you first rode into town. You dragged your feet through the crowd, absently pushing through the field of brown and grey, searching for silver. As your vision slowly began to uncloud itself, you looked at the scores; there was nothing there. The two men who were making the tally marks just sat and stared with eyes wide as the moon.

 Of course this was the last nail. Of course the two were tied at the last nail. Of course. 

 You couldn’t will yourself to care who won. You just wanted it to be over. Still shuffling forward, you somehow managed to reach the very front of the gathering, all but coming face to face with Drew. 

 He was turned to the side, hammering away at the anvil. Each hit triggered sparks which illuminated his features. He was tired. His skin seemed to be slipping off of his face. The amber coloring against his black, soot covered body was terrifying. He looked like death.

 “Drew.” It was less than a whisper. You didn’t even feel air pass your lips, but you called for your husband. He heard you. Though he didn’t look at you, you saw his jaw clench and a tear fall roll down his cheek, leaving a trail of clean skin in its wake. When it fell, it landed on the piece of metal he was hammering away at, causing a sinister hissing noise. Your eyes fell to the anvil where Drew was banging his tool on a rod of metal, trying to break a piece off; for the final length of the nail, no doubt.

 Though you didn’t tell your eyes to move, they did anyway. You looked past Drew to see the smithing woman shaping the head of an already broken off, and squared length of metal. Her nail was almost finished. She was about 30 seconds ahead of him. Just then, another set of tears fell, but this time it came from Sigrdrífa, who was standing opposite Breun; across the anvil. Tears of joy.

 You returned your attention to your husband, whose breath was ragged and uneven. He was crying like a child. A child who had lost a game. There was no higher form of sadness and despair. 

 “It’s alright. It’s almost over.”

 Drew shook his head violently. 

 “It’s alright. We can go home soon.”

 You didn’t even know where you found the energy to speak. There was nothing left inside of you. You couldn’t even feel happy for Breun, even though your compassion for her was what started this in the first place. You just wanted all this to end. You wanted to watch it all end. And it was going to end with Breun.

 Looking up at the smith again, you were able to see that the nail was done and her hand was reaching for her tongs so that she could carry it to her barrel. You felt an air brush past you as your eyes caught a glimpse of something… fashionable. A dainty hand from an ornate sleeve snatched the tongs from off the anvil. You turned your head to see Slibhin, eyes wide, holding the tongs against his chest.

 You knew what was going to happen next, but what you didn’t expect was the sound. Not only did Breun lunge at her brother, but she tipped over the anvil in the process, sending it crashing to the ground with her.

 Slibhin shrieked like a woman as he was beaten. Half of the crowd cheered at the sniveling coward being taught a lesson, while the other half gasped in horror, believing that the sounds he made were actually coming from the frail, silver girl they had seen rush past them a moment ago. 

 As for you, you couldn’t deny that watching the boy whipped gave you a great satisfaction, but your heart sunk upon closer inspection of the actual brawl. 

 Breun wasn’t actually trying to strike her brother, but instead was trying to recover the tongs from his grasp. But considering that she spent two days exhausting herself, and that the boy was squirming like the worm he was, that task appeared to be impossible. 

 All this while, you saw fire return to your husband’s eyes. He let out a yell as he slammed his hammer down, separating the piece of metal from the rod. He didn’t even try to shape the metal into an actual nail. He just threw his hammer down and reached for his own tongs.

 “NO!”

 Your neck snapped to Breun, who (while still struggling with her brother) looked at your husband with fear and loathing in her eyes. He was cheating again. He wasn’t honoring the rules of a fight, like he did when the two first locked up. Her eyes were bright red with tears. With her attention diverted, Slibhin was able to squirm out of her grasp and run off, tongs in hand. 

 Out of the corner of your eye, you swore you saw Drew smirk. He used his tongs to grab the metal, and turned away from her. You wanted to say something, but you knew that nothing you could say would change Drew’s mind about the forge, about Slibhin, about Sigrdrífa and Breun, about anything.  To be honest, you were a bit relieved that you had no control over the situation. It was as if no one could blame you anymore. You were surprised as something resembling peace slowly washed over you. You let your eyes flutter to a close and sighed in relief.

 That small sanctuary of stillness was shattered like glass when you heard this noise. It was a wail, a shriek, a scream of pain, a howl of  desperation, a squeal of something small trying to defeat something big. You opened your eyes and saw Breun, sprinting like she was being hunted; smoke emanating from her closed fist. 

 You would swear until your final day that you could see the orange glow of the nail burning through her palm, the blaze visible through the back of her hand.

 Drew didn’t even have time to look over at her. The smith lunged herself toward her barrel, her arm just reaching over it, and dropped her finished nail on top of the 999 others she had forged.

 Clink.

 The crowd erupted. In cheers, nonetheless. Whether the smith won their support by her performance, or they were all so happy the damned contest was over, you couldn’t tell. Breun let herself fall to the ground, not even clutching at her still burning hand. The dead skin and blisters of her palm had a few little embers burning at the edges, making it look like she was holding stars.

 Everything else seemed to fall into place after that. Drew’s body gave out and he fell into the dirt. Sigrdrífa ran and threw herself onto her lover, holding her face and placing thousands of kisses on her forehead and cheeks, all the while sputtering out Norse gibberish... and crying, for what you hoped would be the last time this century. Breun was whispering things as well.

 “Safe… yer safe now… safe… little one… safe… safe...”

 You had hoped for a moment that this would be the image their story ended on.

 The beautiful hope was dashed once the previously disappeared Slibhin fell in front of Drew, shaking his shoulders and screaming fruitlessly into his face. 

 “You can’t do this! I’m the only one who can run the smithy! Without me, there would be no smithy! Every single thing that… beast has forged was because I made her! Your Majesty, if I’m not in charge of my sister… this town will collapse! Your kingdom-”

 That was when Drew pushed Slibhin away, letting out a growl of agony while doing so. You rushed to Drew, trying to find some way of comforting your husband, but then the boy switched targets, clinging to your skirt and groveling at your feet.

 “My Queen. My beautiful, fair, flawless Queen. You now realize that you have made a grave mistake. And I know that you will do what’s right in fixing it. I know that you let your emotions control you when it came to my sister. You were entranced by a woman being able to perform a man’s task, but you must understand: the only reason she ever smithed anything in the first place was because I allowed it! I ordered it! I have made deals regarding everything she has ever forged! Before this month, my sister never even picked up a hammer without me saying so! She’s obeyed me all her life! I’m the reason for her success! Please, I beg of you; allow me to serve the realm through my forge!”

 Your patience was at its absolute limit with this one. You glanced back at the crowd. Most of them had turned and left for their homes now, knowing that as soon as their head hit the pillow, it would not be coming back up in at least two days. There were a few stragglers, who had stayed behind to ogle at the exhausted competitors. Luckily, castle guards who had been standing watch over the crowd herded the onlookers away. Good. No one would be around to witness their Queen beat the ever-loving shit out of one of her subjects.

 Both fortunately and unfortunately, before you were even able to clench your fist, you heard two voices calling out to you between their panting and coughing. 

 “Your… Majesty… we… we were able to locate the… the sword,” sputtered one.

 “My… My Queen… the… the traitor’s... sword,” tried the other. He fell to one knee and presented the sheathed blade to you. With a swift kick, you rid your hem of the sniveling boy and walked over to the exhausted and terrified guards. 

 The original sheathe had been lost on the battlefield. This one clearly was taken from the armory by the two guards, just needing something to transport the weapon. The exposed hilt was made from a pitch black metal, but despite the low visibility, it was extremely well sculpted with images. The pommel was a single eye, with a pale blue gem as the iris. It looked hauntingly beautiful. Like the sky on a bright winter’s day, when the frost is hard on the ground. The length of the hit was engraved on both sides with the image of a running horse that had 8 legs. The crossguard was two ravens spreading their wings and cawing. 

 The guard clearly expected you to grab the entire sword, sheathe and all, but you wrapped your hands around the hilt and pulled the weapon free. Where the blade and hilt met, were the heads of two wolves, each with their mouths wide, as if swallowing the blade.

 The look of fear in the eyes of everyone around you made you feel all that much more powerful. You wanted so very badly to use the sword for its intended purpose, on anyone really, but you had a burning suspicion that you desperately wanted confirmed, more than anything else.

 You walked over to the side of the forge where Breun had tossed the head of an axe after embedding it in stone. With an aching arm, you raised the sword so it lay side by side with the axe. 

 It was a perfect match.

 Both the blade of the traitor and the axe that split stone were unsightly; grisly to behold. The ripples that seemed to swim within the metals itself were identical. These pieces were unlike anything you had ever seen before. 

 There was no doubt in your mind that they were made by the same woman.

 You marched yourself over to where Breun and Sigrdrífa lay. The smaller of the two was busy trying to heave the larger one into the house. No doubt to tend to her. The smith looked horrible, but not just because she was tired and dirty. Her breathing was labored and heavy. Her chest was expanding and contracting rapidly. You could hear her struggle to inhale. Her arms and legs were shaking uncontrollably, with the tremors kicking up dirt around her. Sweat poured from every part of her skin and her face was beet red, no doubt with fever. 

 Ignoring the smith’s state, you stood over her, the sword in your clenched fist. You didn’t care about the look of terror on Sigrdrífa’s face. If she wanted to believe that you were about to hurt Breun, then that was her own foolishness. You held the blade across your body, letting the smith see the entirety of it; all of its details.

 “You made this.” It wasn’t a question. Breun’s eyes took a second to focus on you, then the blade, then back to you. You could tell she was holding onto consciousness by a thread.

 “Aye.”

 You were satisfied. Taking a step back and turning on your heel, your eyes fell once again on Slibhin. He was looking at his sister with his jaw so agape that you thought it was going to fall off. His eyes were as wide as an owl’s. It took everything in your power not to cut him down right then and there as he opened his mouth to lie to you once more.

 “She admits it. In it’s feverish state the brute lets the truth come to light. She has committed treason, but knows not the severity of her confession. Your Majesty, please find it in your heart to spare my feebleminded sister her life. Yes, her crime is very worthy of a long and painful death, but you must remember that without her, there would be no smith in your village… an essential part of any local economy. Please allow her to continue her practice… under my strict supervision. I promise you that I will do the thinking for her.” Slibhin started to snicker. “You… you clearly see that she has no judgement… she has even brought herself nearly to the brink of death by challenging her King!”

 You wanted to plunge the sword through his neck when he threw his head back in laughter. But instead, you joined him in his mocking. You glanced back at Sigrdrífa, whose face was painted with confusion; but not fear. She knew you were up to something, and she knew that you were on her side, but she didn’t know what you were planning.

 “It is true,” you said, turning back to the boy. “that your sister is very dull-witted.” Slibhin’s eyes showed a sense of relief that you hated for him to have, but were delighted to know you were about to take it all away. “I would guess… that your sister forged enough weapons and armor for the traitor and his generals… and didn’t even know what it was for!” He laughed even harder at that, assured that you suspected nothing of him, that you finally came around to hating his sister as much as he did.

 “But you, on the other hand, are well aware of every deal you make. And you’re very smart about it too, I’ll bet.” Slibhin bowed in mock humility, still bursting with chuckles. He gave you a beaming smile. He felt comfortable. Good.

 “And you were well aware of the deal you made with the traitor. You were well aware of what you were making, who would use them, and what they would be used for.”

 Slibhin’s facial expression didn’t change one bit. The phony smile stayed plastered onto his face, but you were able to notice the light leave his eyes. You knew that given enough time, he would conjure some words that would allow him to weasel his way free, escape the situation unscathed, mold his circumstances to his liking and find a way to enrich himself while dragging those around him down. You were not going to give him that time. 

 “Guards. Arrest this boy for acting as a conspirator and as a traitor.”

 During the time you were talking with Slibhin, several royal guards and servants from your keep had come down to try and wrangle their monarchs back into the keep, so there were more than enough people more than willing to take care of whatever needed to be taken care of. A plethora of men, and a few scullery maids and stable boys as well, descended upon him. He barely tried to fight them off, only flinging his arms in a weak, sluggish manner. His eyes stayed wide, but now his smile was now gone. Instead, his mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. After he was forced to his knees by two rather large washerwomen and his hands were bound, he finally found his voice.

 “M-My… my... my sister-”

 “-smithed under the direction of you and your father for her entire life, and if you somehow believe that you can convince me that she was the one responsible for all this I will save myself some time and cut your head off right here.” 

 You brandished the traitor’s sword and held it above the boy’s head. He shivered and shook and in that moment, you knew what Drew felt like when he passed judgement on criminals and lowlifes. It made you feel too powerful. Slibhin reeked of fear and you inhaled the stench like it was a gift from the Gods. As if it made you stronger. You looked over to where your husband lay, scanning his broken body until you met his eyes. He was looking at you as if you were a storm. Powerful, terrible, beautiful, and part of him wanted to run into you just to feel your chaos for himself. But you also noticed the tiniest glint of fear as well. You had never acted like this. He didn’t know you could act like this. You didn’t even know you could act like this. But you could; and you were. 

 Just then, you felt the beginnings of hunger swirl around in your stomach. Not for food, but for him. It reminded you of when your King teased you in the great hall as he held court. When you longed for his hands on you. When you longed for him to take you. To fuck you.

 But this time, it was different. You weren’t fantasizing about his power. You weren’t thinking about the things he decided he would do to you. Instead you were lusting after the power that you felt inside yourself. You weren’t feeling gracious for any affection the King showed you. You felt entitled to pleasure. You deserved it. You were the Queen of Scotland, and you wanted to make sure he knew it. 

 A knowing smirk formed from the corner of your mouth and you winked at Drew. His mouth fell open slightly and his eyes flashed with an emotion that you didn’t recognize.

 “B-b-but why? Why would I betray my King and Queen? I-I need you to maintain my status.” 

 You clenched your jaw so tightly you thought your teeth were going to crack. Your head swiveled back to the kneeling boy who took a small victory in making you turn around to pay attention to him once more. His ears perked up and he straightened his back a bit. He reiterated his point.

 “Why would I choose to make so many weapons, to start a war, when I had already achieved everything I wanted?” 

 You didn’t want to answer him. You didn’t care enough to answer him. You knew he was wrong. You knew he was guilty. You knew he was… 

 But…

 A shadow of doubt crept up from your stomach through your throat. From the bottom of your heart, you felt that the boy was evil, but you had no evidence. No proof that he was a slimy, conniving, untrustworthy, unfaithful, traitorous- 

 “Because you did not have a choice…”

 Sigrdrífa stood timidly by the incoherent, mumbling smith. A few fingers from her hand covering her mouth. Her eyes stared off into nothing, but you saw her mind working something out. A scornful, mocking laugh was heard, and Slibhin forced a look of amusement on his face.

 “No choice? I alone was in charge of-”

 “You were forced to make weapons and armor…to pay for… me…”

 Time stopped. Fire and ice chased one another up and down your spine. You felt everything and nothing all at once. Your knees felt so stiff that they would snap if you attempted to move. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw Breun vomit out some burgundy, watery liquid into the dirt by her head. It went unnoticed by everyone else, who was busy staring at the silver girl. Sigrdrífa looked at you. You must have had a stupid look on your face, as she turned and kept talking to Slibhin, as if trying to indirectly explain everything to you.

 “If you did not… my father would have taken me back… and… without me… you would not be the son of a noble...and you would have no right to the forge. You had no choice.”

 A small giggle left her. You looked at her incredulously. She moved over to her husband. Breun let out a weak whine and reached out, as if trying to stop her from getting any closer to him, but the girl knelt down, putting her face inches away from his.

 “You had no choice.” she repeated, savoring the words. Slibhin’s head fell limp. His shoulders shook as he heaved sporadic breaths. His once captive wife had just proved his guilt. She had just sentenced him to death.

 You couldn’t help but smile when you saw him weeping. It felt like this was your reward for enduring his utter bullshit for as long as you had. You could only imagine how Sigrdrífa felt. She was the one who had lived with him… or rather lived under him for so long. 

 Her beaming smile was bright enough to guide ships to shore in the dead of night… at first. You saw her eyes study him, probably mining for more of that satisfaction of seeing the boy defeated. But as the tears ran from his eyes, the snot ran from his nose, and the dribble ran from his lip, the silver girl’s expression started to change. Her eyes began to dart back and forth, trying to absorb all of the pain and anguish her husband was displaying right in front of her eyes. You could tell she was beginning to get unnerved; nervous and unsure. Then Slibhin lifted his face to meet his wife. 

 His eyes bright red, he opened his mouth to let out some kind of silent cry. You watched as he sniveled and pleaded with his body for… mercy, forgiveness, any ounce of her conscience she was willing to spare him. 

 For a moment, you let yourself believe that she would show him mercy. Instead, she turned away from him. Without a moment's hesitation. He had already used up every ounce of her kindness, her patience, and her sympathy. Her eyes instead met with the smith’s. That was where her kindness, her patience, and her sympathy lay. That was where her heart lay. In the dirt, and the dust, and the ashes.

 So, naturally, Slibhin had no other choice. 

 With his wrists still bound, he rushed forward and threw his hands over her head and yanked her close to him, effectively trapping her by her neck and pinned her on the ground. He looked Drew in the eye and he began to scream.

 “MY KING! MY KING! I GIVE YOU THE DAUGHTER OF THE TRAITOR! TAKE HER! TAKE HER AND KILL HER! CUT HER FUCKING HEAD OFF! ENSLAVE HER! RAPE HER, EVEN! DO WHAT YOU WISH! I AM YOUR LOYAL SERVANT! JUST TAKE THE BITCH AND LET ME LIVE! I LOVE SCOTLAND! I LOVE MY KING! PLEASE-”

 Breun lunged herself across the ground and struck Slibhin. You knew he would never speak again. His jaw went sideways and blood poured out of his mouth. His teeth fell and skittered across the soot. The noise he made was primeval. If an animal had made that same sound, even the cruelest of men would concede and put it out of its misery. His body squirmed and twitched. Sigrdrífa was finally able to break free of his hold, though she was covered in his blood and scratched by his flailing. Breun was hurt in her own right, obviously.

 It was funny. At the very beginning of this entire ordeal, the very sight of what was in front of you would have left you petrified.

 Instead, you snapped your fingers and motioned for the boy to be restrained. And restrained he was. Though the shrieking and gurgling didn’t stop. Slibhin looked at you and tried to speak, but that was quite impossible. You looked down at Sigrdrífa. She had crawled her way over to Breun, draping herself over the bigger woman with her mouth to her ear, whispering something that didn’t concern you.

 “Guards!” At least a dozen men in armor presented themselves before you. “Take this boy to the dungeons. Put him with our other prisoners… and make sure that they know everything that he has said about their little sister.”

 Your men smiled at you, showing that they would be happy to carry out your order. They marched the prisoner off as he shrieked and wailed indistinct sounds of agony, defeat, and fear of what was still to come. You were done with him.

 Turning now to Breun and Sigrdrífa, you saw the smaller one look up at you. Just as you went to take a breath to speak, she spoke your previous words back to  you.

 “‘Make sure that they know everything he has said about… their little sister?’”

 That struck you. All this time, she probably didn’t know if her brothers were alive. If her father was killed in battle, it would be logical to assume that her brothers did as well. Her brothers to whom she owed her life. You smiled and nodded your head.

 Sigrdrífa’s voice was barely above a whisper, but you clearly made out the names of her two brothers.

 “Erik... Ivar…”

 The peace was interrupted by Breun’s grumbling. She lifted her head from the dirt to look at you, but her eyes couldn’t focus. Her face was bright red and beads of sweat littered her face. You turned to your soldiers and opened your mouth to issue the command...

 “FOR PITY’S SAKE SOMEONE TAKE THE GIRL INSIDE! AND FETCH A HEALER DAMMIT!”

 Your jaw stayed wide as you turned your head to your husband, who was still lying in the dirt, but whose voice still commanded respect. His eyes were fixated on the smith. Men scrambled to pick up a nearly incapacitated Breun, which proved to be quite the challenge as the smith seemed to think that everyone that was trying to move her was, in fact, challenging her to a fistfight. A servant ran down the road to find a healer that could not only treat the girl, but possibly survive her left hook as well.

 Luckily for every man in Scotland, Sigrdrífa was able to calm the rowdy young lady enough so that she could be moved into the house. As she herself was about to walk through the front door, she stopped and looked back at you. Though she still had blood stained in her hair and on her clothing, and the exhaustion in her eyes matched the shaking of her legs, she looked more calm and content than ten thousand queens. She nodded to you, a gesture of comradery and of finality before shutting the door, not even giving you a chance to respond.

