#Arctic Survival Training

[neteyamsilly]

i will soften every edge, hold the world to its best | 6

summary ;; This is the reality of Jake Sully: the father and Olo'eyktan of the People cannot coexist, Eywa teaches her lessons in the toughest ways. PART 5 | NEXT (wip) pairings ;; dad!jake sully x reader, mom!neytiri x reader, sully family x reader genre ;; pure angst and family feels notes / explanations ;; well this took a hot minute. am back on my bs WARNING for violence and t0rture, reader discretion is advised. Please excuse my mistakes if you see any!

Jake moved on pure primitive instinct, unbridled arctic rage honing all his senses into one laser point of focus. It wasn’t survival, and it surely wasn’t prey running from predator, there was nothing noble about what he was trying to achieve. 

That avatar was going to die today, and Jake was going to make it hurt. No fair game. No warrior’s death. No respect. 

Devoid of the shape of humanity or the ties that bound him to it, he was the embodiment of a creature’s killer intent, body taking over and consciousness disappearing to the backseat as he catapulted his tomahawk at the avatar, taking advantage of the miniscule opening provided by a magazine change needed after emptying all of his bullets to a Jake luring him into wasting his resources away. 

The dull squelch of the hand-carved ax’s head plunging into flesh couldn’t be dampened by the avatar’s choked and short shout, and Jake was jumping out of cover in no time, a bull to red, advancing towards the man, footsteps not hidden out of having no concern for it at all, let him panic or try to struggle for all Jake cared. 

Opposite of what he expected, the rifle wasn’t picked up or fumbled to aim at him. The avatar, pale in the face and pupils having devoured the yellow, fear trumping the pain of his arm almost sliced off from shoulder, crawled away on his back from Jake in full speed, getting up before Jake could reach him, and started staggering into the forest, dropping the tomahawk in the process. 

Jake stopped in his tracks for a moment and picked his weapon up, the dark liquid glistening purple in the light of the Tree of Souls, droplets of blood making the moss light up as they hit the ground. His chest heaved in controlled, loud breaths, mouth pulled back in a snarl, watching the pathetic son of a bitch trying to get away. 

He was one of the lot who’d shot you, hurt you, tortured you — simply to get a reaction out of Jake. 

He was the one who pulled Jake away before he could fix his mistakes, undo the damage they had done, and get you back. 

Jake was so close. So close. 

You were there. You were right there. He could still feel you in his arms, his shoulder imprinted with your tears, shiest of smiles at a better future he could build with you from the burnt soil of your relationship. 

If it hadn’t been for him… 

That man was your murderer. 

He deserved the hell of a father’s making.

This avatar was a marine — and the fucking idiot was running into the oblivion blind worse than a normal civilian would in this situation, had all those years of training evaporated in one second? Jake’s steps were determined, yet lax following after the guy, nose picking up the trail of blood left behind, eyes watching the red splatters. This was all Hansel and Gretel for him, playing follow the breadcrumbs.

The sound of thumping, frantic running, bumping into obstacles, crashing into flora, all was distinguishable from the natural song of the forest Jake had gotten so familiar with in these fifteen years. No response came from the avatar, but Jake wasn’t hurrying. He would have him. Let the bastard tire himself out first — but he wouldn’t let him die. No. He could smell the fear, the blood, anger at bay, all ice, knowing the trees would carry all the sounds he needed to Jake. He could hear exactly where the avatar was. and If he was hoping he’d bleed himself out faster than Jake could reach him to save himself from what was going to happen, well… 

He’d better start praying for mercy to whatever deity held his worthless faith, because Jake had none of it. They had no mercy for you, his sinless, innocent child, all but wails and yelps and blood, and apologies for it. 

Every time Jake thought of you in that tremendous pain to the brink of delirium, he burned in his heart’s ice until he was black and purple all over. Your smile was so real, your embrace was tiny and warm in his arms and he had a chance, the only chance no parent could ever get in this life. Jake had dissolved together with that mirage.   

The part of him engulfed in flames wanted to end this quickly and painfully—to burn it all, break that man in, scream his lungs out, the other part of him, frozen fury that scalded over in the loss of you, wanted to draw it out, wanted to inflict never-ending pain, to bring the avatar back from the brink of death over and over again just to repeat it in a cycle. 

His child. His baby. 

The ties that held Jake together were getting pulled tight, the pressure building like deep water currents, thinner threads snapping and crackling, body being pulled to all five directions from all five limbs. Awareness went out and barged its way back in hot flashes, he couldn’t comprehend the passing of time and how long he let your murderer catch the delusion of shaking Jake off his tail — but, his instincts knew to reveal himself before the avatar could be claimed by blood loss. 

Dangling hope right in front of his face just to snatch it away wasn’t enough. It could never be enough compared to you who had dragged your own corpse back home, muted to your own pain cocooned between those who should have meant nothing but home and safety to you. Torture. You had lived torture in your last hours with help just one step, one word away. 

Nothing would ever be enough.  

Jake emerged from the thick flora like the grim reaper himself who would always be waiting right at the spot of the reaping wherever the soul ran away to, detached and unimpressed, blank face not reflecting the scorched soul inside. The almost passed out avatar jolted awake when he smelled the smoke from Jake’s shadow falling on him, and could only press his back further to the body of the cluster of big rocks he had taken shelter against as if somehow becoming one with it could shield him away from Jake’s wrath.  

The man’s breathing was getting louder and shakier the more Jake stood there motionless. “C’mon then,” he said between clenched teeth, spasming hand dropping from his mutilated shoulder, squaring up the last drops of his courage. “Get on with it.”

Jake’s whitened fingers were making noise against the handle of his tomahawk, but his voice was hauntingly hollow, unfeeling now that he had the man right in his palm. “Thought I should let you live what you did to my daughter first.”

The avatar began to scream. “Fuck you, man, we didn’t do none of this shit to that kid—”

Jake’s tone didn’t change, but it cut worse than a knife. “You killed my kid.”

His eyes widened, breath hitching, the reality of what was coming to him finally sinking in and Jake witnessed every panicked second of it. “Fuck…” His gaze wildly alternated between Jake and the tomahawk, raising his better, trembling hand up for feeble defense. “Look, look, listen, we didn’t kill her, alright? We patched her up, okay, she was going to be a prisoner, what happened happened because you engaged in battle, we wouldn’t do that to a—AGH!”

He was interrupted by Jake sharply shoving the head of the tomahawk into his injury, just putting it in there, not moving it further down. “Do you have children, marine?”

The man palmed at the weapon, fingernails digging into the wood, but no matter how much he pushed, it didn’t budge one bit. “Stop, stop! Fuck—”

Jake repeated again, firmer. “I asked you a question, do you have children?”

“No!— No, god, argh!” 

He spaced out for a while, watching him squirm and trash to get away with defeated, half-assed attempts, also unable to because of how much of an immovable object Jake was making the weapon buried in the open wound be. It would hit the bone if he used more strength. 

With a fixed, stony stare, Jake removed the tomahawk, waiting for the man’s deplorable whimpers to recede before breaking him the news like reading it off a doctor’s report. “You won’t get to have any.”

He didn’t look like he cared about something like that, but the man knew his fate insinuated by the words. Nevertheless,it didn’t mean he could be free from the survivor’s instinct’s mood swings his body was putting him through. Denial to bargaining within minutes. “Just kill me already, you deserter piece of—”

“Oh, no, no no,” Jake reassured, the only flicker of emotion he had shown since he’d cornered the avatar. “You won’t get to die for a long time, either.” 

The avatar grunted, head falling down before he started to shake it. “Please just let it end—man, just let it end, I’m sorry, okay, please!” A whole body-trembling begging shifted to anger the more Jake remained non-responsive. Watching. Just watching. The hole in his chest getting wider the more he fed this man’s suffering to it — it wasn’t enough. “Just fucking do it! Pussy ass bitch! Come on you blue motherfucker, kill me! Kill m—”

“Are you the one who shot my daughter?” 

“What?”

“Are you. The one. Who shot my daughter?”

The avatar’s face twisted. “It wasn’t me—it wasn’t—asshole, you already killed the guy, I didn’t fucking do anything!—”

“You... didn’t do anything?”

A beat. The forest fell silent in Jake’s ears. Just like how the noises you made had abruptly died down as he was putting pressure on your wound.

And like that, the thick haze that had Jake desensitized blew over, unadulterated anger rushed to his body, acidic and nauseating, soul stitching back to his limbs by a million needles and he began to shake, face contorting, teeth showing itself, the hiss that lacerated his throat was the most terrifying one of his life yet, it didn’t sound like it belonged to a sentient being, twisted by a grieving, demented animalistic horror. The avatar’s breath hitched, whatever protest and voice he had escaping deep inside his body, ears pinned back to his head. 

“Of course,” Jake glowered, swallowing the scorching stones blocking his throat. He closed his burning eyes, and was greeted by the image of you, opening them back again, and shaking the ax as if it was an accusing finger. 

And without a word of warning, his hand shot down and grabbed the avatar from the neck of his tactical vest, hurling him over the chest-level array of big rocks forming a pointy bed above, ignoring the cries of pain as the abused, torn open flesh of the wound dragged through the sharp teeth of the gravel, dousing them in blood. “Please, please, stop!—I’m sorry, I was wrong, that wasn’t right, shit, shit!”

Jake snatched the man’s dominant arm that was coincidentally the same one dangling by fractured bone and tendons from the shoulder. His soul had known what he wanted right from the start before his brain had processed it. “This hand,” he spat, holding it from the wrist, gnashing his teeth. “that pulled the trigger at me…” 

Murdered his daughter for a second time. 

All a soldier’s worth for. One hand to hold the stock tight against the body and one to fire. All that to take a single life.

Leaning the hand down against the rock in a sudden move, Jake slammed on the blunt, pointy end of the tomahawk on it like he was hammering a nail, the sickening crack of the bones breaking got followed by the avatar’s fractured scream. 

Jake saw you hunched, cheekily laughing in the blue and purple of the creek, freckles glowing because of the eclipse, silhouette illuminated by the floating bioluminescent bugs.  

Spinning the tomahawk in his clammy hand in a full 360 turn, he smashed it down once more, stronger. The metal broke skin and sank into spongy muscle. His ears were buzzing, ringing from how the shrill yells. 

Jake was hugging you after what seemed to be years, and your little arms were clinging to him for life — you were sand slipping from his fingers. 

Jake hammered again. 

You were telling him how mean he was to you, your voice suppressing the avatar’s. 

He brought it down one more time and felt the tomahawk recoil from hitting rock. 

You were bashful as you repeated how Jake would always love you. 

Guttural breaths getting louder with effort each hit, he kept slamming it down until everything was his beautiful little sweet girl. 

Again. 

Again. 

Again. 

Again and again and again and again and again until there was no resistance from the limb anymore and the man had gone silent and it was all mashed meat he was pounding— 

And then he almost plunged it to your bleeding, battered corpse, your stomach covered in reddish brown from the dried brown, body ashen blue, and Jake cried out in terror, jumping back and losing strength in his legs as the tomahawk flew from his hand and he fell over. 

His lungs constricted, refusing to take any breaths in and his heart ricocheted around in his ribcage, he was gaping at the wall of rock now washed red as if it was some white rose painted red in Alice in Wonderland. 

Jake sat there for the longest time, dissociated.

In those moments, he wasn’t Toruk Makto, he wasn’t Olo’eyktan, he wasn’t the pillar of a family of seven. He was simply Jake Sully. 

However, he wasn’t allowed to be stripped down to the bone until all that’s left was a mourning father. That was Jake’s reality. 

He had to cast the crippled man aside, the tragedy of his child away, and bring the leader of the People out right as your ghost rippled in his vision, watching spitefully within the forest — because all you wanted was for him to be your father, and he couldn’t even fucking do that after your death. 

This avatar was a valuable asset, a hostage to question. For the sake of his people. 

He wasn’t allowed revenge. 

A single drop of tear rolled down expressionless face. When he looked down, Jake’s hands were still stained with your blood. 

The only instance a child should be covered in blood is when they come out of their mother’s womb, little lungs being burned with existence for the first time, crying from the pain of being separated from Eywa’s arms, birth mother a complete stranger to them. 

The gore of you barely clinging to life, unmoving, drenched in your own blood, wiped and wiped to the point Neytiri had to change buckets of water until it turned light pink was overlapping with the joyful image of your newborn self she had lovingly and gently cleaned of the remains of labor with wetted mothsilk, skin too sensitive for water for the moment, the blue coming alive as the blood and other clotted bodily fluids were cleansed. 