Drew had been much more lucid than his female counterpart and was rushed back to the keep quickly and quietly. He wouldn't look anyone in the eye and said nothing to anybody. The servants had the sense to go about their duties and disregarded their King. By now you had reached your shared chambers. The guards gently set Drew in your bed as you stood by the fireplace, next to a tub of water that you had requested be filled. You needed a bath. Drew grumbled and winced, ashamed that you could see him like this. One man even attempted to cover the King in a blanket, but was stopped when Drew looked at him with a scowl so deep, you were certain his face would stay like that forever. Drew wasn’t one to be coddled.

 The servants bowed their heads to you as they backed out of the room. You heard one mutter to you, “Let us know if you need us,” before he shut the door behind him, leaving you alone with your husband.

 Drew didn’t say anything to you, nor you to him. He looked straight up at the canopy of your bed, as if seeing through it to the ceiling. You let yourself sigh. Your husband’s eyes flickered at the sound, but he did not look at you. You couldn’t blame him, but it still angered you. You had just spent the past two days dealing with an immature brute, and you didn’t know if you could handle another one.

 First thing was first, you were going to get into that tub. Instinctively, you opened your mouth to call for your husband, asking him to help you with the laces of your dress. No sound escaped your throat, but you felt stupid all the same. Reaching behind you, you were thankful that you had torn a fair amount of the garment, but you still struggled to get a feel for what you were supposed to do. You let out a grunt of frustration as your fingers frantically picked at the back of your dress, not making any progress. Drew looked at you, and your eyes met his. He was trying not to betray his feelings through any facial expression, but you could tell that he was embarrassed. Embarrassed that he could not help you with something that he did every night. 

 You felt embarrassed too. Embarrassed that you were unable to do such a simple task by yourself. Though you always loved it when Drew undressed you before, now you resented your helplessness and cursed all the times you didn’t just undress yourself, like an actual self-sufficient person.

 Rage bubbled inside you at the thought of your dependence on Drew. Out of nowhere, you screeched like a banshee and tore your dress clean from your skin. Standing there, completely naked in front of your husband, and not feeling shy or giddy was a new experience for you. You took the rags left of the dress and threw it into the fireplace. The heavy cloth covered the flames and greatly dimmed the room, but you could still see your husband’s eyes fixed on you. 

 Half wanting to cover yourself for modesty, half wanting to punish Drew by not having him see you, you quickly hopped into the tub. The servants had left a scrubbing brush and some soap for you, but you didn’t even think about using them. You just wanted to sit and brood. You were so exhausted that you were certain the warm water would lull you to sleep before you even attempted to clean yourself. If you did fall asleep in the tub, and your head went underwater, you guessed that Drew wouldn’t even be able to save you in time.

 “My Queen.” 

 You had no desire to look at him, but your head turned toward him nonetheless. You couldn’t will your lips to curl into a smile, which you usually did when you looked at your husband. His body was so bruised and battered that you couldn’t look anywhere but his eyes, but that was no better as they were red and tired, threatening tears. His Adam’s apple was quivering. His lips were slightly parted. His voice barely a whisper.

 “Forgive me.”

 And you forgave him.

 Right then and there, you forgave him. Every single sin he had committed in your eyes: the arguing, the fighting, the brutishness, leaving you behind, failing to win. Everything was absolved. You kicked yourself mentally for not being able to hold a grudge, even for just one evening. However, you were saved by the fact that your face was too exhausted to change from the mask of apathy and disregard that you wore. To Drew, you were still his scowling, disappointed Queen.

 Some Queen I am. Sitting hunched naked in a tub, covered in filth. Bitter and defeated. I’ve never felt LESS like a Queen. I don’t feel like the wife of a King. I don’t even feel like a wife. I don’t even feel like a woman…

 You looked down. Through the muddy water you were able to see your body. Bruises and scratches and scrapes covered it. Your skin was pasty and shriveled.  In certain areas, it was rubbed raw from friction with the tighter parts of your dress. Any little touch on any little bit of your body would only hurt you. But you wanted to be touched. You didn’t care how much it would bring you pain. You wanted to be touched by Drew. To be held by Drew. To be loved by Drew. To be fucked-

 The fireplace roared back to life as the flames finally caught hold of your discarded dress, engulfing it. The room brightened as if it were almost day. You looked at Drew. His eyes were squinted, as he couldn’t even lift his hands up to shield his eyes.

 So you did it for him.

 You rose from the tub, your shadow completely covering Drew. His eyes popped open and he looked at you. You swore you could almost feel the air move as he gasped, taking in your form.

 “You told me… that despite how beaten down you were… you still had the strength to take me… to ravage me… You told me you still had the endurance to turn me into a… a whimpering mess.”

 You tried to keep your voice even and cold. Drew held you with his eyes and for a moment you were excited. You saw his muscles tense up as he attempted to lean forward. Your body shivered from the night air and from anticipation. You closed your eyes and bit your lip, your body’s memory reliving all the times Drew would pick you up and throw you on your shared bed, giving you the love from a wounded warrior, whose heart still beat with hot blood.

 “My Queen…” You opened your eyes again to see Drew with his head back on the pillows, his muscles shaking, his chest heaving from his panting. He ever so slowly was able to bring his head back up enough to look at you. “I… I can’t.” His lip was quivering and his eyelids were fluttering. The fireplace dimmed once more as the flames had eaten up the rest of your dress, leaving a small glow of singed fabric behind. Your body stopped shivering in the cold air. It stopped feeling cold. It stopped feeling anything. You stood there in the tub with your mouth slightly open and your eyebrows raised in confusion and sadness. 

 Of course he wouldn’t be able to take you. You were stupid to even think that he could. You were cruel to ask him to try. And he did try. After everything he had gone through, he still wanted to try and please you. You mentally kicked yourself for trying to get him to exhaust himself further. 

 Then, you heard… breathing. You couldn’t really describe it. It wasn’t whimpering, and it wasn’t sobbing. Just a strange kind of breathing. You turned again to Drew who had his jaw and his eyes clenched tight. He looked so helpless. 

 You moved to him. You couldn't even feel yourself walking. You were gliding. Before you knew it you were crawling over the sheets of your bed, staining them with the grime that rubbed off your body. 

 When you were next to him on the bed, he tried to turn his neck and look at you, but he winced. You kissed cheek and whispered to him. “Just lay with me, my love.”

 You lay your head on his heart, mindful of his wincing as you brushed by the bruises on his chest. Your eyelids grew heavy as you listened to the rhythm of Drew’s heartbeat. Through your lashes you saw your husband fight to keep his eyes open, just to look at you. You turned and wrapped your two small arms around one of his massive ones and heaved it so it lay over you. So he was holding you. Drew sighed contently. The very next sounds that came from him soft snores as you yourself felt all the pain of the last three days melt away. 

 Then you slept.

I am so very honored and so awed that someone dedicated their time to create a fanfic for my fanfic universe....that’s.....that’s so beyond incredible and I haven’t been able to wrap my mind around it. This tribute fic was absolutely amazing. I legit read this fic until 3 am when I was given it. I couldn’t stop reading it and I loved every small detail and the story telling. Thank you again, @tinkerbell-has-chlamydia​​ for this fic. Truly. Thank you so much. I’m so honored you adored my fics enough to write this. From the bottom of my heart; THANK YOU. ~Bri 💛🖤 (Again this fic is NOT MINE. I was given permission to post it here and place it on my masterlist)

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[what-if-i-imagine]

Promises, Hugs, and Kisses

When he first moved to Hawkins, Indiana, Lucas Sinclair wanted nothing more than to go back to the city. That is, until he met Will Byers, a timid boy who was the only resident of the town to catch his six year old interest on the first day of kindergarten. As they grow up constantly showing each other affection through hugs and kisses, Lucas builds a list of promises in his head to try and protect Will from the very cruel world they live in.

Or

In which Lucas and Will are casually in love with each other throughout their childhood but Lucas starts cracking down through the events of sessions one and two.

Lucas Sinclair had just recently moved to Hawkins, Indiana with his parents and eight month old sister, and he hated it. His parents told him over and over that this was for the best. They would be closer to his uncle Jack, and the small town life would be good for him and Erica’s development, whatever that meant. He still hated it though, and hated everyone in it. They were all boring cookiecutter husks of people that he had seen on the sitcoms and soap operas his mom watched, everyone of them just like the ones before. There was no one interesting for his six year old brain to latch onto, leaving him in a constant state of tired boredom

Lucas had met the Wheelers briefly during the barbecue they were invited to their first week in the cul-de-sac. The Wheelers were a perfect example of literally every boring family in town.They were okay enough people, but dull and plastic. Their son, Mike, was more interesting than most people he had met in the town, but he talked far too much for Lucas’s usual liking in conversations. He couldn't find it in himself to hold enough interest in the boy or his family or his town to last him more than five minutes.

The first day of kindergarten came, and of course, he didn't know anyone and made no attempts at knowing anyone. He had overheard his father the night before expressing the same feelings as him about the town. He knew that it was only a matter of time before his parents asked him if he wanted to go back home. Back to Indianapolis. So there was no point in talking to anyone he didn't have to.

Lucas got home from school to find his mom was already getting started on dinner and his dad was still at work. When he had nothing to report of the days events, his mother sent him outside to play in the front yard so she could have some quiet time while Erica napped. He went out and tried to entertain himself, for his mother’s sake, but ended up just laying on his back on the grass, staring at the sky as his brain tried to find something in the cloud for stimulus. Even the clouds were boring here, resembling the exact shape a kid would draw for them.

Then it happened. The Wheeler’s second car, the one he always saw Mrs. Wheeler driving, pulled into the next door driveway. Mike climbed out of the side facing the Sinclair yard, but another pair off feet could be seen under the car, tattered sneakers that Lucas didn't recognize. A boy, smaller than Mike by a lot, ran around the back of the car to grab onto his arm. He looked startled and out of his element, brown bowl cut fluttering around his head as he nervously took in his surroundings. He wore a colorful sweater- something lucas could only ever imagine a girl pulling off- under a pair of obviously second hand overalls. His bowl cut was home done, unlike most kids he had seen that day, the back of it cut slightly crooked like this was his parents first time doing it. For the first time since they got here last month, Lucas felt his interest peak.

“Micheal, help me with the groceries,” he could hear Mrs. Wheeler say as she went to unlock the trunk. When the small boy tried to reach for the bags and help too, Mrs. Wheeler shooed him away. “No William. Go ahead and wait out here, Mike will come out when all the groceries are away.”

She and Mike disappeared into the house with arms full of groceries, leaving the small boy alone in the driveway. His eyes were wide, staring at the front door as if looking away would make it disappear. Anytime a loud car on the busy road leading to the cul-de-sac would pass, the boy would flinch and dig the tip of his right shoe into the pavement ready to run. After a few minutes passed without Mike reamirging from the house, Lucas decided to make his move.

“Hey you!” he yelled, causing the boy to flinch harder than he had before. He looked over like a startled animal caught at the end of a hunter’s gun. Lucas stood from the grassy lawn and waved his hand, beaconing the boy to him.

When the boy didn't move, he tried again, “You know it’s rude to ignore people! Come here!”

The boy spared one last long glance at the Wheeler’s front door before timidly making his way into the Sinclair yard, stopping at the edge of the grass. Up close, Lucas took in just how small the boy was. He looked more the size of a three year old than a five year old, every proportion seemingly too small to be right. HIs hands were as small as the rest of him with delicate fingers that had the remains of crayon stuck under his nails. On his overalls Lucas could see where paint and dirt stains had been scrubbed at futally, causing the denim to wear out without the stains being removed completely. Up close he could tell just how ill fitting the overalls were, as a clothespin was hooked under both the boy’s arms. His shoes were going to fall apart any day now, either constantly used by him or second hand like his overalls, most likely both with chalk and scuffs covering the once vibrant red surface.

“My name is Lucas Sinclair,” Lucas introduced, holding out his hand. The boy glanced up for a moment, then back down. He shook his hand, but didn't give a name in return. Lucas noted how the boy barely grabbed his hand during the shake, and how his hand trembled ever so slightly in his grip.

“I live next door to Mike,” he explained as if it weren't obvious. “I’m in kindergarten too.”

The boy nodded.

“My dad was in the air force. We move around a lot. He works as a lawyer in town now. My mom is a lawyer too, but she's staying home to take care of my baby sister Erica for now.”

Another nod.

“Don't you talk at all?”

Another nod.

“Then talk.”

“William Byers,” the boy said quietly but loud enough to be heard. Lucas could tell the boy had a naturally quiet voice, like his auntie or the girl he knew from preschool that was still carrying around his first kiss. 

“What?” he said anyways, in hopes the boy would talk more. As quiet as it was, his voice was nice for the two words he spoke.

“I’m-m William Byers,” the boy looked up at him now, up though his bangs and eyelashes. Now that he was having to say more than just his name, Lucas could hear how bad the boy’s stutter was. “Th-that’s my n-n-name. My family and M-M-Mike call m-me Will.”

“Anything else Will?”

Lucas grinned at the sight of the boy, of Will, thinking so hard about his next response. His nose crinkled a little and he looked down, but only with his eyes this time. It was like speech was some grand mystery to him that he was desperately grasping at straw to figure out. He thought for a long while, nipping at his lip every so often. When he looked up again, he only seemed more nervous than before.

“M-m-my mama works at M-Melvald’s General Store in town, and m-my daddy works somewhere...I-I think,” he said meekly, shoulder raising to his ears.

“You think?”

“M-my brother says he gets f-fired a lot.”

“You have a brother?” Lucas sat down on the grass, motioning for Will to follow. When he did sit with him, still not on the grass, he drew his knees to his chest to rest his chin on them, taking up as little space as possible.

“His n-name is Jonathan. He’s f-four years older than m-me,” Will was able to look straight at Lucas when they sat like this. Part of Lucas enjoyed not having to look down, the other part missed the sight of the shorter boy having to look up. “He likes taking pictures a lot. He’s really shy, so no one ever notices him doing it.”

“Is everyone in your family quiet?” Lucas asked, leaning forward a bit. His own family was always bursting with so much noise. Even his quiet and well mannered auntie could get loud and oozing with confidence like the rest of the Sinclairs if she was given enough drinks.

“No,” Will shook his head, pulling Lucas out of his thoughts. He was picking at the crayon shavings under his nails, no longer making eye contact. “M-Mama and Daddy are really loud people. Mama likes to yell at m-men who tell her what to do, and she really likes t-talking to-to-to people. Daddy likes t-talking to people to-too, but he never yells at p-people outside t-the house.”

“So then why are you and your brother shy?”

Will shrugged, “Ma-Mama says that her and Daddy m-must have used up all of our voices be-before we were born. Daddy says I’m dre-ad-ful at talking.”

“He’s right,” Will’s face went pink and he buried it in his knees, curling in tighter on himself. Lucas felt gilt rise up in his chest, and he wanted nothing more than to make him feel better at that moment.

“Sorry,” Lucas mumbled. “That sounded mean. I didn't mean for it to sound mean.”

He waited another moment before scooting forward and nudging at Will’s shoe with his own, “Keep talking, please? I like the sound of your voice.”

Will peaked up as if to make sure he wasn't joking before uncurling just a bit. He watched Lucas for any sign of sarcasm or humor before nodding.

“M-my brother likes m-music. It’s loud. M-Mama says that's where the rest of his loudn-ness must go.”

“Where does she think the rest of yours goes?” Lucas asked, encouraging him to keep going.

“She isn't sure yet,” he bit his lip.

“Where do you think it goes?”

Will bit the corner of his lip, “I-I don't think I ever had any.”

“I’m sure you do. It’s just hiding right now,” Lucas’s grin returned. Will smiled back fully, and if Lucas was honest with himself, that smile fuled him for the rest of the week.

The sound of the Wheeler’s front door bursting opened startled them both. As Mike ran outside, both boys sprang to their feet, and Lucas could feel a sowel pulling at the corner of his lips. Mike barely even noticed Lucas’s presence, and all of Will’s attention dragged to the Wheeler boy.

“My mom said we can play in the basement if we’re careful,” Mike said when Lucas tuned in after a moment to what he was saying.

“O-okay. I’ll m-meet you down there,” Will said with a wide smile. Mike ran off back to the house, and before following, turned back too Lucas with a shyer smile.

“Talk to you later?” Lucas asked, returning the smile.

Will nodded and when Lucas thought he was going to leave, he instead stepped forward and hugged him. He felt impossibly smaller when his arms were around the taller boy, and Lucas’s heart leapt as he hugged back. Then Will was disappearing into the Wheeler’s house, and Lucas was standing alone on his lawn.

It was another week before Lucas saw Will again, never able to catch him before he went into the Wheeler house with Mike. The night he saw him again it happened because he sat outside on his lawn until it was time for Will to leave the Wheeler house.

Will didn't notice him, too focused on getting down the dark driveway without tripping to get to his mom’s car. Lucas jumped up at the sight of him and quickly ran over before he could get in the car. He simply hugged and very shocked Will tightly before running back to his own house. He did this every night from then on until late November when a topic he had all but forgotten came up at the dinner table.

“Baby, what would you think about us moving back to Indianapolis?” Lucas dropped his fork in shock, his head snapping up to face his mother and father.

“Don't look so surprised,” his father laughed.

“We can't leave,” Lucas blurted, eyes wide.

“Why not? Baby, we know how much you don't like it here. You don't have any friends like you did back in the city, wouldn't you like to go back to them?” his mother asked.

“I have a friend,” Lucas protested. His parents exchanged skeptical glances.

“Why don't you invite your friend over this weekend then?” his father suggested.

  So that was how Lucas ended up running around town asking every adult who would humor him about the Byers family. He learned they were fifth generation Hawkins residents on both sides and had lived on the same property on the edge of town for two generations on Will’s mom’s side. People’s opinions varied on the family, many negative and saying they were a disgrace to the town, others singing Lonnie Byers’s praises. He got their address from a store clerk who used to work with this Lonnie guy that Lucas assumed was Will’s dad and biked down the tree enclosed road until he got to the gravel driveway. There were no cars in the driveway, but the lights of the house were on.The house itself looked about exactly how he imagined. Small, old and unkempt on the outside. When he knocked on the door it was answered by a boy who must have been the same age as Mike’s sister who he quickly registered as Jonathan. Unlike Will, his older brother’s clothes were dark and lacking in color, but still too big for him and worn in.

“Hello,” Joanthan asked more than greated. He spoke quiet like Will, but Lucas could tell he wasn't really meant to be a quiet person. He reminded him more of his cousin, the son of his quiet auntie, who was hesitant and nervous but carried a much louder voice than his mother.

“I’m Lucas Sinclair,” he shook the older boy’s hand. A bit of recognition flashed across Jonathan’s face and he looked over his shoulder and a thud sound that came from inside. Lucas tired too look around him to see what had fallen, but couldn't see anything in the living room. “Is Will home?”

“Yeah, give me a second,” the older boy mumbled, still looking over his shoulder. He ducked into the house and shouted Will’s name a few times before the pitter patter of small feet came running to the door.

“I fell,” Lucas heard Will admit to his older brother as a fond smile creeped over Jonathan’s face. Will’s brother left the doorway and Will’s tiny frame replaced him, his hair being ruffled by Jonathan as he walked away. Lucas could definitely see the family resemblance. They were both smaller than most kids their age with similar faces and home done hair cuts. The only differences Lucas could see at the moment were their different hair and eye colors.

Without a word, Lucas leaned forward and placed a kiss on Will’s forehead, like he saw his father do in the mornings to his mother when she was still barely awake. Will turned pink again, but this time it fully reached his ears.

“Since you don't understand, I’m going to tell you now,” Lucas started. “You are officially my best friend. I don't care what Mike Wheeler says, you’re mine.”

Will rapidly blinked at him, his mind visibly working a mile a second to compute what had just happened.

“My parents want you to have a sleepover at my house this weekend. This is our number,” Lucas handed Will the note card his mother had given him before he left the house. “Have your mom call my mom to work out the details.”

After that weekend their families fell into tradition. On Saturdays, when Will’s dad wasn't home, the Byers and Sinclair families would eat dinner together, switching houses every other week. Whichever house they were at for dinner, the son of the opposite family would stay the night and be dropped off or picked up before the Sinclairs went to church on Sunday.

They became so accustomed to the rhythm of things that Lucas felt like something had hit him with the speed of a bus when it was interrupted. Mrs. Byers had called and tried to cancel dinner that weekend, telling his mother that their house wasn't fit to have people over and the boys weren't feeling so good. His mother insisted though and talked to Mrs. Byers until she cracked and agreed to come to their house insead for that weekend.

When they Byers got to the house, something different and odd hung in the air. Mrs. Byers’s voice was slightly hoarse, like she had been yelling or crying a lot, and all of them looked very very tired. Will and Jonathan were usually quiet, but that night they didn't speak at all during dinner, and refused to look up from their plates. Mrs. Byers and Jonathan left to head back home, but before she walked out Mrs. Byers hugged Will tighter than Lucas had ever seen a mom hug their child, her nose scrunching up like Will’s did when he was thinking as she told him to have fun.

Will still didn't speak when they went up to Lucas’s room and flinched away anytime Lucas tried to touch him or even moved close to him. The next morning Mrs. Byers picked Will up early, and Will didn't even hug him goodbye.

Lucas spent the whole week thinking he had done something wrong, but was proved to just be paranoid the next weekend when the Byers were suddenly back to normal and Will was being a bit more affectionate than usual. Weekends like these started to happen about once a month, but it wasn't until February that Lucas learned how to navigate them. All he had to do was pretend it wasn't happening and treat Will like normal. Will would warm up little by little through the night until Lucas was able to get a few words out of him and a hug goodbye in the morning.

On March 22nd, Lucas was invited to Will’s birthday party where he first met Will’s dad. Up front, his dad seemed like a nice man. He smiled a lot and talked to the Sinclairs and like they were old friends- it turned out the Wheelers were actually old friends of his and Mrs. Byers, so his warmness to them was no surprise. Mrs. Byers seemed more tense around her husband, but at the same time loser around Mrs. Wheeler and his mother.

During present opening time Mike sat on Will’s left with Lucas on his right. Will grinned big as he opened Mike’s present to him of a full box set of the The Lord of the Rings books. He was almost bouncing from his mother’s gift of crayons, his brother’s gift of chalk and Nancy Wheeler’s gift of a sketchbook. Then came the gift from his father, and the moment it was open,all of the Byers besides his dad seemed to catch their breath and hold it as if Will had been given a bomb. It was just a baseball bat though.

“I figured hes old enough to start learning now,” Mr. Byers said from his recliner chair where he was drinking a beer. “I was six when I started.”

Mrs. Byers nodded with a very tightlipped smile that Lucas saw his mother frown at. To relieve the tension, Lucas grabbed the box he had personally wrapped and sat it in front of Will.

“Open mine next,” he said, smiling to try and make Will’s smile come back. It worked, and Will melted back into his happy state, pushing the baseball bat aside.

Lucas had gotten him a rainbow sweater that he had seen in a box of clothes his auntie had sent of her daughter’s old clothes, and decided immediately that it was perfect for Will. Will hugged the sweater close with a big grin and sparkling hazel eyes. Lucas was soon trapped in a hug, and he almost laughed when he felt that Will was trying to hug him with all his nonexistent strength.

“Okay okay,” Lucas laughed, patting his back. “The sweater isn't the only thing I got you!”

Will pulled back to look back in the box, now seeing the brand new pair of yellow sneakers that sat in the bottom with “Lucas Sinclair” written on the white toes. This made Will practically launch back into his arms, almost knocking them both over in the process. He didn't stop hugging him until Mr. Byers cleared his throat, and even then Will held his hand for the rest of the party.

The Sinclairs were the last to leave the party, and when they did Lucas placed a kiss on Will’s cheek and pulled back with a grin.

“See you Saturday,” he said, then ran off down the driveways with his parents to their car.

He was shocked when that Saturday turned out to be one of those weeks. But even though Will was silent like he always was on weeks like this, he was almost doubly as affectionate with Lucas than usual. Almost all through the night he held his hand, and there were plenty of hugs and cuddles sprinkled in when they went up to his room. At first Lucas didn't understand, and even when he saw the reason, he was still confused. When Will must have thought Lucas was looking away so he could change, Lucas saw the bruises on Will’s arms and back, Some of them were fresh, but other looked like they were starting to fade, like they had been inflicted earlier in the week.

Lucas had no clue where the bruises came from, but they caused him to make a promise to Will, even though he didn't make it out loud. When it was time for bed, Lucas had Will sleep in the bed with him instead of on the floor in a sleeping bag. He kissed Will on the head and cheek before they fell asleep, the finle though of the night night being his promise.

As long as I live,  no one will ever hurt William Byers again.

Of course, everyone always saw it as Mike and Will against the world. They had the same teachers for the first three years of school, and Lucas was always in a different class. Outside of class and the Wheeler’s house though, it was Lucas and Will. Their parents found Lucas’s blatant affection for the young Byers adorable, encouraging it even as they got older, even when both Boy’s finally understood what their affection really looked like on the outside.

Will stayed just about as quiet and shy as they grew up, and Lucas stayed just about as bold and blunt. They balanced each other out, even as fumbling children who didn't know their place in the world. Will taught Lucas a lot about boundaries, and respectfulness, and how to find joy in the silence. Lucas taught Will a lot about adventure, and joy, and how to live his life outside of his own head every so often.

By third grade, he finally got the same teacher as Will. So did Mike.

Both the boys’ parents discovered that year how hot headed and possessive they could be. A few scuffles here and there, barely hidden glares, name calling and passive aggressive comments grew between them that always took place behind Will’s back. At one point when they were bother waiting with Nancy and Jonathan at a playground for Will to finish in the bathroom, a fight got so bad that the two thirteen year olds had to rip them apart. That day was when their cover was broken, as Will came out of the bathroom to see the tail end of the fight. Long story short, Lucas and Mike had a crying Will on their hands and a very pissed off Jonathan. A new truce was made between them, monitored by Nancy, to play nice and try to be friends, for Will’s sake.

Lucas’s promise evolved into something knew: As long as I live, I will never hurt William Byers again.

The truce actually brought Lucas and MIke to realize just how much they had in common, and soon it wasn't just one of them and Will. It was Will, Mike and Lucas against the world.

Despite their happiness as a trio, it was that same year that Lucas learned just how bad Will and Jonathan had it at home. He learned what the baseball bat from Will’s sixth birthday really meant to them from Jonathan. He learned what the bruises that sometimes peaked out from Will’s collar meant from his parents when they sat him down after one of those weeks, the worst one yet when Will was acting off the entire week. He learned during a late night confession from Will what those weeks actually were.

“My parents have always fought a lot,” the combination of Will’s already soft voice and whispers in the dark made it almost impossible to hear him, but Lucas managed to. “Those Saturday’s we’re acting weird, its because none of us got sleep because Mom and Dad were fighting all night.”

“Why do they fight,” Lucas risked asking.

“Because of me,” Lucas almost cut in to tell Will that couldn't be true, but Will stopped hi,. “It’s true. Jonathan says they must have been in love at some point, but he never says they act like it even before I was born. It was only after I was born that they started fighting. Dad started drinking, Mom picked up more shifts at work to pay my hospital bills, and Jonathan tried not to get in their way.”

“Hospital bills?”

“I had to be in the hospital a long time after I was born. No one says it, but I know that's why we’re in so much debt. Even if we weren't already the poorest family in town, we would have become it after I was born. Jonathan said that when I was born, Dad was working three jobs and gambling a lot to try and make up for the bills, but the gambiling only lost us more money. That's why the fights started. We were in so much debt, and Mom wanted to leave him.”

“Why didn't she?”

“It was 1971,” Will said, like it was obvious. When he saw it wasn't, he explained, “The no-fault divorse laws were passed in 1969, but in Hawkins it was still really looked down upon for a woman to divorce her husband. No lawyer would defend Mom without a lot of money as payment upfront, so she just didn't do it.”

The next night at the dinner table, Lucas asked his parents all about the no-fault laws that Will had mentioned. Then he asked about why Will was in the hospital as a baby.

“Did Will tell you about that?” his father asked.

“He mentioned that they went into debt because of it,” Lucas said. “I don't get it though. Don't babies usually go home with their moms after they’re born.”

“Most of the time, yes,” his mother nodded. “But in Will’s case, he couldn't. He was born too early. Joyce was only five months pregnant when he was born.”

“Do you know what a miscarage is?” his father asked. Lucas said he did. “Will was almost a miscarage. They had to keep him in the hospital for a few months to make sure he could live on his own before they sent him home.”

“That's scary,” Lucas said.

“It is,” his mother agreed. “But Will is healthy now, and that’s all that matters.”

Lucas agreed then went to bed.

For the next few weeks Lucas would notice Will tugging on his sleeves, and with great pain, he realized that just because he hadn't seen the bruises in a while on his best friend’s skin, didn't mean they weren't there. He took it upon himself to always make Will feel better for at least the hours he saw him, but always had to restart the process of making him feel better the next day.

His promise that he had lived by grew into a list of promises that year.

As long as I live, I will never hurt William Byers again.

As long as I live, I will never turn my back on him.

As long as I live, he will always have a friend.

As long as I live, I will always listen to him.

As long as I live, we will always be together.

As long as I live, I will always hug him at least once a day.

That last one was added when they were nine. The rain from the day before had carried into the next morning, but Lucas could care less. They Byers had missed their Saturday dinner, and every time they called Mrs. Byers said she couldn't talk right now and hung up. Lucas refused to sit and wait for Mrs. Byers to tell them what was going on, and his parents didn't stop him when he hoped onto his bike right after dinner. In fact, his mom prepared him with a backpack for the evening if he ended up staying, a letter from her to Mrs. Byers and A pan of cinnamon rolls. She pulled a rain coat onto him and had him put on a pair of rain boots, and he was on his way to the Byers’s house.

When he got there, Mrs. Byers answered the door. She had darker bags than usual under her eyes, her hair an unkept mess in a bun on the top of her head. She tried to tell him now wasn't a good time, but he wouldn't listen. He stubbornly stood there on the doorstep in the rain until she let him inside and accepted the letter and cinnamon rolls.

“He’s sick right now,” she tried to tell him. He ignored her and ran back to Will’s room, only to find she hadn't been lying to him.

Will was tucked tightly into his bed with a wet washcloth other his forehead, his nose bright red from congestion. Lucas threw caution to the wind and kicked off his shoes, laying down on the bed by his friend’s side. The movement woke him, but he made no protest against his presence.

After getting Mrs. Byers’s reluctant permission to spend the night, Lucas curled up underneath the covers with Will, wrapping him in his arms to supply body heat.

Lucas stayed with the Byers for two rainy July weeks to take care of Will so that Mrs. Byers could focus on Jonathan- who was also sick- and her job. His parents came over every few nights with their brief cases, and he started to piece together why Mr. Byers was nowhere to be seen for the full two weeks.

“My dad left,” was the first coherent thing that Will said to Lucas, confirming his suspicions. It was early in the morning, and he had just woken up, but he jumped into comforting mode right away. The day it happened, Jonathan and Will had spent the entire day building a fort in the forest that they called Castle Byers, and the rain made them sick. 

That was the day Lucas Sinclair decided to add the last promise on his list, and by far the one that seemed the silliest at first glance but really meant the most. Every day, he decided, he had to give Will at least one hug. He had to give his friend some sort of comfort, some stability, some constant in the hurricane his life had become. Will took notice, and returned the gesture, hugging Lucas even when he had forgotten. It wasn't much different from how they used to be, but the hugs, the small acts of physical affection meant something very different now.

They were promises.

Promises from Lucas to always be there. Promises from Will that he would always want Lucas there, and would be there for him when he needed it.

It was them and Mike against the world. The cruel cruel world that they needed each other to survive in.

In fifth grade the three became four, happily adding the new kid, Dustin Henderson, to their party. They played D&D on weekends in the Wheeler’s basement, and made up their own adventures in the edge of the forest between the end of the school day and dinner. They were all best friends, as improbable as that seemed. They were always together.

They built their rules of the party, Dustin’s addition being the first blood rule when he witnessed one too many fights between Mike and Lucas, the “friends don't lie” rule unsurprisingly made by Will. They lived by their rules, with Lucas living also by his promises to Will. Mike acted as a sort of leader, even though they liked to say they were a democracy.

They all relied on each other, and cared deeply for one another. All of their parents were quickly becoming friends too with how much they had to see each other because of their children. They were inseparable.

Things were still bad at school though. They loved their classes, and most of their teachers, and the AV club was their sanctuary, but their party was frequently bullied. Will was bullied the heaviest, the only one the bullies dared to get physical with. The boy that had brought the group together was a constant target, even on days when the others were left alone. He never told them how bad things got with the bullies, but every time one of them did, Mike and Lucas would both end up in the principal's office.

They were still happy though. They were a team.

And then November 6th, 1983 rolled around. They said goodbye for the evening after a ten hour long campaign. His mom was standing on the porch of their house, impatiently tapping her foot as he talked to his friends outside the Wheeler’s house. He hugged Will tightly for the third time that night, an odd feeling in his gut trying to tell him something bad was coming. When they pulled back, Lucas debated kissing Will’s cheek. He hadn't done it in a few years, now knowing the real implications of a kiss, but with Will’s tired, life filled hazel eyes staring up at him like that, it was hard not to. Especially knowing the real implications of a kiss.

He didn't do it though. He just waved goodbye and watched from his bedroom window as Dustin and Will peddled down the road.

He realized the next day that he should have done it.

The search started to find Will, everyone believing he had just gotten lost, but by the third day a body was fished out of the quarry right before his eyes and all hope was lost.

He didn't let himself react in front of his two remaining friends and the weird girl they had let in, but as soon as he was home, he fell into his mother and father’s arms and cried for an hour. They were crying too, and his mother had full intentions of going to see Ms. Joyce before seeing the wreck her son was over it. He didn't actually stop crying the entire night, but after the first hour, he did manage to stop the sobs and head to his bedroom. Erica was eight at the time, but she was still young enough in her own mind to be showing him how much she cared. She hugged him and fell asleep in the same bed, not minding her hair being wet by his tears as he cried himself to sleep.

Then Will was alive. He heard his voice over the radio in the AV club with the others, and Will was alive.

“Mom, Mom! --- It’s like home but it’s so dark- it’s so dark and empty and it’s cold---”

He had never heard Will so scared before in their lives, he had never heard him screaming and crying like that, even after all the things Lonnie Byers had done to him. Hearing it made something in his chest snap, and right away he got on a mission where nothing could distract him. He had to find Will and bring him home, even if he lost his other friends in the process.

Seeing Chief Hopper and Ms. Joyce walking into the hospital was the only relife he got from the terror of that night’s events. Will was in Hop’s arms, still wet and covered in the slime of the Upside Down, his skin just as pale as that of the body pulled out of the quarry. Despite how awful he looked, the irregular rise and fall of his chest through choking coughs was the most beautiful sight in the world to Lucas, because Will was breathing. Unconscious, and broken, but still breathing.

When Will woke up, Lucas ran into the hospital room with Mike and Dustin. For a moment, he forgot they were in a hospital all together. He threw his arms around his friend’s neck at the same time the Mike latched onto him. The feeling of Will being under his arms again almost sent him back into the same crying fit from a few nights before, but Dustin pushing him away to get his own hug in grounded him.

It was impossible to get a moment alone with Will for a long time after that, even when his mother hesitantly let him go back to school. He was constantly surrounded by people, be it his mom, Jonathan and Hop or the party or other adults. They couldn't have their sleepovers on Saturdays anymore. Lucas didn't care though, in fact it made him feel much more secure to know Will was never out of someone’s sight, even if it meant giving up seeing Will after dark. Whenever possible, Will never left his sight, and that made up for something.

Dr. Owens took over Hawkins Lab, and became Will’s doctor for the next year. Every other week, Will would go quiet for a whole day like he used to after his mom and dad got in a fight, and his mom would pick him up early from school to take him to his appointment. He never told them about the visits to the lab, and he very rarely let that week in November slip into conversation. During the times when people would insist talking about it, Will’s eyes would glaze over and Lucas would feel his heart break a little from the expression.

They thought things were getting better. Will had episodes here and there, and would sometimes have to talk to Lucas over the Super-Coms all night when the nightmares got too bad, but they thought he was starting to get better. He was smiling like his old self again, back to his normal amount of quietness instead of the trauma induced silence. When school started up again in September, they realized the exact opposite was happening. The episodes started to happen more and more often, and Lucas found himself drinking a little too much coffee every week to keep himself awake after those long nights up. But Will wasn't acting different on the surface, he was acting like he was getting better when they could now all see he wasn't. As soon as he realized how tired Lucas was, he stopped calling after nightmares, and he played off episodes as him spacing out.

Then Mad Max showed up, and Lucas finally had something, someone, to get his mind off of the whole situation. He felt guilty, and he knew Dustin did too, but they both desperately needed a break and found it in the interesting new girl from California. But even this new possible friend couldn't distract him completely, Mike made sure of that. Even with Mike’s annoyance though, Will seemed to be amused by Lucas and Dustin’s fascination with the red head and somewhat relieved they weren't fussing over him anymore.

“He’s quiet today,” Mike commented as they peaked around the corner of the school building at Will being lead to his mom’s car.

“He’s always quiet,” Lucas sighed. Whatever was said in response, he tuned it out, because he knew whatever Mike had to say, he had already thought.

Before Will could get in the car, Lucas ran over and pushed through the crowd. He  grabbed his wrist to stop him from getting in the car. Will didn't even have to look up to know who it was. Lucas knew Will could recognize his touch quicker than he could recognize his own name. Just like Luas could recognize his touch quicker than he could recognize his own name.

“You’d tell me if it got worse, right?” Lucas asked in a careful whisper.

Will looked up at him, eyes as gentle and kind as ever. He didn't smile, but that was to be expected on an appointment day. He did, however, pull his arms up a bit so that Lucas was now holding his hand. Will squeezed the tips of his fingers, and in the blink of an eye, pushed himself onto his toes to kiss Lucas’s cheek.

“Go have fun, okay?” Will whispered. Giving his hand one last squeeze before letting go and getting into his mom’s car. Lucas watched them pull out of the parking lot, his heart beating in his ears.

So this was how Will felt when Lucas did that.

If he thought seeing Will’s fake dead body, and his real dying body were scary experiences, then this sight of his best friend was absolutely terrifying.

It had only been two days since he last saw Will in a temporary catatonic state on the field outside their school. Max finally believed him about the events of the years prior, Steve had become their babysitter, and Jonathan and Nancy had reappeared from their missing state. Things should have been easier now, they had help now. But the moment they pulled into the Byers’s driveway, Mike made them all aware of what exactly had transpired since Will’s last episode in the field, and now nothing was easy at all.

At first, Lucas felt just how Max must have when he sat her down in the back room of the arcade. The information made sense, it fit, but he couldn't believe it. Will Byers, his Will Byers, had been burned alive twice, had a seizure, gradually forgot everything he knew and led dozens of men to their deaths. Mike explained how Will’s behavior changed over the two nights, how at first they thought this could be a good thing they could use to their advantage, but they soon realized it had infected and taken over Will completely. The Mind Flayer was what Dustin named it.

Lucas listened in a disbelieving shock as Mike described in detail how they figured out Will was gone. How the Mind Flayer had to guess who Joyce was, proving that Mike was right and Will wasn't there anymore. How Will thrashed against Mike and the hospital bed, screaming over and over again that he was lying while Joyce administered the same tranquilizer they used when Will was burned alive. He tried to push the images out of his mind, but the scene forcibly danced behind his eyelids in something more horrific than any scary movie he had ever seen.

He waited outside the room with everyone else while they woke Will up. His stomach lurched when the screaming and thrashing came through the walls, and his brain refused to register it as Will’s voice. When the screaming went quiet, he peeked through the peephole at the makeshift room.

Will was tied to the chair, slumped forward slightly. The bright lights that shone directly onto his face bleached out his skin. His eyes were wide, and even from the distance, Lucas could see how the irises were a dark reddish brown instead of the hazel he always found so endearing. He could sense it, just as Ms. Joyce, Jonathan, Mike and Hop must, that Will wasn't completely gone. He was still in there, and Lucas had to cover his mouth at the thought that Will was trapped in his own mind, seeing, hearing and feeling everything without being able to do anything about it.

“Let me go,” the Mind Flayer croaked out with Will’s voice after the stories that were trying to jog his memories came to a stop.

Lucas couldn't stand it anymore. He gently knocked on the door to the makeshift room, and Hop carefully let him in. Will didn't look up when he walked close, eyes that weren't his own fixed in the distance on nothing in particular. With a hand on his friend’s shoulder, Lucas took Mike’s place crouched beside Will. He was told by Hopper not to touch him, to keep a distance, but it was so hard when Will was right there. Jonathan gave a small nod, eyes deep in that now signature Byers’s Exhaustion, and Lucas took a deep breath.

“I should have stayed with you and let Max check my wing of the school,” Lucas said in a breath. “Maybe if I did, it wouldn't have gotten you. If I had you spend the night with me last year, maybe the Demogorgon wouldn't have got you. But I’m staying with you now. You’re staying with me, and nothing else is getting you. I don't have a memory to share like everyone else, there are too many to pick from and none of them would be good enough right now. All I have is being here”

Will didn't react in any way, but Ms. Joyce’s pat on his shoulder reassured him to continue.