It wasn’t the broken, ice-cold, lithe body of a young girl Neytiri had cleaned in the torment of her excoriated, unraveling mind, it was her baby’s. Her baby, her poor baby with a gaping hole in the middle of your body, memories marauding Neytiri’s lucidity. 

She lived the moment of your first cleansing over and over again. 

You were a particularly indomitable cryer, Neytiri had known you would be infamous for your battle cries right as she was brought back from the blackout of post-birth by your overly-healthy wailing — or perhaps you would best Ninat as a singer when you’d unapologetically blossom, but one thing was ascertained: her first daughter was a fierce, fiery blue ball of ardor compared to Neteyam, who was almost shy and reluctant in disturbing people around him in his weeping that a collective worry for his health had plagued the whole clan. 

As you squirmed, smeared in chunks of her flesh and blood, as if you wanted to jump off from her arms and start walking already, Neytiri had smiled up at her Jake, your father, unable to take his eyes off you, stuck between awe and laughs that came and went. “She has your heart,” she’d told him, spent and hurting, but wonderfully alive. “Strong.”

He’d traced his thumb through her drenched hairline. “Lungs, you mean?” His scent, wind and hearthfire, had enveloped Neytiri when Jake had leaned down to kiss her forehead. “I think they’re yours.” The teasing about how you had made Neytiri scream in labor wouldn’t have gone unpunished if she wasn’t on the edge of sleep held up only by your crying, so, he’d gotten a light hit on the side of his face instead. But Jake knew how to apologize, he’d always been spectacular at it. “I’d say she takes after me in appearance, look at her little ugly face.”

To Neytiri, you were beautiful, face dark purple from how strong you were screaming, and a mini-village elder with the wrinkles, swinging those little fists — things that made you lovely in her eyes. Her first daughter. 

She had learned motherhood from Neteyam, but she would learn to understand her mother and her choices through you, someone she thought couldn’t be more different from her — Neytiri, all Mo’at could have been, and Mo’at, all Neytiri might have become, once. She prayed you would love her as much as she’d begun to love you the second you were in her arms. 

To think the enormity of her love hadn’t reached you — it was one of the greatest failures of Neytiri’s life. If it had, you’d be wounded, but perfectly conscious and well in her mother’s tent. If it had, you would have been beyond comfortable telling those demons had hurt you. 

In that all-consuming devastation, the woven towel she was using to wipe the thin sheet of sweat that formed on your body slipped from her uncoordinated hands and fell on your chest, and Neytiri had to hold back the breath that spiked to become a hiccup by covering her mouth, and immediately, her curled hand was engulfed in a smaller, five-fingered one. She came eye-to-eye with Kiri after raising her head, putting her other hand on hers at the girl’s more disheveled and messy self, heart dropping to her stomach at the fatigue varnishing an extra layer of moisture in her daughter’s drooping eyes. 

“Oh Kiri,” Neytiri mumbled, caressing her cheek and brushing the tangled hair away from her face. 

“Why don’t you go get some rest, mom, hm?” 

“Even if I somehow agreed to that, I could never agree to leaving my daughter alone in this.”

“I’m fine.” Stopping to take a breath, she sighed, collecting the towel and starting to fold it. “Well, not really fine, but don't worry about me. We’re all miserable here. And that’s natural.” Fiddling with the corners of the cloth, she leaned in a bit and lowered her voice, light reflecting from the yellow of her irises making it look like they shone from within. “I… I know she’ll be okay. We’ll be okay. Eywa has bestowed us a gift she has never given to anyone before and it’s for a reason. I feel that everything will be set right.” She shook her head up and down, determined. “Dad will do it. I know he will.”

Neytiri trusted Kiri with her intuition and understanding when it came to the inscrutable intentions of Eywa, she was closer to the Great Mother than any Tsahik was — so close that she would drift away too much from her family. And deep down, Neytiri was heartsick by this invisible line that separated her from her daughter, any parent in her place would be unsettled like this.

She was also hog-tied to close the distance growing between them because of the human boy Spider and how she would find camaraderie in him in their ‘orphan’ status as she called it. Kiri was already faraway in her obscure existence and unwittingly separated herself as if she didn’t see herself as a real part of the family some days, and Neytiri hated that the ‘kinship’ she’d formed with Spider was planting these ideas into her head when she was her and Jake’s daughter, no more, no less. To overwrite those feelings, she tried so hard to reach Kiri, but was unsettled by the feeling of being hated sometimes, again, more or less for her stance in placing Spider at the outskirts of their family. 

But oftentimes Kiri would express her affection through small, otherwise unnoticeable actions, just like this one, a caring touch and reassurance that could melt an ice cube — and Neytiri basked in the babiest of steps between them. And maybe this was how Jake had it with you, too, she had never thought about it like this before. 

Taking in Neytiri’s solemn silence, Kiri grumbled, suddenly agitated about something. “I just… I just wish I had isirka resin and xhikul seeds for this paste and cover her wound with it. Grandmother’s extract isn’t enough to stimulate the bone marrow and ugh—” The girl groaned with the obvious guilt at groaning in the first place, as well. “I’m sorry, mom, I don’t know what—”

“It’s alright, Kiri,” Neytiri said, weariness blending with tenderness, knowing you’d agree too. You would have probably told her to not waste her energy and wait around when there wasn’t anything left to do anyway. “Maybe it’s you who needs some rest. You’ve worked hard. Harder than any of us. You do need rest, too.”

Kiri was quick to refuse. “I’m trying something new, I can’t go anywhere.”

“I’m sure one of your brothers—”

Her earpiece buzzed alive. “Neytiri, do you read me?”

The unexpected timing of it caught her off guard, her hand flying up to the device, drums of alarm going off in her head by the croaky, despondent note to his voice. The impact of their previous argument evaporated from existence just by hearing his distress. “Jake?” She focused on you, not observing any difference, and frowned in worry, her pulse picking up pace as Kiri also locked her attention to her the moment she heard her father was on the line. “What happened?”

“I have here one of Quaritch’s dreamwalkers—whatever they are.” Neytiri’s mouth opened and closed at the reveal, forehead creasing. “Alive. Somehow survived to get to the Tree of Souls.”

Her hand instinctively descended to touch your cool and clammy arm closest to her. “Tree of Souls…? But you were—”

“Yeah. Yeah, he… I couldn’t. I couldn’t…” 

She stared at your face, all thoughts draining from her mind. “What are you saying, Jake?”

Silence.

“Jake,” Neytiri implored, her voice snuffed out towards the end. She tried again. “Jake, I don’t understand. What does this mean..?”

“Son of a bitch pulled me out before I could… before I could finish talking to her.” Kiri reached for her when she let out an incoherent, disbelieving voice, getting more panicked as Neytiri clawed at her tightening chest with his next words. “I failed, Neytiri. I couldn’t… She…” 

Neytiri was physically helpless to respond, and Kiri couldn’t hold back from inquiring seeing the state she was in. “Mom? Mom! What’s wrong?”

“This man, if it wasn’t for this man, I had it.” Jake kept talking at an increasing speed the longer Neytiri didn’t say anything. “I had her right in my arms, making future plans, smiling, everything was perfect, and then he—” His breath quivered. “He fucking—” And he stopped the sentence abruptly to get some semblance of control back because Eywa knew Neytiri was losing it ever so slowly. “I need you here with me right now, please. Please, I…” 

Neytiri refused to acknowledge what Jake couldn’t say out loud. You were still breathing, she felt your chest rise and fall even if the pattern was weak. You had life left in you. Jake saying he failed made no sense to her, she didn’t believe it. 

“Neytiri, I need to question this… this filth, need to learn all I can about what’s going on, but I can’t do it on my own. I’ll kill him. In a heartbeat. I want to squeeze the life out of him with my hands right this moment and I— I can’t… We have to know how they could have gotten this far, what they’re planning—and now right to the Tree of Souls too, and…” The rambling that got chaotic and disconnected faded off eventually, as if he’d lost his voice. “Shit.”

And throughout all that, Neytiri had gone from confused, in denial, at the threshold of grief but not nearly in there anchored by your pulse, and lusting for blood within minutes. Kiri was taken aback by the anger radiating from her. “Bring him here!”

“I can’t. He could have a tracker on him—they could have put it in his body. I can’t risk that.”

Neytiri stood up with only one thing in her mind, and it didn’t match Jake’s. “Where are you?”

“You gotta let me pass, buddy, come on! You wanna take my head off or something? Why are you being like this!” 

Hands up and quick on his feet, Lo’ak was trying to negotiate. 

With an ikran of all things. Not even his.

Yours. 

Mom storming out like a wronged, vengeful spirit had been the perfect chance for him to do a quick supply run sneak off, but your overgrown big bird with the exact same attitude as you was getting in his way and blocking Lo’ak off by snapping its jaw at his head and opening its sunset fire tinged wings every time he attempted to cross over to his own ikran. They were basically at a standstill and he had no idea why. 

Lo’ak just wanted to help. Help you. 

“And where do you think you’re going?”

Shit. 

Neteyam. Making his way to him with such speed that got his braids swinging and of course he’d sniffed Lo’ak out like a nantang. Followed the odd silence, probably. Eywa, he should have thought this out better. 

“Skxawng, do you not remember what dad said?”

“I do,” Lo’ak hummed and hawed, and that was the problem. He’d never felt this guilty about disobeying dad’s orders before, it was making him squirm. “But look, Kiri said she needed isirka resin and xhikul seeds or whatever to treat her, I’m going—”

Neteyam’s jaw had flexed when he said whatever, but there was no visible agitation after he gave a sharp breath through his nose.  “So let’s call mother or—”

“They’re busy with some sky person dad caught—”

“I know. The same ones who did this to our sister. I know, Lo’ak.” Neteyam aggressively gestured to the exit of the cave system, shaking his arm while speaking. “What do you think will happen if you go off on your own and land yourself in bigger trouble than she did? Huh?”

Lo’ak threw resentful looks at your ikran. “I can’t stay put like this. I have to do something.”

“This again? There is nothing we can do.” He hadn’t said that in his normal drilling of dad’s orders — Neteyam had the same pain of acceptance that were Lo’ak’s bruises etched onto his face.

And that made Lo’ak want to throw up all over the place. He’d experienced countless sicknesses his siblings had fallen to over the years, none of those were as fatal as this and he didn’t know what the fuck to do. What was he supposed to do when his sister was dying? What did one do when a family member was in this situation anyway? Nothing seemed right to him. 

And something was finally, finally within his power — and Lo’ak would of course rise up to the challenge without hesitation. He wasn’t just going to sit down and let that possibility of your salvation slip by. “But there is. Kiri said—”

“Lo’ak if you leave right now and somehow get caught dad will never trust you again. He was the most open he’s ever been, don’t betray him like that.” 

He was getting annoyed that Neteyam was ignoring the whole point, though it wasn’t as if Lo’ak didn’t know. He was fully aware, and that’s why this was supposed to be a secret. Dad couldn’t be hurt by what he didn’t know now, could he? Not only were you getting Kiri’s remedy, which he was sure as his name was Lo’ak that would end up most effective, but he also wasn’t breaking his promise to dad when the tiniest thread of trust in his son was knotted by the man just recently.  

Neteyam grabbed him by the top of his head in a brotherly manner but his hold was of steel, the boy tried to grumpily push him off but he didn’t budge, staring right into his soul. “Use what’s in this for once and just tell dad or mother, they’re down in the forest already anyway.” When he let go, Lo’ak stumbled back, rubbing the sting off, and the semi-playful older brother was back. “And one of them will actually know what to look for.”

His immediate response was refusal. “I know what I’m looking for—”

“What does isirka look like?”

The sounds your ikran was making was eerily close to laughter and Lo’ak felt heat rush up to the tips of his ears. “It’s a tree.”

Neteyam didn’t have brow hair like Lo’ak did, but the way he raised the lines was always more expressive than how he did it. “Xhikul, then?”

“Flower, skxawng.”

“Wrong.” Lo’ak’s tail started beating the air at the condescending tone. “Kiri is talking about the fruit. Xhika is its flower.”

He rolled his eyes, turning away. “Whatever—”

“Is it whatever?” Neteyam grabbed Lo’ak by the shoulder and spun him around so rough that he got dizzy. “Are you calling my sister’s life whatever?”

Lo’ak was going to explode from how wrong this was going and how insistent Neteyam was to twist his words. “That’s not what I meant bro!” 

“You are so careless.” Neteyam’s tail had shot up ramrod straight, the little bush of hair at the end of it all puffed up, ears perking in all directions. He wasn’t necessarily yelling but was tense all over, something he did whenever they were playing back in the day and he was about to pounce after staying still enough to implant a false seed of safety. “You don’t even think about what can happen if you were to bring a completely different ingredient! You don’t think!”