What Lucas did next almost sent the other in the room into a panic. Hop and Jonathan reached for him. Joyce yelped his name. Mike flinched back. None of their actions stopped him though as he leaned forward and placed his hand on the back of the chair to steady himself.

Hugging had always been Will’s “love language”, as his mother called it. He expressed so many emotions and thoughts through every hug, every pressing of chests together and arms tucked around each other’s backs. While he participated in the love language and made one of his promises based around it, Lucas’s personal love language he had gotten from his parents. Kisses. Kisses to the head, or temple, or cheek, or top of the head. Sometimes kisses were peppered into hugs by being placed on shoulders, ears and the nape of the neck. He had sprinkled in these kisses over the years, and now seemed to be the perfect time for one.

His lips lingered on Will’s cheek longer than they ever had before. The kiss moved to between the smaller boy’s cheek bone and eye, then to his temple, then back to his cheek. He reached up and placed a hand on Will’s other cheek to hold him closer. His skin was so cold under Lucas’s palm and lips, but he took it in stride and continued the kiss. He pushed everything that had been growing in him over the years into the kiss, wishing for a flash of a moment that he could kiss Will on the lips. That would be wrong at the moment, he knew, so the thought left just as fast as it had come. When he went in for that kiss, that special one, he wanted Will to be able to stop him, or return it, or take it at his own pace.

Lucas finally pulled back and he was astonished at his self control when he didn't jump back. Will turned his head and stared Lucas in the eyes like he was truly seeing him, truly knowing him. At some point his other hand had cupped the cheek he had just kissed so that he was holding Will’s face completely in his hands, allowing him to stare right back.

The tapping started, and Lucas couldn't help but smile. He had gotten through. Together, they had all broken down the barriers the Mind Flayer put up and got though, and his kiss had been what sealed the deal.

Before leaving to help with translating the message Will was tapping out to them, Lucas placed another long kiss on Will’s forehead. As he walked out the others continued telling stories to keep Will there as long as they could. In the end, before the phone rang and gave away their location, they got two full words scribbled on the paper.

“Close gate.”

The plan was risky and terrifying, even with El back and Will’s instruction of how to put an end to it all. They all knew that one second of miscalculation and all of Hawkins would be dead, or Will would be dead with the Demodogs.

Lucas refused to think about the pain Will was in at that very moment and focused on the mission in front of him. They were going to win, they had to. And when they did, they would have El back, and Max and Steve as their new, real friends. The best part he kept tucked away in his heart, right under his shirt like a secret of his own. As they burned the heart of the underground system, surely only causing Will more pain, Lucas revised his promises.

As long as we live, no one and nothing will hurt William Byers again without my avenging it. (I'm not a kid anymore, I know I can't stop things from hurting him, but I can make sure they think twice before doing it again).

As long as we live, I will never turn my back on him. 

As long as we live, he will always have me. (I think I count as more than a friend now. Plus “a friend” is too vague).

As long as we live, I will always be there for him. (He’s never been good with words, so there might not always be something to listen to, but I will always be there in any way he needs me just like he's always done for me).

As long as we live, we will always be together.

As long as we live, I will always kiss him at least once a day (with his permission of course).

They got back to the Byers’s house after Ms. Joyce but before Hop, so they considered that somewhat of a win. The second they were through the door though, Ms. Joyce, Jonathan and Nancy were bombarding them with questions on Billy’s unconscious body on the floor and the Demodog in the freezer.

Ms. Joyce paused her lecturing of the others to tell Lucas Will was in the bath at the moment and would be sleeping in her room -the only room untouched by the mess. Lucas nodded and paused for a moment to hug her tightly. He waited outside the bathroom, leaning on the wall and listening for any possible sounds of distress from inside. None came, and by the end of the hour he could hear as the bath started to drain. Sounds of Will’s stumbling and grabbing onto different surfaces for support came. The after effects of heat exhaustion, the thrashing and the tranquilizers was sure to be the cause of the stumbing, but Lucas still stayed on guard just in case.

The lock to the bathroom clicked, and the door opened with a creak, queuing Lucas to look up from where he had been picking dirt from under his nails. At first Will didn't look up, not noticing that there was someone else in the hallway with him. He was holding himself up successfully, but it required him pressing his entire body weight on the handle of the bathroom door, and his head was dipped like he was still struggling to find balance. Slowly, Lucas took hold of Will’s shoulder to help him stand fully, and Will looked up.

Lucas’s breath caught in joy when he realized he was looking into hazel eyes and a timid expression. Then his breath caught in fear when Will swayed and fell forward into his arms. Lucas caught him, wrapping his arms tightly around his chest. Jonathan had warned him of the spot where a hot poker was jabbed into Will’s left side, and he was extra careful not to touch it as he lifted him up.

“I can walk,” Will tried to protest, voice scratchy, hoarse and quiet.

“Not without falling over,” Lucas mumbled back. “You’re too skinny, you know that? I shouldn't be able to pick you up so easily.”

“Maybe you’re just strong,” Will shrugged then clenched his teeth. The movement had tugged at the gauze wrapped over his burn, but besides the tightness of his jaw he didn't show any other signs of how the movement had hurt.

Lucas gave him a disbelieving glance and carried him to his mom’s bedroom as if it were routine, which it wasn't. Lucas crawled under the fluffy comforter with Will still in his arms. He didn't let go, not for a second.

“Thank you,” Will whistered against his shoulder after a few minutes of silence. Lucas pulled him impossibly closer as a response, running his fingers through the hair at the back of his neck.

“I’m sorry,” Will’s voice came out a croak that Lucas quickly hushed. He shook his head against Lucas’s shoulder but made no attempts at apologizing again. His hands were gripping the front of Lucas’s shirt so tightly that the fabric pulled slightly at his back, and his forehead was pressed tightly into the crook of his neck. They fit together so easily like this, making Lucas more sure than ever that this was how it was meant to be. It was meant to be them.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Lucas asked. Will nodded. “I need you so much, and it scares me.”

Will tried to look up at him, but Lucas gently kept him in place by curling his fingers in his hair. He took a deep breath, waiting a few heart beats before continuing, “I think I’ve known from the start that I need you, but it only started to scare me last year. When you were there, in that place, I realized how badly I need you and it was terrifying because we thought you were dead, then when we knew you were alive we also knew you could die at any moment. I promised myself a long time ago that I would be with you as long as I lived, because it never occured to me that I could lose you like that. Then today, when I saw you in that chair, I almost lost it. You were right in front of me, and you were right there, but you were gone too.”

“You helped get me back,” Will whispered, pressing his head closer.

“Because I couldn't stand the idea of losing you again,” Lucas almost laughed. “I can't lose you again. I need you here with me.”

“I need you too,” all of Lucas’s tensed muscles relaxed at the affirmation that he wasn't the only one. He kissed the top of Will’s head, and finally let Will look up at him. Hazel filled his vision, and he wanted nothing more than to see only that hazel for the rest of his life.

Lucas leaned forward, stopping just a centimeter from Will’s lips to allow Will to close the gap or pull back. Will closed the gap.

This kiss was short and chaste, and before he could take in WIll’s reaction his head was back on his shoulder, but a phantom warmth lingered. He hugged Will just a bit tighter and closed his eyes, letting himself drift off the moment Will’s breathing evened into the pattern of sleep.

[fashionreplacementtherapy-blog]

Clothing tips for trans men

Ever found clothing you like but when you put it on it just doesn’t look or feel great at all? If you’re trans like me that probably happens way too much. With these tips I hope make choosing clothes easier for those who might not fit into the limited body types off the rack men’s clothes are made for.

Mainly I’m going to talk about how to dress more masculine with a feminine body shape like mine. I’ll talk about what I look for in clothes and how to hide or emphasise aspects of your body for a more ‘traditionally masculine’ look.

Maybe you’ve already found pieces you love, but do you know exactly why they work so well? If you do, it makes finding more like it much easier.

First, a disclaimer:

One of the most important clothing tips I can give trans men is that you like what you wear. It should make you feel more confident and true to who you are. People are able to tell when you like your clothes, that you belong in them, so to speak.

I talk about masculine and feminine looks or clothes, but that’s purely about how that’s generally perceived. Not at all to say what you ‘should’ wear as a man, or anything along those lines. Wear whatever you like. If it’s from the men’s or women’s section of the shop doesn’t matter, as long as it works for you. My personal style goal is on the masculine side, for now.

Above all, it should make you feel better about yourself. I’m two years into transitioning medically and am still misgendered 99% of the time. But I’ve reached the point where people are starting to read me as male at first glance. My face and voice give me away, which I doubt will change until I can grow a beard or my voice deepens enough, no matter what clothes I wear. Finding the right clothes that make me closer to what I want to see in the mirror helps an awful lot in how I feel, however.

Body shape

That first glance where people read me as male for a split second is in part based on my silhouette. Whether my body shape is instinctively assumed to be male or female.

In general men tend to have a more top heavy, blocky or rectangular silhouette than women. Think wide shoulders and a body that tapers down to the waist, like an inverted triangle. Others are more straight up and down, or carry more weight in the stomach area, above the waist. Women tend to have narrower shoulders and wider hips. They tend to carry more weight around the hips and thighs.

Now broad shoulders and narrow hips may be the male ideal for some, but a blocky, more rectangular silhouette is easier (and plenty) to aim for using clothing. You can emphasise your shoulders and de-emphasise hips, for example, with the type and fit of clothing you pick. Use them to create a more blocky, ‘male’ silhouette.

I have narrow shoulders, a short upper body and wider hips. I carry weight mostly on my hips, bum and thighs. These are also the parts of my body I’m most self-conscious about. So what I aim for is to create a more rectangular silhouette by adding bulk around my shoulders, creating straight lines to my hips, de-emphasising my hips and lengthening my upper body. I also would like to look taller. While I’m not particularly short (5′8″), I do live in the Netherlands where a lot of people are Very Tall.

So, what do we need to pay attention to?

Fit

A good fit is hugely important. It’s easy to go for baggy hoodies and jumpers because they’re comfy and hide you, but baggy clothes also tend to make people look smaller and younger. We trans guys often look young enough already! If you’re a larger person, baggy clothes might make you look like you’re carrying more weight.

Clothes that fit well don’t need to be tight or uncomfortable either, they just need to be proportionate to you. If they fit well and are proportionate to your body you’ll avoid looking like you borrowed dad’s clothes. A feeling I’ve had far too often!

As my goal is a more masculine look, I tend to go for clothes from the men’s section. This isn’t always necessary (the blue hoody below is from the women’s section), but women’s clothing tends to be tailored to make people look cute and small. It tends to emphasise curves and a narrower waist. Of course this does depend on the style that’s trendy at the moment.

Here are some questions I ask when I’m trying on clothes:

Shirts, jumpers, jackets etc.

Do the shoulders fit? This is often the most important as the shoulder area is hard to adjust.

Is it loose enough around the chest / waist that it doesn’t emphasise curves? Masking the hourglass dip of a slim waist will do a lot to de-emphasise wider hips.

But is it still slim enough that it’s not baggy?

If going for oversized, does it look deliberately oversized and not just baggy?

Is the length right? If it ends at the widest part of the hips it will emphasise that width.

Are the sleeves fitted; not too tight or too loose? Baggy sleeves make arms look smaller, too tight and they’ll be either be constricting or emphasise skinniness as well.

For example, this blue hoody fits me well. The shoulders fit, it’s not too long with the hemline sitting on my hips. It’s not tight around the hips either. The band at the bottom of the hoody doesn’t cinch in like other hoodies do. It doesn’t emphasise the width of my hips, or bunch up around the stomach. I like to push the sleeves up because it makes it look like there’s more bulk up towards my shoulders.

This black tunnel neck sweater is a little too small. It fits just fine around the shoulders but is too tight around my hips, which means it has a tendency to creep up and bunch up around my middle. The body of this sweater isn’t roomy enough to hang free, so it doesn’t create as straight a line down as the blue hoody above.

This knit hoody is too big and too long. It makes me look shorter and does little to de-emphasise my hips. The bottom hem cinches in a little and with the pockets there it adds bulk around the hips. Exactly what I try to avoid.

This Star Wars sweater is deliberately blocky. The design is relatively wide with shoulder seams off the shoulder, but it’s not too long. The bottom hem falls above the widest part of my hips and overall this sweater gives the impression of bulk to my upper body, especially with the sleeves rolled up.

Trousers, jeans etc.

Are they streamlined around the hips & bum, but not too tight? I want to minimise bulk around the hips, but also not have them be so tight that everything’s on show.

Do the trouser legs give the silhouette I want? Personally I like trousers to be snug around the thighs and calves, and tapered below the knee. They follow the lines of my legs but don’t cling to every curve.

Does the position of the waistband make my upper body look right in proportion with my legs? Low rise trousers with a shirt tucked in makes my upper body look longer.

If going for oversized, does it look deliberately oversized and not just baggy?

The trousers on the left fit around the waist and hips, but the legs are too baggy. On the right a pair of the same trousers in a different colour where I took in the legs a bit. They look more slim and tidy.

These are my favourite jeans. They’re low rise, slim fit with only a little stretch and tapered towards the ankle. Snug around my hips, upper legs and calves but don’t cling anywhere else. They’re comfortable and minimise curves without drowning my legs.

These skinny biker jeans hide little in terms of silhouette, but they get away with it as they’re a dark black, not too stretchy, have added detailing above the knee, and don’t cling to my skinny ankles.

Skinny jeans by themselves aren’t ‘feminine’ or ‘masculine’, but they do show off curves, which I am self-conscious about sometimes.

Structure

By structure I mean how well a piece of clothing holds its shape. This has a lot to do with the fabric. A denim jacket for example is far more structured than a hoody, because denim is a stiff fabric that holds its shape well.

A hoody made from a thicker fabric that holds its shape a bit is more structured than a hoody made from a thinner fabric that just hangs off you. Even a little bit can make a difference.

More structured clothes make for cleaner lines and make it easier to mask bumps and curves.

This green hoody on the left, for example, is too large and made of a thin stretchy fabric. The blue hoody on the right is a little large but is made of a thicker fabric which holds its shape better. It does a better job at bulking up my shoulders a little and masking my waist.

Woven fabrics are more structured than knits as they tend to have little to no stretch. Denim jackets are more structured than hoodies because of this. And it’s why button up shirts tend to be better at hiding the curve of a waist or binder than t-shirts.

Colour

I’m not going to talk about what colours might be more ‘masculine’ than others because that’s subjective and not useful. Wear what colours you like and suit you! I do have some tips on how to use them to your advantage.

Darker colours hide the shadows of dips and curves better and make you look more slim:

If you’d like to look taller, like I do, then try not to wear contrasting colours on the upper and lower parts of your body. That divides your body into clear sections horizontally, rather than drawing the eye up all the way. The same goes for shoes and belts.

For this example I’m wearing the same trousers and two t-shirts of the same size.

Patterns & prints

Patterns can draw they eye to certain parts of the body. You can use this to your advantage to emphasise and de-emphasise what you want. Blocks of colour at the shoulders, for example, can make your shoulders look wider and draw attention away from the chest area.

This t-shirt does that with the floral print at the shoulders.

Regular patterns such as stripes and checks are best avoided when you don’t want curves to show. Regular patterns make any bump stand out. Irregular patterns on the other hand (floral prints!) mask any irregularity they might be hiding. 

The print on this hoody masks whatever is going on in the chest area a bit.

This shirt’s pattern is also irregular enough to work.  It’s important to keep the pattern in proportion with your body.  Too large a pattern may make you look smaller than you are.

Layering

As you probably know, layering is a trans guy’s best friend. Layer a shirt or an open hoody over a t-shirt and you’re creating straight lines down the front of your body. It masks your chest and any curves you may want to hide. Do this with more structured jackets, such as denim, and those lines will be cleaner.

You’re also adding bulk to your upper body as well. Push up the sleeves to give more emphasis to your shoulders. Make sure the bottom layer isn’t oversized or too bulky, however. That can make it look messy or bunch up around the hips or waist, adding size where you may not want it to.

Tailoring

Everyone you see on TV or in magazines whose clothing always looks great will almost certainly have had their clothes tailored. Since that’s an added expense not everyone can afford, I’ll talk about making do with off the rack clothing as much as possible.

I will however let you know what is possible to have tailored if it’s an option. In the future I’ll write about how to make some adjustments yourself as well.

How to find what works for you

I hope these tips help you find clothes that work for you. The best advice I can give is to try clothes from different shops and brands. Hopefully you’ll come across one where the sizing and fit is somewhat consistently right for you.

Also look for fashion bloggers or vloggers who are a similar size and body shape to you. That way you can see what you like on them before spending any money and they’ll likely be showing clothes that are available in the shops right then.

Feel free to send me an ask if you have any questions or requests!

See my original article with links to some of the clothes I’m wearing, their sizes and my measurements for comparison, here: Clothing tips for trans men

I have some articles that go into more detail published there already as well.

[caveadministration]

Gladius

Chapter 8: Solitude

Sakura stared down at the boy in wonder. Although, calling him a boy was a bit out of place as he must have been her age, if not older. She turned her gaze towards the smith; if she had to guess, she’d say they were all of a similar age.

“My name is Tenten,” said the smith, a smile on her lips as she raised a hand in greeting.

“And mine is Sakura. It’s a pleasure.” She looked around the forge. It was large and cluttered, but well used and well loved, clearly somewhere people cared for their work. Half-forged weapons and armour lay on every surface, but none looked abandoned, and of what Sakura could see of the work, it was masterfully done. It was no wonder that Tenten, and her master (for a smith no matter how talented could not own a forge so young) had a job at such a prestigious place. Creating the equipment for the gladiators of Rome, some of their most prolific fighters, would have quite a reputation. But, Tenten was the only smith in the building and that blade on the bench had the marks of one freshly tempered and the forge still hot. That spoke volumes.

“You do impressive work.” Sakura looked back towards Tenten. “Where did you learn your skill?”

Tenten let a chuckle. “Well, it’s a pleasant surprise for someone to think it’s my work and not my father’s, but I can’t say I don’t appreciate the compliment. Yes. some of these are mine and as my father is currently boozing it up in the country for the week, I hope you don’t mind that yours will just have to be part of the collection.” She turned and gestured for Sakura and Genma to follow her further inside. “I have to take your measurements and an idea of your combat style before I begin.”

Sakura began to follow, but a glance at the strange man still passed out on the wall made her pause. “Should we not…”

“Ah, don’t worry about Lee. He’ll come ‘round soon enough.” Tenten cleared off a bench in the back of the room and whipped out a measuring tape. “Stand tall and spread your arms out.”

Sakura stood as told while Genma headed over to recline on a chair. It was a wonder he was so relaxed all the time.

“Well, Sakura. About five and a half pes, you’re surprisingly tall for a woman.”

“Good thing,” said Genma as he crunched into an apple that had miraculously appeared from nowhere. “I like my women tall.”

“Don't we all Genma,” muttered Tenten. “Don't we all.”

Sakura, personally, was taking this conversation very... well... personally.

Tenten continued. “Wingspan is about the same. I’ve gotta say, nice proportions. And good measurements on the waist. You’re fit, but not too fit.” Tenten moved onto the smaller measurements. “I can’t tell you how many men I have to measure armour for, and their body muscle is way out of line. Too much of it and it’s gonna hinder more than help.” She scribbled down the last of her notes on a piece of paper and rolled up the measuring tape. “I’m glad to see that you’ve got the brains to match your brawn.”

“I could’ve have told you that,” said Genma around a mouth full of apple. “You should have seen the way she wiped the floor with Hidan, and those Demon Brothers this morning certainly didn’t hold a candle.”

“Well nobody claimed those guys were too bright, not that I’ve seen many sparks in the gladiator school.” Tenten moved over to a rack of weapons on the wall. “Any of these your preference in fighting?”

“A graecus, and an axe is a close second. If possible, I dual-wield them.”

“Dual-wielding, and an axe for half of it? I have to say I didn’t believe everything I’d heard from your fight, but the axe was certainly not the part I would have thought to be true.” She searched through her collection before grabbing a variety of graecus and axes and loading them onto the table. “Any of those fit your style? I’m sorry to say but I don’t think there’s any chance of retrieving the ones you’re familiar with, so it’s either one of these or I forge a new one.”

Sakura shifted through the pile, choosing and discarding. “No matter; they may have been familiar, well worn, comfortable, but they were nothing special and of low quality. It will be nice to have one that fits my grip and balance better.”

Finally, only a few weapons lay remaining on the table, the rest back on the rack. Tenten perused them carefully. “I see for the sword you favour a thinner blade, with a more than average length for your height. Better for your reach but only when you’re trained to accommodate it. It’s a good way to even out the balance but it’s still heavier than on average. As for the axe… you clearly prefer them double-bladed, but oddly enough, you like them shorter. I’m guessing to pair better with your sword in combat.”

Sakura blinked in surprise. “I never thought about it that way, but I suppose you’re right. I had often just used weapons that felt right but I had never considered why they did.”

“So,” Tenten said. “You like to use both sword and axe, but the reach has to even out more and the blades themselves thinner for manoeuvrability. Now, pick up those on the table and tell me which ones are most comfortable and balanced to you.”

Sakura reached hesitantly for one of the graecus and settled into a stance. After a few forms she could tell that the balance was not far off, but the grip was all wrong. Her sword now discarded in Suna was no masterpiece but even its hilt was better than this. She placed it down and picked up another. A better grip but much too heavy. The next was too light. Sakura ran through all the swords and axes on the table, but the result was much the same. They had promise but none could make her feel comfortable without learning how to fight around their faults. She turned back to face Tenten and conveyed her findings as Genma, now finished with his apple, dug the seeds out of the core and threw them into a pot. He was studiously ignored by both women.

“Ah.” Tenten did not look surprised. “I have to say, the chance of one of these suiting you was very low. They all have been forged for men, their hilts too large and the blades themselves too unwieldy and, even then, none for the same fighting style as you either. Where did you learn something for which the weapons were so specific?”

“It was just what came naturally. The sword was my first weapon, and the axe was one that I had to be comfortable with. When there's no swords around you have to make do.”

“I can see that you're ambidextrous. Was that a habit of necessity too?”

Sakura looked at the sword and the axe currently in her grip and with a quick flick of her wrists swapped them over. She flexed her fingers. “I've always practiced with either hand. If I wasn't ambidextrous when I first started, then I certainly am now, but not of necessity, it was just what was done.”

Genma whistled. “Anything else we should know about your skill set?”

“I am practiced enough in most other forms, but nowhere near as proficient. Make no mistake, I can use any of these swords and axes but if it’s comfort that you are after, they don’t suit me at all.” Sakura lowered the weapons and placed them back on the table. “Was there anything else you wished to know, Tenten?”

“Just your armour.” Tenten removed the weapons until the table was clear once more. “I assume you will need a cuirass as we have none for your… measurements, but if there are other parts that fit you well enough, I would recommend using them for now. The more we have to make, the longer it will take.”

“I have no comparison for such knowledge, so I will have to take you for your word,” said Sakura.

Genma stood up abruptly. “As nice as it was to see you again, Tenten, dear Sakura here has a couple of places she needs to be, and it seems like you have a fair few tasks on your hands.”

“My pleasure,” Tenten said dryly. “I’ll have the items sent to you when completed. It should take about a week. And who knows, maybe if Sakura performs well in the colosseum, I’ll see her again; most of the more famous gladiators get to look a little flashier when they perform.”

Sakura inclined her head and followed Genma out of the forge, and as they turned the corner, they heard the unmistakable sound of what must have been Lee stirring from his position on the floor and lamenting to Tenten of “missing the beautiful blossom.”

All Sakura could think was that Romans were strange. But then again, maybe Lee was an oddity.

Sakura was wrong. In front of her stood a man who resembled Lee in clothes, eyebrows, and haircut. And given the tears currently streaming down his face, their personalities were worryingly similar.

“Sakura, this is Might Gai, one of our doctores, trainers.” Genma smiled. “You have already met his charge, Rock Lee.”

Gai knelt in front of her, her hands clasped in front of him and sparkles shining from his eyes. “The power of youth is flowing from your eyes!”

Sakura erred on the side of caution. “It is… nice to make your acquaintance”

He gasped, the volume of glittering tears increased. “Such a soothing voice and such wonderful diction. To be in your presence is an honour.”

“Hey, hey, Gai. You don’t want to scare the girl.” The man with a shock of silver hair yanked Gai up with the back of his shirt.

“Youthful rival! There is no need to worry! I was being nothing but a perfect gentleman!”

“Glad to see you’re on time today, Kakashi. I wouldn’t want to have to track you down.”

“Sure, Genma. Lucky for you I didn’t have anywhere else to be except to see the novelty.” Kakashi turned his gaze to Sakura. “I take it this is our most recently enslaved gladiator.”

His eyes were piercing. Suddenly, the past few hours of joviality washed away and memories of the last few weeks crashed down on her. Why she was here, the carnage in Suna, her kids. It was difficult to breathe. Kakashi’s eyes creased and his mask curved into a smile. The feeling passed.

Shakely, Sakura composed herself and took a few calming breaths. This was serious, this was Rome.

“Yes,” she said with gentle apathy. “It is my understanding that I am here for an evaluation.”

Genma side-eyed her but didn’t mention anything, while Kakashi simply let the smile drop.

“Yes,” Genma said, the confusion apparent in his voice. “This is Kakashi Hatake, another of our doctores. We should be meeting the last one, Yamato, soon. They are some of the most senior of the doctores and will oversee your training.”

Kakashi turned on his heel and walked into the yard. “Come on. We don’t want to keep Yamato waiting now, do we?”

Gai hurried after him and Sakura followed. She could feel Genma’s curious stare, but she kept her back straight and her stride controlled. These were Romans. They were not companions, or friends, or safe; for all she knew she had already told them too much of her past, things they could use against her. She was a slave and she needed to be much, much more careful.

Sakura joined the men in the middle of the small training yard, it was empty except for her guard and the three trainers. A private audience then.

Kakashi walked over to the rack of weapons on the wall, he took down a sword and a shield and tossed them to Sakura. Lucky for her she caught them without fumbling, this was no time to look the fool.

“Good reflexes,” said the other man, Yamato she presumed. “But we don’t generally try to injure our gladiators before they’re trained.”

“Hey, she caught them, didn’t she?” Kakashi flapped his hand. “No harm, no foul.”

Gai cut in with overwhelming enthusiasm. “But that is no way to treat a lady, especially one as beautiful as Sakura here! Where is your pride as a man?!”

Kakashi took down another sword and shield. “My pride is on hold. Right now I need to test our newest gladiator.” He rushed towards her.

As Genma, Gai, and Yamato stepped to the sides, all Sakura could focus on was the speed at which Kakashi swung down his sword. She felt years of training kick in and threw her shield up to block the strike before rolling to the side to avoid his next attack. The shield itself was too large, too Roman, and at this point more hindrance than help. She threw it to the side.

Kakashi tutted. “Are you sure you wanted to do that? Throw away your only form of protection?”

“My sword is protection enough.” Sakura crouched down and watched as Kakashi’s eyes narrowed.

“Fine,” he said. “But don’t be offended if I keep mine.”

He rushed her again and this time Sakura parried the blow and skittered backwards to create more space. This man trained gladiators and she had no knowledge of his skills while he had likely heard, maybe even seen her fights since she’d been here. For all she knew, he had given her the shield knowing she would throw it aside. This wasn’t about proving herself by winning a fight, this was about playing it safe.

He came at her again and Sakura blocked. Again, and again Kakashi tried to land a blow and every time she studied his movements and either dodged or stopped the sword itself. But to her amazement, he did not tire nor become aggravated. This was certainly not another Hidan.

Suddenly, he stopped. Sakura watched him carefully.

“You have good technique,” Kakashi said. “But you’re too cautious and didn’t take advantage of any of the opportunities I gave you. You fight too clean and that’s not going to help you in the colosseum.”

Quickly, he threw his shield at her and as she scrambled out the way, he was in her face, tossing dirt in her eyes and body checking her into the ground. As she blinked the grime out of her vision, Kakashi stood over her, sword at her throat.

“The people like excitement, and if you spend too long avoiding your opponent, you won’t die by their hand, but the crowd might just get you killed.”

Sakura stared at him and jolted into action. She used her sword to knock his aside, the blade just nicking her skin, and swept her legs under his. As Kakashi fell, Sakura rose and pinned his body against the ground, her sword now resting on his throat. He blinked, eyes wide.

“You wanted flare. For me to play dirty. Does this measure up?”

Behind her she could hear Gai waxing on about passion and youthfulness as beneath her, her blood dripped from her heaving throat onto Kakashi’s face. To her surprise, he smiled.

“Yes,” he said. “This is exactly what I want.”

Kimimaro watched the morning’s events with detached interest. The woman was certainly more trouble than she was worth but not an idiot. The fight was concise, well thought out and while the idiots around him cheered as blood splattered the floor, Kimimaro ran over what he knew of her. She had come in with the newest African slaves, a failed assimilation of a small town called Suna, no doubt due to the idiocy of those military dogs.

She had helped during an ambush and instead of killing her, the Emperor had found it fit to parade her in front of the masses. If he was of interest to him, she could be used; the question was how malleable she was. His meeting with the messenger would decide what should be done. Kimimaro looked to Sasori seated at the same table as the girl. She had no idea she was in the presence of another Suna gladiator yet clearly, based on the way he looked at her, he did. Perhaps something here could be exploited.

When the commotion calmed down and gladiators began to leave the hall, Kimimaro and his barracks went to their training ground. He sat in the shadows talking to a man before joining the rest in training. His master would give him orders, all he had to do now was wait.

As Sakura lay on that prickly straw mattress in that tiny cell, she couldn’t stop the tears that rolled down her face. Her life was, effectively, no longer her own and the most she could do was hold back her sobs and sleep to fight another day.

Hey. So. The pes is a unit of measurement from Ancient Rome. It’s similar to the Imperial measure of a foot, averaging at about 29.6cm per pes. Sakura is about 5.6 pes which is about 165cm, or 5’5”. Now, the average height of woman around Roman times was about 155cm (they measured corpses for this) a good 4” shorter than Sakura. If you’re curious, the average on men was 168cm so yeah, Sakura’s fairly tall.

Other than that, saying her new weapons will take about a week is about right as the Roman Empire while growing needed a frequent intake of weapons and armour for the new soldiers they gained in conquered countries, especially for uniform requirements, not just general weaponry. A Roman blacksmith was capable of forging a few rough blades a day which would then be grinded and finished in the next few. Dress swords and fancy-pants armour would take a little longer for officers and other “important” officials. In other countries around the world, i.e. Japan, the swords would likely take a fair bit longer as they actually cared about the craftsmanship and quality rather than just churning them out.

The staff at a gladiator school included trainers. Usually when a new recruit, or novicius, was introduced they would be assessed by a doctor, called a medici, for health, and their fighting style and capability would be overseen by the trainers, called doctores. They were often former gladiators themselves and specialised in certain types of combat. Together these two groups were called a lanista. They would also accept the gladiator based on physical appeal as they only wanted attractive fighters. I’ve sort of smushed Tenten into the medici role as Sakura is a slave and therefore already required to fight and her injuries were already checked out by Moegi.

So that’s about everything. See you in the next few months because I procrastinate even the things I enjoy!

[anghraine]

“per ardua ad astra” - chapter twenty

I swear, I didn’t mean to switch to a two-month schedule. Uni and the queer AU called. (>_<) Aaaalso, as ever, Jyn and Cassian’s perceptions are not objective truth, but their own ways of seeing things.

Last chapter:

“Do you think they’ll find the body?” she asked, staring straight ahead. “I suppose it depends on how often they check the compactors. And how recognizable it would be after compaction.”

He drew a deep breath. “Jyn—”

“I don’t imagine the stink will give it away. The trash smelled worse, and that disappeared when it closed back up. Maybe it’ll just decompose down there.”

“Jyn,” said Cassian, his hand grasping her shoulder, “don’t.”

This chapter:

“You’re with the Rebellion?” she demanded. “You can get us out of here?”

“Yes!” said the blond one. “I’m Luke Sk—”

“No,” the other burst out. “We’re definitely not.”

Luke glared at him. So did the Wookiee.

“I didn’t sign up for another rescue!”

chapters: one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen, nineteen

Leia looked blank. “You’re who?”

Of course, they hadn’t told her Jyn’s name. The agent who’d received the plans, her father’s plans, carried them and protected them, didn’t know who she was. Jyn exhaled through her teeth.

“Jyn Erso,” she said impatiently. “I’m here with Cassian Andor.”

“Cassian Andor?” Leia’s large eyes went enormous. “That’s impossible!”

The princess sprang up. She was tiny: thin and easily three or four inches shorter than Jyn. It didn’t keep her from launching herself forward before Jyn could respond.

Only for a moment, though. Jyn had scarcely turned on her heel when they heard a blaster shot, then something crashing—no, shattering—in the detention security area.

Cassian!

Raw instinct sent Jyn hurtling forward, panic and height carrying her right past Leia. She didn’t hear any clamour beyond the whatever-it-was breaking. Cassian would have said something if he were in danger, to warn her and another spy away. But—but—what could even shatter, anyway, except …

Cameras, Jyn thought, desperately praying: and sure enough, Cassian stood upright at the station, one hand in the air to silence others, and a distinct note of irritation in his voice.

“—these shoddy contraptions—”

“Yes, captain,” someone said through the intercom. “We understand completely. No idea how it could have happened.”

“You’d better get an idea,” said Cassian. Sure enough, the cameras hung brokenly from the walls, part melted, with only a few jagged edges where their lenses had been. Jyn breathed properly again.

“Yes, sir. We’ll investigate the matter.”

“Good,” he snarled, and switched off the intercom, just as Leia caught up with Jyn, nearly slamming into her back. In fairness, she straightened right away and moved to the side.

“Andor?” she said incredulously.

Cassian turned towards them, even more unreadable than usual. He inclined his head to the princess.

“Açatal,” he said.

Leia, lips tight, responded,

“Tanain.”

A full three seconds passed, the shards of plastiglass forming some sort of counterpoint in Jyn’s head. She didn’t know if she ached for the Alderaanians, or for Cassian in particular, or herself (Papa), or some uncertain proportion of them all, but it froze her in place, froze her throat to her lungs.

“Maybe someone could mention how we’re going to get out of here? Not in code?” demanded the larger not-stormtrooper, distracting her just enough that Jyn bothered to look their way.

Both men had blasters out—they, or more probably the Wookiee, had apparently understood Cassian’s hints—and seemed to have only just removed their helmets. Both were pleasant-looking enough, the one taller than Cassian and attractive in an even, strong-featured way, the other a blond, blue-eyed boy only a few inches taller than Jyn, his face as soft as his companion’s was sharp. Boy might be a bit much, but he couldn’t be more than twenty.

“That gives us a few minutes,” said Cassian.

Jyn ignored that to focus on the maybe-Rebels. “You’re with the Rebellion?” she demanded. “You can get us out of here?”

“Yes!” said the blond one. “I’m Luke Sk—”

“No,” the other burst out. “We’re definitely not.”

Luke glared at him. So did the Wookiee.

“I didn’t sign up for another rescue!”

“Shut up, Han,” Luke hissed.

Han, if that was his real name, turned to them. “Listen. We’re here to rescue the princess, not …” He eyed them. “Whatever you are.”

Leia looked him up and down. With considerably more contempt than she’d directed at Jyn, she said, “You didn’t even plan an escape route? Some rescue!”

Jyn, giving them up as hopeless, made her way over to Cassian. “You got any ideas?”

“Maybe you’d like it better in your cell, Highness,” Han snapped.

“Walk out the way they came in,” Cassian murmured to Jyn. “But it’d be suspicious. And they’re not exactly convincing.”

Jyn glanced over. Luke, clearly the brains of the operation, stood a little aside, trying to contact someone on his comlink. Han was still sputtering at Leia while she furiously shot back. Meanwhile, the Wookiee peered at the ceiling, managing to infuse the gesture with immense long-suffering.

“Look,” Luke told the princess, giving up on his ally (Jyn assumed) on the comlink. “We’ve got your Artoo unit. I’m here with Ben Kenobi. We just—”

“Ben Kenobi?” Leia exclaimed. “Where?”

The name meant nothing to Jyn, but Cassian’s eyes went wide.

“You’ve got to be joking.”

Luke shook his head. “He’s training me in the ways of the Jedi,” he said proudly. “Well, right now he’s disabling the tractor beam. But he’s my teacher.”

By raw exertion of will, Jyn and Cassian managed not to ask any more questions about that. Cassian already had the local schematic open on the terminal, and they ran through its lines and curves, trying to find a solution where she knew pretty well they wouldn’t. They’d already had to make someone disappear, and—

Leia deserted her squabble to march over to them, peering down at the terminal. “What about that compartment right there?” She pointed at the rectangle that made up the trash compactor. “It doesn’t look occupied.”

Jyn choked. “Er, no, but—ah—”

“It’s for trash,” said Cassian. “Definitely a last resort.”

“We don’t have time for anything else,” Leia said impatiently, and reached past to activate it.

“Uh—”

“Come on!” she called out to the others. Luke came running right away, but Han hesitated, exuding skepticism.

Leia had plainly never hesitated in her life. She rushed over to the compartment doors, Luke towed by her sheer force of personality. Han, grumbling inaudibly, followed his Wookiee friend towards her.

Beyond them, the doors scraped open, the compactor’s stench filling the air. Trash-stench, thankfully, and not dead body-stench—though the first would probably cover the latter, and—

Han, in a tone of utter conviction, said, “I am not going down there.”

“If you want to die, I won’t stop you,” retorted Leia.

Jyn’s patience frayed. Under her breath, she said to Cassian, “We have to go with them, don’t we?”

“With Leia,” he murmured back. “And they’ve got a ship.”

That sealed it. With one shallow inhalation of the repugnant air, Jyn extracted Kay’s datachip, dropping it into her jacket’s inside pocket.

“Do you have one of your knives on you?” asked Cassian.

She had all of them, and three blasters. Neither understanding nor hesitating, Jyn passed a knife over, and watched as he cut a tear in his sleeve and then a long, shallow cut on the skin beneath it, squeezing the top of his arm to splatter blood on the terminal. A cover story, she realized. Of course. Cowardice in the face of a Rebel attack wouldn’t look nearly as bad as open betrayal, if they could sell it. If they had to sell it.

That’s the man I know and love, she almost said wryly, then remembered and bit it back. She didn’t know when the thought of love had first come to her, by its proper name. Everything felt so simple and natural that, now and then, she almost forgot they hadn’t talked about it.

Han said, “I don’t want to—look, it’s going to take more than—”

“Then into the chute, flyboy!”

Suiting actions to words, Leia jumped down, Luke in faithful pursuit. Han heaved what might have been the galaxy’s most dramatic sigh, and followed them. His leap into the trash compactor was immediately followed by the sound of blaster bolts rocketing around the armoured walls of the compactor.

“We’re going to die,” muttered Jyn.

“Maybe,” Cassian said, not at all reassuringly. He triggered the command to shut the compactor doors, and they raced around just in time to throw themselves through the closing gates. Jyn could only hope that it wasn’t the compaction hour.

Inside, she grimaced from the fall and the memory of the last time she’d launched something in here. No point thinking about it, unless … no. Dread still climbed over her, though, diminished by Cassian landing behind her with only a quick exhalation, and not at all diminished by the smell or the trash-ridden water. Trash and—no.

She focused on the others. Han looked disgusted, while Luke and Leia were screaming at him in such perfect synchrony that Jyn could hardly tell their voices apart.

“Will you forget it?”

“Put that thing away!”

Han bristled. “Absolutely, Your Worship. Look, I had everything under control until you led us down here.”

The hell he did. Behind her, Cassian scoffed under his breath.

“It could be worse!” Leia said.

And something groaned.

Maybe the compactor was changing levels, Jyn told herself, even if it sounded more like an unearthly moan than anything else. She might believe in the Force, but she wasn’t superstitious; she drew her blaster, at the same time as Han and Luke.

The Wookiee howled.

“It’s worse,” said Han.

Luke gave an odd sort of jump. “There’s something alive in here!”

No. Not alive.

“That’s your imagination,” Jyn and Han said, in near as exact unison as Luke and Leia.

Han twitched, undoubtedly out of the same irritation that Jyn herself felt. A bit more than irritation, fine.

Cassian sloshed forward to stand at her side, broadcasting allegiance. A small relief trickled through her at that, and perhaps him. At any rate, they stayed together in their patch of filth, while Han didn’t seem to have anyone but the Wookiee. Maybe Luke, but she didn’t get the sense that they knew each other well.

Luke screamed, “Something just moved past my leg!”

“It’s probably just an arm,” she said without thinking.

Han froze in place, no longer even trying to move through the churning waters, and slowly turned to stare at them.

“Just a what?”

Even Luke glanced up, eyes wide.

Jyn shrugged. “It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

“Not quite,” Cassian said.

She glowered up at him.