“Sorry that I’m trying to help! What are you doing?”

“Keeping us safe. Keeping you safe.” He pressed his lips together on a thin line, but couldn’t hold back whatever was bubbling inside. “I’m not losing another sibling, Lo’ak!”

Only a small gasp escaped Lo’ak when he opened his mouth in retaliation. He couldn’t have found his voice even if he found something to say to that rawness in return, anyway. 

The gut-churning guilt doubled. 

“Hey… I—”

“Go,” Neteyam whispered, tilting his head together with the lone word. “Since you’re dying to help, help Kiri. She’s exhausted. I don’t think grandmother will refuse.”

“What about you?” And there he goes again. Wrong words. Neteyam was looking more closed-off than before. “I’m not accusing or anything—”

“I can’t go in there.”

“What?”

“I can’t,” Neteyam took a deep breath and loudly let it go, tail deflating, the arch of it depressing as hell for some reason. “I can’t look at her.”

Neteyam just gave a forlorn smile in return to Lo’ak’s heavily concerned looks demanding he continue but not knowing how to word it, his back looked weirdly lonely as he was tending to your significantly calmer ikran to join back the horde. 

Buried in negative thoughts all the way back and ignoring the pitiful looks from the rest of the clan, he met Kiri outside of the healing tent talking to Spider, and he could see Tuk’s back covering the view to you in his peripheral.

They were whispering about something and it was obvious even from a distance where they were nothing but stick figures. At least try to look less suspicious, Lo’ak thought. 

The only part he caught from the conversation was Spider saying, “Just describe them to me,” — Kiri was really leaning in towards him. 

“What’s going on?” 

The two looked like they were caught in the middle of scheming, and it clicked almost immediately. 

If Lo’ak had thought of going off on his own, so had they. 

“You aren’t going anywhere, bro,” he said, draping his arm across the human boy’s shoulders. “Neteyam’s literally patrolling.”

“You have to be kidding me,” Spider groaned, visibly disappointed. It warmed Lo’ak’s heart to see he was totally down for sneaking off the camp for you. “You said your dad told him to rest.”

“Yeah, he did. Except Neteyam never rests. He has a dancing glow worm up his ass.”

The conversation couldn’t continue because Kiri did a double take at something. 

“Tuk!” Kiri took a few steps aside, squinting as if she didn’t think she was seeing it right. Then her expression burst into panic, her hands flying forward as she ran to the tent, Spider and Lo’ak could only stare, baffled. “Tuk, oh Eywa, what are you doing!—” 

“I’m giving her water, she’s thirsty.”

“What?”

He actually rushed to the entrance of the tent, nearly falling headfirst in, having stumbled on some rock. Your mouth was actually open. And Tuk was really trying to get you to drink from the bowl she was holding against your mouth.

You choked at one point, still unconscious, but it was a sign of life. Lo’ak didn’t know if the shocked screech came from him or Kiri.  

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[wickjump]

thinking about how cross, being in the royal guard aka xtale military, would be infinitely more competent in most battle compared to anyone else on NM’s team. killer would get stabbed and try to take out the weapon and cross would yell at him like “NO?? DO YOU WANT TO BLEED OUT??” they’d get stranded in whatever place—forest, desert, arctic, and cross would know how to survive much better than the others. cross would know INCREDIBLE first aid!!!!!

cross would know how to tell when someone has a concealed weapon or recognize battle tactics and adjust how he reacts accordingly. he would know military things and it would surprise everyone time and time again because the mtt are just. murderers with no experience. no training, nothing. and cross is the only one who has a resume.

what cross isn’t good at is strategizing. he never had to do that in the military, he was a soldier and a guard but not a strategist. which i also want to see more. he follows orders and knows how to survive so he can get back and follow more, but he’s incompetent when it comes to planning. i like cross sans

[owlcomics101]

“Dog trouble.” task force 141 x fox hybrid!Reader

Warnings: bit of blood, animal violence, mentions of animal abuse/hunting (I do NOT condone), SFW (I am a minor), wholesome fox cuddles, reader is an Arctic fox hybrid

Please read the head cannons first

You are an arctic fox hybrid. You have the fluffy fox ears, tail, feet paws, and fangs. Gaz was taking you on your morning walk when the two of you walked by some military dogs who gave you the stink eye. Usually military dogs would never attack unless instructed by their handler otherwise, but these weren’t the properly trained and experienced military dogs. They were new and haven’t even seen the field of battle yet. Of course when they saw you strutting in front of Gaz with your tail up and proud as Gaz couldn’t help but snicker. The dog’s instincts kicked in. “Bullet no!-“ The handler whistles for one of the dogs to sit still but bullet wouldn’t listen. The dog had its eyes and soon its fangs on you. Bullet immediately sprinted towards you. The handler tried grabbing a hold of the dog, but Bullet was too fast for his handler to grab a hold of his harness. Instinctively Gaz grabbed and picked you up immediately and out of reach of the blood thirsty canine. “Get your god Damm dog here!” Gaz shouted. Bullet jumped on Gaz, trying to bite your tail but instead bit Gaz’s wrist, causing him to drop you. You fall to the ground with a thud as bullet jumps off of Gaz and chases after you.

“Shit-Y/N!” Gaz scrambles to his feet. Your ears perk up at the dog’s footsteps and you snarled. Your tail and ears puffing up to try and make yourself look big and intimidating to the mutt but Bullet could smell your fear. You never thought in a million years you would ever have to worry about a snot-nose dog in your face trying to hunt you down like back in the tundra. Your mind could not forget all the pain and trauma those dogs brought you. You have the bite marks and scratches to remember each hit well. These dogs could never compare to the real predators you would face like wolves. At least wolves were only hunting you for food and survival, these domesticated mutts were only hunting you for their master’s approval. Bullet lunged at you as you quickly slipped away, running down the block with the mutt right at your tail. Soap was just leaving the mess hall when he saw you outside being chased.

“God pumpin' dammit! Y/N!” Soap bolted out from the mess hall and after you and bullet. He wasn’t going to let the mutt lay a single fang on you, not if he had anything to say about it. Gaz was running after you as well. Clutching his bleeding arm from Bullet’s bite to stop the bleeding. Soap looked over to Gaz and quickly stopped him.

“Go get some help Gaz! I'll handle this!" Gaz was hesitant on leaving you. It was his fault, at least he think it’s his fault. He should’ve known the dogs would be out at this time. He should’ve taken you out earlier or maybe skipped the walk all together.

“No Soap-“ Gaz tried to protest but Soap was already gone along with you and Bullet around the corner. You kept running and slipping under passing soldiers left to right as bullet chased you. Soap swearing and shoving everyone out of his way to reach to you. Soap shoved past Ghost who was walking by. Ghost’s brows furrowed as he was shoved.

“Johny what the bloody hell!?” Ghost snapped as he grabbed Soap’s wrist tightly, the day has just begun and Soap was already on his nerves. Soap quickly tried to jerk away from Ghost in a panic.

“Let go! It’s Y/N-Their-“ Soap was cut off by a shriek and it wasn’t Bullet. Soap’s skin went pale when he heard it again. Ghost’s eyes widen as his breath hitched in his throat. You were shrieking and snapping as Bullet bit onto your leg and shook you around like some kind of messed up chew toy. You tried thrashing and biting your way out of the dog’s grasp but bullet wasn’t budging—its jaws clamped shut around your ankle like a bear trap. You could feel the fangs digging into your flesh and tissue, blood seeping and dripping out like a stream as it filled the dog’s mouth. All the blood and struggling around just made the dog tighten its grip and bit into you more. You felt like you were trapped in the snare again, dangling and running around in circles as the noose grew tight. Soap saved you then but where was he now? Just then the dog let out a yelp and let go of you as it was shoved to the ground by Ghost. Soap immediately scooped you up in his arms.

“I’m here, I’m here! I got you.” Soap reassured you as he held you close to his chest. Stroking your back and giving you kissing on the forehead. You couldn’t help but watch Ghost deal with the dog. Ghost grabbed bullet by the harness and held him back for the handler to go get their Damm dog back. Ghost saved you..

“What’s going on out here!?” Price snaps, Gaz following behind him with his wrist bandaged up and stained with blood. Price looked down at the dog and over to you, trembling in soap’s arms as blood trickles down your ankle and foot. To say Price was pissed, would be an understatement. He was livid! He walked over to you and inspected your leg. Soap still stroking your back and head to calm you down.

“Take them to the infirmary and get them looked after. After that I want them safe back in MY office!” Price ordered Soap as he quickly nodded and took you away. You look over Soap’s shoulder to see Price shouting at the handler along with Gaz, but Ghost…Ghost looked over to you. Watching Soap take you away to get cleaned and bandaged up. Maybe Ghost wasn’t so bad after all?

writer’s note: Maybe part 2? We’ll see how this does ^^

[tr4sh-jam]

you look better in black

Tw/An- English is not my first language so bare with me I'm sorry if some of the words don’t make sense also depending if I don't get lazy I will be making this into a series and if i do it will follow the book and shows dark theme meaning all the deaths coming forward will be in the book with a few expectations also i will be making a part two with the whole ep 8 by the end of tmr so don’t worry, one last thing y/n  does still have feelings for jace they both do but she wont show it like crazy

You never saw yourself being a queen or sitting on the iron throne. It seemed like it wasn't something you'd be suitable for. You thought that your brother would be horrendous at it. Knowing he was a creep and a drunk, the kingdom was bound to be doomed, if your mother Alicent went with her plan of making your brother Ageon the next king.

"Princess, your mother has called you and your siblings into her room." one of your maids spoke, making you snap out of your thoughts, "Isn't that nice," you say, knowing what your mother was going to bark at the four of you, hastily gather yourself, you sprint towards her chambers, as you open the door, your mother gestures for you to hurry and close the door.

"As the four of you know, Rhaenyra is arriving with her children. I want you all to be on your best behavior, especially since your father is at his worst as of right now," she stated

"You all don't understand the amount of danger we are in. Once Rahenyra sits on the throne, we're all at risk."

"Then we won't pose a threat to her; none of us truly wish to sit on the throne," you said, knowing she wouldn't listen to you. Instead, she screamed at the four of you until she told you all to get out.

"so much for trying to make this better," you mumbled to Aegon and Aemond as you walked through the halls

"Well, you know what would make things better," he said while smirking. You scoff knowing where this is going. He was genuinely disgusting you thought.

"Don't you have a wife and children to be taking care of?" you inquire while hearing Ameond snicker.

"I don't see why-" Ameond cuts him off and grabs your hand.

"Sister and I have some things to tend to. If you don't mind us brother, we'll be going," he says in a very annoyed tone

“He’s a fucking cunt, mother intends to make that thing king….a fucking horse would do better” you state angrily while walking to the courtyard with your brother.

 “Mother wouldn’t like it if she heard you say that” Ameond states jokingly. 

             ・． ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ † ━━━━━━━━━━━━━．・

You silently watch your brother spare with ser Cole until you feel a presence behind you.

Does your heart skip? Stop? You can't make out what it was, but you can’t move, the one person you never wanted to see after that night, the very night that made your brother lose his eye. 

You snap out of your thought once again at your brother's voice, “Nephews, have you come to train?” he says while smirking seeing that their smiles dropped after seeing ameond, it almost made you laugh.

“Don’t be harsh brother they just arrived treat them right,” you say with a teasing grin 

You all stop to look at the gates being opened, your eyes landing on Vaemond Velaryon. This was going to be something you thought after seeing Lucery’s face.

“This will be fun” your brother voiced out

You turn to face him and say “Seems so….”

              ・． ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ † ━━━━━━━━━━━━━．・

You and your family gathered in the throne room, proudly wearing a Hightower green dress.

You felt a pair of eyes on yourself, it was Jace, you wouldn't lie and say he hasn't gotten more attractive over the years, but you felt like the eye contact you both held lasted for hours until your brother made you snap out of it 

“Who do you think will win?” he questioned 

“Isn’t it obvious?” you said turning your body away from him

          ・． ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ † ━━━━━━━━━━━━━．・

“Though it is the great hope of this court that lord Corlys Velaryon survives his wounds, we gather here with a gripping task of dealing with the succession of  Driftmark” he announced. “As the hand, I speak with King’s voice” you held back an eye roll as he sat down on the throne. “The crown will now hear the petitions. Ser Vaemond of House Velaryon”

“My queen.” he greeted your mother by nodding his head. “My Lord Hand.” he turned to otto. “We all know the history of our noble houses extends beyond the seven kingdoms to the days of old Valyria. For as long as house Targaryen ruled the skies, House Velaryon has ruled the seas. When the Doom fell on Valyria, our houses became the last of their kind. Our four bearers came to this new land, knowing that were they to fail it would mean the end to their bloodline and to their name”

You couldn’t help but yawn, turning to Amend. “Didn’t think we’d be getting a history lesson on something we already knew about instead of an appeal” you voiced, the boy simply smiling at her words.