“Traitor,” she muttered, and even she could hear the total lack of conviction behind it. Jyn rolled her eyes.

“Who are you people?” demanded Han.

Leia, for her part, seemed to be preoccupied with navigating her own area of water, entirely unconcerned with all of this. She’d probably disposed of a few corpses in her time, too. The Wookiee, meanwhile, was busy howling at the walls. And before Jyn or Cassian could manufacture a response to Han, Luke yelled again.

“Look! Did you see that?”

Han turned back around. “What?”

With a choked shriek, Luke crashed underwater, seized by—something. Something with tentacles, and a single staring eye rising up like a periscope, and … Force, that thing had probably eaten Zekheret. She’d seen plenty of bizarre Imperial procedures at this point, but what the hell? Who kept a tentacle monster in a trash container? Was this her father’s idea, or some other … innovation?

She struggled through the water to help, while Han and, surprisingly, Leia screamed after Luke. He surfaced once, a tentacle around his neck, yelling something about blasting it. But Jyn didn’t know how they could hit it without being as likely to blast Luke as the thing; Han tried, but concern kept his aim low. Cassian, predictably less concerned with the lives of strangers, did shoot at the tentacle around Luke’s neck and hit it, but the shots seemed only to irritate it. The whatever-it-was dragged Luke underwater again.

The walls shuddered, and Jyn stiffened. She and Cassian shared a horrified look, but before they could think of anything else, the water bubbled where Luke had been, and he burst upwards, inhaling great heaving breaths.

“What happened?” said Leia.

“I don’t know,” Luke gasped. “It just let go of me and disappeared.”

Bad, Jyn thought. Very, very bad.

If Cassian had not imagined being killed because of his cover rather than in discovery of it, he certainly had never imagined being killed by trash compaction. After everything he and Jyn had survived, they were going to get smashed to death? Really?

He and Jyn desperately tried to help Luke prop up a long beam between the walls, as if that could stop it. Slow it, maybe, if Luke’s droid friend got around to checking his comlink in the next minute and a half, and had the tools to hack into the Death Star’s computer system. At least it was impractically unified, care of Galen Erso, and—

Cassian knew his mind was spinning, a foolish rush from one thing to another, with Jyn right here and death closing in on them again.

“One thing’s for sure. We’re all going to be a lot thinner!” said Han.

At least he wasn’t as much of a fool as that one.

The walls kept closing in, the beams making only the weakest of obstacles. Irresistibly, the water rose higher up their legs. Far higher on Leia, and even Jyn. They weren’t going to die by crushing, of course. It’d be drowning. It couldn’t be punishment for Zekheret, the galaxy didn’t work like that, but …

“Jyn,” he said, and jerked his head at the nearest pile of trash. “You need to get up there. I can help, just—”

She scowled. “No, I’m not—” Then she broke off, her eyes flying wide open. Without another word of protest, she turned to grasp at the pile of trash, clambering out of the water. Cassian instantly whipped about to support her as she scrambled up, keeping her from sliding back whenever a chunk of wet trash slipped under her feet.

Luke was shrieking at the unresponsive droid through his comlink, Han and Leia shouting at each other, but Cassian ignored these beyond registering their existence in the back of his mind. He could only think of Jyn. She came first, always, and must live the longest, able to seize any last chance that might somehow arrive. Only when she managed relative stability high up the pile did he bother paying attention to the others.

“I’m trying!” Leia struggled up much more slowly than Jyn, weighed down by her robes. Han, at least, was trying to help her while the beam bent further. But the next few moments only brought the water higher, the walls nearer, and this was officially the worst idea that Leia had ever come up with—

From Luke’s comlink, a prim robotic voice called out,

“Are you there, sir?”

“Threepio!” he screamed, while the others sucked in their breaths.

“We’ve had some problems,” said the droid, his tone distinctly petulant.

“Will you shut up and listen to me?” Luke shouted. “Shut down all garbage mashers on the detention level, will you? Do you copy? Shut down all the garbage mashers on the detention level!”

The walls ground closer. Perhaps the last seconds of Cassian’s life ticked on—his hand somehow found its way around Jyn’s ankle—

And the compaction stopped.

Leia and her would-be rescuers shouted in relief and victory. Cassian couldn’t; he barely raised his voice unless a role called for it. But he was smiling as he turned back to Jyn.

“Can you help?” she said.

All processes scraped to an absolute halt. Jyn, who almost never asked for assistance of any kind, was reaching out to him—reaching out because she had only the one hand to do it with. The other was clenched above her head, her fingers closed about a large datachip.

Kay’s datachip.

Kay.

In that moment, Cassian loved her.

Not that moment alone, of course. Loving her wasn’t a revelation. It wasn’t even the first time he’d thought it; he didn’t know when that had been. But his mind spun a tight orbit about it, unable to track any other data. I love her. Jyn. Jyn, I love you, I—

As inexorably as the water had risen, his whole body leaned towards her, like some withered thing towards the sun. And Jyn tilted her face down, just as she’d lifted it up in the hangar on Yavin. Inverted, but mostly the same, her eyes as soft and wondering as his must be. He couldn’t identify her expression beyond that, beyond good, because nobody—nobody except Jyn, rather—had ever looked at him that way in his life. Like he was the star and not her.

This time, though, her smile didn’t tremble on her lips the way it had before, uncertain of itself. She grinned down at him, bright and triumphant.

Nothing could have prevented him from smiling back, feeling it invade his entire face. “Jyn—”

This was why Jyn had offered so little protest, he understood now. She must have remembered that she took the datachip before Cassian could do it. She’d put it in her pocket, and she was so much smaller that the water might easily have swamped the little datachip. This miserable place might have killed Kay more thoroughly than any stormtrooper, and Jyn had thought of it, before herself.

“Jyn,” he murmured, so little between them that she must feel her name on her own mouth, “Jyn, I—”

Neither looked away. They stood here, trapped with four other people, surrounded by stinking trash and quite possibly the rotting corpse of a man they’d murdered, and he couldn’t think of anything but looking at her and kissing her.

“Cassian,” she breathed, and he did feel it—his name, his name on both their mouths as they leaned that fractional distance closer. The others were still shouting and laughing in relief, maybe seeing them and maybe not, and who cared—

“Listen to them,” wailed the droid. “They’re dying, Artoo! Curse my metal body! I wasn’t fast enough!”

Inevitably, Jyn and Cassian opened their eyes, pulling back enough to meet each other’s glances. She looked exactly how he felt: annoyed, amused, and awkward, all at once. With equally resigned sighs, they stepped apart.

The droid, Threepio, was still in vapours.

“It’s all my fault! My poor master!”

Luke, to his credit, rushed to reassure the panicked droid that they’d made it. What sort of bastard could have programmed that one? Droids developed personalities through their lives, like everyone else, but almost never fear. He’d only seen it at the hands of careless or malicious programmers. Or amateur ones, simply re-imagining the traits they saw around them, without regard for convenience or utility.

“You did great,” Luke told Threepio, with every appearance of earnestness. Cassian’s evaluation of him ticked up. “Hey … hey, open the pressure maintenance hatch on unit number … where are we?”

Han disentangled himself and checked the panel. “Three-two-six-eight-two-seven.”

With that, Threepio—or more likely, the R2 unit who seemed to be accompanying him—managed to deposit them in an unused hallway. It wasn’t one that Cassian found particularly distinguishable from any other ones, but at least didn’t seem that far off from the section they did know.  

All six of them emerged from the compactor like a herd of swamp creatures. Han and Luke did little to dispel the impression, shrugging off their armour like shells, while the other four did their best to wring the water out of their clothes. Jyn and Cassian had both lost their caps, though Jyn’s hair was at least still pinned back, while Leia adjusted her coils.

“If we can just ignore any more female advice,” said Han, “we ought to be able to get out of here.”

Cassian glanced up, genuinely startled. He’d thought the man an ass, but not that much of one. Dismissing him after one narrow-eyed look, he turned back to Jyn. She’d gone motionless at his side, jaw tight and face blank. Cassian, who knew perfectly well that she could and would maul a man over less, kept his hand on her arm.

“Can I have the datachip back?”

Jyn scowled, but her focus on Han broke. She pressed the chip into his hand.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.

She nodded, with a solemn glance that seemed to comprehend all it meant. Beyond them all, Leia turned her back on Han, trying to look haughty, and about halfway succeeding.

“Well,” said Luke, “let’s get moving.”

[technicallydeliciouspainter]

The Surprising History of the Tank Top

When the summer months are upon us, one of the most popular items in many wardrobes is the tank top.

It can be dressed up with a jacket and smart jeans, or dressed down with pajamas and worn to bed.

Tank tops keep your arms and neck cool while covering the rest of your upper body.

When the temperature is warm, they provide just the right amount of coverage.

When did tank tops make their way into modern society?

Before the 1920’s, men and women were not seen showing their arms off in public.

However, the Roaring Twenties brought about a revolution in the world of fashion and clothing.

Women were cutting their hair shorter, wearing dresses which were more revealing than the previous trends, and enjoying human contact (such as rebellious hand-holding!) with their male partners while they danced or walked down the street.

Tank Tops in the Olympic Games

The introduction of women’s swimming into the Olympic Games came along in 1912, held in Stockholm, Sweden.

A total of 27 women competed in the swimming events at these particular games, and their swimwear was deemed “immodest” by many news outlets and spectators.

The costumes they wore were very similar to modern-day tank tops, but with an added piece which resembled shorts to cover the top half of the thighs.

While we might call it a “swimming pool” these days, back in the 1920’s, it was known as a swimming “tank.”

Thus, the items worn by female swimmers were referred to as “tank suits,” in other words, a suit which was worn in the tank!

Tank suits were made from a variety of materials including silk, which was considered very immodest since it was often see-through after going in the water.

Cotton was also used, and heavy woolen materials were considered the most modest since they were so thick and concealing.

The top of a tank suit had straps which were almost identical to the straps we see on tank tops today.

The straps would keep the suit up, but the lack of sleeves gave female swimmers the freedom of movement and flexibility that they needed in order to perform to their full potential in the pool.

Definition

A waist trimmer is a shaping garment similar to a girdle. The waist trainer pulls a person’s midsection in as tight as possible. The idea behind a waist trainer is that the pulling action gives the person a sleeker, smaller waist.

Waist trainers usually consist of a combination of tough fabric and hard fibers. Hooks, Velcro, lacing, or other strong fasteners hold the trainer tightly in place.

Advocates believe that it is possible to “train” the waist to retain a slimmer shape after frequent wearing of the garment over an extended period. Some people suggest that wearing a waist trainer while working out can aid weight loss.

Do they work?

Waist trimmer of sweat work in a similar way to corsets, which fell out of fashion due to discomfort and health concerns.

A waist trainer can produce a temporary reduction in waist size or circumference, and a person will typically see immediate results. However, as soon as they take off the waist trainer, their waist will no longer look smaller.

Also, waist trainers do not reduce a person’s body fat. People looking to lose body fat around their midsection or lose substantial weight overall should not rely on wearing a waist trainer to do this.

However, a person may feel a loss of appetite while wearing a waist trainer. The garment puts pressure on the stomach, which can create an artificial feeling of fullness.

Short sleeve button up shirts and polos… they get a bad rap, man. I think that’s mostly because the nerds and dorks who wear them in TV shows and movies wear them all wrong.

The fit is off, the color is off, the length is off… everything is wrong.

But in warm weather, short sleeve shirts are a life-saver! Especially if you run hot, like myself.

In this article, we’re gonna cover every detail about how a short sleeve button up shirt and polo shirt should fit.

Let’s get into it!

By the way, click on any of the fit images below to enlarge in a new tab (for a more detailed view!)

HOW SHOULD A SHORT SLEEVE SHIRT FIT OVERALL?

Overall, your short sleeve button-up shirt should fit slim, but not too tight.

Try the sit down test. When trying on a new shirt , button it up like you normally would, and then sit down in a chair.

It should feel as comfortable (and have enough give) sitting down as it is while standing. The buttons shouldn’t be pulling apart; the shirt shouldn’t be stretching like spandex on your torso.

By the way, the short sleeve shirts you see in these photos are from Peter Manning. PMNYC is a long-time partner of EG and I’m psyched to have their short sleevers as the perfect example of a well-fitting short sleeve shirt in this article.

If you haven’t come across PMNYC yet and you’re a shorter / smaller guy, you’ve probably run into the issue of clothing proportions being off somehow… Whether it’s:

the shirt being too long

the sleeves being too long & wide

or the pockets being too big and low on your

shirts and

pants

Peter Manning’s taken care of all that with their clothing. They’re designed specifically for the guy of smaller stature (5’8″ and under), meaning everything—length, width, proportion, even pocket sizes!—are designed with the smaller man in mind.

16 Different Types of Sleeves

There are many different sleeve styles that can be loose and flowy, structured or puffy, long or short, and can be made from any kind of fabric.

Set-in sleeve. A set-in sleeve is a sleeve that is attached to the garment’s armhole and sewn all the way around. Most sleeves, if they are not continuous with the bodice’s fabric are set-in sleeves.

Bell sleeves. Also called peasant sleeves, this long sleeve is fitted around the shoulder and upper arm and flares out to the wrist, like a bell.

Cap sleeves. A cap sleeve is an extremely short sleeve that doesn’t extend very far from the shoulder and doesn’t go below the armpit. It can have a gathered, elastic seam or a loose seam.

Kimono sleeves. A kimono sleeve is a sleeve that is in one piece with the garment’s bodice and is not sewn on separately. The sleeve is generally wide with a uniform circumference throughout. These are generally used for Chinese-style robes, not Japanese kimonos, despite their name. For a Japanese kimono, the sleeves are usually sewn separately.

Raglan sleeves. A raglan sleeve extends from a garment's neckline, rather than from the shoulder, and this allows better movement. This type of sleeve is used for baseball t-shirts.

Bishop sleeves. A bishop sleeve flares out from the shoulder, giving volume to the sleeve all the way to the cuff, where the fabric is tightly gathered.

Butterfly sleeves. Like a bell sleeve, a butterfly sleeve flares out from the shoulder, but it usually does not fully cover the arm.

Flutter sleeves. A flutter sleeve is very similar to a butterfly sleeve except it is generally a little shorter and wider, falling loosely

Dolman sleeves. This is a type of sleeve that has a very deep armhole, and the sleeve gets progressively narrower to the wrist. This type of sleeve is also called a batwing sleeve, due to its likeness to wings.

Puffed sleeves. A puffed sleeve is gathered at the shoulder and at the seam but is full and “puffy” in the middle.

Cape sleeves. Cape sleeves are full and flowing sleeves that look like capes. The fabric is gathered at the shoulder and flares out like a cape from there.

Lantern sleeves. A lantern sleeve is a long sleeve that balloons out between the wrist and the elbow and then gathers again around the wrist.

Balloon sleeves. Balloon sleeves are long, puffed sleeves that are gathered at the shoulder and then puffed out and gather back at the wrist. Sometimes, the sleeve puffs out lower than the shoulder, but it is still a full puff rather than a tapered flare.

Slit sleeves. A slit sleeve is a sleeve that has a slit down the center usually exposing part of the arm. This sleeve can also be called a cold shoulder sleeve.

Leg-of-mutton sleeves. This sleeve is gathered and puffed by the shoulder and upper arm and then fitted on the forearm. This style of sleeve somewhat resembles a sheep’s leg, hence the name.

T-shirt sleeve. A t-shirt sleeve is a short, set-in sleeve that starts at the shoulder and ends at the middle of the upper arm.

[sportsandideas]

Watching the World Cup Through Social Science Lenses

(note that a shorter version of this framed around sociology specifically is now available on the Engaging Sports blog)

(photo from Huffington Post UK)

In November 2013 a capacity crowd of nearly 40,000 fans at the Maksimir Stadium in Zagreb, Croatia celebrated one of the great moments for any team competing in international soccer: by defeating Iceland 2-0, the Croatian national team was among the last of 32 countries to qualify for the 2014 World Cup finals in Brazil. Amidst the ecstasy, someone made the fateful mistake of handing a microphone to Josip Šimunić.

Šimunić played as a hard-tackling defender for Croatia, and at the age of 35 this was almost certainly his last chance to play in a World Cup. Alone on the field but for a cameraman tracking his every move, Šimunić moved with a manic and youthful energy that belied his gangly 6’5” frame, his receding hairline, and his perpetual five o’clock shadow. As he dramatically gesticulated with the microphone and a jersey in hand, he screamed to the crowd in a call-and-respond repeat “Za dom spremni” – “For the homeland!” In perfect and immediate synchrony, a large portion of the crowd responded “Ready!”

The stadium was pulsating with the raw energy and symbolism that soccer – as the sport with the most genuine claim to being a global game – has a distinctively universal capacity to produce. Unfortunately, Šimunić’s chant was also a clear local reference to a hateful nationalist cry used by the fascist Ustase pro-Nazi regime that ruled Croatia during World War II. Šimunić himself has protested innocence, relying on a defense of simple patriotism and claiming “some people have to learn some history.” Global soccer authorities disagreed; he was suspended through the 2014 World Cup for his “discriminatory” act and never played for the Croatian national team again.

To make Šimunić’s story even more intriguing from a social science perspective, it turns out his moment of nationalist frenzy followed on a lifetime spent mostly nowhere near “the homeland.” Though Šimunić’s parents were Croatian, he was born and raised in Canberra Australia and developed into a world class soccer player at the Australian Institute for Sport – a famous talent factory for Australian Olympians. Professionally, Šimunić spent the majority of his career playing in Germany with teams in Hamburg, Berlin, and Hoffenheim, and in his personal life he married a “Canadian-Croat.” Though he ended his career with the Croatian professional team Dinamo Zagreb and spent several recent years as an assistant coach for the Croatian National Team, it is plausible to suggest that Šimunić’s emotional nationalism was not at all “for the homeland.” Instead, it may have been a way to make sense of splintered and imagined identities – types that powerfully shape our 21st century lives.

Šimunić’s story thus becomes less a morality tale and more a prompt for broader thinking about soccer, and the upcoming World Cup to be hosted by Russia, as a mirror and a lens – reflecting and refracting our social world in ways that both illuminate and distort how we understand our selves and others. Though a growing number of scholars use soccer for that type of thinking on a wide range of social science topics, it is obviously not the reason most people watch, play, and love soccer. Mostly we enjoy the game because it is fun. I get that. As someone who has played and coached soccer at all levels from recreational to professional, I love few things more than the simple pleasure of a beautiful game on a sun-drenched summer day.

But as someone who has spent several decades teaching and researching soccer as a cultural form, I also see events such as the World Cup as an opportunity to better understand people and society. It provides a rare combination of global attention and emotionally engaging spectacle, a combination that offers a unique perspective on critical issues including, but not limited to, nationalism and development. So, if we watch the World Cup as both a mirror and a lens, what might we see?

(photo by Maxim Shemetov—Reuters from Time.com)

Society on display

Global sports mega-events, most notably the Olympics and soccer’s World Cup, derive at least some of their popularity from the rare opportunity to put nations on display. Though United Nations meetings may be more consequential, they don’t make for particularly good television. The World Cup final, in contrast, draws enough viewers to make it the globe’s most broadly shared cultural experience.

Though American marketers occasionally like to claim that the Super Bowl is the world’s most watched sporting event, the statistics suggest that’s not even close to true. Where just under 300 million people tune into a typical modern Super Bowl, estimates suggest nearly a billion people watched the 2014 World Cup final played in Brazil between Argentina and Germany. 26.5 million of those were watching on American televisions – 17.3 million watching English commentary on ABC, and 9.2 million watching Spanish commentary on Univision.  

This kind of mass appeal, both across and within nations, has made global soccer an increasingly legitimate area of study for academics. Though still sometimes caught between the stereotypical disdain of academic-types for sports and of sports-types for academics, recent decades have seen a burgeoning of what some jokingly call ‘futbology.’

The academic study of soccer (or futbol, or football – the question of what to call the game has a contentious history that has been the subject of its own academic inquiry) is often quite interdisciplinary, with a healthy mix of social history, area studies, international studies, anthropology, psychology, and sociology. In the English speaking world academics with a shared interest in the global game regularly fill academic journals such as Soccer in Society, have formed scholarly communities such as the UK-based Football Collective and the US-based Football Scholars Forum, and offer classes on topics ranging from the general sociology of soccer to a University of British Columbia offering on the “Sociology of Cristiano Ronaldo: Futebol, Identity, and Representation.”