He continued to go on about being the only one with true Velayron blood. “I am Lord Corlys's closest kin, his own blood. The true, unimpeachable blood of House Velaryon runs through my veins.”

You turn your attention to Aemond “if he truly cared about blood we wouldn’t be here….unless he thinks of Luke and Jace as bastards.” you voiced out with a cheeky grin.

“As which he does dear sister..this won’t end well,” he says while smiling at you.

Your mother turns to the both of you and gives you a glare making the both of you shut up.

“As it does in my sons, the offspring of Laenor Velaryon.” Rhaenyra butted in, but Vaemond didn’t turn around and face her, he stared blankly at the wall listening to her words. “If you cared so much about your house’s blood, Ser Vaemond, you would not be as bold to supplant the rightful heir. No, you only speak for yourself and your own ambitions.”

“You will have your chance to make your own petition, Princess Rhaenyra. Do Ser Vaenmond the courtesy of allowing his to be heard.” Vemaond turned to Rhaenyra with a smug grin on his face.

            ・． ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ † ━━━━━━━━━━━━━．・

After Vaemond finally finished his speech it was Rhaenyras turn as she spoke as the throne room doors opened.

“King Viserys of House Targaryen, the First of his name, King of the Andals, and the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the seven kingdoms, and protector of the realm.” Otto finally gets off the throne, being seemingly as shocked as everyone around him.

With his walking stick, he limped inside the hall, you and Helaena share looks of worry for your father as he walked past them, “this is sad” you mutter to Helaena, as you watch your father's crown fall and attempt to pick it up, only to be aided by his brother Daemon.

           ・． ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ † ━━━━━━━━━━━━━．・

“I will not let my house go to this…” vaemond started. You couldn’t help but smile, there goes someone's life you thought.

“Say it..” 

You couldn’t make out who said that but you knew they had the same idea as everyone in here, everyone knew what lord Vaemond was going to say even the king

“HER CHILDREN ARE BASTARDS” he yelled out

“AND SHE IS A….WHORE”

The king got up and pulled out his dagger “I will have your tongue for that”

Only as no one expected Daemon Targaryen rose, slicing through his skull like butter, starling everyone, out of instinct you covered your sister's eyes shielding her from the bloody view. “He can keep his tongue,” he said cooly

“What an interesting day” you murmured.

As though it couldn’t get more interesting the king announced you to be bothered to Jace and his brother to be bothered to Baela, “What the fuck” you whispered while looking over at Jace, he seemed not to have known.

             ・． ━━━━━━━━━━━━━ † ━━━━━━━━━━━━━．・

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[accuratepicuresofanthropologists]

Franz Boas

Franz Boas was not the father of American anthropology. But the fact that so many people think he was shows how thoroughly his relentless energy transformed the discipline as we know it today.

Boas around age four

Boas was born in Germany in 1858. He grew up in the shadow of events that happened a decade earlier: The famous ‘Revolutions of 1848’, when people across Europe demanded an end to imperialism, monarchy, and the poverty caused by the Industrial Revolution. Boas grew up in a household of “forty eighters”, and became deeply committed to the ideals of liberty and progress which drove the revolutions. As a young man, Boas received a rigorous education and spent most of his free time outdoors, exploring the natural world. Like his idol Alexander von Humboldt, Boas combined a romantic wonder at nature's rich diversity with a naturalist's love of science, rigor, and classification.

Boas was Jewish, but not because he wanted to be. His parents were wealthy merchants for whom 'progress' meant shedding the ancient superstitions of the past. He didn't have a choice: Germany had given Jews the right to vote and own property, but remained an antisemitic place. Boas was labeled a Jew by others. So he learned to be fearless: In college when he was insulted he demanded a duel. He and his opponent would don goggles to protect their eyes, and then use their sabers to try to slash open each others’ face. “With the damn Jew baiters this winter one could not survive without quarreling and fighting.” He wrote his worried parents, reassuring them. “I remain unmolested since every student here knows that I would not be shy to defend my affairs with the sword.” He was not exaggerating. "He bears the mark of his German university training literally," the Maori anthropologist Te Rangi Hiroa noted, "in a somewhat disfiguring scar across his face". Indeed, one of the first things people noted about Boas were his scars.

Although he was academically gifted, Boas ended up doing a Ph.D. in the unprepossessing university of Kiel. His sister Toni was ill and the Boas family was tight-knit: He went to go live with her. The result was a miserable experience writing a Ph.D. on the color of seawater. His main discovery was that it was incredibly hard to measure the color of sea water. Later on, when he studied how perception is shaped by culture, these insights would come to help him. At the time, he was miserable.

Then love struck: Boas fell head over heels for Marie Krackowizer, a German-American lady whose family of “Forty Eighters” had fled to the US. She loved him too, but they could not be married until he got a job. For that, Boas needed to “habilitate”, a level of education above a Ph.D. He decided on a trip to the arctic, where he would study the influence of geography on Inuit people. He paid for it by writing an account of his travels for a German newspaper, and with a gift of money from the man who would be his principle benefactor in years to come, his uncle Jacobi. His parents insisted that he take along the gardener, Willie, so that he wouldn't be alone.

Boas posing in a German photography studio for an image to share with people demonstrating what his life had been like in Baffinland.

Boas spent a year in Baffinland, an island in the far, far north of Canada. The trip was unbelievably dangerous: Ships had to dock at the edge of the ice and then people would walk across the ice to the island. In the winter it was -40 degrees. Luckily Boas was energetic, focused, and driven by huge energy. He was the sort of person who was disgusted at himself for only working 20 hour days. He did research during the day and read Kant at night. Above all, he came to see Inuit people as people. "The more I see of their customs, the more I realize that we have no right to look down on them," he wrote to Marie in a letter that was spattered with the blood of the raw seal liver he had been eating.

Boas's trip was a success. He habilitated and married his sweetheart Marie. Together they created a loving and warm family. Professional success eluded him, however. Antisemitism made it difficult for him to find a job in Germany, so he moved to the US, where Marie’s family was — there were more opportunities there and Franz was also attracted to America as a land where his political ideals of liberty and freedom were more realized than they were in Germany.

Franz and Marie's wedding portrait.

Unfortunately, Boas found that there were few good jobs for geographers in the US. What people were interested in was Native Americans. Back in 1879 (when Boas was still in school) anthropology as a modern discipline was born in the United States. The goal was to understand the 'natural history of mankind', which in the US meant the origins of Native Americans. Were had they come from and what were they like? Previous answers -- tenuously derived from the Bible -- were clearly inadequate in light of new theories of evolution.

So Boas retooled himself as an anthropologist. He made multiple trips to the Pacific Northwest, a region that he is most closely associated with today. Still, he struggled. He got a dream job as a professor at Clark, a brand new university — only to have the university close down after a few years. He organized anthropological exhibits at the World's Fair at Chicago, hoping it would lead to a permanent position, but it didn’t. It was a dark time for Boas. His third daughter, Hete, was born in Chicago, caught whooping cough, and died in his arms. She was ten months old. Finally, Boas took a job at the American Museum of Natural History in New York and started teaching part time at Columbia. Finally in 1899, at the age of forty, he got a permanent position: He was now a faculty member at Columbia.

"Boas with the George Hunt family. Left to right, standing: David, George, Lalaxs'a, Mary (Ebbetts), Jonathan and Franz Boas. Sitting: Marion and Lucy. From row: Mary and Stanley" from Franz Boas: An Illustrated Biography

At Columbia, Boas was cutting edge. At a time when Harvard and Yale were just beginning to update their medieval curriculums, he had a Ph.D., the new research-focused degree that had made German universities world famous. Boas made history by being the first person in the US to offer a Ph.D. His students included Ruth Benedict, Edward Sapir, Margaret Mead, Robert Lowie, Alfred Kroeber, and many others.

Boas was also a tireless organizer, sitting on boards of journals, foundations, and associations. These positions allowed him to control funding and direct it to students. He was also a close friend of the millionaire feminist and activist Elsie Clews Parsons, who herself funded an entire generation of anthropological fieldwork. Boas worked his students very, very hard but also showed them tremendous loyalty. Boas not only lent money to students in times of need, in one case he signed on as a guarantor of a student loan, agreeing to pay it if the student defaulted.

Boas around the time he began working at Columbia.

True to his principles, Boas believed in meritocracy: If you could do the work, that was all that mattered. As a result he trained a generation of female students at a time when many universities didn’t accept female students at all. He also had few illusions about how much a white person could learn spending their summers on a reservation. For him, the best anthropologist was an insider with scientific training. As a result, he mentored scholars like William Jones (a Fox Indian) and Zora Neale Hurston.

 “Elsie [Clews Parsons] and colleagues at. Lounsberry, mid-1920s. On the porch, Elsie (in shadow on left) talks with Pliny Goddard; on the steps are Margaret Mead, Esther Goldfrank, Franz Boas, and Mrs. Nelson”. Via Deacon’s Elsie Clews Parsons. This picture illustrates the close ties Boas had with his students.

In fact, Boas was an uncompromising opponent of racism. Famously, in May 1906, he traveled to Atlanta University at the invitation of W.E.B. Du Bois and gave a speech claiming black people were biologically equal to white people. This was not a small thing in the Jim Crow South. Four months later, 25 black people were killed in Atlanta in a riot against black people that turned into a massacre. Then in 1909 Boas and a team of twenty researchers made 13,000 measurements of the children of immigrants to see whether they inherited their parents’ ’racial’ features. To his own surprise, Boas found that they didn't -- height, weight, and other factors were the result of the environment, not heredity. His students did similar research. Margaret Mead wrote a paper demonstrating the black people in the Midwest (where there was a strong public school system) did better on standardized tests than poor southern whites: schooling, not race, seemed to determine intelligence. Southern politicians repressed the study.

Boas’s relationship with indigenous people was more complicated. He was not a champion for Indigenous rights. He considered Native Americans conquered by the US and on the verge of cultural and biological extinction. His goal was 'salvage': to make a record of a disappearing culture the same way we have a record of Ancient Greece and Rome. He worked with many indigenous informants like George Hunt, who he paid to write letters detailing their customs. This relationship remains an object of scrutiny today: Did Boas exploit Hunt? Was Hunt Boas’s teacher and mentor? How much should someone be paid to write descriptions of salmon fishing in 1900 anyway?

Whatever we think of Boas’s relationship with Indigenous people today, at Columbia no one thought Boas was a friend to white people. He was considered a dangerous radical who had to be canceled. Not only did Boas attack the racial foundations of America, but when the US entered World War I, Boas was became a public enemy for opposing the war. Remember, this was a time when people where lynched for being German in the US. Columbia stopped paying him. They kept him from teaching undergraduates. They took space away from the department, leaving him with just his office. Boas was, essentially, canceled by the right.

What’s more, Boas's life was beset by personal tragedy. In addition to the death of his ten month old daughter in 1894, in 1924 his daughter Trudel died of polio. In 1925 his son Heini was killed in a car accident. Then in 1929 his wide died in a hit and run accident - the driver who hit her was never found. Boas's misery was palpable even before Marie's death. In 1927 he wrote to his son Ernst:

"I have not the light spirit of others and when I do not work, or else am intensely occupied with something else I can think of nothing but Trudel and Heini. They are there when I get up in the morning and when I stop work at night they are there… If I do not work these thoughts would destroy me." [L-Z v2 275]

Franz Boas featured on the cover of the 11 May 1936 cover of Time Magazine. In his old age, Boas's fight against racism became popular in America again as the US prepared to fascism in Europe.

Late in life Boas received the recognition he deserved, becoming a world-renowned scientist. In America, his anti-racist thinking became more and more recognized as America geared up to fight fascism. In Germany, an event was scheduled to give him an honorary degree. The degree was canceled and his books were pulled from the library and burnt by the Nazis. His last great work of activism was to help Jewish and leftist scholars flee the Nazis and get visas to come teach in America.

When Boas retired, he handed Columbia a gift: despite its attempts to derail him, he had created perhaps the greatest department of anthropology in the United States. And yet here failure dogged him. He had hoped his students Alfred Kroeber and Edward Sapir would come to Columbia to continue his work. Instead they stayed at Berkeley and Yale. His successor became Ruth Benedict, but she was then pushed aside by the administration and replaced by first Ralph Linton and then Duncan Strong.

Boas suffered many setbacks in his life, but he also overcame many obstacles. He lived an extraordinary life: Born before the Civil War, he lived to see the Pearl Harbor bombings. He trained the anthropologists who went on to start departments at Yale, Berkeley, Oregon, and many other places. He produced his famous “six foot shelf” — enough books on Kwakwakwakw that is longer than I was tall. After his death, his grandchildren and George Hunt’s grandchildren had a family reunion, and Hunt’s great grandchildren study anthropology in University. Despite his incredible age, Boas did not live to see just how influential he would become. Although he did not know it at the time, he became one of the few people Boas did not quite Although he may not have recognized or admitted it, he had in fact become one of the most important anthropologists in the world, and left an indelible imprint on the discipline for generations to come.

Sources: This was drawn from Rosemary Lévy-Zumwalt's two volume biography of Boas. The quote from . The reference to 1879 as the 'founding' date of anthropology comes from https://www.jstor.org/stable/658142?seq=1 . The Te Rangi Hiroa quote is from Na to Hoa Aroha volume 3. The blood stained letter is from George Stocking's "From physics to ethnology", p. 148

[muzzlemouths]

Prompt: Hypothermic

Moon centric // Wordcount: 2407

You can recall the exact decisions that brought you to this point.

It started with a favor. Your coworker had a family emergency and needed to be out of there ASAP, but with an hour left to their shift, and no reason to expect that the company would honor the need behind their sudden departure, they were left with no other choice but to drop the remaining duties onto someone else.

You had generously offered to take on said responsibilities - after all, you had only just clocked out, and the required tasks could be done in a cinch. Off the clock, of course, so management wasn’t on your ass about overtime.

That was mistake number one.

Your second mistake came in the form of a locked door and pure, unadulterated stupidity.

The assignment had been simple; locate the walk-in freezer, find a spare bag of ice, and bring it to the food court. Easy. It was your last task of the night and there was absolutely, positively, no way you could fuck it up.

That brings you back to the here and now, where you stand blank-faced behind a solid, steel door, locked up tight from the outside, with no way out in sight.

You hadn’t bothered to prop the door open. In your defense, you didn’t think that was ever something you would need to even consider. Why bother installing a door - a door to a room that had the potential to make fucking employee-popsicles - that for some forsaken reason locked from the outside?

But this was Fazco. you were talking about. The number of poor design choices ranging from infrastructure to animatronic virus protection was so grand it exceeded the fingers on both hands. Of course they would design a freezer that turned into a deathtrap. Why make things easy for you? When have they ever!

Rant aside, you were in some serious trouble.

Your fists, pink and tender, ached with the force at which you beat them against the door and shook at the handle, your fingers having already gone numb, and trembling for another reason entirely.

Did you know most industrial freezers are kept at 0 Fahrenheit? That’s -17 Celsius. Thirty-two degrees under what is required to make snow.

You don’t have a jacket. Hell, you don’t even have long sleeves. You’re wearing the company uniform - a crew neck, polyester - and some old jeans. The forecast called for a steady breeze, not the fucking arctic plains.

Panicking won’t do you any good. You tell yourself this, mumbling it between chattering teeth, like a mantra, long after you’ve already given panic a fair shot. The panic came first from the very moment you realized you were trapped, only increasing when a failed attempt to call for help revealed that service wasn’t available in the deep freeze. Now it was time to be cool headed (pun intended), or you faced a near zero chance of escaping with your life.

Funny. You had always assumed, in the back of your mind, that your final breaths would be taken by this stupid company. But certainly not like this. Not by becoming freezer food.

No, think! You can’t afford to dawdle, not now, when the clock is already tick-tick-ticking away. You pace in circles, taking up the entirety of the 6'x 6' space, until remembering that movement increased blood-flow to your extremities and that warmth wasn’t coming back. So you sit, instead, regardless of how cold the floor is against your ass, and you put all of your remaining energy (what’s left of it, dwindling by the minute) into figuring out a proper plan.

You don’t have any medical knowledge beyond the first-aid training the pizzeria requires upon hiring, but you do have a handful of useless history knowledge - useless until today, that is. You pour over any detail from the books that might save you here and then recall a horrifying piece of trivia from your brief obsession with the Titanic; survivors had been cast into water that was 28 degrees, with the longest average of survival being forty-five minutes, and the shortest being only fifteen.

You sat in air twenty-eight degrees cooler. The clock in your phone tells you that five minutes have already passed. There is no life boat coming to your rescue.

Okay, so that information doesn’t exactly help your situation. If anything, it only rouses your panic into its second stage, and it takes everything to keep yourself from adding hyperventilation to your list of worries.

Speaking of symptoms, you were feeling your fair share of those already.

Shivering, obviously, pale fingers and exhaustion to name a few more, shallow breath, to boot, but that may be the panic. Though you try and try again to press your fingers to your wrist you come back short every time, your heart is screaming but your pulse is practically nonexistent, a bad sign to say the least.

You haven’t felt the urge to rip your clothes off, yet. You have that going for you if nothing else.

Another minute passes. Six in total. You find yourself leaning against the icy door despite the chill it brings to your already cold skin, if only from a lack of energy to keep yourself upright any longer. The breath forming in front of you feels like the warmest part of yourself right now, and slowly, doubtlessly, you feel yourself waning. Growing slow. Growing stiff.

You again try your phone, its 26% battery staring back at you uselessly. The call doesn’t go through, and neither do the texts. The back of your hand slams against metal in a another futile attempt to gain the attention of someone, anyone, who might be passing by. Again, and again, and again. Nothing. Your knuckles come back bloody and raw.

Something coils in your chest - terror and nausea all at once - it’s let out as a scream that echoes against the walls of this closed-in room and does not escape beyond it. You clocked out half an hour ago, the pizzeria having already closed before then. As far as your fellow coworkers are concerned you had already long since headed home. There stood no reason to check the kitchens or question your absence at all.

You are going to die here.

The thought doesn’t alarm you as much as it should. That realization in itself, however, does send some fickle wave of concern through your nerves, though there’s little energy remaining to do anything about it. Eight minutes have now passed since the door locked behind you. Thoughts come slow if at all, and your cries for help - slurring, now, you laxly notice - eventually fall silent.

Your hands run once over the goosebumps in a last ditch attempt to find some heat and you now realize, with a faint and humorless laugh, that even your shivering has come to a stop. A bad sign. The worst yet. Your world begins to fade one shadowy star before your eyes at a time.

Then comes the tapping. Nails on metal. Deliriously, you stare down at your own hands to see if you’re the one doing it, only to find them still wound tight around your elbows. The curious sound repeats, and then the door–

It opens.

Your body, still tucked in on itself, drifts forward all together with the weight of the metal as it’s drawn wide. And who enters next and stares down at you other than the man of the hour himself. Moon fucking drop. You’ve never been happier to see him.

At the same time, you think you’d rather take freezing to death.

“Breaks aren’t extended by hiding in freezers,” he says with a sneer, but it’s cut short, the smile wiped right off his stupid little face, and for a moment you swear you see his eyes change. Maybe it’s the delirium, but you see blue. For the very first time you see blue. And then he blinks, and the red returns, and he’s bending at the waist and shoving a cold hand against your forehead. “Bad.” Is all he says, whispered still. You don’t try to stop your laughter.

“Y-Yeah,” a cough escapes you, dry and heaving, “‘s real bad. C’n you help meyup?” You can’t believe the jumbled words even as they escape your dry, paling lips. Never before have you asked him for help, and hopefully, the occasion would be a first and a last. You expect nothing but mockery from him at the show of vulnerability.

Yet he bends ever further, bypassing your weakly extended hand all together in favor of gathering you into his arms. It’s awkward, at first, a hasty grab under your armpits that would have you squirming were it not for the cold stiffness in your limbs, and you hate to admit it, but the way he cradles you after - one hand tucked under your backside and the other pressed flat to your shoulders - it makes you relent. Your head falls against his shoulder with an effortless thud, and your arms wrap around him, feeling secure as they do so, the only thing on your mind being how warm he feels in that moment.

Before your eyes can fall shut completely you see him heading for the front entrance, and the confusion that realization carries with it stirs you from the seven layers of brain fog only enough to question him, “Wh’r we going?”

“Management,” the word is hissed, said flat, “hospital.”

“Wh’t?” That, if nothing else, brings you back to full attention. As much of it as the fog can spare, anyway. “Put me d’wn, ‘m fine,” you wade through layers of breaching unconsciousness to get the words out, and clearly, he doesn’t buy it, not even slowing to them, “Moon, don’t,” you try more insistently, “Please, I c’nt afford it. ‘ll be f-fine.”

This time, he slows to a stop, staring down at you with uncertainty. “Bad.” He repeats again, “Too cold.” The hand at your back raises to press sweetly against your forehead once more, “Hypothermic.”

His eyes scan the room, flickering back and forth before settling on a stream of light in the distance, and you watch him consider.

“No,” you coerce your head into shaking, the weight of it feeling like a slab of concrete on your neck, “n’t Sun either, he’ll j’st freak out.” Sluggishly, your head lifts to a point where you can kind of see his face, “I just need’a blanket, tha’s all.” Then, with a smile (albeit forced, and obvious about it), you add some cheek, “you’re good a’ blanket stuff, right, starboy?”

The way he stiffens around you signals your success. If nothing else, taking advantage of his attitude and making it conductive to your own needs remains one of your finest skills, and a habit you would milk until it inevitably came back to bite - or perhaps in Moon’s case - kill you. Today, however, he appears willing to cave, acting as if he’s truly worried about you. And maybe he is. But that was a question to pick apart another day.

For now, he seems fit to listen to your pleas, and you’re swept off to the daycare, instead.

It’s engulfed in darkness upon entering, as to be expected. Moon’s eyes cast an eerie red glow as he carries you further into the room. Bracing you firmly against him, he crouches by a chest of blankets and begins to pull one out, only to abandon the effort and instead take hold of the trunk’s side handle, dragging the heavy thing all the way to a corner fitted with bean bags and a crate of stuffed animals.

It’s here where he settles with you still in his arms, falling into a particularly large bean bag with a loud and tired sigh, and soon after reaching in for the chest again and drawing the cover away. While one hand stays snug around your waist, the other brings a patchwork blanket over your body, tucking it against your neck and shoulders, then he dives back in for a second blanket, and then a third, thoroughly nesting you beneath each one.

There’s little else for him to do here. He isn’t a doctor, he has no tools, no methods of getting heat into your body at a speed that’s more appropriate, so he goes about it the old fashioned way.

His other arm dips beneath the covers and together, both hands sooth over your exposed skin, drawing natural heat to the surface with careful, measured touches that feel like hellfire on your skin, but only briefly.

At one point he tugs at the hem of your shirt, and you smile into his chest, still somewhat loopy, “You aren’t gett’ng it off,” you tell him, all but mumbling, “I d’nt care how much it might help.”

“Cheeky,” comes his swift reply, “Just checking.”

“F’r what?”

“That they aren’t wet,” he says, “I don’t know how long you were trapped.”

“Mm,” your eyes fall shut again, “too long,” you say, “but ‘s fine now.”

He makes a noise in the back of his throat, muttering something that you don’t quite catch. Before you can bring it up, however, his hands distracted you, moving down your spine in soothing circles and then dipping kindly beneath your shirt, his palm flattening against the bare small of your back. “You should be more careful,” he says.

Your head lolls to the side, making an effort to look up at him once more, and you smile with a tease, “What, were you worried ab’t me?”

“Yes.”

Oh. The sass dies on your tongue.

When you smile again, this time, it’s something genuine, “Good thing you came to my rescue, then.” your eyes flutter closed, the weight of them too much to bear, “m g’nna take a little nap, okay?”

In the morning you’ll realize. Your words will come back to haunt you, and your willingness to let your guard down with him won’t go unnoticed. But tonight, you are content to stay just like this. Moon tucks his chin over your head and holds you in a way that makes you feel safe, nestled between three layers of blanket and a chest that plays you lullabies.

“You’re drinking some tea when you wake up,” he chides - but it’s soft, a whisper against your ear, followed by an exhale, you feel him smile against your head. “Nighty night,” he lulls.

Your heart beats warmly against his chest.

[favouritefi]

What about Crozier adopting (?) Jopson as his first cat boy? You mentioned he thought it was weird to have a human-adjacent sleep on the floor, so he's not used to cat/dogboys?

crozier is irish and ireland doesnt have the same system of institutionalized cat/dogboy adoption that england does. honestly very few parts of the world do and the places that do have it were likely influenced by british imperialism. crozier didnt grow up with cat/dogboy companions and he didnt get invited to parties where officers brought their cat/dogboy companions along until well into adulthood. crozier's worked with cat/dogboys because he's been in the navy for most of his life, but being on watch with one is very different from living with one for the rest of your (now shared) lives. the intimate domesticity between a human officer and his cat/dogboy was not something he was prepared for. ive joked before that crozier missed the "mandatory catboy naval training session" but even if that was a thing he wouldve skipped it. he never bothered to learn the proper customs and behaviours between a human officer and his catboy because he never wanted a catboy and a part of him hoped he could somehow convince the admiralty to grant him an exception, but then jopson shows up and hes lovely and perfect and greatly improves croziers life by simply being in it. jopson is the reason why crozier stopped drinking in his 30s and why he retired from the navy after returning to england and why he wanted to live - to survive the arctic and return home with jopson. their relationship in this au is literally this meme:

[archive245]

no thoughts empty head only the horsemens as a boyband

- will def gives drummer, said drums are prob white and red covered in random stickers

- michael def bassist and main vocals, guitar is def red

- kai keyboardist and vocals, keeps both keyboard and mic clean and minimalist, his in ears prob have a cross on them or something

- damon is like electric guitar, black definitely black, like a glossy black tho

- damons the type to have messy black eyeliner and a leather jacket yk the bad boy

- kais signature piece of jewelry are rings, wills is chains and necklaces

- very chase atlantic and arctic monkeys vibes

- kai never or barely uses social media, has like 20 posts at max and only posts band activities

- WILL ON THE OTHER HAND SPAMS POSTS LIKE HIS LIFR DEPENDS ON IT, funny picture of damon and michael? posted. rehearsal? posted. dinner at a local diner? posted? sexy selfie? posted. this man probably has like over 1000 posts

random scenario: fan throws bra on stage

michael: picks it up and while smirking say something suggestive

kai: doesnt say anything just see its smirks moves on

damon: like michael says something dirty and hangs the bra on his guitar

will: puts the bra on and does the rest of the performance with it on

- they all write and produce, but its a spectrum how quickly they brainstorm

- michael takes a average week to think of an idea for a beat and lyrics, damon and will randomly gets random creative brusts, kai consistently gets ideas but at random intervals

- designated spots on tour busses

- will is stage presence even tho hes near the back bc yk drums he has the ability to get the crowds attention, winks, flirts, blows kisses, the whole package

- damon tends to wonder the stage never ending on the same place he started when the songs over, walking closer to the crowd to flirt with them or walking back to flirt with the others ( will specifically)

- OR he tends to be very cold and intimidating not very flirty or interactive with every one, yet has a very strong aura that just catches ur attention

- kai pours his whole soul into singing, and even tho hes a sub vocals he tends have the most lines

- hes very tame when it comes to interacting with the crowd, like yes he will wink at them or flirt with them, but he isnt on the verge of making out with one of the fans like damon or will are. but eye contact

- michael is the one who throws water on the fans, the “are you ready??” and “lets go”. the fan hyper yk the one who makes the concert more fun

another random scenario: getting mobbed by paparazzi

michael: pissed and it shows on his face

kai: tries his best to be polite but about to smash the cameras

damon: decks them in the face (causes the group lots of criticism)

will: ditches the group and runs in the other direction

- it was was will idea to start the band, kai was coerced bc he was the only one who knew how to play an instrument (piano) at the time. and damon and michael joined to piss off their dads

- during interviews will has no media training and says random stuff, kai tries to damage control it like “haha no hes joking”

- michael survives off monster, on or off tour. kai prefers coffee, will red bull and damon water :D but he smokes a shit ton of cigarettes so it cancels out

- damon blatenly post spoilers on his socials, kai acc does this as well but not as obvious

- they have a tradition to have comebacks (I DONT KNOW THE NORMAL TERM FOR THIS I ONLY KNOW THE KPOP TERM I AM SORRY) on october 30

- lets be honest they all hook up with fans

[tomwambsmilk]

Welcome to the Succession Cannibalism Poll!! (aka the Succibal Face-Off)

One week ago, a private jet set out carrying 31 people and one dog, all travelling together for unclear reasons. The pilot attempted to take a shortcut through arctic airspace, but unforeseen turbulence forced the plane down. All 31 passengers + 1 dog survived, but the cabin crew were all killed in the crash.

Food supplies were slim, and dwindling. Finally, they made the difficult decision to eat one of the cabin crew, a flight attendant by the name of Andrew Dodds, who had drowned in a small puddle of water when the plane went down, and whose body was perfectly preserved by cold. They reasoned that help was on the way, and after all, Dodds wouldn't be needing his body anymore. It was a temporary measure, to get everyone out alive, they told themselves...

.... But in actuality, it was only the beginning.

32 Succession characters are trapped in the arctic, and the only food remaining is each other. Who will be the last one standing when (if?) the rescue team arrives? Who has the physical grit, the strength of will, and dubious morals required to eat their companions and make it through to the end? That part's up to you!

The rules:

there are 16 polls in round one. Each will go live at the same time (provided the queue system works properly) at 11:15pm EST, and be live for 24 hours

Don't just vote for your favourite! Remember, this is about who in a given pairing would actually be able to eat who

In the event of a tie, super-secret tie rules are unlocked. We'll cross that bridge when we get to it

Feel free to add more detail in the notes! Was it a tough struggle or did one give in quickly? Did someone sacrifice themselves, or did they get stabbed in the back? Did they gut hunted down? Did they run? Did someone cry?

Consider reblogging to increase the reach of the polls!

Masterlist of Round 1 polls under the cut (with links, once they go live). Good luck, and happy hunting!

Sandy Furness vs. Karolina Novotney

Lawrence Yee vs. Connor Roy

Nate Sofrelli vs. Colin

Frank Vernon vs. Rhea Jarrell

Jeryd Mencken vs. Willa Ferreyra

Roman Roy vs. Tabitha

Greg Hirsch vs. Jess Jordan

Mondale Wambsgans vs. Stewy Hosseini

Caroline Collingwood vs. Gerri Kellman

Kerry vs. Logan Roy

Siobhan Roy vs. Gil Eavis

Cyd Peach vs. Hugo Baker

Ewan Roy vs. Naomi Pierce

Karl Muller vs. Kendall Roy

Brian from Management Training vs. Tom Wambsgans

Marcia Roy vs. Rava Roy

[tricos-here]

🖋 × faryen 😳?

ahem. info dumps you about her family

-her mother, Jodis, used to be a pirate that primarily operated in the Far Shiverpeaks and the Janthir Bay, taking after her father. She’d already been trained as a Shaman of Wolf like her own mother, which she used to empower her crew - she returned to Hoelbrak when her mother fell ill and took over her responsibilities as a Wolf Havroun. She’s taught the kids (Faryen, Aelfsi, Rafe, Revna) about everything and anything, from sailing to stalking prey on land, how to use a bow and arrow as well and make them, how to make improvised weapons from the land and survive in the harsh climate of the Shivepeaks and so on

-her father, Einar, is a fisherman and a hunter, comes and goes from Hoelbrak, venturing out as far as the Bitterfrost Frontier, often accompanied by his own mother who’s a seasoned hunter. Though he’s bought into the ideology of Wolf after meeting Jodis, he’s mainly a follower of Bear. He’s likewise taught the kids a lot, like fishing and hunting, but with his profession and taking care of his mother who’s stubbornly continuing to live out in Frostgorge, he’s absent a lot

-Faryen and Aelfsi were born on 1308AE only minutes apart, despite their differences in personality they were inseparable growing up, until Fary left Hoelbrak with Eir in 1325AE, something Aelf is still salty about because she stayed behind to become Wolfborn alongside Rafe

Aelfsi is a ranger, she has a pet wolf and raven, named Hallie and Arne respectively, Hallie she adopted and raised as a cub from one of the many Wolf shrines they’d visit with their mother, and y she found injured in Borealis Forest once, which she mended back to health and have been inseparable since

-Rafe was found at the age of 10 (in 1313 AE) by their father, wandering around the Shiverpeaks by himself after his home was ransacked and his parents killed by the Svanir. With no other known family he was taken in and he readily picked up the role of the older brother to the girls. At some point he fell in with Skarti and Sigfast, joining the Wolfborn and would later vouch for his Aelf and Revna to join as well.

Before Fary left around 1325AE after gaining the title of Slayer of Issomir, he argued with her about staying in Hoelbrak and to not split up the pack, gifting her an arctic fox kit and alpine wolf cub in an attempt to convince her, but she flipped the argument on him and how they should join her instead, rather than sit around waiting for some prophesized hero to crack the Tooth of Jormag. Neither Rafe nor Aelfsi joined her though

- Revna was born in 1315AE, she was a timid girl growing up, preferring to stick close to their mother and observing the various rituals she’d perform as a Havroun. All three, Fary, Aelf and Rafe did pick up the mantle of the older siblings and would teach her anything they could, taking her out to hunting parties and moots etc. She’d join the Wolfborn too, fighting as a ranger though instead of utilizing any pets in combat she’d instead channel animal spirits

[prince-rowan-of-the-forest]

Arctic Wolf (1/2)

Virgil had never really thought that he would end up in the Hunger Games.

When he does, he never thought he would come out of it alive.

----

| Ao3 | Next ->

| Art of Virgil |

----

!! Rated Mature for graphic deptictions of violence !!

Warnings: Death, Government mandated murder, Weapons, Virgil is an orphan street rat and 14 (just stating incase that bothers people), Talk about potential starvation, dehydration and animal attacks, General anxiety.

Pairings: none

Word Count: 3511

Notes:

HELLO!!

So excited to be posting the first part of this fic!! I've been working on it for a little while. I absolutely love this au I've made with @sleepy-nova-tea - it's so awesome :3

----

Virgil had never really thought that he would end up in the Hunger Games. 

It’s not like he thought he was immune or above anyone or anything, but he was young - only fourteen - and his name was only in the reaping four times. With no family to provide for, he only needed the tesserae offered for himself, he was in a good position not to be picked when he knew there were others who had their names in forty-odd times. 

That’s why he thought it was just a little bit unfair when they called out his name. 

No-one volunteered, of course, he didn’t expect them to - why would they? It was a death sentence. All he got were a few sympathetic looks from the people in the crowd who knew him. 

At least there was no-one here who would really remember him. 

An orphan with no family or friends to speak of - a few people who could afford to give him food every so often knew who he was, but aside from that… Well. He was glad it was him if the alternative was someone who would leave people behind. 

—-

The female tribute from his district was someone he didn’t know, nor was she someone he was interested in knowing. He was going to be dead soon anyway, it didn’t matter if they made friends, in fact, it would only hurt more if they were. 

Their stay in the Capitol went too quickly and too slowly all at once. Living like kings before they would be sent to the slaughter. It was backhanded and cruel in Virgil’s mind, showing him everything he had ever wanted back home - a warm bed, plentiful food, clean clothes - for such a short time before shoving him into whatever cruel arena they had thought up this year. 

Training was difficult, it gave him a chance to see how the other tribute’s skills compared to his (every single one beating him out by a landslide). There was no way he would be winning this game through combat that was for sure. He saw the girl from two throw a spear with accuracy he couldn’t imagine, he saw the boy from four throwing knives. Everyone seemed to be prioritising combat. Virgil knew he would never win that way, which meant he would have to focus on something else. 

So, Virgil spent all his days training working on survival skills. Learning how to build fires, find shelter, catch food and make natural remedies he could make in his time of need. A lot of the other tributes looked at him like he was dead meat, the first up on the chopping block,  he probably was. 

Virgil was weak, malnourished, spider limbed and quiet, he hadn’t touched a single weapon the entire time they were here and he never once talked to another tribute. What he had done was memorise the plants to look out for, looked for hints in the training exercise as to what the arena might entail so he could better prepare and he had made a point to ask the capitol staff running the training for help and tips - it wasn’t something he had seen anyone else doing aside from those looking to spar, he just hoped that maybe it would be helpful. 

He didn’t talk to anyone during lunch, he didn’t talk to anyone during training, and he certainly didn’t talk to anyone any other time. If he was going to win this game, his only chance was alone. Not that he thought he would, but hey, he may as well try. Besides, that was how he had been all his life. 

During his examination, Virgil showcased his knowledge of poisonous plants and insects. Sure, it wasn’t throwing knives or spears or anything showy or impressive, but it was all he got. 

In the end, he would be going in with a score of five, which, looking on the bright side, made him far less of a target for the careers than some of the higher scoring tributes.

—-

“Virgil Helio, from district eight!” Announced Caesar after his little introduction spiel that Virgil hadn’t paid attention too, and suddenly Virgil was being pushed forward onto the stage by a peacekeeper. He almost tripped over the long cloak his stylist had dressed him in as he climbed the stairs and took his seat. The crowd was cheering - so many people were sitting here, watching, they had come to see the tributes and Virgil could already feel himself freezing up as they went quiet. 

“-Seem a little nervous?”

Virgil only caught the tail end of that statement, but he could guess what Caeser was asking, “Uh- yeah, kinda,” he admitted, “Just- give me a second.”

Taking a deep breath in to steady himself, Virgil closed his eyes and let it out slowly, “Okay, I’m ready.”

Virgil answered the questions almost in a daze. He was asked about his time in district eight, how it felt to be the youngest tribute in the arena, his strengths and weaknesses. He answered them all as though from behind a wall - he heard his own voice like it was distant, that was the only way he felt he could keep it together for the whole interview. 

“So, you’re skilled in finding shelter and catching food,” Caesar said as Virgil finished answering the last question, “So what kind of arena are you hoping for?”

“Well - I guess something with forested areas? Trees are great shelter, and there’s more places to hide,” Virgil said, he didn’t want to reveal all of his plans, “I’m not a fighter.”

—-

It was cold. 

As Virgil rose up on that podium wind whipped his face, icy air ripping into his exposed cheeks. The clothes he had been given to wear into the area were thick and thermal and now he could see why. The entire arena was covered in a blanket of snow, not a single patch of grass to be seen as Virgil looked around. 

The countdown thrummed in his ears, the loud voice counting down making his heart race quicker with every number. A glance around the circle of tributes had Virgil realising that this was about to be a bloodbath. The careers looked downright bloodthirsty, half the others looked determined, one or two looked scared like him. One of the careers glanced in his direction and Virgil could already tell he was done for. 

The cornucopia would be a bloodbath, even if there were valuable supplies, there was no need for him to go for them if he was dead. What he did see as the timer ticked down to zero was a backpack and supplies not too far from his podium. If he could grab them and run into the pines behind him he would be set - well, that did depend on what was in the bag, but at least he wouldn’t be dead. 

With the sound of the gong ringing in his ears, Virgil sprinted. 

He was one of the first of the tributes off of their podiums, and he had snatched up the bag he had seen before any of them had even reached a weapon. Running for the treeline he also paused to grab what looked like a thermal blanket before darting back past the podiums and towards the tree line - tall pines covered in snow and ice just waiting to fall. He was just glad that the weather was looking clear for now. Who knew how quickly that would change. 

Just as he reached the treeline, Virgil heard what sounded like an arrow whistle past him and ducked to the side, the metal arrow thudded into a tree trunk, and Virgil glanced back before running over and yanking it back out. It wasn’t as good as a knife or a sword, but a weapon was a weapon, at least he had one. 

Finding a cave was easy. Finding a good cave was the hard part.

It turned out that the arena was covered in holes, there were nooks and crannies and places to hide everywhere. Half of them had animals in them - he could tell by nearby damaged branches and tousled shrubbery as well as tracks in the snow. Virgil was not taking his chances with a wolf or a lynx, let alone some kind of mutt. 

He wandered for what must have been at least a few hours, only coming across one other tribute in that time. Hissing at her seemed to have scared her off though, so Virgil had been safe enough for now.

As he walked he mentally mapped out the arena. The cornucopia had been in a clearing, trees on all sides. To the north he came across a huge basin. He’d spotted a few caves in the dipping terrain, but they weren’t worth it. There was no tree cover there and besides, he’d freeze to death before the next dawn. There was a frozen river further west, behind which seemed to be more clifflike terrain. Virgil wouldn’t risk climbing it for now. In an emergency, he knew he could, but he didn’t want to risk falling and breaking his neck for potentially no reward this early on. No. Careful to pick the part of the river where the ice should be thickest, Virgil made his way across and began to search along the rocky cliffs for caves. It would make sense for caves to form along here and eventually he found the jackpot. A cave with a small entrance he had to crawl through, pretty hidden by the rocks and with a tiny freshwater stream that travelled from under the ice it seemed. It was perfect for a home base.

In the backpack he had grabbed there was some rope, a few matches, and a pouch that he could attach to his belt to hold a weapon he didn’t have. Well - he had his arrow, but that wouldn’t fit, it was meant for a knife or dagger. He was sure he could find some kind of use for it regardless. 

The biggest glaring issue Virgil faced was that he had no food. In fact, looking at it critically as he tried to fall asleep that night, wrapped up in the insulating blanket he was incredibly grateful he had grabbed, Virgil was food. Every time he risked leaving his cave he risked being attacked by some kind of predator, something that needed to eat just like him. It was highly doubtful that there would be anything to hunt out here either. Maybe there would be a few plants he could grab, worst come to worst he could eat the pine needles off of the trees, but really if he wanted to stay alive he would have to find something better. 

The only place he could get something better was the cornucopia - or the other tributes. The careers were probably guarding the cornucopia and all of its supplies. He was lucky to have a freshwater supply, but he wouldn’t last another day without something to eat. 

He fell asleep last night after listening to the cannons - seven fallen tributes on the first day. Well, at least Virgil wasn’t out last. 

The next morning he woke up to an empty stomach. With a soft groan he sat up, his blanket still wrapped snugly around him and for a few seconds was reminded of home during the winter. 

Trying so hard to think of the positives, Virgil decided that at least that meant he was familiar with this part. Being hungry, waking up from a cold night, sleeping on the ground. The thermal blanket might actually be an upgrade, but at least at home he didn’t have sixteen possibly armed teenagers after him. 

He heard a howling wolf followed by a cannon shot in the distance. Fifteen, he thought. At least his fears of the arena wildlife weren’t unfounded. 

It was still early, though, and the sun wasn’t quite up yet. Virgil was used to rising before dawn, but this seemed different. He felt like the sun should be up by now if his body clock was anything to go by. He supposed though if this arena was mimicking winter it would reflect that with longer nights and shorter days. 

Going now would make it easier to stay hidden from other tributes, but it also made him a sitting duck for any creature out there looking for a quick snack. 

He weighed up his options and eventually - arrow held tightly in hand and bag on his back - crept out of the cave. So long as he was quiet maybe he wouldn’t be noticed. 

There was little trouble as Virgil reached the clearing that housed the cornucopia. He felt lucky to have not come across any wild animals on his trek through the snow. Now he crouched behind a tree watching. The sky was starting to get lighter by now, and there was a fire crackling in the mouth of the cornucopia, around which five tributes sat. Two from district one, one from two, and two from four. Virgil took a few deep breaths to calm his nerves, he had to think rationally about this or he’d never get anything done.

Virgil could see where all the supplies were stored - behind them inside the cornucopia. He guessed it was to protect them from the worst of the cold. There’s no way he could grab it like this with them all there, they’d see him in an instant in the black clothing they’d been given for the arena, he’d stick out like a sore thumb if he left the trees. Waiting for them to leave would be his best bet, but who knows how long that would be, and he was vulnerable here - maybe he could draw them away somehow…

“Psst-” He heard behind him, causing him to whip around, clutching his arrow in his hand he scanned the area until his eyes caught on a girl with short black hair peeking out from behind a nearby tree. Vaguely he recognised her as the girl he had hissed at on the first day - he thought she might be from Three, but he hadn’t paid enough attention to the others to know her name. She made a gesture for him to come over - Virgil just frowned and gripped his arrow tighter - he couldn’t trust anyone here. The girl frowned, holding up her hands in a surrender, before gesturing with her chin behind her. She clearly wanted to talk, but they couldn’t do it here with the careers so close by. Eventually Virgil sighed and nodded, carefully making his way over to her. He was lucky, he supposed. She could have killed him easily as she led him a little further into the trees - a safe enough distance away to talk. 

“Sorry for scaring you,” she whispered once they were far enough away.

“Sorry for hissing at you,” Virgil returned with a shrug, “You’re um - you’re from Three, right?”

“Mhm - My name’s Bug Scintilla - You’re Virgil, from Eight,” she said, holding out a hand for him to shake - he did so hesitantly with a small nod, “Great - you’re looking to go after their stuff, right?”

Another nod, she smiled.

“Not the talking type?”

Virgil shrugged with a small smile, “Not really.”

“Well good, I talk a lot,” she said, “Now - guess you’re looking for food, right? That’s why I’m here too, there’s nothing good to eat in the rest of the arena unless you’re able to kill a wolf which, no offence, you look really scrawny and your only weapon is an arrow.”

He shrugged again - she was right. 

“So, d’you have a plan?”

“I was in the middle of making one,” He said, shaking his head, looking back in the direction of the clearing, she sighed. 

“Okay, I’ve got an idea,” She said, beginning to draw a map of the clearing in the snow, Virgil sat down with her and looked, “Did you see where they had everything?”

“The supplies are all piled up in the cornucopia,” Virgil added, pointing to the map, she nodded, adding a cross, “So we gotta draw them away…”

For a while, they went back and forth on the best ways to do it, lighting a fire, making a lot of noise - noise might draw some of the wild animals in the arena, and if the careers were killed by them whilst looking for the source then Virgil certainly wouldn’t be too upset. 

“Are you sure you could get away, though?” He asked, tilting his head.

“Mhm - I’m good at climbing and the trees here are pretty tightly packed, I can get away that way,” She said, “You can sneak in from behind the cornucopia - they’ll leave a lookout, but you’re small and I saw how stealthy you were back in training, I think you can do it.”

Virgil nodded slowly, “Okay, right.”

“And make sure you’re fast too, we don’t know how long they’ll be distracted for and I don’t want you to get caught.”

Virgil nodded, “You know the river on the west side?” he said, she nodded, “We can meet there afterwards - I guess if we don’t make it there by sundown we can assume…”

“The cannons will tell anyway,” she shook her head, “But good plan - let's head out - we want this done before we starve, and hey - if you see anything else useful you can grab - no harm in having more, right?”

Virgil nodded yet again. There were so many things that could go wrong with this plan, neither of them were guaranteed safety or results, but he supposed they would both die either way if they didn’t try. At least if they went for it they would have some kind of chance. 

After a moment of hesitance, Bug pulled him in for a hug. Virgil had never been a touchy person, and this certainly startled him, but he still put his arms around her in return. “In case we don’t make it back,” she says, quietly, before hurrying away into the trees. 

Taking a deep breath, Virgil made his way in the other direction, keeping his fingers crossed that he wouldn’t come across any animals or other tributes as he made his way around the treeline until he was facing the back of the cornucopia. Once he had made it, he crouched in the shrubbery to wait.

The plan had gone smoothly right up until Virgil was trying to leave the cornucopia. 

He had managed to find two bags and stuff them full of food and supplies, he’d grabbed a couple of weapons, and a flask of water for them both too. He’d stolen as much as he could fit in the two bags before hefting one onto his shoulders and making his way out only to see the careers making their way back across the clearing.

Virgil panicked, snatching a knife from a nearby pile of weapons so that he had something in his hand and attempting to slip out of the cornucopia. Yelling behind him let him know that he had been unsuccessful. He ran, but they were gaining on him. The other careers had been at the other side of the clearing, but the district four guy they had left behind - a big, muscled guy who must be on the older end of the scale - was right behind him. 

Virgil turned, and in some vain hope, threw the knife. 

It landed with a dull thud in the poor guy’s abdomen, for a moment the world slowed and Virgil just stood there as the guy stopped, blood poured from around the knife, soaking into his clothes as he reached to pull it out. Virgil almost told him not to, but then he wanted this guy to die, didn’t he? Seeing the crimson splatter into the snow beneath them seemed to trip a switch in Virgil’s mind and he scrambled to keep running. He kept running even when he reached the trees, waving a path that he hoped wouldn’t be easily followed. 

Once he was sure he had lost them, he leaned over, bracing himself on a tree, and tried not to throw up when he heard the cannon shot in the distance. He had just killed someone.

He stayed there for a long while, crouched next to a tree and heaving - doing his best to keep his insides inside of him as he attempted to calm down the raging panic inside him. He counted in his head as he took deep breaths, trying to even out his intake of air and calm his mind. He had just killed another human being, if he hadn’t killed that boy then he’d be dead himself. It’s kill or be killed in this arena. Odds had nothing to do with it. 

Virgil stood, clutching the two bags he had grabbed tightly and began making his way back to the river. It didn’t make up for taking a human life, even in this situation, Virgil couldn’t justify it, but at least he had something to show for it.

----

Tags: @full-of-roman-angst-trash @your-local-random-dino @cutebisexualmess @glacierruler @roseianxiety @bella-bugatti-frogetti-baguetti @scalesfeathersnfur @oatmeal-stans-the-trash-rat @littlerat2 @goldnskyart (if anyone wants to be added, let me know!)

[novelmonger]

I don't think I know what you're talking about. What is the true ending of Endgame? 😃😃😃

Okay, the short version is: Go read my fic Let This One Remain and @rainintheevening's fic To the End...of Infinity

Or maybe that's the long version, because it'll take you a while to read all of that. Anyway, here is my non-story explanation:

Everything in Endgame stays exactly the same, we just didn't get to see what happens in the next five minutes after the end.

See, when Steve takes the Infinity Stones back in time to put them back, he can't deny that he's tempted to go back to some earlier, "easier" time in his life and just...stay there. He's tired, and he deserves a break. But that would mean leaving behind so many loved ones he has in the 21st century. Bucky. Sam. Sharon. All of the Avengers who are left, all of the friends he's made. And he's not the same man who went into the ice. The years have changed him, and he no longer fits in 1945. He no longer fits with Peggy.

But there's still someone who would fit into that old life. So he goes back to talk to himself in the bombed-out bar in London, right after Bucky fell from the train. He tells his former self that Bucky is still alive, that he can't give up, that he's going to crash a plane but will survive, so he needs to give someone his coordinates so they can find him. So he can find Bucky.

Then Steve goes back to the 21st century. The same Steve we know from the movies, going back to where he belongs. Meanwhile, in the other timeline, the other Steve follows his suggestion, is found alive in the Arctic much sooner, and is able to go rescue Bucky before he can be fully turned into the Winter Soldier. They all go home, Steve marries Peggy, and that's who we see dancing at the end of the movie.

Then, towards the end of his life, the alternate Steve gets another visit from his time-traveling self, who gives him a copy of the time-travel watch and asks him to come briefly to the 21st century to give the shield to Sam. So he does, and that's the old Steve we see in the movie.

The scene happens just as we see in the movie, with Bucky and Sam thinking this is their Steve who's come back to them at the end of his life. But right after the movie cuts out, the original Steve, the one we've come to know over the past ten years, steps out from the trees and is like, "Fooled ya, didn't we?" Then they thank the old Steve and send him back to his family in his own time. And the original Steve stays in the 21st century with his friends. He retires as Captain America, letting Sam take up the shield, and marries Sharon and finds other ways to help the world heal - as well as himself.

The End ^_^

This fix-it is something @sergeanttomycaptain and I came up with literally within an hour of seeing Endgame for the first time, proving that we're better writers than whoever thought that was the right way to end Steve's storyline ;)

[thechanelmuse]

Matthew Henson, the first person to reach the North Pole

“The lure of the arctic is tugging at my heart. To me the trail is calling! The old trail, the trail that is always new.” —Matthew Henson

In 1909 a team of six men on dog sledges made their way to a single point at the center of vast Arctic wilderness. It was a block of ice 413 nautical miles off the coast of Greenland believed to be the North Pole. There were many who refuted the events that led up to the day, April 6th, when an American flag was planted there. But in the years that followed an irrefutable truth would be revealed. The first person to stand on top of the world was a Black man named Henson.

When Commander Robert Edwin Peary set out on the expedition his company included 24 men, 19 sledges, and 133 dogs. After months of travel across an immense field of ice from the edge of Cape Sheridan on Ellesmere Island, as planed, one by one members of the party began turning back. So there were only a handful of men who could substantiate the claim. When the first human footprints were pressed into the snow at the most northern point on the planet all that remained of the original corps were Peary, 40 dogs, four native Inuit hunters and a Black American man who would be forgotten by history for almost half a century. [...]

Although Peary was the public face of their partnership, Henson was the front man in the field. With his skills as a carpenter and craftsman, Henson personally built and maintained all of the sledges used on their expeditions. He was fluent in the Inuit language and established a rapport with the native people of the region. He was known by all he encountered as “Matthew the Kind One.” Henson learned the methods the Inuit used to survive and travel through the incredibly hostile landscape of the Arctic. He was a very capable hunter, fisherman, and dog handler. And it was he who trained even the most experienced of Peary’s recruits on each of the eight attempts they made to reach the North Pole.

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For over a century, polar historians have generally agreed that American Navy engineer Robert Peary was the first person to reach the Geographic North Pole. But studies made over the last several decades assert that it was actually Peary’s African American associate, Matthew Henson, who got there ahead of him – despite losing eight of his toes to frostbite.

Peary’s much-studied and much-contested 1909 expedition to the North Pole was the last of eight and the only one to achieve its ultimate objective. And though the man’s claim to have made it to the pole first (or at all) was disputed from the start, it was only more recently that polar scholars began sliding Henson into his place.

Some of these scholars, such as British explorer Wally Herbert, science journalist John Noble Wilford, and City Journal editor John Tierney, focused chiefly on the veracity of Peary’s claim to have reached the pole, citing the lack of essential data in his notebook. But some subsequent studies indicate Peary knowingly stole the credit from Henson.

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Did I mention he wrote an autobiography, A Negro Explorer at the North Pole: The Autobiography of Matthew Henson, and Taraji P. Henson is great-great cousins with this once hidden figure? 😏

[aza-writes]

Revenge or Revolution

Chapter 2

• District 2 • Five Years Before the Revolution •

I shade the dragon's tongue, having him breathe fire onto my notes, causing the lettering to melt and drip to the bottom of the page. It's not like I'm missing anything that important. It's going over the survival tactics for freezing and Arctic-related arenas, which there have been very few of.

They're very boring, most people freeze to death before the actual killing begins. The two times there was an Arctic-like arena it wasn't received well by the capital. Besides, I know every survival tip about the Arctic.

1. Find a waterproof and windproof shelter 2. Ice fishing is the easiest way to find food but it's also the leaves you exposed to the other tributes. Rabbits will be your best bet for food even though they blend in with the snow. 3. Watch for bears and wolves

That's all that is expected for me to know at least, the games are so unpredictable that even the best training alone isn't enough to have a tribute win the games. The game makers do what they want, but it's very unlikely for them to do anything in that cold of an environment.

My teacher drones on and on about some I have known since I was ten until she's cut off by the loud chime of the intercom. 

"Ivory Kentwell, to the Head Dean's office, Ivory Kentwell."

My head snaps up, and everyone's eyes are on me. There's no reason for me to be in trouble, so this is it. The meeting. I have been chosen to volunteer.

I have the opportunity to be a District Two's female tribute. I have the opportunity to be a District Two Victor.

I get up and try to hide the smile that creeps along my face. I can't look too giddy. I need to compose myself, I need to be professional.

I pick up my things and pack them into my backpack. My hands shake a bit, everyone's eyes are still on me. Boys stare in disbelief while girls look either jealous or in awe. The mixed reactions are expected, but I love them all. I love how people are thinking about me. They know why I've been called. Everyone in the school knows.

I smooth out my uniform before I leave the classroom. The halls are silent, but some students are peeking out of the classroom windows watching me march my way to the Dean's office. I manage to stay calm as a few quiet whispers hit my ears.

"She's so young! How did she make first string?"

"Are fifteen-year-olds even allowed to be called so early?"

"I can't believe she beat everyone."

"I bet she's gonna win. Have you seen her throw a knife?"

That last one almost broke my stoic expression.

All the compliments and gossip mean there'll be a district buzz about me which will create more capital buzz. I'm almost guaranteed an abundance of sponsors. Better yet, I'm the first person to be called to the office which gives people even more of a reason to start placing their bets now. They even called me before any male tributes. This is everything my mother always wanted. 

I knock three times before entering the Head Dean's office. My eyes land on the Dean who was speaking with my parents and Clove. 

Parents; plural My dad is here. He came home for me. The whole year he has been home for around five weeks total. He's constantly traveling for his job as head peacekeeper. He's either at headquarters training recruits, meetings at the Capitol, or protecting President Snow. But he came here for me. 

Another smile tries to push itself onto my face, but I keep my stoic expression. This is a professional meeting, I have to act perfectly. Everything my mother has taught me has led to this moment. 

"Miss Kentwell, please have a seat." Head Dean Clemonte nods at me, keeping her face as expressionless as mine. She's not a very personable person, and by the stories of my mother and father, she's been like this ever since she started teaching. 

I follow her instructions and sit down. "Thank you, Miss." I'm in between my parents, Clove is sitting on a bench against the back wall. I wonder what she's thinking right now. Is she proud of me? Sad I'm leaving? Worried? I want to get into her brain. 

My mom places her hand on my shoulder beaming with pride, my father looks at Dean Clemonte, a soldier look on his face. 

"Now, I assume you know why I called you in here today, but for formalities, I will be reading from the official documents." She clears her throat, my mom squeezes my shoulder, my dad is still expressionless, and I'm dying to know what Clove's face looks like. "Congratulations Miss Kentwell, you have been chosen as the first string of potential volunteers for the 69th Annual Hunger Games." 

Holy shit, I actually did it. A sigh of relief leaves my body, a weight being taken off my shoulder. I did it. My hard work paid off! I'm first string, I'm going to be in the games! 

"With this, you will be required to attend Intensive starting tomorrow at 5 a.m. You will officially be excused from Inclusive and will graduate from District Two Preparatory with the grade you currently hold." 

Good, I'll finish at the top of my class, that's another thing for my mother to brag about. But bragging is deserved at this moment, I am the first-string female. I gave up my childhood for this. I deserve this. 

"At Intensive, you are expected to continue to prove yourself. Your ranking may change due to your performance." She clears her throat and looks me in the eyes. "Ivory, this school has a long history of Victors, even more so female. We have the most female victors out of every preparatory in this district. People are doubting you because you are young, but your rankings cannot be ignored." Head Dean Clemonte places the paper down on her desk and leans in closer. Her eyes are locked in on mine, a narrow and serious expression coating her face. "There is no room for failure. If you do not win, this will cause great shame to District 2. Do you understand?" 

I take a long deep breath. I assume it was only a few seconds but to me, it feels like hours have gone by. "Yes Dean Clemonte, I understand." 

All Dean Clemonte did was nod and straighten out her desk before pulling out a folder stuffed with papers. As she hands them to me I can feel my mother's death grip on my shoulder. It's not out of anger or anything, just her trying to mask her excitement for me. She can't have a beaming smile, that wouldn't be proper for this occasion. She composes herself the same way she has taught me to. Face stoic, emotions calm. 

The folder of papers wasn't thick by any means,  no more than ten papers with only a paragraph or two on them. All they said were "Will you volunteer in your respected order" and "Will you attend Intensive" in different ways. I was signing my way into the games, I was signing my way to becoming a victor. 

"Very well Ms. Kentwell. I will send these to the mayor and have copies sent to you as well as the other institutions. You are dismissed from classes for the rest of the day so you have an opportunity to pack for Intensives. Collect your things and check out as you leave." 

"Thank you for the opportunity Dean Clemonte. I will make our district proud." I stood up, as well as the rest of my family. My father is the first one to leave, walking straight out of the office and into the hallway. My mother ushers Clove and me to follow, her trailing behind us but not before thanking Dean Clemonte. 

"I knew you could do it." Clove's voice is a whisper, a true whisper. Her tone was exactly what I expected though, cocky. 

I nudge her a bit, she pushes back. A small giggle follows soon after, interrupted by my mother's fingers snapping once loudly to get our attention. 

"Girls, knock it off." Her teeth are sneered together, her voice is a hiss. "Act like you want to go into the games, not like idiots who so happen can throw a knife." 

"Yes, mother." Clove's arm moves against mine, her posture straightening up at my mom's words, but I don't move. 

I keep my relaxed posture until my father enters my sight. All he does is lift his chin, and I do the same, earning a huff from my mother. 

"Congratulations Ivory." My father doesn't talk much, and his voice is very stern. He used to be a bit more open but once he got promoted to Captain he stopped talking. He has seen so many things he isn't allowed to talk about, so he just stopped talking. "May the odds be ever in your favor." 

I can feel my cheeks tense, a smile spreading across my face. "Thank you." 

My mother clears her throat and smiles. "Well, let's go- Alister! You're leaving?" 

When I turn back around, my father is out the door. "I'm going back to base. It's a busy time." He doesn't even turn around to call back at us. He's in a rush. He didn't even change out of his uniform to come here today. 

Now that I think about it, I don't see him much when he isn't wearing it. He's always coming and going. 

My mother groans before straightening herself up. "That's fine. I need to get back to work anyway." She leans down and kisses Clove on the head. "Get back to class, you still have learning to do." She then looks back up at me, eyes are stern and almost angry. I don't know why she would be angry though, I just made her dreams come true. "Go home. Pack your bag in under an hour then go straight to studying. We'll celebrate tonight so you can leave early tomorrow morning." 

She places her hands on my shoulders and kisses my cheek. "I'm very proud of you darling. Our family will gain so much from this." 

A small smile spreads across my face, boasting with pride. "Thank you, mother." 

She pats my shoulder then turns to the main entrance. No more goodbyes, no more "I love you", just me, left alone to clean out my locker and to continue studying.  

••••••

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