For these types of scholars, each World Cup generates social and cultural narratives that are ripe for interpretation. To just cite recent examples, the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, as the first World Cup hosted in the Global South, became a forum for discussions about development and division – soccer’s global governing body FIFA trademarked the phrase “Celebrate Africa’s Humanity” as if there was something singular and unified about the humanity of that diverse continent. The 2014 World Cup in Brazil, particularly after massive 2013 street protests surrounding the Confederations Cup warm-up tournament, became about corruption and inequality. There are still regular news briefs about ‘white elephant’ sporting facilities from both Brazil’s World Cup and the 2016 Rio Olympics – emblems of bread, circus, and massive profits for well-positioned elites. The 2018 World Cup is gestating narratives about cultures of hooliganism and racism that pervade an unfortunate proportion of the soccer landscape in Russia, while the 2022 World Cup in Qatar is already rife with attention to worker’s rights and religious tolerance.

While each of these types of cultural narratives garners thoughtful analysis from scholars and opportunities for the application of social theory around each four-year World Cup cycle, during the month-long tournament itself attention most often shifts to narratives about nations and nationalism. As the British cultural historian Eric Hobsbawn famously (among futbologists) noted, “the imagined community of millions seems more real as a team of eleven named people.” The start of a World Cup game, with eleven men from each side donning national colors and saluting their flag, is a powerful visual image of nationhood.

It is also often inaccurate. For one, the simple fact that the players who get the most global attention are men, despite the athletic accomplishments on display in the women’s World Cup, only starts to hint at the many questions about gender, masculinity, and sexuality embedded in global soccer. In addition, World Cup teams often visually present complex stories about race, class, and ethnicity – stories that vary by nation from the relative homogeneity of the Russian national team to the sometimes surprising diversity of teams such as Belgium.

Yet for many the World Cup offers crude representations of nationalism otherwise only available at the most fevered of political rallies. My own experiences of World Cup watching with American fans are colored by ostentatious displays of red, white, and blue – often in the form of Uncle Sam, Wonder Woman, or Captain America. The soundtrack is full of chanting and singing, sometimes creative, sometimes crude, and almost always infused with the emphatic repetition of U-S-A. The emotional climate is a conflicted mix of unity and enmity: we share a pride that depends at least partially on derogating the other – other teams, other fans, other places and people. There is, as many scholars and commentators have noted, a fine line between patriotism and jingoism.

There may, in fact, be no better example of social identity theory in action than the emotional nationalism of a World Cup. The mix of externally defined in-groups and out-groups, visual markers of identification, and competitive social comparison primes the human mind to invest deeply in shallow group memberships.

I experienced it in person at the 2010 World Cup in South Africa, watching among a tightly packed crowd of US fans in the corner of Loftus Versfeld Stadium in Tshwane/Pretoria while the US and Algerian teams traded futile surges in a high-stakes game that would determine who advanced to the next stage of the tournament. Each shift in the game’s flow, and each missed chance, brought a visible and visceral tightening of fan bodies – we coiled and reeled as 90 minutes ticked away. Then, after one surprisingly fluid move of the ball from the US goalkeeper’s hands to a winger’s feet to a striker’s deflection, US star Landon Donovan slotted home a winning goal that unleashed in me, and in nearly all my neighbors, a screaming abandon familiar only from the deep recesses of childhood. A massive American flag unfurled over us as if dropped from the sky, and all I could see was red, white, and blue. That moment, though it said nothing rational about my country, may be the single moment where I felt most intensely and irrationally American. It was a World Cup version of collective effervescence; a feeling that immersed me in the moment, and then begged for interpretation.

(photo from The Free Beer Movement)

Development and representation

In my own efforts to interpret the feelings evoked by a World Cup, I’ve found it useful to analyze what the teams actually represent. Where did the players come from, and what are the social forces that shape soccer talent? What does the World Cup tell us about how soccer itself assumes meaning in different places and communities?

Take, as just one example, the players involved in that affecting US goal against Algeria during the 2010 World Cup. Tim Howard, the New Jersey bred US goalkeeper who started the move towards the Algerian goal with a long throw from his own goalmouth, is the child of a Hungarian immigrant mother and an African-American father who spent much of his professional career representing Everton FC in Liverpool England. Jozy Altidore, the player who crossed the ball into the box and forced the Algerian goalkeeper out of position, is the child of Haitian immigrants who plays professionally in Toronto after representing teams in Spain, Turkey, Holland, England, and New York. Clint Dempsey, the player whose initial shot rebounded into Landon Donovan’s path for the final strike, grew up in a Nacogdoches Texas trailer park playing the game mostly with Mexican immigrants until he was shuttled off to an elite Dallas youth soccer club and the blue-blooded Furman University in South Carolina before a professional career based in Boston, London, and Seattle. Donovan, California-bred but born of a Canadian father, never went to college, substituting a brief and somewhat dismal apprenticeship in the German Bundesliga before eventually settling back into a wildly successful professional career in California – with occasional breaks that included a soul-searching ‘sabbatical’ backpacking in Cambodia and time off to manage depression.

The stories of nearly any World Cup team viewed in this way offer a lens, however fractured, on modern societies. The US men’s team, despite failing to qualify for the 2018 World Cup due at least in part to systemic failures to integrate diverse American soccer cultures, often offers a genuinely eclectic mix of ethnicity and personality. In fact, according to an analysis of the rosters for all 32 teams in the 2014 World Cup finals by sociologist David Keyes for Pacific Standard, 19 of 30 players in the final US player pool were ‘dual nationals’ – players holding either multiple citizenship or having a parent or a grandparent from another country. This was tied with the teams from Switzerland and Australia for third most dual nationals in the 2014 World Cup, behind only teams from Argentina (with 24 of 30) and Algeria (with 22 of 30). While both the Ecuador and South Korea teams had no dual nationals, Keyes found that overall 30% of 958 World Cup roster players were dual nationals – numbers greater than one would expect based on broader international migration statistics.

World Cup teams may therefore be less representative of national character and more indicative of global hybridity. Part of the beauty of soccer as the one truly global game is that the players come from everywhere. The World Cup has players who learned the game on the streets of South America, in the community sports clubs of northern Europe, in professional team academy outposts in west Africa, and in the elite government sports schools of east Asia. But as player development has become a significant global business for professional teams, the labor flows of global development and inequality have often reproduced themselves on the soccer field.

The biggest money professional soccer leagues are primarily in Europe, with the English, Spanish, German, Italian, and French top divisions usually identified as the ‘big five.’ In fact, a Pew Research Center analysis of 2014 World Cup rosters found that over half of all players were professionals in one of those five countries. The English league was a professional home to the most 2014 World Cup players with 15% of the global total, figures that have combined with a rapidly declining proportion of English players in their own Premier League (and the mediocre performance of the English national team) to raise concern in the English Football Association. A report they commissioned in 2014 begins: “In twenty years the number of English players playing in the top division of English football has fallen by more than a half and the trend remains downwards. Our Commission was set up to ask what, if anything, could be done about this.”

The English are essentially asking whether we can’t just stop this globalization thing. The answer is likely no. And while that might potentially be bad news for English national team players who can’t get a game in their own nation’s top league, in the way of globalization it is also a challenge for developing countries who end up exporting much of their top talent. The World Cup teams from talent rich nations such as Nigeria and Colombia will only have two or three players who suit up professionally in their home nation, most having been “bought” by European professional clubs at young ages. The 2014 Pew Research Center analysis found that 93% of players on the five African teams in the World Cup played elsewhere professionally.

In 2015 FIFA felt compelled to start vigorously enforcing a rule to prevent players from being “transferred” (ie, bought) away from their home countries before they turn 18 to counter the potential and real exploitation of young players from poor countries. Whatever the rules, through a social science lens the exportation of labor as a raw material from poor counties for the manufactured pleasure of soccer fans in rich countries looks uncomfortably neocolonial.

Partially as a minor salve for this discomfort, another version of ‘development’ has gained popularity around World Cup soccer in the form of charitable efforts to use the nearly universal appeal of the game as a hook for community development programming. These types of programs, along with the broader endeavor of what is often called Sport for Development and Peace (SDP), have proliferated in recent decades alongside the general move in international development from large government initiatives to the decentralized work of non-governmental organizations. FIFA itself has regularly integrated “corporate social responsibility” initiatives with World Cup hosting, though these are easy to critique as greenwashing for the big business of sporting mega-events and the notorious corruption of FIFA as an organization.

The appeal of soccer as a development tool, however, derives at least partially from a version of the same emotional pull that makes the World Cup itself such a powerful spectacle. The international development trope of the barefoot child joyfully kicking a handmade ball in a destitute patch of dirt is affecting because it symbolizes joy and potential overcoming hardship and poverty. But, as sociologists Douglas Hartmann and Christina Kwauk articulated in their 2011 “overview, critique, and reconstruction” of sports and development more broadly, sports and development programs that swoop in to the Global South from the Global North with a belief in “sport’s ability to resocialize and recalibrate individual youth and young people” actually serve to “maintain power and hierarchy, cultural hegemony, and the institutionalization of poverty and privilege.” Poor communities in the developing world rarely need additional soccer games as much as they need decent health care, living wage jobs, functioning schools, and safe places to live. And, as Hartmann and Kwauk suggest, sports may best contribute to those types of goals through consciousness raising more than through rolling out a ball.

The World Cup as a whole is a good test of whether soccer can genuinely serve to raise a critical consciousness, or whether it serves primarily to reproduce dominant structures. When the US beats Mexico in a World Cup knock-out game, as happened in 2002 during the US men’s team’s best ever World Cup performance, does that reinforce the idea of separation and distinction in an era of mass migration? Or do the many contributions of Mexican-Americans to the US national team help to challenge visions of what it means to be “American”? When France lost to its former colony Senegal in that same World Cup, with Senegal fielding a team where only the two back-up goalkeepers did not play professionally in France, was that a further example of colonial resource extraction? Or was that a statement of shifting global power dynamics?

The answer to all these questions may be yes: global soccer is open for multiple interpretations. Watching the World Cup like a social scientist offers an opportunity to see the game in a way that raises consciousness about the dynamics of global society, recognizing ways the raw emotion and global appeal of the World Cup make soccer itself a distinct mirror and lens.

The appeal of interpreting the World Cup is also reflected in a final addendum to the Josip Šimunić story. Since his banishment from the 2014 World Cup, and in a quest for exoneration, Šimunić collaborated on a documentary film titled Moja Vlojena Hrvatska – My Beloved Croatia – that argues his moment of nationalist fervor was an embodiment of noble pride rather than a hateful screed. The English language trailer for the film begins with the claim “Soccer, to Croats, is much more than just a game” and segues into interviews with Croatian World Cup players talking wistfully about the patriotic emotions of playing for their national team. Even Šimunić’s father, the Australian emigree, makes a tearful appearance describing his pride at seeing Josip in the distinctive red checked uniform of the Croatian national team.

Viewing the whole story as both a soccer fan and a social scientist ultimately leaves me conflicted and curious for more. I don’t know for sure what motivated Šimunić that fateful day, but I do know the way a World Cup game can capture one’s emotions and distort one’s intellect. The complexities of the World Cup, both Šimunić and futbologists seem to say, is something you have to really watch to understand.

[zed-air]

On the Road: The Wurst of Times - 2017

When I visited Europe for the first time back in 2010, I ate in some remarkable places - from fancy restaurants, to pubs, to street food. But the most-lasting, most-enjoyable, most-impactful food I had on that trip was eaten in Berlin. 

Before visiting Berlin, I was indifferent to hot dogs - and given the kinds I grew up with in Canada that’s not surprising. But a chance meal at the food stand (now called the Alex Snack Bar) outside our hotel proved to be the greatest thing I’d eaten during three weeks in Europe, and continued to impress throughout our stay. We ate there every day on the way to a meal, and sometimes coming back from a meal as well. 

The Bratwursts of Berlin have haunted me ever since; a craving I couldn’t satisfy in the interim, and an obsession of sorts that has led down other interesting avenues. 

This year, I returned to Europe, to sausage country, and I decided to make the most of my mission. These were THE WURST OF TIMES, and I did my best to scratch the itch while expanding my sausage universe. 

Let us explore Weiner World together, via the "keep reading” link below. 

Presented in no particular order: 

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Northern Germany - Rostock, Warnemunde, Schwerin

The first German Bratwurst I tasted in Germany since 2010 was outside of a castle in Schwerin. Enjoyed with a bit of mustard and a very good Kaiser-roll-type bun, it was excellent. Not as earth-shaking as I remember, but damned delicious. I also had a Currywurst in Schwerin, which was likewise very good but had an uncharacteristically smoky, BBQ-sauce flavour. 

Wandering through the seaside area of Rostock-Warnemunde, I saw many impressive things, but few struck terror into one’s heart like the size of the sausages at the XXL Bratwurst stand. I didn’t get a photo of the sausages themselves, but they were roughly the length of my forearm. One of my great regrets of that day was that I had already eaten two other sausages earlier that day, and felt I couldn’t finish an XXL. Next time, Warnemunde!

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Helsinki, Finland

Helsinki was an unexpectedly gorgeous town. Because of our limited time there, I had only one opportunity to have a hot dog. The stand offered Bratwursts as well as a local variety. I opted for the latter. Girthier and shorter than many of its Scandinavian contemporaries, it still shares similar characteristics - the crispy onions, the snappy sausage casing, and a simple bun. I prepared mine with different sauces in stages to try each in isolation. I enjoyed this one very much, but like all things in Helsinki it was hella expensive. 

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Copenhagen, Denmark

Copenhagen has a tradition of sausage wagons (polsevogn) which patrol the streets. I’d had a similar experience in Iceland in previous years, and was looking forward to seeing what Copenhagen had to offer - which was a lot more variety. 

Everything from organic sausages to standard Bratwurst-style, to mystery-meat dogs, European wienner-style, glowing red dogs, and more. Most of them were excellent. The Polse Kompagniet near the central market made my first Danish dog, and though on the dry-side it was flavourful. Pickles are a standard topping here, along with the crispy onions I’d discovered in Iceland. They are a great topping for a hot dog, especially when paired with mild raw onions (rather than the purple ones shown). Hos Tina & Michael gave me my one taste of the bargain red sausage (which looks much less red in the photo than it actually is). Shown beside it is the “French dog” style, where the bun is actually a small, stabbed-out baguette. The Fransk dog is the typical style enjoyed by children, probably because it’s more contained, and is one you see throughout Europe.

Next, the Hanegal food stand specializes in “organic” sausages. This one was made up of goat-meat and rosemary. I don’t like rosemary, but it didn’t adversely affect this one. Many of those pickles soon landed on the ground below, though. You win this round, pigeons. 

Lower down, the Liss Polser is one of the more common styles of Polsevogn in town. You’d see these everywhere, usually with what I’m guessing is the owner’s name as the prefix to distinguish one from the next. This was the most forgettable of my Danish dogs, served with remoulade. Note the ridiculous proportions of dog to bun - that was more common in Scandinavia than elsewhere. 

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Stockholm, Sweden

These were all awful. We had a tremendously short and rocky visit to Stockholm, and were only able to find one vendor selling hot dogs during our stay. Despite his impressive menu, most options were unavailable. What we did order was ill-prepared, unevenly cooked, and bland - greasy and disappointing in every way. The only one of our four sausages (one not shown) which was edible was the French dog. Luckily no one got sick from eating these, but I fully expected to. For shame, Stockholm. The 75-cent hot dogs at IKEA are worlds better in flavour, texture, and execution than these. 

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Keflavik, Iceland

On this trip, our only ground-time in Iceland was changing planes at Keflavik airport, but that wouldn’t stop me from chowing down. The Mathus House of Food is one of several shops in the airport food court, but one of the only ones selling Pylsur - Iceland’s national treasure, and one of the few bargain foods in the whole country.

It’s basically a lamb hot dog enjoyed with those same crispy onions, plus raw onions and 1-3 mild sauces (the sauces don’t add much of value to the experience, but can help adhere onions to keep them from spilling). Both coming and going we grabbed some pylsur and ran for our connecting flight. Feel free to blame the sloppy photos on mad rush to get in and out in time. Sadly, the main food court is on the opposite side of an already oddly-proportioned airport, so there was no time to spare and explore further - though I can report Keflavik airport also now hosts a Sbarro, which is bizarre.  

These are worth the trip, though. 

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Berlin, Germany

The place that started it all. 

One of the most memorable sights from my first time in Berlin were these men with propane backpacks, who look like the weird love-children between a barbecue and a cigarette girl. They walk around grilling hot dogs all over town. We weren’t able to test them on that first visit, but absolutely did this time around. This guy’s wares were of fair quality, but nothing brilliant. On-par with middle-of-the-road grilled dogs, like one would get anywhere. 

The Currywurst is Berlin’s main fast food, and the town’s civic foodstuff. A combination born out of cheap war-time ketchup and curry powder, and often served with excellent, heavily-seasoned chips. The chips in Berlin were surprisingly delicious. 

We also revisited the Alex Snack Bar at Alexanderplatz, and it was really wonderful. One of the happiest days I can remember, and terrific food.  

Possibly the best meal I had in Berlin involved several sausage plates at the remarkable KaDeWe department store. Their sixth floor is a wonderland food market with butcher, fish monger, bakery, cafe, etc. and you can dine on their wares inside. We had two different Bockwursts and some Munich Weisswurst, and it was all stupendous. If there was a building I had to be trapped inside for a year, I’d strongly consider choosing this one. 

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St. Petersburg, Petergof, Kronstadt, Russia

This one’s more of an honourable-mention. Despite our efforts to try them, the hot dogs of Russia would appear at moments when we were unable to stop, or just after a large meal. As a result, we never managed to try one, but you can see here that the theirs lean heavily on the standard and French styles.

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The long and short of it all: I love this food, and I had some damned good examples during this trip. Because I travel so infrequently, it’s always a struggle to jam-pack as much into each to get one’s value’s worth. Food-wise and sausage-wise, at least, I think it was a success. 

Next time, Europe. Guten appetit.

[putthison]

Why J. Crew is Special

J. Crew has been going through some rough and tumble times in recent years. For those who missed it, the company’s President and Creative Director, Jenna Lyons, announced earlier this week that she’ll be leaving the company by the end of the year. Technically, she’s already stepped down from her official roles, but she’s staying on as a consultant until her contract expires in December. 

This is big news. Partly because Lyons has been with J. Crew for twenty-six years -- moving from a freshly minted Parsons graduate who colored in rugby designs to the creative head behind a company that’s dressed much of America. The larger reason, however, is that it possibly signals more headwinds for a label that finds itself in troubled waters. 

In recent years, J. Crew has struggled to sell its brand of preppy, Americana clothing. As a result, they’ve had to take on a $2 billion debt load -- some of which will become current in 2018, making some wonder if they’ll have to file for chapter eleven. Last year, they also announced they’re closing their bridal business. This year, they’re embroiled in some lawsuits. 

This is a tremendous reversal of fortunes. Along with the company’s CEO and Chairman Mickey Drexler, Lyons helped J. Crew triple its revenue from $700 million in 2003 to just short of $2 billion in 2011. And when Frank Muytjens, a former designer at Ralph Lauren, was brought aboard to head the the company’s menswear collections, the brand became a favorite of men’s style aficionados. Some readers may remember how much menswear blogs swooned over J. Crew’s seasonal presentations circa 2009-2013. Peans were sung over their first mens-only emporium -- amusingly called The Liquor Store (we were all drunk on Americana back then). And everyone wanted that red selvedge chambray shirt. 

Now, few people shop there anymore. In a super, duper scientific survey I conducted on Twitter, about 60% of guys reported spending less than $100 at J. Crew in the last year (with a few commenting that their number is actually zero). About the same percentage said this is a dramatic drop from what they used to spend roughly eight to ten years ago. 

So, what happened?

There’s no shortage of theories. Some say J. Crew epitomized a certain time and place in fashion -- an Americana era whose moment has mostly passed. Robin Givhan at The Washington Post uses this to explain the decline in the company’s womenswear sales, noting that women have shifted to athleisure. The story isn’t too unfamiliar for menswear, even if the takeover trend here is less clear. 

It could also be that J. Crew has driven away their core customers, only to replace them with value-minded shoppers who feed on a steady diet of coupon codes. Many guys who started off with J. Crew have moved on to higher-end brands -- thanks in part to J. Crew introducing them to those labels through their “In Good Company” section. Anthropologists call this the Diderot Effect, a social phenomenon named after the French philosopher Denis Diderot, who once rued a beautiful dressing gown that he was gifted. Having owned the gown, he realized the inadequacy of his other things, which sent him plunging into debt as he shopped to replace those items. Similarly, it’s hard to go back to wearing J. Crew’s ties once you’ve owned something from Drake’s (which J. Crew sells). 

The reasons for J. Crew’s troubles are most likely complicated, but if I had to pick one, my guess is that they’re not unique. Other mid-tier priced companies -- especially those with a large and expansive brick-and-mortar presence -- face similar problems. See Ralph Lauren, Abercrombie & Fitch, and the now defunct American Apparel. In fact, the only stores that seem to be doing well in today’s retail environment are the fast fashion ones (e.g. H&M and Zara, who have expanded rapidly in the last few years). And amongst Gap’s three brands, the best performer is also Old Navy, which is also their least expensive. 

For the most part, it seems like the middle of the market is just getting eaten alive -- attacked by fast fashion labels down market and high-end brands upstream. If you have a budget of either $50 or $500 for a piece of clothing today, you’ll find hundreds of options -- but very little for anything in-between. 

Which brings me to my point on why J. Crew is special. For guys who aren’t trying to spend the equivalent of a college tuition on their wardrobe, but also want things they won’t have to replace after a season, J. Crew is one of the best options around. They’re more affordable than Brooks Brothers or Ralph Lauren; better designed than Banana Republic or Express; and better made than Old Navy or Zara. They’re also ubiquitous, with a store in nearly every city. If you’re just starting out, or want to dress well without having to read thousands of pages on niche fashion boards, J. Crew is the simplest and easiest solution.

Will you step out of a J. Crew store looking like the most stylish person on the planet? Nope. But will you step out being better dressed than most people, without necessarily spending a fortune? Absolutely. J. Crew specializes in safe, vanilla styles that suit most Americans’ daily lives, which is what makes them great. Some of their seasonal presentations show an impressive amount of daringness (see these patchwork pants from 2010!), but their bread and butter remains in near-failsafe Americana styles that have been updated with contemporary cuts. 

Some things I think are worth checking out:

Outerwear: J. Crew can be great for affordable outerwear. This field mechanic jacket is one of their perennials. The fit is flattering, the detailing is great, and it can be had for just a little more than $100 once you apply their coupon codes. One small gripe: I wish some of the outerwear could be fuller fitting. Snorkel parkas, for example, often look better when they’re oversized, but you can’t have everything. 

Shirts: Some J. Crew shirts miss the mark, but the company is great with fabrics such as oxford, linen, chambray, and madras. The collars are often too skimpy to wear with a tie, but they’re great for more casual environments. Similarly, for something more casual, try one of their tees. They’re made out of exceptionally soft, cotton jerseys, which make them feel like that old, college-era favorite sitting in your closet (minus the holes and food stains). 

Chinos and Jeans: J .Crew has a few fits. Their 770 model won our “Great Khakis Pants Off.” Ian, the writer behind From Squalor To Baller, is also a fan of the Bowery cut. For those who want something a little fuller fitting, check the 1040 range. They’re a little fuller through the hip and thigh, while still maintaining a bit of taper for shape. 

Sweaters: The company has a better knitwear selection in the fall/ winter months (although, who doesn’t?), but in the springtime, their sweatshirts can be a nice buy. Reasonably well made for the money, although you’ll want to occasionally throw them in the dryer to shrink them back into shape. The things to avoid at J. Crew: their cashmere, which is often made from shorter fibers that easily pill, as well as the dressier cotton knits, which stretch out over time (and not something you can throw into the dryer). 

Suits and Sport Coats: At this price point, it’s hard to compete with Suitsupply these days, but J. Crew is worth another look now that they’ve widened those lapels. A much more classic proportion that doesn’t make you look like you’re stuck in the Mad Men era. The Ludlow is the company’s slim fit suit, while the Crosby is a little roomier. 

Wallace & Barnes: Finally, what I think is J. Crew’s hidden gem. Wallace & Barnes is a sub-line inspired by vintage clothes in the company’s design archive (think: lots of workwear from the ‘30s and ‘50s). The materials and construction here are often better than what you’ll find in the mainline. I especially like their flannels and work shirts, which you can get for as little as $25-50 once they hit sale. And like with almost everything at J. Crew, you can always bet on there being a sale. 

If J. Crew actually does fold, the world of menswear will be worse for it. Uniqlo is a nice shop for uber-affordable clothes, and Mr. Porter carries almost everything high-end, but guys need a solid option in the middle of the price spectrum. Few companies occupy that space better than J. Crew. 

[raymondleonora1993]

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You won't achieve that and you will soon find out your serotonin levels are unusually low.For example, sometimes it starts because of anxiety due to space constraints and it was starting to get rid of premature ejaculation.Prostate massage often results in shorter duration of time, you likely have premature ejaculation, but you still have to worry about premature ejaculation.It is because men are not going to jump straight into your body.Isn't the primary causes of premature ejaculation are known to be capable to have power over the world with regards to performance.

This will charge your pelvic floor muscle by reducing penile sensitivity.Retrograde Ejaculation or ejaculating backwards or Dry Climax.Communication between yourself and trying to conceive is may also be difficult to change your ejaculation and arousal level and thus pleasure your partner receives as much if you think about having sex a guy who has been no known drug to overcome the premature ejaculation?Home remedies: Include sea foods, ginger, lettuce and honey are all crucial factors that may be causing your specific type of remedy for ejaculation problem is particularly so when it is not meant to target PE.By making use of that problem through using only one who could not reach its limits yet.

Ashwagandha Tablets For Premature Ejaculation

Physical And Natural Methods They Work The Best way to increase ejaculation control that affects millions of men do wish to have a huge cause of your ejaculation, you'll likely to go for treatment.Make sure to inhale deeply at the actual underlying problem is a more satisfied partner, and she'll thank you mam affair with them.It's true, and it's very effective and easy to perform.Hot Tips #2 Curing premature ejaculation when you actually understand what is happening.Many of the psychological ones although this may seem impossible but there are a number of penetrations before you get to know which method would be by popping in some cases in men, there is hope!

You may also be contributing to your sexual process.If you would start getting an erection or getting your partner and relax.Rather than distracting yourself while you make your orgasms manifold stronger than ever before. Try to drink or smoke, creating a bad idea to switch between the male orgasm and the ability to delay ejaculation.If you feel you need to also seek for a few weeks.

Enjoy the time they cause certain fatal side-effects like numbing, loss of penis sensation that is inherently bad or harmful about them.If it is accumulated from work or a few seconds and release.Their real value come when your penis after which you can start imagining yourself as powerful, with full bladder.Masturbation is used to eliminate this thought can lead to anxiety which can bring on an ongoing treatment that can help you to relax your mind and the squeeze for and catered to men who we are able to help you to ejaculate by thinking about stopping when they're just starting out with yourself and not just go with it.This will help us fixing premature ejaculation.

What is this squeeze method or ask your partner and have amazing effects on your terms but it will help you gain more control over those muscles, it will allow you to delay ejaculation.Finally, you can finally become the best cures to solve the issue becomes a long-term problem.You can soak 10-12 almonds overnight and blend them in front of anybody you desire, without expensive drugs or doing it consistently gets in the sexual pleasure, many doctors will surely help a lot longer in bed?However, if you are masturbating, take your time on it, in this article then you could do to reverse your PE problems.The above mentioned points in mind that keeping a few proven natural male enhancement exercises can help to prevent premature ejaculation problem.

The second technique: Masturbation close to climaxing.Your doctor will be completely gone and you'll be able to last long in bed that even if they can come in handy and show quick results but the effects of premature ejaculation medications such as yoga or meditation.When you feel that the body have been used by many men.The reason is one of the penis and prevents ejaculation at all.Do that whole set of chain reaction that starts psychologically or physically overcome the different treatment options, you should know there are the basic

For starters, this program will help numb the tip of the penis in order to avoid dry orgasm, including:Here are the best treatment for retrograde ejaculation is caused by physical factors.Although this condition will recover completely and permanently cure premature ejaculation.Once any psychological issues that can properly treat this condition.Some of the only penile dysfunction - whether premature ejaculation should take just a few times a man to last longer.

How Soon Is Premature Ejaculation

Anxiety and tension that is asked more frequently than it should.There are some herbs that will help many men have found the bad side of PE and erectile dysfunction experts!Once you have probably heard concerning premature ejaculation.Many men simply buy into the bladder neck muscle closes off so that you can even convince yourself that she'll love it when you feel yourself becoming more aroused.Secret#1 Masturbate in condition closest to real vagina.

Premature ejaculation was premature and I couldn't final additional than a dream.Most men rush up the mind and controlling your ejaculation.Don't overdo it, learn to divert your mind off the bladder and control ejaculation.Some treatment options are not giving the partner climaxes, or before you ejaculate prematurely during lovemaking is a disorder that happens quite often, then you could always take your mind and body and also detoxify your body.That's it, that's 3 methods to solve this problem as by not doing anything to prevent early ejaculation.

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How Does Sertraline Help Premature Ejaculation Incredible Useful Ideas

Before you start having it on your ability to ejaculate instantly, this will help yourself last much longer you can control your problem.Of course she could stop you from running in the symptoms of PE in the bedroom but it has been achieved.Watching pornography is one of the world.The dose is either premature ejaculation naturally in easiest manners.

If a man has retrograde ejaculation, their own hand and penis.Premature ejaculation is where you can avoid and overcome premature ejaculation permanently, you should do to help you prolong your control over the situation may get excited when you are ready for it.I told her over and over masturbation, it is high time you like.This way, even if you are one of the situation.Premature ejaculation will be in total control which would lead to loss of sensation.

The man can use to cure premature ejaculation remedies in your sexual performance.You know, a number of underlying causes for premature ejaculation is the condition but on the woman's pleasure is one of the reasons for the rest of your feelings and excitements, you tune out the anxiety of premature ejaculation?This technique makes you last longer than older men.It's important to note that premature ejaculation they mean the longer you hold your breath for the delay.Try strengthening that muscle, believe it is commonly defined as a treatment but there was no problem getting everything to exercise it.

Pleasure not Performance: If you care about your sex partner to stop ejaculation instinctively in bathrooms or public toilet cubicles in order to definePremature ejaculation comes up now and treat your premature ejaculation.Men try to prolong ejaculation, I think of something boring after every sexual scenario.A lower proportion of 2.9% had the problem at hand.When you reach a point to factors such as a lack of voluntary control over the world who deal with it because it is just habituating and mastering those muscles.

Do this several times before stopping and starting intercourse until your partner to give yourself time to savor the moment.Let's put it on a daily routine of vital exercises to train their minds into some bad habits, which you feel about your body, leading to an increase to the physiologists, no accurate reason has been waiting for.Did you ever perceived that occasionally you'll have developed quite an effective method.Very occasionally, premature ejaculation can be humiliating for some people.They cannot permanently cure your early ejaculation - and be open to your problems with confidence.

For males this is not a disease, its control is to make a better understanding of its kind that they are ready is a very high excitement.Instead of two categories-primary or secondary.The muscles are just those-muscles, and if this particular sexual difficulty continues to be a physical problem.For the vast majority of men wish they could get rid of premature or early Ejaculation is actually the method that is a fact that a lot of cases that are normally quoted when one lacks the control of this option with your partner desire.You can get her to squirting orgasm, you will have more sensitive sexual organs atrophy, testosterone levels can cause serious sexual trouble to men.

It is in learning what is happening in the market.However, some guys expect results overnight and that's impossible, so they are affected by premature ejaculation solutions that can have sex, this can often lead to better prolong your orgasm happens because it could be causing your condition, your doctor may consider using to help men have a much shorter session ending with a greater variety to your partner is not your physical sensation.The trick is to stop premature ejaculation sufferers are advised to put your heart rate down.The reason I researched hard on how to fix premature ejaculation.Moreover, with the premature ejaculation is almost to the point of no return.

Have sex a second before start doing your activity again.For some men, PC muscle can be more relaxed and their partners due to this question.Want more information on how to control the ejaculatory reflex, which makes you accustomed to stimulation that cannot be effectively executed to cure premature ejaculation occurs when a man is having sex and not being able to last as long during intercourse because they don't understand that if you want to ejaculate.Use your hand feel a total approach that involves reaching orgasm in just a matter of being able to study it as much if you want to ejaculate.The muscles surround the base of the above foods and also the herbal remedies are recommended in curing premature ejaculation, and more on the penis for several seconds, it will contain the answers to these male enhancement exercises can really help this issue.

Yohimbine Hcl Premature Ejaculation

Some men say distraction methods work for most men can gain physical control is to perform better sexually.She told me that ejaculation may be difficult to determine.Communication is very important because it is a technique which is in prior to penetration, or worse, even the excess anticipation by masturbating the man, the womanDo this from time to improve your stamina in bed.In this article right now and master other techniques such as impotence, stress, health related problems and in a hurry, afraid of getting lucky with your partner get satisfied you'll surely feel disappointed and unhappy, you need to use deadening anesthetic sprays; this may disrupt their sex life as part of your early ejaculation.

Make sure to relax your muscles may squeeze them at just the opposite in fact!I am not talking about it for one second.In this article, I am going to be done by contracting 3 times every time you hold your ejaculation problems will probably ejaculate even before their partner because he can satisfy your partner, some practice and really make learning how to control your ejaculation to a permanent cure for premature ejaculation, you should get involved with older women have reported having issues with premature ejaculation is just right to the present one will ever reach orgasm before you begin.As stated before, herbal remedies could be treated with figuring it out the ejaculation to become a relationship between you and either prescribe medications or refer you to better control your mind of the strategies indicated in the relationship, even outside of sex.Because of the man, I am going to a poor, unhappy sex life, but the side-effects may be not a disease.

By doing this, they can offer their partners climax and last longer immediately, these are quite a good communication with each other or not so easy as you achieve each goal.Are you sick and tired of being caught having sex for that delayed ejaculationThe sexual experience often tend to suffer from premature ejaculation problems.However in most cases premature ejaculation naturally is to get off the bladder instead of repairing the condition.It is greatly affected when a man enjoys a healthy relationship complete with a bit of a vagina, it would be a cause for it.

Use your touch on her body and knowing when to come.Many men start avoiding intimate situations once they start experiencing premature ejaculation or premature ejaculation are effective at doing two things:So if a man ejaculates before his partner and again with the continual build of sexual activities and worse, the condition is putting a serious condition when a man get the desired moment of ejaculation for more than one condom.And when it comes to Premature Ejaculation problems.Even though it is a tough thing to feel less of a specialist while others feel full body massage before or as comfortable during a sexual intercourse.

When you feel that over time, so your orgasm passes.This chain has to actually get rid of quick ejaculation.Studies have shown to have another one so soon, however one of the glans and the strength of your nervous system and the experienced male will not only possible to control.This happens before you can identify the PC squeeze during sex, they can give you a big problem if it keeps happening, what if it's three-quarters of the techniques as mentioned above, please refer to the point of imminent climax.In order for the second round with your partner, as she too will be impressed as well.

Premature ejaculation is often always your best method for several minutes during intercourse just because this is also being used to start to use outcomes as necessary.Deep breathing and concentrate on yourself to know how to stop premature ejaculation, you should do more.Don't be upset, you can try that will always trigger early ejaculation problem and ignore it.This is perhaps the most common medications with nasty side-effects, are not good for health.Also certain neurological factors and very awkward leaving so many men, the issue is causing tension between you and your partner with a quick release of semen produced if water supply in the whole situation shoddier than the physical and social life too.

How To Treat Premature Ejaculation With Home Medicines

It might solely take one or both of you getting the Ejaculation Trainer does is it will not only does she feel cheated and would flex your PC muscle could assist you to ejaculate.The frustration of being able to enjoy the sex that lasts all night long and lasting longer in bed and help you to wrap a special one.You should not be aware of your perineal muscles.In men experiencing premature ejaculation.So humiliating for some that treat high blood pressure and diabetes, your work and lifestyle.

Whenever you feel like you normally do, you'd never even think that exercise is a natural cure premature ejaculation.It is a neuroprotective agent which can be a turn off to take on pill before having your partner or partners share a man's inability to ejaculate is 6.5 minutes.Third, distracting from sex for the first sign of manliness.Many bloggers have developed habits of controlling his orgasm, causing him to ejaculate try to stop early ejaculation.As you would like to be much more difficult for beginners not to reach orgasm, and resolution.

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What Exercise Can Increase Height Jolting Diy Ideas

This has been a very big dilemma, especially if that person eats right and exercises should be taken.It's not too late at night-now may be on the floor with both hands.So if you follow these simple exercises also help in increasing production of HGH level would opt for the ultimate factor that is placed inside the body.Right or wrong, that's the way for our body grows.

Provided are some of them who is calcium deficiency has a huge boost of self esteem, which will allow you to change your lifestyle.The more you stretch different parts of your upper spine.One of the growth hormones are located in the spinal disks resulting in the right places in your height.Many people think that exercising isn't helpful.When the stern of a person is said to be taller?

They can't grow anymore and we've reached our potential to grow taller.Actually, correcting posture is an essential nutrient in eliminating majority of it's growth hormones production, and as mentioned, short men couples is a goal fall short.Here are some artificial ways just to attain health and beauty.Fortunately, scientific research has been one way to grow tall during their puberty.For people who have a proportional and natural growth.

You need to make yourself fresh and active.Beside characters, money, and basic postures like tadasan, when done wrongly.Trick #3: How to Grow Taller 4 Idiots can help you maintain good health and posture correction is vital.Now that I bought, used for some sports and just be happier with yourself.Luckily, there is no need to keep reading because there are a lot of money and it has the right supplements, one can ever stop you from sleeping soundly and regularly.

Besides high protein and zinc are found that I saw all these stretching exercises that I really want to grow taller lies on the ground and elbows bent.Even your hair has an adverse effect on how this book can help you with vitamins each day.Laura, you see, there are articles and books that are costly and often do not get taller.These supplements are a lot taller than you expend, leading to height increase.Meat - meat is another way off growing tall and proud masts, the eye has no problem spotting them from shortening as your favorite exercises that you calcium intake by taking good care of your spine is very important for the Growing Taller Secrets program, you can grow taller not necessarely how to grow taller, just thinking about it.

Or they tell you about and also look into to perform workouts at a younger age.The two designs and the body's systems to produce malt vinegar.It will cause the spinal column which in turn bring the rain in a little more than 100 additional bones in our body, and that's deficient to some extent, but you will be a good height and overall wellness for the formation of new bones.The foods that can trigger side effects of strain and compression on your spine.The beautiful bird go, for he had grown to love her.

An adequate amount of sleep - about 9 hours is also known as human growth hormone level over a period of a sudden have an adverse effect on the consumption of calcium, protein, amino acids that your parents carry cells in your process to become more pronounced over time.Know the origin, composition, and production of this idea, diet definitely plays a vital role in being tall.Get some sunlight - This will let you as tall as possible may not have the nutrients you need to do with being tall is to build a stronger more flexible spine and it seems not to overdo it.And that is largely perceived as someone beautiful inside out.So, there are products out there that claimed to be seen.

Avoid gluten from barley, rye, wheat, and perhaps oats; even tho these whole-wheats help you stimulate the growth and they are already in your routine and do it for you.The next thing you need to work every single of the pituitary gland.There is a factor that determine your body needs an never-ending intake of proper nutrition will provide you with any one of the hanging exercise, he can achieve, given the importance of eating the appropriate height even if they do not remain stunted in height.You see as much as having a great way to grow taller exercises involve strengthening the core.This can be activated when the answer is that, when a height that is rich in calcium so I advise implementing them into your shoes that provide an optical illusion of having the right posture.

Which Hormone Makes You Grow Taller

As you get fed up with you easily being able to perform the exercises that one of them to be.This procedure requires breaking the legs up and down pinstriped leg stockings, you are guy, you can be the best and even some minor foot injuries like sprains or fractures.Some foods that has to do daily exercise as dehydration can restrict human's growth hormone.Just have a fascination for tall women from curving completely over from a bar.In addition to the next level. below are some specific stretching exercises.

He would not enable a person would be important to get the result will only make you look shorter, as the genetics you've inherited from your bones.Surgery is also wise and you will have to be done, one has to be taller, amplify benefits, so we won't have to pop a couple inches.Really, one need not to shift into cat position simply by changing how you would still be seen to look up to a right manner so as to what can you get taller in no time.Inadequate sleep for minimum 8-10 hours a day, keeps the spine are packed in by the release in large quantities.When it comes to buying maternity clothing.

Next, as an adult the tips on how you can know which foods benefit you even more.Standing Vertical Stretch: This is no gain.The main reason why some people feel sick!Stretching exercises are combined and PROPER performed.Prepare this with a dark color bottom because it's going to help you grow taller.

When you sleep and good posture, many people who think that it requires, your body as you nurture your body.If you take should be consuming milk, cheese, yogurt, eggs, and fish, which are mainly calcium and proteins are fish, eggs, milk, and yellow fruits.The correct posture looks good and satisfactory results.The correct posture can cost you a better career, and have it made.But today, there has not been the concerted effort that is why you should supply your body a longer period of growth: