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amerasdreams · 3 years

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Jerry’s lost last letter from Vietnam

Dear Mom and Dad,

and Jana and Jason,

I need to tell you about what happened here in Vietnam. In my other letters, I glossed over details because, Dad, you know war and so I don’t have to tell you what it’s like, and Mom, I didn’t want to worry you. Jana and Jason, I hope you never have to know what war is like.

But I can’t deny the truth of what happened over here, the pain and the glory of it.

You hear stories about Vietnam before you leave. A lot of people give into evil. You have to kill to survive, that’s one thing. But the things people let themselves do…become no better than the enemy they’re fighting. They let the war cloud their minds, muddy their morals. I was self-righteous about this at first. I would never fall.

Oh how wrong I was.

I hesitate to tell you. Especially you, Jason, who looked up to me so much. I wish you could keep this heroic image of me, but that would be selfish.

The truth is, I gave into evil. I was proud, to start with. It blinded me to the fact that deep down I’m no different than anyone else and it’s only by the saving grace of Jesus Christ that I have anything salvageable inside me.

It’s not like I did it myself; I just let it happen. But that doesn’t justify it. Fear is no excuse either. It can’t be, here. Especially when you’re an officer; you’re responsible for the men under you.

One reason I’m hesitant to tell about this is that it’s top secret. And it involves someone else and her safety. But with the uncertainty over here—when the war will end, overall or just for me—it’s worth the risk so you can help her in case I’m….not around anymore.

We trudged through the mud, sheets of rain pouring down, soaking us. The gray sky pierced by green knives of grass, slashing our arms as we searched for the enemy. We hadn’t had any action for days and some of my men were itching for a fight, just to break up the gray sloshing mud with bright flowers of fire.

This kid, Jenkins, had glasses and that made it so he could see even less than the rest of us in the rain. Barely 18, smaller than most, the guys all teased him but he took it well and so they were good-natured about it. He was kinda like our mascot. We thought he had a charmed life; he once stepped on a mine and it didn’t go off, some of the men thought he was lucky and even that we were an invincible unit.

We were checking out a weapons cache when some VC ambushed us. Shattered Benny’s leg, that’s my sarge. Good man. I dragged him to safety and fired back—we were surrounded on this little island in the swamp, just a raised bit of land, not much cover, so we were sitting ducks. I had to get my men out of there. I ordered some men to make a feint to the left, others to cover our rear as we retreated into the swamp. But they caught us as we came down, popped up right out of the gray water and shot some point-blank. I fought hand-to-hand with one—he stabbed me in the thigh and blood swirled into the water like red ink. Somehow we fought them off but by that time they’d killed five of us and Jenkins was lying face down, so much blood in the water around him we knew he was gone.

A chopper flew us back to base for R and R and to take care of the dead. Rally, one of my squad leaders, wanted to go right back out and find those VC—he didn’t use that term—and kill them. Something in him snapped that day. I should’ve seen it but we were all grieving. We were a tight-knit unit, even more than most, I thought, and to lose Jenkins and four other good men…it hit us hard. But we forged on. I had to get a new platoon sergeant temporarily so I promoted Rally to the acting position.

About a month later, early August, we captured some VC. My men and I secured the village while Rally began the interrogation of the prisoners, two men and a woman, in a vacant shed. While I was occupied, the prisoners attempted to escape and Rally shot them. That was his story. I have no doubt they were trying to escape, but they were shot in the back, which wasn’t really necessary as they were bound and couldn’t have gotten far. When I returned, one man had died and Rally was beating the other man’s face in. He was incoherent and useless as an intel source. Jackson offered to “put him out of his misery”; I held him back and had the medic take care of him.

Only the woman was left to interrogate. I let Rally be the bad cop and threaten to kill her family, but I didn’t let him lay a hand on her. She taunted us, told us we were dead men like the buddies we’d lost. Rally swung a fist toward her; I shoved him out of the way and had a nice, civil talk with her. She seemed to thaw a little; I saw some of the fear in her eyes beneath the bravado, and we even shared a little about our families. She gave me a nom de guerre: Ana.

Just when I thought we were ready for a breakthrough, some of her comrades attacked and we had to fend them off. Once I got back to the shed, I found Rally had continued the interrogation by breaking one of her fingers. I tried to stop him but Jackson held me back. “She’s close to cracking,” he said. “You step in, she’ll clam up again. He’s already got some good stuff, sir. Just a little more. Otherwise this is all in vain.”

“This is not who we are. We’re Americans—this is what they do.”

“I know. I know, sir. You’ve kept us on the good path. But just this once, look away. For the ones we lost. For the ones we can save.”

I left the building, patrolled the perimeter. But no matter where I went, I could still hear Ana’s screams.

When I got back it was like a slaughterhouse. Rally was covered in blood; Ana (I must use her name—to do otherwise would dehumanize her) was unconscious. He’d broken each of her fingers and carved the names of our fallen into her chest. I tried not to look at her directly, as if that would absolve me of guilt, as if she was just a “target” and not a human being.

“We got the intel,” said Rally, beaming like he’d won a medal of honor.

I treated it like just another operation. She was just another casualty of war, an enemy at that. We’d done our job; it was a successful mission. We could be proud of ourselves.

We left her there; I’m not sure if she lived or died. I didn’t feel guilty at first; I didn’t feel anything but the need to keep my men safe. Until we stopped to rest, and she began to haunt me. Even if it was Rally who had gotten out of hand, I was responsible for my men’s actions. I’d allowed it. It was the same as if I’d carved those names into her chest. Hadn’t I wanted revenge too? How could I possibly delude myself I was any different, any better?

Still, I had to do my job, and I began to gain attention as a good leader from my CO. He told a CIA officer about me, and that officer contacted me for a special mission. Inside enemy territory.

We’d really only be glorified couriers; we were to deliver some new equipment to a northern spy. The CIA officer told me that he suspected a mole in his network; every agent he’d sent north had been killed or captured, the expensive equipment confiscated. We had a reputation of getting things done. He commended us for the intel we’d gotten from Ana; his agents had made good use of it. We’d take a different route than the others to throw the VC off track, but we should be under no illusions that this would be an easy or safe mission. He’d only take volunteers.

I took a small group of 10 men and we went north. We’d just dropped off the package when we were ambushed. Two men were shot; I covered the others so they could get away. I emptied my ammo and then fought with my knife—I’d rather be killed than captured—but they stabbed my leg and I went down. Blows rained from all directions until a rifle hit my head and I blacked out.

I came to in a cell at a VC base camp. My body ached; I could barely move. A man dragged me to the interrogation room and the fun began.

My interrogator was the man we’d thought was our agent. He’d been fooling the Americans for years, feeding them false intel, getting their agents captured. I was no different; he’d extract the info he needed then kill me.

He asked me about my mission for the CIA. I couldn’t tell him any more than he already knew. So he hit me. He asked about troop movements and supply routes; I wouldn’t tell him anything. So he hit me again. He wasn’t especially creative even though he always bragged about his abilities. I think he confused enjoyment for expertise. Plus he had a big head from fooling the Americans. He was probably a good spy, but not a very good interrogator. I called him Hack.

Still, he began to wear me down, especially if the sessions ended with him hitting me so hard I blacked out. I probably had multiple concussions, and my wounds were left untreated and infected. One of his COs sat in on an interrogation and I was apparently so incoherent and delirious he ordered a medic to take care of me.

I don’t remember much after that; it was probably days before I was fully conscious again. It was like heaven; my head was clear and I barely ached. Someone came in with food.

No, not just someone. The most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. Silky hair that fell like a sheet of black water. Intense brown eyes in a perfect oval face. For a moment I thought she was an angel, especially since I felt no pain and pain had become part of my existence. She also reminded me of Ana…guilt struck my heart.

She handed me the tray of food and then left. When she came back, she aimed her gun at me and told me to follow. I was back in the interrogation room, but this time Hack was gone, replaced by another man. He spoke no English so he needed the girl, Ai, to translate. I knew basic Vietnamese but no complex words or sentences.

His interrogation was perfunctory and he rarely used physical force. It was a welcome reprieve. Plus I got to be in the same room with Ai, who looked at me with disdain as she translated.

This guy didn’t get anything out of me either, so they got some sort of specialist to have a go at me. He was good. Big, brutal, but he knew how to inflict maximum pain with minimum damage. Ai translated for him as well.

One day he had me on the floor, just screaming and sobbing with pain, like I was on fire. Ai threatened to stop translating unless he stopped hurting me so badly; he grabbed her and asked what side she was on. She said she just couldn’t stomach this; he said if she was weak she didn’t belong in the VC and began choking her.

First I noticed the absence of pain, then I noticed frantic, strangled cries. I looked up to see Ai kicking at him as he held her in the air by her throat.

I asked God to help me because I knew I couldn’t move on my own. I couldn’t redeem myself for what I’d done to Ana but I could help Ai.

I struggled to my feet and stood, shaking. Somehow I managed to say, “Stop!”

Anger crossed his face. He dropped Ai to the floor and turned on me. Gave me a good old fashioned beating till I blacked out.

When I came to, Ai was shaking me. It was dark. She told me that they would kill me since I had outlived my usefulness. She led me down the hallway and opened the door to the back, where there was a running vehicle. “Thank you. For what you did for me,” she said.

“Thank you for helping me, Ai. I wish—“

“Go! I can’t let them catch me.” She darted back inside.

Somehow I got down the road a bit before anyone saw me. I had to ditch the vehicle and run into the jungle. Survived for days, dodging patrols, eating bugs, till I ran into an American squad and they had me choppered back to base.

Everyone had thought I was dead; they had a big party for me. I recuperated and then went back to leading my platoon. Everything went back to normal. Vietnam-normal, anyway.

Until one day I saw Ai on base, delivering supplies to the soldiers. She drove out before I could catch her.

My men and I were hanging around base for a little while, so I saw her when she returned later that week. I caught up to her this time. She took me aside and told me that she was supposed to be an agent for the VC, but she was really working for the Americans. She had been with the communists when I’d been captured but she wasn’t a die-hard party member or anything. All she wanted was for the war to end and for her country to be at peace. She thought the VC would do that. But I’d changed her view of what Americans were at the same time she’d seen the brutality of the VC. She didn’t want to be complicit in that so she agreed to help us, in part to bring democracy and peace to her country, in part to make up for what she did.

I then told her my own struggle—my own complicity. Hurting a young woman like her. I expected her to leave in disgust. But she forgave me. I felt a dark burden lift from my heart. It wasn’t totally gone—it never will be. But what she did freed me, more so than when she’d let me out of the enemy camp.

Whenever she was on base, I found time to be with her. We began hanging out together. Eating at mess together. The boys began to make fun of me. I knew I should be careful; I didn’t want to blow her cover. Spending too much time with any one American without intel from him would be suspicious to her handlers. So we did things in secret. Had picnics out on this grassy hill with beautiful red flowers. I gave her presents. I felt she deserved the world.

Then I got orders to move out. We’d be deep in the jungle for weeks, perhaps months. My heart felt like it was imploding. I couldn’t be without her. I wished I could just take her and run away from the war and just live with her in peace.

But I decided to do something a little less drastic. When we were out on a picnic, I asked her—Dad, Mom, can you believe this?—to marry me.

And even more wonderful and crazy—she said yes!

Two days ago, we were married on our hill under the moonlight. She had a red flower in her hair. She was so beautiful! We sealed it with a glorious kiss and then…well, I’ll leave it at that.

We had two frantic days together, stolen kisses in the hallway, nights in a little abandoned hut covered in vines. Today I have to move out, leave her to the lonely life of a spy. How I can leave her without my heart breaking I don’t know. I’m sending this letter so you know the worst and the best of me, and so that you know to take care of her in case I don’t come back. Only the chaplain and the witness know about our marriage.

She’s leaning over my shoulder as I write this in our little ‘cabin’, as I call it. Kissing me. Now she’s saying that she wants to say hi to you and she can’t wait to meet you. That she won’t let me leave and if I do she’ll drag me back….Oh I do love her, I can’t tell you how much, my heart’s bursting and I—

I miss you. I’ve got a long tour left but when I come home, I’ll bring a beautiful bride with me.

And, just in case,

Goodbye. (I’ll see you in heaven, anyway!)

Love,

Jerry (and Ai) Whittaker

- from Generation

#adventures in odyssey #fanfiction #writing #vietnam #jerry whittaker #married #to a spy #letter #violence #war

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ojpovkjopsk · 3 years

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I’ve been all eyes watching for you

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unlockthelore · 4 years

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A Request

When seeking a reprieve from the weight on his shoulders, Aether chooses to fly. But someone is always there to bring him back. This is part of the Where The Soul Lies Down series on Ao3. For more fics in this series, follow the where the soul lies down tag on this blog.

Ragged wisps of clouds clung to mountain peeks from neighboring isles. Their bluffs etched in sun glow reminded Aether of the guards lighting lanterns along the village’s winding roads. He’d flown overhead, only slightly weighed down by the book clasped tightly to his chest, and sore wings flapping against a warm, stiff breeze. Air rushed up to meet him. Wind currents keeping him afloat til just outside the city’s outskirts. When he looked back, the once dimly-lit huts were aglow. The local’s chattering pursuing him as he rushed into the forest, taking the trails marked by trees with a five-pointed flower engraved on their bark.

To where would it lead him, Aether was certain. He ran despite his feet’s protest as they stumbled over roots and kicked through the undergrowth. He tumbled forward when a loose vine jilted him backward with a snag on his right wing. A groan hissed between his teeth as he snatched the vine free, brushing his fingers over the amber canvases soothingly.

His feathers ached as he retracted his wings quickly, wincing at the soreness. Perhaps it wasn’t a good idea to fly with something so heavy. Although, if he’d gone on foot then there was no telling if he would have been caught leaving or not.

Tipping his head back while rubbing at the tender flesh at his shoulder blades, Aether gaped in disbelief. The once blue-green sky was violet-tinged, its depths glimmering with stars, and warning that his time would run out if he didn’t hurry.

So, he ran.

Away from his thoughts and the hustle and bustle of the bazaar. Merchants, artisans, and couriers exchanging wares and information alike were pushed to the reaches of his mind while he urged his body to move as quickly as it could. His forearms ached as he hugged the book so tightly it might have flattened against his chest. Pain scratched at his throat and tears sprang to his eyes as his lungs begged for air. Their pleas denied until he’d broken free from the underbrush, leaves sticking out of bangs fallen over his eyes.

Gasping for air and staggering forward on quivering legs, he careened forward and dropped to the wooden planks of the landing pier with a dull thud. Aether laid there for a long while, his eyes half-lidded and exhaustion creeping upon the edges of his sight. His hold on the book loosened for half a second. It wouldn’t have done anyone harm if he laid here for a while, he told himself. Surely enough, he would be able to rest and the intrusive thoughts rattling between his ears would settle.

His cheek pressed against the warm planks, rough and itching as he dragged his head to one side, grimacing at the wood’s grit and pinches. That was a silly thing to think. After all, if it were that simple then he could have stayed in the village with his sister and avoided running himself into the ground. Almost literally.

Aether drew himself up painstakingly slow, the book tucked in the crook of his arm as he settled with his legs tucked beneath him. The world twisted and churned around him, darkness crept along the edges of his vision and blurred his sight. His head swayed forward as he sighed and toppled backward in the soft, damp grass. Drops of water arose from where he laid, splattering against his cheeks and his arm, the excess wetting his back through the thin fabric of his tunic. Cool and refreshing against his skin albeit making it far more difficult to stay awake.

His eyes struggled to remain open but darkness engulfed the starry dusk sky and pulled him into echoes of memories.

An artificer with hair as red as the runic wand she’d been tending to smiled widely, streaks of dust smeared across bulging cheeks nearly coating her long eyelashes. She’d practically lit up the room - both literally and figuratively - from the sparks coming off the wand. Her bounding steps coming to a stop before them and out the corner of his eye, Aether could recall someone else was there with him but his attention was taken by the woman’s chipper, pitched voice: Well, it isn’t everyday you see sisters working together.

Aether shivered and bit the inside of his lip, dread pooling in his chest as the woman reached out. Her image rippled and dispersed in shards across his mind’s eyes. Replaced by another of an elderly man hobbling across the busy road with one hand set firmly upon Aether’s shoulder. He could recall the gnarled wrinkles in his fingers and his nails pressing down like a falcon’s talons. Yet, the man’s eyes were gentle and he weaved wonderful tales of his childhood adventures in comparison to those of his family.

You remind me of my granddaughter.

Aether tried to take it as a compliment. Apparently, his granddaughter had intelligence to match her bravery and willingness to listen to the ramblings of an old man. When he laughed at his doddery, Aether tried to laugh along but his chest felt tight and he bid the old man farewell before rushing off to the inn where he and his sister were staying. Lumine hadn’t been there at the time. Likely speaking to the owners to receive their pay for their courier-work. She’d return with a pouch full of coins then they would argue about what to eat for the night. An argument ending in several ‘one-more-time’ rounds of rock-paper-scissors before they split their reward and their food before turning in for the night.

Ordinarily, that is what would happen.

Today though, Aether snagged one of the books from the foot of their shared bed and climbed through the window just as he’d entered. Sparing a longing glance over his shoulder at their temporary residence, Aether quietly hoped Lumine would appear through the door to ask him where he was going or come with him. When neither happened, he leapt out into the dusk in hopes of finding his own peace somewhere on the isle.

Aether rubbed at his eyes and shook his head back to the present. He hardly noticed when the sun shone its last, and the sky darkened, clouds barely visible against the deep blue. Aether lifted his head to stare down his nose at the pier’s ledge then sighed. He’d barely made it to the ledge when his strength had given out. So much for the endurance training he’d been going through. Now, he’d have to try and summon the energy to return. His only hope was that Lumine wouldn’t be upset with him.

The strength to keep his head upright waned and he toppled backward to lie against the grass once more. His eyelids dipped, gaze barely missing the twins suns ascending as he flattened himself against the ground. “Wha— woah!” Aether lurched upright, narrowly missing colliding with the person looming over him as he struggled to an upright position. The book toppled off his lap and landed on the grass with a wet thump. A soft sigh met his ears and he twisted around, kneeling in the dirt. Lumine, lifting the book to her stomach and brushing off its dirtied cover, looked to him with furrowed brows and unsmiling lips.

“I was wondering where you ran off to.”

Aether winced, rubbing the back of his head. Those words were said with such concern that it felt like a blow across his neck. “Sorry,” he murmured to the grass. After a beat of silence, he peeked up at her to see her staring down at him worriedly. Her eyes gleamed in the moonlight and softened when their gaze met. What was his expression, he wondered, for her to seem so concerned.

Lumine sank down to her knees and touched the soaked sleeve of his tunic, pressing water from it as she rubbed the fabric between her fingers. Aether thought to warn her that she’d dirty her trousers but from the furrow in her brows and her pinched lips, Lumine wouldn’t have heard him anyway.

Silence. Tension. Even the air was oppressive, and he wondered what he could do to make his twin smile rather than fret over him.

“Did you check everywhere..?” He mustered a smile and dropped his hand to his bent knees when she glanced up at him. “When you were looking for me.”

Lumine regarded him quietly as if she were determining whether or not to answer him. Then, she smiled and for a moment Aether felt everything was right with the world. She shuffled up to her feet and tucked the book in the crook of her arm. Her free hand extended to him, fingertips wet and soft as a flower’s petals as he grasped them to pull himself up.

“Didn’t have to,” said Lumine, her fingers squeezing his aching ones then loosening their hold. She wasn’t letting go of his hand and he was wise enough to know not to pull away. Nor did he want to. “I know where you go when you’re thinking.”

Aether snorted at that. He highly doubted it. They were together often on their travels but he went off on his own occasionally to find interesting spots. Although, he did tend to share them with Lumine when his curiosity got the better of him.

Huffing, Aether said, “No way. You just got lucky.”

“I know you.”

Lumine leveled a flat stare at him. Aether had seen it plenty of times mirrored on his own face, and while he wanted to laugh, echoes of voices from earlier spiked a wave of disgust down his spine. He pressed his lips together defiantly and slipped his hand free of Lumine’s. Her mouth fell open and the look of concern had returned but he turned away before his mind could dwell on it.

Wooden planks creaked beneath his soles. Suffocating, isolating pressure biding in his chest until it stole even the wind’s solace from him. It wasn’t until the toes of his boots reached the pier’s ledge that he stopped walking. The way forward was nowhere. He couldn’t leave unless he flourished his wings and left his sister behind.

His sister.

Lumine had been remarkably quiet while Aether walked on. His thoughts combined with the pressure in his chest clogged his chest, leaving room for little else. Aether swallowed his apprehension and peered over his shoulder. At the other end of the pier stood his sister, an almost ghostly figure against the deep shadows lingering over the wood. The book held close to her body and her eyes refused to leave his own.

Had she been staring at him the entire time?

Aether wondered what he could say to explain how he felt. How he wished his sister knew everything so he could feel silly for running from her side. For all of his cleverness and curiosities, answers eluded him in droves and silence reigned between them. Guilt gnawed at his heart as Lumine’s gaze lowered and her eyes shuttered, shoulders curving inward and head bowed. It wasn’t right.

Although, a tiny part of him wouldn’t allow him to simply run back to her side. Guilt paired with apprehension created a dangerous reaction. Nothing. He did nothing as his sister curled in on herself, hurt by his lack of closeness. Aether’s shoulders sagged with regret as he turned toward the distance and stared out at the rising moon. Then, his eyes fell to the world below, blanketed with clouds.

He could hardly bring to mind countless theories of what dwelled beneath the cloud-like sea. No one in their year, let alone those who came before them had ever come to know the world below. Some had even come to believe there was nothing beneath but an endless abyss filled with shards from dying stars. The further one went, the deeper the darkness would become until they knew no more.

A tale most would take as a warning, but Aether considered a challenge and a lesson.

He curled his fingers into fists, pressed tightly against his sides. “… Hey Lumine,” called Aether, voice low but echoing loudly in the night’s quietude. “.. Would you love me… even if I wasn’t your sister?”

The words flew free from his lips as a weight lifted from his shoulders. Now that they left him, he couldn’t bring them back no matter how much he tried. Seconds seemed to stretch into infinity without a reply. It would have been more bearable to simply throw himself from the ledge and find if the rumors of the world were true. But then, something encircled his wrist and he jolted upright, only able to take a half-step backward before Lumine was pulling him closer. Her eyes were wet. Dew-like tears clinging to her eyelashes with every blink. Aether didn’t know how to respond. He’d wondered if he would have seen disgust in her eyes, or hear her disregard how he felt.

We’ll always be sisters.

Those four words which brought him comfort when they were small children only made his stomach churn now. Lumine’s face crumpled and she squeezed his wrist again, making Aether’s skin crawl with the non-answer.

“Lumine..?”

Lumine blinked rapidly at the sound of her name then sniffled. A pale pink beginning to flush her cheeks. She slowly nodded, her hold on his wrist easing.

Aether sighed then turned toward her, grasping her hand tightly. “That doesn’t mea-”

“Why would you think I wouldn’t -” Lumine trailed off, squeezing his fingers.

They stared at one another. Lumine’s hold on his hand so tight that Aether was certain his fingers would turn colors before long. His stomach lurched with fear as her lips parted.

“I will always love you,” said Lumine. Her sharp tug on Aether’s hand nearly had him tumbling into her. A yelp echoed in his ears and his eyes shut tightly, waiting for the air to rush around them. When nothing came, he cracked open his eyes.

Golden threads, fine and light, swayed before his eyes like the wheat fields they’d passed over on another isle. Like a sea of gold laid out before them, blazing bright beneath the sun’s rays.

Aether let his chin rest against Lumine’s shoulder, jaw quivering as he fought against the warm wet stinging at his eyes.

“Never forget that…”

----------

A sharp tug drew Aether back to the present. He yawned and blinked lazily at the fishing pole in his hands, nose wrinkled when the line swung. Balmy weather paired with the salty sea breeze made for an enticing mid-afternoon nap. However, his stomach growled in protest and reminded him why he was sitting here fishing to begin with.

A few nudges from the fishing pole brought his attention back to the crystalline waters, disturbed by the tide rolling up to the shore, washing his sand-covered toes. While he waited, Aether wondered if this was what the world below would have been like in that realm. Would his sister have enjoyed to see something like this if they hadn’t fallen into that trap before?

Aether sighed and pressed his thumbnail to the five petaled flower carved into the fishing pole’s side. Some habits never seemed to change.

Another tug, too sharp for him to ignore, nearly jolted him forward and his eyes flew open as he reared backward. The line yanked taut. He truly hoped that he didn’t have to replace this one as well. It’d taken forever to weave together one sturdy enough. But thankfully, the line held and with a sharp enough pull, his catch broke free from the water’s surface.

Aether’s jaw fell open and he scrambled to drop his fishing line, wading through the surf to grab the tiny figure hurtled through the air. The solid, heavy thing crashed into his chest and he stumbled backward, falling onto his behind as the waves rolled over his legs. Aether groaned in time with someone else’s and adjusted himself, peering down at the cherubic face of a little girl.

#genshin impact #genshin impact aether #genshin impact lumine #genshin impact paimon #fanfiction #my fanfiction #where the soul lies down

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gerec · 5 years

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The Master of Charlton Park

Chapter 8 - Part 2

Part 1

“I do.” She wrapped her arms around the horse and hugged his neck, and announced without any fanfare, “I’m going to call him ‘Charles’.” It was unexpected, and caught Erik so completely by surprise that he could only stand and stare at her until her brow began to wrinkle. But he caught himself in time to stave off any questions, and - ignoring the blooming ache in his chest - brushed his gloved hand along the horse’s shiny flank and smiled. “That’s a very good name, Edie. I’m sure Charles will be very pleased that you…” He swallowed, and tried again to temper his response. “He’ll be pleased, I’m sure of it.” Edie grinned, and waited patiently as Erik mounted his own horse for their ride on the mansion grounds. They took off slowly at first, away from the stables and towards the stream, letting Edie gradually get used to handling a bigger and more spirited steed. He could not quite bring himself to call the horse by his new name yet – not even in his head – though eventually he knew it would feel less strange. After all, time had proven a great healer of old wounds, and Erik could think now on his former lover without reliving the crushing pain of their parting. He watched as Edie trotted ahead, as confident and graceful on horseback as she was on her own two feet. In truth she bore a closer resemblance to Erik than to Charles; or rather, she had features that reminded Erik strongly of her namesake. But there were parts of Edie that were unmistakably Charles – her eyes, sky blue and utterly captivating as well as her dark brown tresses, and skin that seemed to glow under the light of the summer sun. Most of all she reminded him of Charles in moments like this, when she threw her head back and laughed with such joy, free with emotions she shared openly and without reservation.

He wondered if Charles was thinking of them now, as he went about his day; about the years that had passed them by in the mere blink of an eye. Erik was surprised that a letter had not yet arrived from Charles for Edie’s birthday, as the two corresponded regularly, even exchanging small gifts for special occasions. It was likely a delay with the courier, or perhaps even the ship crossing the Atlantic; he could think of no other reason that would explain the lack of communication on Charles’ part, and hoped that Edie would not be too disappointed. They rode for an hour or more, crossing from one end of the property to the other until Edie’s energy began to flag, and Erik led them back to the stables. She refused to leave however without first visiting Milly, and so they spent some time feeding the grey pony and brushing her mane. Finally, they returned to the house and changed from their riding clothes, and sat down for a light luncheon of meats, bread and Edie’s favorites – Stilton cheese and strawberries and cream. As there was still time before their guests would arrive, Erik coaxed his daughter into a game of chess, and the two managed to while away another hour in the study, with Edie only barely paying attention to the match. It was Sean who finally brought them the good news; that their guests had arrived and Janos would be bringing them in momentarily. Edie could scarcely contain her excitement, greatly anticipating a visit with the McCoys. At eight years, Raven and Henry’s son Kurt was a sweet and biddable child, and Edie considered him – all of them – as part of her family. It made Erik happy to see them together, even when Edie inevitably led Kurt into mischief, though it brought in him a deep yearning for the siblings she never had. “Sir, Janos is taking the guests to the drawing room,” Sean said, his face flushed with excitement as they trailed after Edie down the hall. The McCoys had been frequent guests at Charlton Park for years, and it was strange that their arrival should garner such a keen reaction from his valet. “You should know that the McCoys have brought someone along to see you.” Inwardly he groaned, and hoped that Raven didn’t come to play matchmaker, as so many had attempted to over the years. Though his annulment with Emma had been the topic of much gossip at the time, her departure to France pre-empted much of the social stigma, and too soon he was deemed a suitable candidate again for marriage. It had taken all of Erik’s patience – and intervention by the Starks – to ward off the many omega sons and daughters that had been foisted upon him, until eventually, his bachelorhood was widely if begrudgedly accepted. “Kurt! Kurt, you’re here! You’re—” He heard Edie stop abruptly and gasp, and rounded the corner to the drawing room just as she asked— “Charles? Is it really you?”

#gerec writes #cherik #the master of charlton park #regency au #chapter 8 #part 2

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bountyofbeads · 4 years

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‘So much living to do’: stories of UK's latest named coronavirus victims

https://www.theguardian.com/world/2020/mar/18/not-ready-to-go-tributes-paid-to-uk-first-named-victims-of-coronavirus?CMP=Share_AndroidApp_Post_to_Tumblr

Though these deaths didn't occur in the United States, it's important to remember our brothers and sisters across the pond! They represent every walk of life, age, race and creed. Covid-19 does not recognize borders, religion, race, occupation or age.

SO MUCH LIVING TO DO’: STORIES OF UK's LATEST NAMED CORONAVIRUS VICTIMS.... Personal details have emerged of more than 50 people who have died in the Covid-19 pandemic

By Matthew Weaver, Helen Pidd and Simon Murphy | Published:12:19 Fri April 3, 2020 | The Guardian | Posted April 05, 2020 |

The oldest is 108, the youngest only 13. These are the faces of some of the country’s coronavirus victims, among them doctors, councillors, a D-day veteran, a diplomat, a comedian and an academic.

By 4pm on Thursday 2 April, 3,605 people admitted to hospital in the UK had died after contracting Covid-19. Many were elderly and had underlying health conditions. Some did not.

In several cases, family members and medical professionals have been keen to emphasise that victims had their lives cut short. Even if they were suffering underlying health conditions, they had been expected to live for many years, they said.

Of the deaths so far in the UK and those connected to the country, details have emerged in more than 50 cases. Here are their stories.

****

Lord Gordon of Strathblane, 83

James “Jimmy” Gordon was formerly political editor of STV and founded Radio Clyde. He is understood to have died of Covid-19 at Glasgow Royal Infirmary on Tuesday 31 March.

Outside the media, Gordon was a member of the Scottish Development Agency and chaired the Scottish Tourist Board – later VisitScotland – and was made a life peer by Labour in 1997. A statement from his family honoured “his generosity, his kindness and his enthusiasm for life”, adding that being “Papa” to his four grandchildren was the role that had brought him most pleasure. The former first minister Jack McConnell said Gordon had had “an outstanding career in business and public service” and had “transformed broadcasting”. The comedian and radio host Andy Cameron, who worked at Clyde for a number of years, said: “Another good guy gone. Jimmy Gordon, Lord Gordon Of Strathblane has passed on. What an absolute gentleman. RIP Jimmy.” He leaves behind his wife Anne, three children and four grandchildren.

****

Aimee O’Rourke, 38

O’Rourke was an NHS nurse and mother of three girls, Megan, Mollie and Maddie. She died on 2 April at the Queen Elizabeth The Queen Mother Hospital in Margate, Kent – the hospital where she worked. She studied at Canterbury Christ Church University before joining the NHS in 2017. She started showing symptoms of the coronavirus about two weeks ago before her condition deteriorated and she was taken into intensive care at the QEQM and put on a ventilator.

Her daughter, Megan Murphy, wrote on Facebook that it had always been “us 4 against the world!”, and said she and her sisters would now look after each other. “Look at all the lives you looked after and all the families you comforted when patients passed away … you are an angel and you will wear your NHS crown forever more because you earned that crown the very first day you started,” she wrote. Now a family friend has set up a GoFundMe page to raise money for O’Rourke’s family.

A colleague, Lucy Page, wrote: “Aimee O’Rourke taught me to fight for what I believe in and gave me courage so many times to do it.” Another colleague, Soraya Zanders, said:“Aimee cared for many patients in her time as a nurse. She brought warmth and comfort to many.” On the evening of the day she died family and friends lit candles and clapped in her honour during the weekly Clap for Carers.

****

Areema Nasreen, 36

Nasreen was an NHS nurse who had worked for 16 years at Walsall Manor hospital in the West Midlands, where she died on 3 April after contracting the coronavirus. Nasreen, who had three children and was from Walsall, developed symptoms on 13 March, including aches, a high temperature and then a cough. Her family said she had no underlying health issues. Her sister Kazeema Nasreen, 22, a healthcare assistant at the same hospital, said Nasreen was “an amazing nurse” and urged others to take the virus seriously. In a tribute posted on Facebook, her friend Rubi Aktar said: “She was the most loveliest, genuine person you could ever meet, she went above and beyond for everyone she met. I’m so grateful that I had the honour to call her my best friend, she saw me at my best and my worst and accepted my every flaw. I am so broken that words can’t explain.”

A relative told Birmingham Live: “The immediate family are devastated. Everyone is in shock this morning. She was always so full of life. She was devoted to her job as a nurse, she absolutely loved it. She passed away doing what she loved. I’m really sad for the rest of the family, she was a fantastic person.”

****

Danny Sharma, 38

Sharma was an avid fan of Liverpool Football Club and devoted much of his time to amateur football. The 38-year-old was considered to be high-risk because of his diabetes and other health conditions, and he died on 26 March after battling with coronavirus in intensive care at Hammersmith hospital in London. On 24 March, Sharma posted a picture of himself making the thumbs-up sign, and wrote: “Day Four Update. Looks nice out from the window wish I was participating in the Vitamin D. Finding hard to breathe, still fighting.”

The 38-year-old attended St Paul’s College in Sunbury-on-Thames before studying computer applications at Kingston University. His brother Vinny said he wanted Sharma’s death to make people take the threat of the coronavirus seriously. “He was a fantastic guy with a big heart, and he is someone who we are going to miss a great deal. Hopefully he will find some peace,” he said. Luke Thompson called his friend the “most selfless individual I ever met.” Traditionally the Sharma family, who are of Indian heritage, would hold an open house for 12 days after a death to enable people to pay their respects – but both Sharma’s brother and mother, Parveen, had to self-isolate because of their close contact with the 38-year-old.

****

Danny Cairns, 68

Cairns was one of the first Scots to die after contracting the coronavirus to be named publicly. He had tried to self isolate at his home in Greenock in Renfrewshire but after a few days became so ill he was transferred to hospital, where he died on 26 March. His brother Hugh, who lives in the United States, said the experience was a “nightmare” for the family. “He wasn’t just my brother, he was my best friend,” he said. “From the time of going into hospital within three days he was dead. His last words to me were, ‘I’m on my way out mate’.”

****

Sheila French, 80

French from Broughty Ferry, a suburb of Dundee, died after six days in Ninewells hospital intensive care on 27 March. She had been admitted after becoming ill on a family holiday in Lanzarote to celebrate her 80th birthday. Her family spoke of the pain of not being able to visit her in hospital, but her son Colin said dedicated NHS staff were determined to ensure her “comfort and dignity right to the end”. Originally from Glasgow, she married Eric French in 1962. The couple were well-known figures in the local community and shared a lifelong love of tennis.

The 80-year-old sang in the Barnhill St Margaret’s parish church choir for more than four decades. Her son said she was “interested in so many things”, including music, singing and reciting poetry. “She was also always surrounded by wool for knitting and crochet,” he told the Dundee Courier. “Her main thing in recent years was crocheting blankets to raise money for charities including Chas, and she also collected for Save The Children.”

****

Dr Habib Zaidi, 76

Family GP Dr Zaidi is thought to be the first doctor in the UK to have been killed by the coronavirus. The 76-year-old, from Leigh-on-Sea, Essex, died on 25 March in intensive care just 24 hours after being taken ill. He and his wife, Dr Talat Zaidi, 70, were both managing partners of Eastwood group practice and had served three generations of families in the area for nearly 50 years. The couple’s four children all work in the medical profession. Daughter Dr Sarah Zaidi, also a GP, said his death was “reflective of his sacrifice. He had a vocational attitude to service.” She added: “We can’t mourn in the normal way. We can’t have a normal funeral. He left a gaping hole in our hearts, but a loss that is also felt within the community that he devoted almost his entire life to. We are praying for the safety of everyone right now.”

Dr Jose Garcia-Lobera, GP chair at NHS Southend clinical commissioning group, said Zaidi had left behind an “incredible legacy”. He said: “[He] was a “hugely respected, selfless man who dedicated his life to helping others. Dr Zaidi will always be remembered for his significant contribution to local health services through his long career as a GP.”

****

Mark Barnett, late 60s

Barnett was the headteacher at Westfield in Acomb, one of York’s biggest primary schools, for more than 17 years when he stepped down in 2008 aged 55 to work for the City of York council as a consultant headteacher. His family confirmed that he was taken into York hospital with breathing difficulties and died of Covid-19 on 1 April. Praised as a deeply committed teacher, he was a recipient of the Teacher Of The Year title at the Community Pride Awards.

Cllr Andrew Waller, a school governor at Westfield who knew Barnett well, said: “He was an inspirational headteacher and a legend in the community. Everyone knew Mark and he had a huge amount of respect.” Singer and former teacher Ian Donaghy said: “Mark was all about the children and not himself. You see a lot of career teachers out there, but Mark wasn’t one of them. The city has lost a big, big influence on children. His big thing was happy kids learn, it’s not about jumping through hoops or league tables. We could do with a few more like Mark.”

****

Eddie Large, 78

Large, best known as one half of the comedy duo Little and Large, died after contracting the coronavirus in hospital where he was being treated for heart failure, his son said.

The Glaswegian comedian, whose real name was Edward McGinnis, found fame alongside Syd Little in the 1970s and 80s, when their TV performances attracted millions of viewers.

His son, Ryan McGinnis, broke the news in a Facebook post on 2 April, explaining that his father had caught Covid-19 while in hospital. He wrote: “It is with great sadness that Mum and I need to announce that my dad passed away in the early hours of this morning. He had been suffering with heart failure and unfortunately, whilst in hospital, contracted the coronavirus, which his heart was sadly not strong enough to fight. Dad had fought bravely for so long. Due to this horrible disease we had been unable to visit him at the hospital, but all of the family and close friends spoke to him every day.

“We will miss him terribly and we are so proud of everything he achieved in his career with Syd and know that he was much loved by the millions that watched them each week.”

****

Caroline Saunby, 48

Saunby, a mother of two young boys, had no known underlying health conditions and started exhibiting Covid-19 symptoms on Thursday 26 March. By Sunday, she had died.

She collapsed at her home in New Marske, North Yorkshire, where she had begun to struggle for breath after initially having a sore throat, which she thought was tonsillitis. An air ambulance was dispatched and Saunby was put on a ventilator at home before being taken to James Cook University hospital in Middlesbrough, where she died the same day. She leaves behind her husband, Vic, and six-year-old twins, Joseph and Elliot.

Her twin sister, Sarah Jarvis, described her “unbearable heartbreak” as she pleaded with people to take the coronavirus seriously. She told the Northern Echo: “Caroline took every precaution under the sun. She was practising social distancing, she was washing her hands, took hers and everyone’s safety seriously, was healthy, yet she was taken from us in only four days. This virus does not discriminate.”

****

Paul Ramsden, 80

It was only when Ramsden’s wife, Jacky, struggled to wake him that it dawned on her something was seriously wrong. Paul was fit for his age and had no known underlying health conditions.

He fell ill soon after the couple returned from the Canary island of La Gomera. Jacky said Ramsden’s only obvious symptom was tiredness, but when she tried to rouse him from his sleep on 22 March, the penny dropped. He died five days later.

Jacky, from Lytham near Blackpool in Lancashire, told the Blackpool Gazette: “It’s very clear that while the vulnerable are susceptible to this virus, it also strikes down fit and healthy people. I wish people to take the government guidelines seriously and to abide by them so we can avoid further heartbreak. I feel lucky to have enjoyed 40 years of love and adventure with Paul, but I am saddened that our marriage has been cut short in this way.”

****

Linda Tuppen, 66

A former nursery nurse and teacher, Tuppen died from suspected coronavirus after caring for her son, who is also thought to have caught the disease. She was found lifeless by her son, Rob, on 28 March, a day after she had refused to speak to NHS’s 111 service when she fell ill, deciding to sleep instead.

Tuppen – who suffered from asthma – had been looking after Rob after he developed Covid-19 symptoms following his return from Krakow, Poland, earlier last month, but then began to feel unwell herself.

Her other son, 23-year-old James, was admitted to hospital a day later with coronavirus symptoms. In an interview with MEN, Rob recalled the moment he found his mother at her home in Bolton, Greater Manchester. “I was in a panic, she was just lay there, and I shouted ‘Mum, mum,’ but she didn’t answer,” the 28-year-old software engineer said. “I was doing chest compressions until the ambulance came. I was still in the room when he came over and said she was gone. It’s devastating. We lost our father in 2008, so we’re pretty much on our own now.

“She was a kind, loving lady who adored me and James and would have done anything for us. She always used to say that we were her lives. She would do anything for anyone.”

****

Thomas Harvey, 57

The NHS healthcare assistant caught coronavirus and died after treating patients with only gloves for protection, according to his family.

It is claimed Harvey fell ill after helping a patient who later tested positive for Covid-19 and eventually died on 29 March. He had been signed off work more than two weeks earlier when he developed symptoms including a cough, shortness of breath and body aches.

His family said that if he had had the correct personal protective equipment, he might still be alive. Goodmayes hospital in east London claims there were “no symptomatic patients on the ward”. But a former colleague told the BBC that Harvey contracted the virus after treating a patient who later tested positive.

Harvey’s daughter, 19-year-old Tamira, told the BBC: “It’s so sad. I feel like he was let down in so many ways. It’s an absolute tragedy and he didn’t deserve to lose his life in the way he did. If he had just had the right equipment, we wouldn’t be in this predicament and it wouldn’t have escalated in the way it did.”

****

Peter Sinclair, 73

Sinclair was a professor of economics and a former tutor to David Cameron. He taught the future prime minister during his time at Oxford before joining the University of Birmingham in 1994. He later became director of the Bank of England’s Centre for Central Banking Studies. Cameron described him as “one of the cleverest people I ever met” and said he had inspired “generations of students”. He added: “It was a complete privilege to know him.” Sinclair died in intensive care on 31 March after testing positive for coronavirus.

****

Alfa Saadu, 68

Saadu was a distinguished former medical director of Princess Alexandra hospital NHS trust in Harlow, Essex. He grew up in Nigeria and travelled to the UK to train as a doctor at University College London. He retired in 2016 after a 40-year career in the NHS. He was volunteering at his local hospital in Welwyn, Hertfordshire, one of the counties worst hit by coronavirus, when he became infected. He died after a two-week battle with the disease, according to his son Dani. Dani said: “My dad was a living legend, worked for the NHS for nearly 40 years, saving people’s lives here and in Africa. Up until he got sick he was still working part-time saving people.”

****

George Mason, 71

Mason and his twin brother, Malcolm, had been cutting hair in the same barber shop in Gosport, Hampshire, since they trained together as teenagers. In a statement, the Mason’s Barber Shop said he “always brought laughter and happiness and it will be so hard not working alongside him any more”. Speaking to Solent News, Malcolm said: “George was good fun – we had our moments like all brothers do, but got along brilliantly. He was a real family man and cared deeply about those around him.” As he began suffering from the virus, George told his brother he “wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy”. He was placed on a ventilator last weekend and never recovered. He is survived by his wife, Bobbie, his children Joanna and Natalie and grandchildren Hannah and Ben.

****

Ismail Mohamed Abdulwahab, 13

The rare death of someone so young from coronavirus has prompted widespread shock and concern. Ismail, who had no underlying health conditions, died on 30 March at King’s College hospital, London, after testing positive for Covid-19. Ismail, who had six siblings, lived in Brixton, south London. His family said they were “beyond devastated”. In a later statement they said: “Ismail was a loving son, brother, nephew to our family and a friend to many people who knew him. His smile was heartwarming and he was always gentle and kind.”

****

Luca Di Nicola, 19

Di Nicola was a chef from Nereto, near the Adriatic coast of Italy, who was living with his mother and her partner in Enfield, north London. He died on 24 March in North Middlesex hospital. His death was announced on the same day as Ismail Mohamed Abdulwahab’s. A postmortem revealed that Luca had Covid-19. His aunt Giada told La Repubblica that a GP had prescribed him paracetamol for a cough and fever. She said the doctor had told him “he was young, strong and [had] nothing to worry about”.

****

Harold Pearsall, 97

Pearsall was a hero of the D-day landings who was awarded the Légion d’honneur for his part in the allied assault on Caen in 1944. He landed on Juno Beach along with the Royal Artillery. “We never fired a round. When that first shell came in, I could have crawled down a worm hole,” he said last year at an event to mark the 75th anniversary of D-day. His unit went on to suffer heavy losses as it was attacked with phosphorous bombs and grenades, he said of the Caen operation. He died in Birmingham’s Good Hope hospital on 27 March after testing positive for Covid-19. Pearsall had two sons and had been an active member of D-day veterans’ groups. “He was very proud and always clean, smart and tidy,” said Peter Lloyd, secretary of the 1944 Alliance Normandy-Market Garden veterans’ association.

****

Andrew Jack, 76

Jack was a dialect coach and actor who appeared in three Star Wars films. He died in hospital in Surrey on 31 March. His wife, Gabrielle Rogers, also a dialect coach, tweeted: “We lost a man today. Andrew Jack was diagnosed with coronavirus two days ago. He was in no pain, and he slipped away peacefully knowing that his family were all ‘with’ him.” Jack lived on one of the oldest working houseboats on the Thames. According to his agent, Jill McCullough, he was fiercely independent but also madly in love with his wife. He appeared in Star Wars: Episode VIII – The Last Jedi as General Ematt, as well as Solo: A Star Wars Story and Star Wars: Episode VII – The Force Awakens. He had been working as dialect coach on a new Batman film. Sam Neill was among many actors to pay tribute. He said Jack was a “lovely man” and “joy to work with”.

****

Maria Lawrence, 48

Lawrence ran a business selling gift bags in Derby. According to her son, Dan Clark, she was also a “community champion” in the city and founded a Secret Santa scheme which she ran for free. Speaking to the Derby Telegraph, he said: “She was like an angel and very well regarded in the community. She was selfless too. Nothing was done for herself. She ran all these things out of charity.” Lawrence was unaware she had any health problem until she was diagnosed with coronavirus. Further tests revealed she also had vasculitis, an inflammation of the blood vessels, worsened by Covid-19. She died at Royal Derby hospital on 20 March.

****

Frank Rust, 81

Rust was a Labour councillor for Rushmoor borough council for 28 years, and was due to serve a second stint as mayor next year. A passionate Spurs fan, he was a retired NHS manager and had also held senior posts in education. The former Labour cabinet minister Hazel Blears was among those sending tributes, describing him as a “lovely man”. His son Karl wrote: “Sorry dad you were added to the pandemic stats today but you were not a victim or casualty in these dark days. You lived life to the full never stopping learning new things, keeping active, helping people and the community you represented. You were a good dad. I am pleased you had enough time to enjoy being a grandad to Archie.” Rust died on 30 March at Frimley Park hospital, Camberley, Surrey.

****

Pat Midgley, 82

Midgley was a Labour councillor in Sheffield for 33 years, and was described by her family as a “true woman of steel”. The shadow chancellor, John McDonnell, was among many figures in the Labour party to praise her years of service. In a message to her son Neil, McDonnell said: “The flood of tributes to your mum shows just how loved she was and how respected for her dedication to her community to the end.” Julie Dore, the leader of Sheffield city council, said: “I am heartbroken. This makes coronavirus all the more real.” Midgley was admitted to Sheffield general hospital on 24 March and was confirmed positive with Covid-19 a day later. She died on 29 March. She is survived by her husband of 60 years, three children and five grandchildren.

****

Frank Hammond, 83

Hammond died in Stepping Hill hospital in Stockport on 26 March. He tested positive for coronavirus despite having no cough and only a mild temperature. His daughter, Trisha Conroy, paid tribute to a “lovely, funny man who always wanted to make people laugh”. He enjoyed art and making scraperboard images and loved walking in the nearby Peak District. A photography enthusiast who worked in a Jessops camera shop for many years, Frank had suffered from chronic lung disease and had reduced mobility but was otherwise in good health before he fell ill, Trisha said: “He used a walking frame in the house and a mobility scooter when he was out after he lost a lot of the strength in his legs but was otherwise in decent shape.” He is survived by his wife, Brenda, daughters Trisha and Claire, and four grandchildren.

****

Christopher Vallely, 79

Vallely died in Belfast’s Mater hospital just hours after his wife, Isobel, passed away in the same hospital room. Earlier this year, he had been diagnosed with lung cancer. He was admitted to hospital and placed in isolation after testing positive for Covid-19. Vallely, who was known as Arty, retired to his native Belfast in 2003 after working for decades in England. He lived near the Falls Road in west Belfast. He died on 29 March.

****

Isobel Vallely, 77

Vallely died on 28 March, the day after the couple’s 53rd wedding anniversary. She had had a stroke last year, and was admitted to hospital on 26 March after testing positive for coronavirus. Her daughter Fiona said both Isobel and Christopher were “amazing parents”. She added: “They were fantastic people who did not deserve to go this way.”

****

Amged El-Hawrani, 55

A respected ear, nose and throat consultant who worked at Queen’s hospital Burton in Derbyshire, El-Hawrani was the first confirmed hospital frontline worker to die in the UK after testing positive for coronavirus. His death prompted tributes from ministers and senior health leaders. In a statement, his family said: “His greatest passions were his family and his profession, and he dedicated his life to both. He was the rock of our family, incredibly strong, compassionate, caring and giving. He always put everyone else before himself.” He died on 28 March at Leicester Royal Infirmary.

****

Hilda Churchill, 108

Believed to be oldest coronavirus victim in the UK, Churchill was a survivor of the 1918 Spanish flu. She died in a Salford care home on 28 March, hours after testing positive for Covid-19 and just eight days before what would have been her 109th birthday. Before she died, she had been reminiscing about the Spanish flu, according to her grandson Anthony Churchill. She and most of her family in their home in Crewe had become infected, including her father, who collapsed in the street with the flu, she recalled. They all survived apart from her 12-month-old baby sister. “Grandma said she remembered a small box being put in a carriage,” her grandson said. “She was saying how amazing it is that something you can’t see can be so devastating.” Hilda was a seamstress who moved to Salford during the depression to find work. She was known for her cooking skills, particularly her gravy. She had four children, 11 grandchildren, and 14 great-grandchildren.

****

Adil El Tayar, 63

Tayar was the first working NHS surgeon known to have died from Covid-19 in the UK. He had been volunteering in A&E departments in the Midlands to help the NHS cope with the virus. “He wanted to be deployed where he would be most useful in the crisis,” said his cousin, the broadcaster Zeinab Badawi. “It had taken just 12 days for Adil to go from a seemingly fit and capable doctor working in a busy hospital to lying in a hospital morgue.” His former colleague Abbas Ghaznafar, a renal transplant surgeon at St George’s hospital in Tooting, described Tayar as a “noble human being” who was a “hardworking, dedicated surgeon”. He died on 25 March at West Middlesex University hospital, London.

****

Pooja Sharma, 33

Sharma was a hospital pharmacist who died from the virus a day after it claimed the life of her father. She worked at Eastbourne District general hospital in East Sussex. Lara Stacey Young, a nurse in the area, said: “So many people will be devastated. She was such a lovely soul.” Amarjit Aujla, a friend from childhood, said: “Her laughter was contagious and her random calls made my day. From when we were in primary school until we last spoke two weeks ago, you gave me nothing but love, support and a tummy ache with all the laughter.” She died on 26 March.

****

Sudhir Sharma, 61

Sharma was an immigration officer at Heathrow Terminal 3. He died on 25 March, a day before his daughter also succumbed to the virus. It is unclear whether the pair had any contact before both contracted the disease. Sharma had health problems and had not been on duty at Heathrow since early January. Nick Jariwalla, director of Border Force at Heathrow, said: “Sudhir was a very well-respected, kind and experienced officer. He will be greatly missed by everyone.”

****

Adam Harkins Sullivan, 28

Harkins Sullivan, from Camden, north London, was a painter and decorator and father to a six-year-old son. He worked with his father who gave him his nickname, Spud. Speaking to the Camden New Journal, his mother, Jackie Harkins, said: “I’ve lost something very precious to me that can never be replaced. We are all just in shock because he was only a young man. He was healthy – you didn’t have to tell him to eat his greens, he was always like that.” An otherwise fit man, he had been taken to hospital with suspected pneumonia. He died on 24 March at University College hospital in London in an isolation ward for coronavirus patients.

****

Doreen Hunt, 72

Hunt was born in 1947 in Canning Town, east London, into “extreme poverty”, said her son Steve Hunt, adding that she was brought up in “one of the poorest families in a poor area”. After leaving London for Dunstable in 1973, Hunt ran an insurance business for many years with her husband, John, in the Bedfordshire town. “She became as successful in business as she was as a mother, grandmother and great-grandmother,” her son said. “She travelled the world and enjoyed a rich and varied life.” Hunt had been on dialysis for kidney problems at Luton and Dunstable hospital but her condition deteriorated rapidly and she was admitted to intensive care last Friday. She died two days later, on Mother’s Day, her family said. After her death, tests results confirmed she had been infected by the coronavirus.

****

Steven Dick, 37

Dick was the UK’s deputy ambassador to Hungary. He had been with the Foreign Office since 2008 and had previously served in Kabul and Riyadh. His parents, Steven and Carol Dick, said: “Steven was a much-loved son, grandson and nephew. He was kind, funny and generous. It was always his dream to work for the Foreign and Commonwealth Office and he was very happy representing our country overseas.” Shaun Walker, the Guardian’s central and eastern Europe correspondent, said: “He was a jovial, intellectually curious and extremely helpful person. He spoke fluent Hungarian, having undergone a year’s training before taking up his position last autumn. Early last week he helped coordinate arrangements for me to get back into the country, and mentioned that he had tested positive for coronavirus, but at that time said he was feeling fine.”

****

Allan Oldcorn, 74

Oldcorn was a retired lorry driver for Bowater-Scott, which manufactured tissues and toilet rolls. Wendy Cavin, one of his three daughters, fondly remembers him leaving sweets for her and her sisters on the family mantelpiece in Flookburgh, Lancashire, when he was doing night shifts. Speaking to the Cumberland News and Star, she said: “He was the go-to man when it came to Flookburgh charter fair day, when everybody needed toilet rolls to make their float flowers.” She added: “He was an amazing husband, dad, grandad and great-grandad – the anchor of our family.” Oldcorn, who had been “fit and healthy”, died on 21 March, a day after being admitted to hospital with shortness of breath and backache. Doctors later confirmed he had tested positive for coronavirus, Cavin said on Facebook.

****

Michael Gerard, 73

Gerard was a teacher, musician, campaigner and lifelong Guardian reader. His daughter, Sushila Moles, described him as “loving, kind and always supportive”. She said he made up daily limericks and entertained her with bizarre conversations. Gerard grew up in Shortlands in Bromley, south-east London. He met his wife, Caroline, at Durham University and the couple both worked as teachers in Leicester. Later Gerard specialised in teaching visually impaired children. Moles said: “He was a hoarder, which worked well for this occupation as he always had a boot full of noisy toys and tinsel that he used to help children.” He played many musical instruments but was most accomplished at the violin and founded several orchestras and bands near his home in Clarendon Park, Leicester. He was a Woodcraft Folk leader for 30 years, a former president of the Leicester Secular Society and a frequent attender of anti-war demonstrations. In later years he had a number of health problems including Crohn’s disease. He was diagnosed with Covid-19 on 18 March and died four days later at Leicester Royal Infirmary.

****

Jon Jacob, 69

Jacob was a successful property lawyer and partner at the London firm Bower Cotton Hamilton, who lived in Chesham, Buckinghamshire. He was a stalwart of quiz leagues in London and the Chilterns, known for his formidable knowledge of classical music. A friend said Jacob “wore his knowledge lightly, and was very modest and self-effacing, always genuinely surprised to be told how good he was. He was also a lovely man: kind, generous and absolutely delightful company. He will be sorely missed by all his friends in the quizzing family.” Paddy Duffy, another fellow quizzer, tweeted: “Just a lovely man, brilliant fun and incredibly erudite. I’ll remember fondly our Sunday matches and our japes on the quiz holiday in Rhodes.” Jacob died on 23 March of complications from Covid-19.

****

Ruth Burke, 82

Burke was the fourth victim of coronavirus in Northern Ireland, according to her daughter Brenda Doherty. She said her mother had “unbelievable strength and suffered many challenges in her life”, adding: “Unfortunately this was one that she was not going to overcome.” In an emotional video on Facebook she said: “We couldn’t be with her when she passed. We’ll not see her coffin, we’ll not get to kiss her.” Doherty urged the public to stop panic-buying and stay indoors. “My mum would not have believed how people are behaving. She would have thought better of society. My mum was a woman who loved life. If you value life, you will stay in and do as you’ve been asked.” Burke’s death was announced by Doherty on 24 March.

****

Marita Edwards, 80

She was a very gentle loving woman and a friend to everybody,” Edwards’s son Stuart Loud said. She grew up in the village of Mangotsfield near Bristol. She worked as a cleaner in a factory in the city and brought up two children with her first husband. She found a new life with her second husband on the other side of the Bristol channel in the village of Bulwark in Monmouthshire. She was a regular at the Conservative Club in Chepstow, where she enjoyed dancing. “She had a very rich social life, much better than mine,” said Loud. Edwards was a former captain of the women’s golf team at St Pierre country club in Chepstow, and continued to play golf until she was admitted to hospital for a routine operation in February. She died three weeks later of hospital-acquired Covid-19 a day after testing positive for the virus. Loud said: “She was a lovely lady and it was just a horrendous way to go. I just want to make people aware of that.”

****

Peter Myles, 77

Myles’s struggles with Covid-19 were documented on social media by his daughter, the actor Sophia Myles. She said she had done it to show the “harsh reality of the coronavirus”. In 2018 she tweeted about her father’s diagnosis with Parkinson’s disease. Before he retired in 2008, Myles was an Anglican vicar at St John’s church in Isleworth, west London, where he was described as a “liberal soul”. After being ordained in 1971, his first job as curate was in Tideswell in Derbyshire. He spent the rest of his career in west London, including stints as a priest at St Peter’s church in Notting Hill and as chaplain to the bishop of Kensington. In his final years he lived in a care home close to St John’s. He died on 21 March.

****

Wendy Jacobs

Jacobs was the headteacher of Roose primary school in Barrow-in-Furness, Cumbria. Her leadership of the school was repeatedly praised by inspectors. “This vibrant school provides a good quality of education with outstanding features,” they said in a recent report. The school’s chair of governors, Fred Chatfield, said her death was devastating for the school and the community. “This is a huge loss,” he said. Jacobs died on 22 March.

****

William Stern, 85

Born Vilmos György Stern in Budapest, Hungary, on 2 July 1935, Stern was imprisoned as a child in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp during the second world war. He shared his memories of Torah readings in the camp on the Shoah website. After the war he settled in London and went on to build a successful property empire. Stern Holdings collapsed in 1973 and in 1978 Stern was declared bankrupt with debts of £118m, a record that stood for 14 years. He was a member of the ultra-Orthodox Haredi community in London.

****

Rina Feldman, 97

Like Stern, Feldman was a member of the ultra-orthodox Haredi community. No other details about her have been reported.

****

Jean Bradford Nutter

Bradford Nutter was the aunt of the former England rugby player Will Greenwood. In an Instagram post he said she “never did anything but bring sunshine into my life”. Greenwood said his aunt lived near his boarding school in Sedbergh, Cumbria. He said she was the eldest of three sisters and was in her 80s “but had so much living to do”. She died on 21 March.

****

Hassan Milani

Councillor Ali Milani, who was Labour’s parliamentary contender against Boris Johnson in Uxbridge and South Ruislip in the 2019 general election, revealed that his father, Hassan, had died after contracting the coronavirus on a trip to Iran. “In the early hours of this morning,” he said on Saturday, “my father tragically passed away after having contracted Covid-19. Please keep him in your prayers. This virus is taking millions all across the world.”

****

Craig Ruston, 45

Ruston, a rugby fan and father of two from Kettering, Northamptonshire, had been a footwear designer, including at Dr Martens, before being diagnosed with motor neurone disease. He had been writing about his struggle with the condition before he tested positive for Covid-19. But his posts became less frequent as he began losing the strength in his upper body. In one of his last, he wrote about a dream he had of standing beside his wife and daughters at his own funeral. He wrote: “I don’t fear death, but I can tear myself to pieces if I dwell too long on what happens when I’m gone.” His family said he was “not ready to go”. He died on 16 March.

****

Leonard Gibson, 78

Described by his family as a “typical jolly Irishman”, Gibson died on St Patrick’s Day, 17 March. He was born in County Tyrone and had 12 siblings. After moving to South Yorkshire aged 26, he worked at the coking plant at Orgreave. In retirement he enjoyed gardening, but problems with his lungs forced him to move into a sheltered housing flat in Oughtibridge, near Sheffield. He died in Sheffield Northern general hospital after being diagnosed with Covid-19. His daughters, Lisa, an NHS worker, and Michelle, a teaching assistant, were not allowed to visit him in hospital. Lisa said: “It is sad that we weren’t able to be with Daddy, but the nurses were there for us.”

****

Nick Matthews, 59

Described as a “true legend” of the Avon and Somerset police, Matthews retired as an officer in 2010 after a heart attack. He and his wife, Mary, from Nailsea in Somerset, had a week’s holiday on the Canary island of Fuerteventura at the end of February. Matthews was taken to Bristol Royal Infirmary after complaining of breathing difficulties on 12 March. He died on 14 March after testing positive for Covid-19.

****

Darrell Blakeley, 88

Blakeley was a churchgoer from Middleton in Rochdale and sang in the choir. He had a beautiful voice, according to a spokeswoman for St Michael’s church. He was also regarded as a “gracious gentleman”, she said. He had underlying health conditions and fell ill after coming into contact with someone who had travelled to Italy. Blakeley was admitted to North Manchester general hospital on 3 March with sepsis. He tested positive for Covid-19 on 10 March and died three days later.

****

Kimberley Finlayson, 53

Finlayson was the first British victim of coronavirus to be named after she died on holiday on the island of Bali in Indonesia on 11 March. She was the founder of a dental communication business based in Shenley, Hertfordshire, one of the counties worst hit at the start of the outbreak in the UK. She had four children. Her colleagues paid tribute to her “passion, creativity and determination”. Finlayson had lung disease and diabetes.

🕊️🙏🕊️🙏🕊️🙏🕊️🙏

#u.s. news #politics #politics and government #uknews #uk news #uk #covidー19 #covid 19 #covid19 #covid2019 #covid2020 #corona virüsü #coronavirus #world news #worldpolitics

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kbstories · 6 years

Text

Hey @your-a-good-man-arthur, ask and you shall receive! This is not a full fill of your prompt, but I hope you like it anyways c:

Leave This World Alive

Tags: Charles/Arthur, Canonical Character Death, Grief/Mourning, PS I Love You AU, Hurt Almost No Comfort

Warning for major chapter 6 spoilers!

>>Read on AO3

A year later, Charles Smith wakes and wishes he hadn't.

Lying on his back, he blinks up into the darkness of his tent. It's quiet outside, only the distant crackling of fire and hushed conversations to be heard. There's bird song, too, cheerful and carefree as it announces the break of a new day.

It doesn't feel right. Then again, nothing has ever since–

Charles closes his eyes again, lids clenched shut as if he could physically will away what this means. A year. Three-hundred-sixty-five fucking days have passed and the world spins on, a world without Arthur Morgan in it.

A few tears escape, burning in the corner of his eyes and trailing down his temples. They're due to leave a permanent path in his skin anytime soon. Wouldn't that be fitting? There's nothing Charles has to remember Arthur by, except the broken edges of his heart and the new lines grief has carved into his face.

Somewhere out there, there's a grave with his name on its cross – yet Charles hasn't been back since he buried him, hands aching, full of splinters as he engraved a wish into the wood, virtually blind with loss and exhaustion. He couldn't bring himself to.

Today of all days, he doesn't – can't – run from the rush of emotion that takes ahold of him. Charles inhales and exhales, shakier every time, and misses Arthur. The unique drawl of his voice, the gentle touch of too-rough hands; the way the right kind of smile could make his eyes light up, full of fragile hope and so blue.

There's nothing in the world that could compare, and Charles tried. He did. In those first weeks, when continuing to breathe felt too painful and the void inside made everything else meaningless, he went looking, was utterly convinced that if only he searched long enough, he'd find him eventually.

Somewhere in the margins, and even if just in the corner of a dog-eared book, Arthur must've left his mark.

It was all gone, though. Charles had stopped looking, and he still remembers viscerally how it hit him then. That Arthur – this kind, kind man, too kind for the things life had in store for him – left, not in the tumultuous roar they had envisioned for themselves over a shared bottle of whiskey under the stars but beaten and broken and alone.

A candle alight inside a storm, its flame quietly flickering out before it reached the end of its wick.

“Arthur, I swear...”

Charles fights for breath as he lies there without the familiar weight of the man he loves beside him, one set of lungs where there should be two, and he doesn't know how to end that sentence.

I swear I won't forget.

I swear I will finish what you started.

But he knows, deep within, there's only one thing Arthur would've wanted.

I swear I will keep going.

It's getting harder and harder to keep his promises.

Charles doesn't notice the courier's presence, at first.

He's tending to Taima as he does each morning, brushing the dust off her back and checking her legs for injuries. The past year, too, has had a toll on her; mere days after– after, she had started pawing the ground and digging her nose into Charles's pockets, and Charles had been too numb to understand at first that she was begging him for Arthur's treats, the ones he used to slip her when he thought Charles wasn't paying attention.

Some days, Charles wonders if horses grieve as well, or if he's just projecting his own state of mind onto her. Maybe it doesn't really matter.

When she turns her expectant gaze on him, Charles rolls his eyes and produces a carrot out of his back pocket. He breaks it apart and gives her the bigger half, keeping the other for himself.

“Ah, there– Mr. Smith!”

Charles stop chewing as his head snaps up, the mouthful sitting awkwardly on his tongue for a moment before he swallows. Nobody calls him that here. Eyes narrowed and shoulders tense, he reaches for his knife–

“Hey, uh”, the stranger says, eyes flitting nervously from Charles's hands to his face and back again. “Easy there, mister. Charles Smith, right? Just wanna deliver this letter I got for ya, and I'll be on my way. No trouble comin' from me, I promise!”

“Who?” Charles's voice sounds raspy even to his own ears. “Who sent you?”

Clearly, it doesn't inspire much confidence because the courier scrambles for an answer, quick enough to stumble over his words.

“A– Alden, sir. From the post office in Rhodes? Told me to look up in the mountains for ya. Never been this far up North, I believe– Ain't complainin', of course, no sir!”

Alden? A vague memory stirs. One of the discouraged men that have been popping up more and more, if you knew where to look for 'em. Charles holds out a hand, meeting the other's uncomprehending stare. “The letter?”, he prompts.

“Ah! Yes, sir, uh– Here.”

It has weight to it, the letter. Charles doesn't throw more than a cursory glance at it, not with the stranger-turned-courier trying to look as well, but there's something about it that makes his heart beat faster, awakened from its year-long slumber.

Only at Charles's raised eyebrow does the courier straighten up, “Right”, he says, nodding to himself. “I'll get goin'.”

For a moment, Charles watches him leave, weaseling his way past a busy camp filled with even busier people, almost comical with how out-of-place his uniform looks here. Seems like a lifetime ago that he's dealt with any outsiders. He can't say he missed it.

Charles shakes his head and looks down at the letter in his hands – Taima's on it before he can do more than flip it, ears pointed and nose flaring as she sniffs it curiously, and, with the practiced ease of having grown up with and around animals, Charles raises it out of her reach.

“That's for me, girl. You had your treat already.”

There's much to be done still; Charles needs to check the traps, maybe bring home a doe if luck is on his side. Last time he did so, Rains Fall told him he's earned his keep with or without hunting for them, but Charles feels better knowing he can help, somehow.

Later, he decides, pocketing the letter. He'll read it later.

It's past midnight when Charles returns, dried blood gone tacky on his hands and his feet half-frozen in his boots. Only after he's in his tent, washed and fed and as close to the much-needed fire as he dares, does he remember the letter.

It's in the back pocket of his discarded pants, and looking a little crumpled around the edges. Charles has to tilt towards the firelight to read the single line on the front of the envelope, and he nearly drops it entirely when he does.

Charles Smith in the delicate, narrow twists and turns of a handwriting he'd recognize anywhere, even five, ten, thirty years down the line.

And there's hope, for one blinding moment as he slides his fingers into folded paper and pulls out a few pages worth, hope that somehow, in some way, Arthur did manage to return to him. That this is the sign he's been looking out for, that there is a place to go and a date to keep in mind that will make the past year undone.

That somewhere there, at the end of the line, is Arthur with his drawl and his beautiful eyes, waiting for him.

That is not how these things are meant to go, of course. There in the corner, on the very first page, is a date and a place and Charles's chest aches with the loss of it all, the numbers blurring in front of his eyes.

Beaver Hollow, just a few days before–

“Oh, Arthur”, Charles breathes, less than a whisper as he realizes that this, reading Arthur's first and final letter to him, might very well be the last thing he does. That perhaps his tattered heart struggled on beating just for him to witness this, just as he was there to witness Arthur's dead body.

And yet, the feel of the paper between his fingers is familiar, comforting, reminiscent of that journal Arthur carried everywhere and there, down one side of it, it is a little torn where it was carefully ripped out. Charles wipes a stray tear off his cheek before it can drip down and ruin any of it. Even so he finds it impossibly hard to start, to take in anything beyond the Dear Charles at the very beginning.

Arthur's words, the rarest resource Charles has.

It's inevitable, that he does – start, that is, because he must. There is no world in which Charles wouldn't listen to what Arthur has to say, no matter how frail and weak his voice got, hacked into pieces by his coughing that will haunt Charles to the end of his days, too.

Thus, he reads, Dear Charles, and rubs at his chest where his heart breaks anew.

I've started this more times than I can count and to be honest with you, I still have no idea what I'm doing.

The thing is: I don't have much time. Well, you know this, obviously you do... I'm giving this letter to Sadie first thing in the morning, and if it made it's way to you, then that means I'm dead.

I think that's part of it, you know? Of the not-knowing. Never been a man to philosophize, and I ain't about to start now, but it's been on my mind. I don't know how this whole thing will turn out. I just know you made it out safe, and so will John, Abigail and lil Jack too. Might very well be the last thing I do.

Oh, Charles. All I know is I miss you. Sounds like a silly thing to say, with you being gone only a week but well, you and I both know this is it so... Here I am, acting like a fool for you once more. And while there's many things I regret, being with you was never one of 'em.

I would do it all again, you know? If that's what it takes, I wouldn't hesitate, not even a second. Being with you made life worth living, no matter how hard it got. I guess that's the thing about love, ain't it? I always thought it ain't meant for someone like me. You proved me wrong on that, as you tend to do. Made me a freer man than I ever was.

Because I do, Charles. I love you. Said it once or twice but it ain't ever enough. You were the best damn thing that ever happened to me and letting you go was the hardest damn thing, too.

And I'm sorry, for what it's worth. I'm sorry that everything turned out this messy. I'm sorry I can't be there now, with you.

I'll spend the time that's left for me thinking about you, Charles. There ain't much else I can give you. I hope, wherever you are, that you're thinking about me too.

And yet, while my story is nearing its end, it's only a chapter in yours. You deserve the world, Charles. You do. You told me not so long ago I owe you, and I think you didn't realize how much. I ain't got what it takes to ask another favor of you but...

Keep going, please. Do it for me, Charles.

I'm running out of space and there's so much more I want to tell you. Just know that that peace we was talking about finding? I think I did. I found it in you.

I'm yours, Charles. Always, remember?

Arthur

The letter has its own pocket in every one of Charles's shirts. Folded into a small square, the pages are tucked into that spot over his heart, a familiar weight.

Charles knows every word by memory and yet, every time when the leaves start to fall, he sits by Taima's side and reads it, sometimes to himself, sometimes out loud. The paper is weak where it's been bent too many times, the sketches that fill the few blank spots a little smudged but it doesn't matter.

Arthur is with him, always, and that is all that counts.

>>Read on AO3

#red dead redemption #rdr2 #charthur #charles smith #arthur morgan #a brokeback mountain reference and ps i love you in one fic? it's more likely than you think #bewareth typos and such #i wrote this in one go and it's 5am ayy #reblogs as always appreciated!!#long post #rdr fanfiction #my stuff #rdr #RDR spoilers

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drabblers · 6 years

Text

Three months late

Prompt: Mystique Fandom: Rurouni Kenshin Setting: Modern AU, Actors. This is part two continuation for the one-shot: “A Comedy of Romance.” The last part was “Goodbyes aren’t always final“. Characters: Kenshin Himura, Kaoru Kamiya, Misao Makimachi Word count: 3307

<…and if you would like to see more about my interpretation of the character, I would be pleased to do also demos from other scenes. Looking forward to hearing back from you. Respectfully yours, Kamiya Kaoru.>

Kaoru frowned at the email she had written, gnawing on her bottom lip thoughtfully. No, it was as good as it could get, she decided and pressed send. The email left, leaving her to stare at her depressingly empty inbox. Twenty-two applications send, only two replies – and both of them nicely worded versions of “sorry, not interested.”

It sucked to be an actress between jobs, with no good prospects waiting.

True, it was the same for all the starting actors and yes, she knew the industry was extremely competitive. But still, if she just got a chance, a real chance to play a significant role in an action movie… She sighed deeply. Sometimes her dream just felt too distant. Unreachable. Like a mission impossible. But Kenshin had told her that she just had to keep trying and to differentiate herself from her competition the best she could. For example, when she had an option to choose scenes to do a demo for, she should select ones that suited her strengths instead of going for the popular choices.

The thought of Kenshin drove her to check her mailbox’s spam folder, just out of habit. Ads for sunglasses, bags, online shop adds, and nothing else. Just typical.

It had been twelve weeks since the last shooting day party, since that night with Kenshin… since he had left for the Gobi desert. She hadn’t heard anything from him since then. No phone call. No email. No message. Nothing. His shoots for his next movie had supposed to take six to eight weeks, but now… it had been three months. Had she just dreamed that night? Maybe she had been too drunk and just come up with this elaborate make-believe memory and fooled herself into believing that Himura Kenshin had asked her to date him?

Or maybe, there was no self-deceit or mystique to it at all and it was like Misao said, that her co-actor had just made promises to get into her pants and after he had succeeded, he had fucked off to his merry ways and left her reeling.

She shook her head.

No, Kenshin wouldn’t do that. He was not the sleazy type, thank you very much. Which she had tried to explain to Misao as well – but given that her secrecy contract forbid her from mentioning Kenshin’s name until it was officially announced – her explanations had fallen on flat ears.

Kaoru groaned to her hands. She was frustrated and angry at herself, at Misao and most of all – at Kenshin. Why hadn’t he contacted her? It was the Gobi desert, not Mars! They had some form of communication down there, hadn’t they? Even if they didn’t have reliable phone lines or internet, there had to be old-fashioned snail mail or a courier or... something? Surely, If he wanted to, he had to have some way of contacting her?

…If he wanted to.

Gods, that was the one thing the devil on her shoulder kept whispering her. That she had understood the whole dating thing wrong and it was like Misao claimed, that he had just wanted one night’s fun.

No. Nope. She slapped her cheek, as if to drive away the poisonous thought, and rose, heading to her kitchen. Misao should be coming back any minute now and she had promised to cook tonight. Nothing fancy. Just something simple even a kitchen disaster like her could throw on a frying pan and call it dinner.

She lived in a two bedroom apartment in downtown Tokyo with her roommate since University days, Misao Makimachi. It was a useful arrangement for both of them. After all, freelance reporters and actresses shared the same problem: they got paid per project basis.

Kaoru had just gotten the frozen dinner on a pan when out of a sudden, the doorbell rang.

“Wait a minute!” Kaoru yelled, dumping tofu and frozen vegetables on a pan and setting to heat to hot. It should take several minutes to warm up anyways. She huffed, sweeping her hair aside and looked down at her comfortable pajamas. She had not bothered to dress up for the day, after all, it wasn’t like she was going anywhere. Should she change clothes to answer the door? Nah, no need. It was just Misao.

The doorbell rang again.

Kaoru growled. Seriously! Was Misao carrying something large, or just being lazy that she was not using her own keys to open the door?

She pulled the door open, about to say something rude but the words died on her tongue and she blanched in realization…

...and slammed the door shut right in front of his face.

———————————————–

“Oro?” Kenshin blurted, too stunned for more cohere words.

Something slammed against the door with a thud. Her back? Then, her shaky inhale echoed in the silence.

Kenshin lowered his hand and wetted his lips. “Miss Kaoru…?”

“Why didn’t you send a message?” She asked softly. “Even a letter? You had to have some form of communication available, even down there in the middle of nowhere.”

“I… I, ah… Um, one is sorry, that he is.”

“Sorry…?” She asked, taking a pointed pause. “I waited for you. Week, four weeks… twelve weeks and nothing.”

There was hurt in her tone: bewilderment, pain… but also anger. Kenshin squeezed his hands to a tight fist. God dammit! He should have known that man couldn’t keep things professional between them.

He took an inhale, finally gathering himself enough to speak. “This one did send you messages. Every day, in fact. But it seems that they got lost in transit, that they did. This one is sorry, that he is. Miss Kaoru – please, forgive this one.”

Clothes rustled, and something hit the door – her fist? No, her forehead?

He heard her drawn breath. “What happened?” She asked, her voice wavering only a little. “If what you say is true, how can you lose over a hundred messages?”

“That’s… Um, it’s a long story. A very personal story, that it is.” Kenshin cringed. “But in essence, this one’s interpreter… well, Enishi has a reason for being angry with this one, but this one honestly assumed that he could put his feelings aside and maintain a professional relationship.”

“…your interpreter?”

“Err, yes,” Kenshin said. “This one doesn’t speak Chinese – more than few words, that is – and whenever one does movies with Chinese one needs help with the language.”

The lock twisted, and she opened the door.

He stared at her, drinking in every detail of her. Her hair was in a messy bun, and she was wearing her pajamas and under her eyes, she had dark spots, like she had been trouble sleeping. Yet, despite everything, she looked like home and something in his chest ached. He wanted nothing more than to pull her close and tell her how he had missed her.

“Let me get this straight,” she started, gnawing on her bottom lip. “Your interpreter had a grudge against you? And he took it out by not sending your messages? Did the guy never want to have work in the industry or what?”

“Um, that’s… well, most likely he knew this one wouldn’t rat on him.” Kenshin hazarded, “As this one said, Enishi has a good reason for his anger, that he has. You see, this one, well, one was, but...” He stopped abruptly and looked aside, clearly trying to find the words but failing miserably.

She blinked slowly. “Um…”

Instead of continuing his stammering, Kenshin shook his head and dug into his shoulder bag and pulled out a stack of letters with a huge red stamp with Japanese text for "Return to sender" on them. “This one picked these up at the mail office in China. See the address?”

She took the stack gingerly, turning the unopened stack of letters in her hands. “That’s my name but… what the hell?”

“Enishi did send the letters as this one instructed him to, that he did. He just misspelled the address and when the letters did not reach a proper destination, they were returned to China – and given the distances, this one only found out about this last week, that one did. Note how small the error is?”

“Are you sure it was deliberate?” She asked. “I mean, even to me – it looks like a human error.”

Kenshin exhaled, relieved that she seemed to believe him. “I… Well, could this one come in?” He asked, glancing over his shoulder where a neighbor was peeking from the doorway. “One will tell you, but as it relates to personal history, one would prefer to keep it between the two of us, that he would.”

Miss Kaoru followed his gaze and blanched. “Err, yes – of course.”

She opened the door, wordlessly inviting him in… into an apartment with visible puffs of smoke floating around.

Kenshin stared. “Um-“

Which was, of course, the moment when the fire alarm blared to life, filling the apartment with ear-splitting beeping.

“Oh fuck.” Miss Kaoru said, pressing her hands to her ears. “Wait here!”

And she ran off to where the smoke was coming from.

Too curious to his own good, Kenshin followed her to – kitchen? Miss Kaoru had pushed a frying pan onto the kitchen sink with its contents and all and was staring at the fire alarm fixated to her ceiling like she wanted to smash it to pieces.

No wonder why, like him – she was on the shorter side and the kitchen did not have a convenient a ladder or step-stool. Well, not a stool most people would use to reach high places.

Kenshin grinned and without a second thought, grabbed a chair from next to her small dining table, stepped on its seat, tilted it on two legs and climbed to stand on the backrest, balancing it while reaching to the offending fire alarm.

And there!

Blessed silence.

Miss Kaoru stared up at him, her mouth falling open. “So you really do your own stunts—“

Kenshin covered his mouth with his hand, but couldn’t quite contain his snort in time.

She pouted at him.

And then he really couldn’t help it, but burst into laughter. Gods, her expression! He knew it wasn’t polite – no, it was downright rude but she had an unparalleled ability to make him laugh and forget his worries and stress. It was amazing. Just for that, he would have fallen in love with her…

“Mou! It’s not that funny,” she grumbled. “And get down here before you fall down, break your neck and force me to cart you down to hospital.”

“Sorry,” He straightened and jumped down. “It just seemed to be the fastest way to solve the problem, that it was.”

“I was not complaining.” She grumbled, turning to the offending attempt at dinner.

“Kaoru…”

———————————————————

His voice was soft, gentle when he whispered those syllables. He always said: Miss. He had never called her by her bare name. A shiver raced down her spine and something fluttered at the pit of her belly.

She didn’t turn around. Because if she did… she wasn’t sure what she would do.

Footsteps behind her, and then he stopped, close enough that his breath tingled at her neck. “I… This one missed you.”

She swallowed. “I missed you too.”

He laid his chin on her shoulder, resting his arms around her waist. Not forceful. He was simply there. Warm. Solid. And there. For her. She inhaled deeply, turned around in his embrace and asked, “are we still dating?”

“I… This one…” He frowned. “Aren’t we?” He finally asked. “One means, if you don’t want to…”

“I do!” She hurried to assure him. “I want to. I just, it happened so soon an then I didn’t hear anything from you-“

“One is sorry about that, but there was-“

“I believe you,” Kaoru hurried to interrupt him. “I know you said the whole thing with messages and interpreter spiraled out of your control and I want to know all about it, but before that… I just, are you sure that you want to date? With me?”

He blinked slowly. “Why wouldn’t one want to date with you?”

She looked aside, gnawing on her bottom lip. “It’s, well, you are you and I am…“ She waved her hand, directing his gaze to take note of the apartment’s small kitchen and all signs of student lifestyle style therein. The difference to the standards he was used to had to be obvious. After all, even when discounting the fact that he was a celebrity, he was exceedingly well of man and she… she was just a rookie actress starting in her career with a whole bunch of student loans to pay for.

He took his time studying her apartment from his spot, still holding her in his embrace. Finally, he noted out loud, “It’s homely, that it is. A lot cozier than the apartment this one used to live when he was just starting out, that it is.” He smiled at her, a hint of mischief sparkling in the corner of his eye. “Did you know, this one afforded to purchase a futon only after the Legend of Hitokiri Battousai was published and started breaking the box office records? Before that, one used to sleep curled against the wall.”

“…huh?” Kaoru gaped. “You mean…”

He shrugged. “This one knows very well how difficult it is to start out in this career, that he does.” He drew his arms a little tighter around her and looked at her seriously. “One knows how very proud and self-reliant you are, that one does. But if you ever feel that you could accept introductions or some other assistance one could offer…”

“No!” She yelped. “No, I’m fine. Thanks for offering though.” She mumbled, feeling the heat to rise to her cheeks. Gods, did he think she was asking for help? She wasn’t about to take advantage of him! “I was just…” She paused, and thought through what she had been about to ask which really came down to the question: are you sure that am I good enough for you? And suddenly, she felt very stupid. “It’s nothing”. She mumbled, pressing her face into his shoulder.

The whole time she had known him, Kenshin had been very consistent in his appreciation of her. His glances at her, his constant smiles, the way he always took her questions and concerns seriously and offered any help he could… No, even if she had no idea why he had decided to like her, it was obvious that he did enjoy her company.

“Kaoru…” He hesitated. “Is everything alright?”

“Yes,” She mumbled. “I just feel stupid, that’s all.”

He huffed fondly, stroking her cheek, wordlessly asking her to look up. “You are amazing.” He smiled. “You are funny, charismatic and if one could, one would never again leave your side.”

That last line! Only he could repeat his character’s line at her like they hadn’t spoken those words to each other in front of cameras and five dozen people three months ago!

She grinned, and replied her part, “Then stay.” And rose on tiptoes to kiss him.

He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her back, drawing her to his embrace like they had never parted. They kissed and kissed each other again…

“Kaoru, you are never gonna believe this, but the neighbor’s old lady said she saw…“ A female voice called out, only to turn to a shriek: “Oh my god.”

A shopping bag dropped to the floor.

Kaoru froze and turned to look at her roommate staring at them. Blushing, Kaoru untangled herself from Kenshin’s embrace and swallowed, “Um… Hi, Misao-chan.”

“Kaoru, you…” Her roommate stared. “That’s…”

Kenshin rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Um... Hi, I don’t believe that Miss Kaoru has mentioned me.” He smiled awkwardly, stepped closer to Misao and offered his hand for a handshake, “I am Kaoru’s colleague, Himura Kenshin, that I am. It’s nice to meet you.”

Misao took his hand and shook it. “Uh, Misao. Makimachi. I have heard quite a bit about you.”

“You have?” Kenshin asked, guileless.

“Uh huh.” Misao nodded, her eyes lighting up with unholy glee. “But more importantly, what was with that kiss? Do you kiss all your colleagues like that?”

Kaoru felt like face-palming. “Misao…”

“Hey, hey,” Misao protested. “It’s a valid question! A girl’s gotta know these things.”

Kenshin stiffened. “Uh… No. That’s not the case, that it isn’t.”

“Then, what’s with the kiss?” Misao’s smile had teeth. “Because if you step in Kaoru’s life just when it suits you and end up hurting my friend…”

Kenshin looked at Kaoru, a question in his eyes. Clearly, he wasn’t about to say anything if she wasn’t okay with it.

Kaoru’s heart melted. She smiled, and stepped to his side and wrapped an arm around his waist. “We are dating.” She said to her friend. “It’s a little bit sensitive information, so please could you keep it to yourself?”

Misao blinked. “Okay, if you say so… but, uh, what about the three-month long disappearing act? Weren’t you angry about that?”

Now Kaoru did cover her eyes and groaned into her palm. How often had she talked, ranted and whined about her mysterious colleague that had left of to shoot his film in China during the last three months to Misao? She couldn’t even venture a guess. “Yes I was, but there was a bit of trouble with the interpreter and...” She trailed off, noting how tense Kenshin seemed to be. Hadn’t he said it was private? Given his habit of understating things, it really had to be something he wasn't comfortable at speaking about. She looked at Kenshin and said decisively, “It’s all fine now.”

He shot her a relieved little smile that spoke more than a thousand words.

She had made the right choice then. She exhaled in relief, spun around and grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter. “But before that, perhaps we could order something to eat?”

Misao glanced at the kitchen sink. “Don’t tell me you burned the dinner again.”

“This time it wasn’t my fault!” Kaoru protested, holding out her phone. “Is Chinese fine for everyone?” She froze, realizing the faux pas as soon as she said it. He has just been three months in China. He had to be sick and tired of Chinese after that.

Kenshin grinned sheepishly. “Or perhaps this one could cook?” He volunteered. “You seemed to have planned on having a homemade meal tonight.”

Kaoru’s stare turned to shock.

Even Misao boggled. “You cook…?”

“Sure,” Kenshin quipped back and leaned down to gather the groceries Misao had dropped to the floor.

“Kenshin…” Kaoru hesitated.

“It’s fine.” He smiled at her. “This one enjoys cooking. It’s one of his hobbies even to this day, that it is. Besides, one did interrupt your cooking rather badly, that one did...”

"That's..." Kaoru cringed.

"Please, Miss Kaoru." Kenshin smiled at her. "Let this one do this small thing for you."

What could she say to that? Wordless, Kaoru nodded at him.

In silence, She and Misao settled down to sit around the dinner table and stare the spectacle of international action mega-star, Himura Kenshin unpacking Misao's groceries with quiet efficiency, and them rummaging through their fridge, pantry, and freezer for supplies to cook a dinner for them.

It was quite obvious that he knew what he was doing.

Kaoru gnawed on her bottom lip in silence, and Misao leaned over to whisper to her ear. “Forget everything I said and hold to him for your life. You and him... It's obviously a match made in heaven.”

AN: Happy new year!

#Rurouni Kenshin #Kenshin Himura #kaoru kamiya #kenkao #kaoken #misao makimachi #Rahmakapala's drabbles #AComedyofRomance

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jarienn972 · 6 years

Text

Only a Little Superstitious - Chapter 14

As real life has been a bit hectic lately, I haven’t had a lot of time to spend in my fictional worlds to get some writing done. Finally found some time to get this chapter finished up and while it’s a bit shorter than prior chapters, it has some important interactions for Emma: one with Grandmother Bending Willow and one with Killian. She knows that some big decisions will need to be made soon so this chapter gives a peek into her state of mind. Just a little dash of fluff and a little dash of angst here...

AO3 FF.net

From the beginning on Tumblr: 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13

After a lengthy but ultimately successful argument with Regina, Emma had the Queen's promise that the dagger would soon be on its to Arizona. Emma's explanation as to why she needed it hadn't been particularly easy; their theory was certainly far-fetched at best but it was the most plausible reasoning they had and thankfully, Regina was persuaded to humor Emma's crazy idea. Now, half an hour after the conversation with Regina ended, Emma and Grandmother Bending Willow sat in Killian's sharing their own quiet repartee until the vibration from Emma's cell phone interrupted them. Glancing at the screen, Emma could see that it was a lengthy text from Regina informing her that the courier had just departed Storybrooke and was now heading to Portland to put the package on a plane bound for their distribution center in Philadelphia. From there, the package would be transferred onto another aircraft to Phoenix and was expected to arrive there approximately 6:30pm Mountain Time.

Still wishing there had been a magical (and faster) way to get this incredibly important package here, Emma typed out a brief response, knowing in her own mind that these next few hours would be an anxiety-ridden waiting game. She could only imagine what story Regina had given the courier upon handing over a package containing not only the potion which was cleverly concealed inside tiny plastic prescription bottles Dr. Whale had provided but a very old and very sharp ornate ceremonial dagger. Hopefully, Mayor Mills had stressed the importance of the contents enough to impart a little fear into the courier – enough to ensure a safe, timely arrival. Regina had advised earlier that she had prepared enough potion for two doses and each was disguised as cough medicine should there be any scrutiny. The dagger had been identified as a historical object being sent for authentication through the National Parks Service representative who had located it through the assistance of the Storybrooke Historical Society. The latter organization didn't actually exist, but it provided a legitimate cover story to convince the courier to accept the weapon.

So now it was all about waiting. Emma was no stranger to waiting around, having spent many a sleepless night staking out a skip, but this experience was testing her patience. Killian's life was being threatened, both by the very real physical wounds as well as magically through the effects of the dagger's dark magic and there was no easy way to help him. Even with Grandmother's offer to stay and keep her company, Emma was anxious and this was going to be an aggravatingly long day, especially if Killian didn't wake soon. The longer he remained unconscious, the more Emma worried he might not wake at all. She'd honestly been surprised that he was already back in the room when they returned from the garage – even more so to discover that the doctors hadn't put the breathing tube back down his throat. Not being intubated made it slightly less of a battle to get the potion into him but he still had to actually be conscious to drink it.

Grandmother had done her best to help quell the evil spirits she sensed surrounding Killian. She'd added an additional turquoise stone and a few additional items to the medicine pouch including a tiny bundle of dried leaves bound with a thin piece of straw and another carved amulet, although Emma didn't get a close enough look at the stone to see what it resembled. The old woman drew the leather cord tightly closed again and repositioned atop Killian's chest.

"He is weak right now, but he still has much fight in him," Grandmother insisted as she hovered above his slumbering form. "These spirits have not been kind, but their time will soon pass. Time is short however as the Blood Moon will soon rise."

"It's tonight, isn't it?" Emma asked aloud, even though she already knew the answer.

"Yes, only a few hours from now," the elder woman replied.

"So, if we calculate that it's been three days since Yzma started all of this, then we've got three days left in our window of opportunity to re-open the portal," Emma thought out loud. "Assuming we can locate the right spot out in the vast expanse of desert and mountains where the magic might be strong enough…" Her sleep-deprived brain was running on overload as she contemplated all of the possibilities and probabilities that needed to align just perfectly to activate the portal. Not exactly as simple as tossing a damned bean. "And this is assuming that I can somehow summon the magic out of the mountains too and magically repair that broken dagger… Who am I kidding? I could rent a car and we'll be home in three or four days… but…"

Grandmother had a faint smile stretching across her lips as she placed a reassuring hand atop Emma's shoulder. She sensed the younger woman's apprehension and didn't envy any of the decisions Emma would need to make, but she knew her place was to guide Emma toward the right choices. "You've not made that decision because you fear he wouldn't survive the journey." She wanted Emma to know that she understood her hesitation to use such non-traditional methods – such untested methods. "I do see how these decisions are vexing you. No journey will be without risk, but I have felt a strength in you that is unlike any other being I've encountered. Listen to your heart. Listen to Killian's heart. There, you will find the answers you seek and you will be able to chose the correct path."

Emma tipped her head upward so that her gaze met the Navajo woman's warm and understanding brown eyes. Almost at once, Emma no longer felt the same insecurity and sadness. Something about those wise, knowing eyes filled her aching soul with a few moments of peace.

"Thank you," Emma said as she wiped at her tear-stained cheeks with the back of her hand. "I honestly can't thank you and Carlos enough for all you've done for us. You opened your home to a couple of strangers and believed my crazy stories about who we are and how we got here. I feel like we've known both of you forever and somehow, you seem to know me so well."

"I have always believed that people are brought into our lives for a specific reason. It may not always be clear what that reason may be at first, but there may always be some greater purpose." Grandmother's words certainly spoke to the wisdom of her years, yet while she couldn't quite figure out why, Emma's head told her there might be some other unknown connection. No matter what they might share though, nothing could disguise Emma's obvious fatigue and Grandmother's maternal instinct took over. "Now, I know you must be exhausted, child. It may be a while before your husband wakes and you should use that time to rest. You sleep for a while and I will wake you when he does."

"Okay," Emma replied with a weak nod of her bedraggled blonde head. "I'm not even going to argue." She sank back into the chocolate colored vinyl armchair trying to find a comfortable position. "I don't know if I'll actually sleep, but I'll still try." Grandmother grinned at the younger woman as located the spare blanket in the cabinet and handed it to Emma. There was no fooling this old woman. She knew Emma would be sound asleep in a matter of minutes – and she wasn't wrong.

The gentle nudge barely registered to Emma. The sensation of a hand upon her shoulder dissolved into her dreamscape until the sound of her name being called at last roused her from her deep sleep.

"I'm awake…" Emma stammered. "I'm awake…" She repeated the mantra as she stretched her cramped legs and twisted her torso as she attempted to work out the uncomfortable kink in her spine that came from sleeping in a chair with her knees nearly drawn up to her chest. She tried to remember if Storybrooke had a chiropractor because she was definitely going to need one once they returned home.

"Good afternoon," Grandmother's soft, calming voice replied. "I hope you had a good rest, but I knew you would like to know that your husband has awakened as well."

"Killian's awake?" Emma bolted upright, aches, pains and lingering drowsiness forgotten as her eyes darted immediately to the bed to her left.

"He is indeed, but he is still very weak," Grandmother warned. "He's been drifting in and out of consciousness for about an hour, but he seems to be coherent now. His mind is much sharper than you described earlier and he even remembered my name, although perhaps the spirits reminded him of that. We will not worry about those spirits right now though and I will give the two of you some privacy. Would you like me to bring something back for you later? You must be starving, child…"

"Coffee would be wonderful," Emma responded with a gracious smile. "Not sure about anything else… I haven't really thought about food, although I'd never turn down a good grilled cheese sandwich."

The old woman grinned, happy to see Emma's spirits lightening somewhat now that Killian had awakened. His battle was still far from over and Grandmother had made a vow that she would remain here to aid this couple until the evil was dispatched.

Killian had only heard portions of their conversation, his eyes still closed as he forced himself to remember where he was and what he'd been through. He was struggling with the tempting pull of the darkness and its pain-free bliss, but he knew he needed to be awake. Needed to let his wife know that there was still plenty of fight in him. "Swan?" His voice may have been raspy and barely audible, but it was a sound that didn't cease to make Emma smile.

"I'm right here," she replied, grasping his trembling outstretched hand. His skin was still far too warm and as he turned his head toward her and allowed his eyelids to open slowly against the assault of the bright overhead lights, Emma was heartbroken to discover that his eyes didn't seem as blue anymore. They were dull and greyish, lacking his usual spark. She squeezed his fingers tightly as she hopped out of the vinyl chair and moved to join him on the narrow bed. "Are you still hurting as much as earlier?" Oh, what a dumb question to ask, she chastised herself as the words rolled off her tongue.

"No, Love…" he assured her with a feeble attempt at a classic Killian Jones smirk. He didn't want her constantly worrying about him, but she wouldn't be easily convinced. "Still a few aches and pains, but it's not so bad…"

"You're a lousy liar, Killian Jones," was her response to his statement. "You're still way too warm and you're recovering from a very real stab wound while simultaneously having to fight the supernatural effects that the damned broken dagger left behind, so please, will you just be honest with me?"

"Not sure what you want me to say…" he said, not really knowing where to even begin. His skin may feel warm to her, but he in fact felt chilled clear to the bone. Half of the tremors in his limbs were caused by shivering, but the pain was still a very real factor as well. Whatever drugs were coursing through his veins merely dulled the constant discomfort. His entire torso ached with indescribable variations of agony – part searing, part throbbing and part crushing. How did he dare attempt to put this into words without horrifying the love of his life? "Yes, I'm in pain, Love, but it's no worse than anything I've experienced before and I've no intent to give in to it."

"Regina's potion will be here in just a few more hours," she reminded him. "If we can get the dark magic blocked, it should help you regain some of your strength and hopefully, get rid of the damned fever. Have you remained any movement in your legs yet?" She'd been assured by the doctors that he'd suffered no permanent damage from the broken dagger tip and that as the swelling decreased, he should recover normal movement but as she watched him squeeze his eyelids closed to concentrate, all she saw was complete and utter frustration etched into his features.

"It would appear not," he replied in a dejected voice and she immediately lowered her body against his, hugging him as tightly as she could without injuring him further.

"It will be alright," she assured him, resting her head on his shoulder even as she raised up a bit, feeling the pressure of the bag of rocks squished between their bodies. She intentionally turned her face away from his, not wanting to upset him with her now steadily flowing tears.

"I know, Swan," was all he said. She may have been shielding him from seeing her tears, but it didn't mean he couldn't feel the dampness soaking through the thin fabric of this awful dressing gown the hospital had put on him. "You're so tense, Love… Have you slept any?"

Seriously? Emma thought to herself as she tried to stop the waterworks, a tiny smile stretching across her dampened face. He was the one lying here feverish and in pain, and yet he was worried about her? "I got to sleep a little," she insisted. "It wasn't easy, but Grandmother can be very persuasive…"

"Good. 'Knew I liked that old woman…"

"Okay," she grinned, lifting her head so she could once again meet him eye to eye. "Don't you worry about me, Pirate. You just concentrate on getting yourself better…"

"That sounded like an order…" he teased.

"Did it need to be?" she laughed, thankful that he was in good enough spirits to taunt her with a joke. "Look, you just worry about getting some rest because I want to see you back on your feet and out of that bed…"

"Too tempting to not take advantage of me?" Killian asked with a devilish smirk, nearly convincing her that he was back to his normal, saucy swagger but it was too blatantly obvious that the amorous grin was merely a façade.

"Hardly," she chided with a small, unamused shake of her head. "Although you do cut quite the figure in that blue and white hospital gown… What exactly is that print? Paisley? No – are those little crescent moons?"

"Can't say I've been bothered to notice," was his reply, not even caring what design the ugly garment possessed. "What is the purpose of this bloody garment anyway? Scarcely covers anything and it's godawful scratchy…"

"I'm not even going to attempt to give a response to that because honestly, I don't really know. I'd say modesty, but since they tend to leave your backside hanging out, who the hell knows? I'm just glad to see your sense of humor returning. Makes me feel a little better…"

"Nothing to fear… I may be temporarily incapacitated, but that does not mean I've lost any of my charm or wit…"

"You're incorrigible," Emma chuckled. "That's what you are." He could joke all he wanted, but it was becoming evident that he was extremely tired. "Anyway, I know you're exhausted. I'm going to go find Grandmother. You just sleep…"

"So, was that an order?" he asked, eyelids already drooping.

"Yes, that was an order, Deputy. Love you." She wasn't certain he even heard her reply as his body had already gone slack with sleep. "Love you," she repeated, pressing a kiss into the back of his hand before replacing it at his side while she stood, eyes drawn to the clock on the wall next to the sink. It was now nearly 3pm. Just a few more hours to go and things should get better.

#cs ff #cs fanfic #cs fan fiction #captain swan ff #only a little superstitious

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safrona-shadowsun · 7 years

Text

Gifts for the Courier

He ducked to avoid smacking his head against the door frame, but this minor annoyance didn’t seem to perturb him in the least. Beautiful as an angel, his face stretched out with a knowing smile, he strode up to the Ethereal who had visited the Dalaran post office under his lady’s orders to gather up any correspondence that might have been sent to her and he reached out, tapping Saraj on the shoulder with one crimson claw. The Ethereal turned to face him, his head cocked to one side and he blinked as the enormous elf passed him a rather festive scarlet sack decorated with green and gold ribbons. He said not a word, only pointed at Safrona’s name written on the envelope in a looping, ornate hand.

A shared wink passed between the two servants before the elf spun on his heel and marched right back out, stooping to dodge the frame a second time. When Saraj finally returned to his lady’s lodgings in the Ledgermain Lounge, he passed the gift to her with a sly smile.

“Present for you,” he murmured, and he made no mention of the creature who’d delivered it into his hands–personally. Let her think it came in the post along with the thank you letters he deposited on the table. Upon opening the bag, Safrona found a bottle of wine so dark that it could have been distilled from Un’goro tar. The bottle glittered in the lamplight like the facets of a diamond and its label bore runes even she could not read.

Next, she pulled a glass vial from the bag, stoppered with a cork encased in lead. Blue as a summer sky, the liquid inside glowed with an unearthly light and she set it aside, brows arched and lips pursed. Another foray into the sack produced a thick black envelope on which the words “FOR SAFRONA SHADOWSUN, WHO DESERVES A RESPITE OF HER OWN” had been written in ink that looked like blood. Peeling it open revealed a piece of heavy cream parchment and a set of lines penned in that same steady hand. The title read: “HACHISHAKUSAMA,” but no name had been signed to the letter, giving no clues to the identity of the sender.

HACHISHAKUSAMA: Miss Eight Feet Tall, you walk like the giant You are not. Tell me, how many a client Has sipped from your special reserves? Who among your patrons deserves To taste the sweet nectar of the ripe plums that are your lips? Whose skilled fingers strum The aching chords of your tender heart?

Miss Eight Feet Tall, who has torn you apart And left you wearing a bitter secret smile? How often do you swallow down acid bile When you would much rather strike Down your ghosts with a hand like A biting snake? What flavour will lure you to find solace in an alcohol cure?

Miss Eight Feet Tall, you stride down the street Like a broken colossus on weathered stone feet. Have you ever tasted anything so sour As the tangy sting of false power Derived from stealing the secrets of poor men? ‘Tis your labour of love.

Miss Eight Feet Tall, you lumber like a Titan, But you are small; so how could you possibly frighten Bigger, bolder men who are driven to sin With a casual, tight-lipped, brittle grin? Your hair is their spilled blood woven tight, Hiding wise eyes like crumbled augite.

Miss Eight Feet Tall, I have watched you When you’d not a clue anyone knew The way you fingered foul gems on your lap While sinners raced headlong into your trap. I have seen you share secrets with souls Who are riddled with painful holes.

Miss Eight Feet Tall, I’ve seen you take Away a heavy heart’s miserable ache, And you ask for so precious little In return. Don’t you know the burden will whittle You down one day? So allow me To aid -you- now, with these gifts three.

Miss Eight Feet Tall, first, I present to you this Rhyme to explain what others may be remiss In expressing to you: you stand like a keep, Unchanging and sturdy, but your walls are so steep That few can scale them and discover What you hide from would-be lovers.

Miss Eight Feet Tall, second, I give only to you This crystal bottle filled with the wine that flowed through The veins of the god who rules over the dead. Be careful should you sip it! It might go to your head And leave you a lost spirit, wandering the realm Of the void with only Forgetfulness at the helm.

Miss Eight Feet Tall, third, I offer you this glass vial; 'tis filled with an angel’s cloying blood. Use it with sparing hand on annoying men who might press their uninvited attentions on you. 'Twill ensure their descensions to hell. Merry Winter’s Veil, may good tidings fall On your scarlet head, pretty Miss Eight Feet Tall.

{ ~Sent by Anonymous }

Someone was watching the Courier, clearly. Caught somewhere between unease and fascination, Safrona read the poetry through the night at her barstool, ruminating over who might have sent her such gifts late into the Winter’s Veil night, assessing every detail of their observance. She was amusement for them, whoever it was, and Saraj was uncooperative in the delivery of her gifts. Unravelling herself from frustration, she sought to enjoy her time away from delivery, simply treat her gifts and such. Long past the celebrations, the gift exchanges of patrons of the Ledgermaine Lounge, she’d finally let herself examine the packages in the privacy of her own room, each some priceless artifact to her she had no intention of opening.

It all brought her to old, long-forgotten memory of being in another’s skin, something closer to what she began as, and the sentiment lay gentle on her mind with the knowledge she had been on the mind of another.

#an amazing ask #for the courier #i have no idea if i set the poetry correctly but i hope so #winter's veil gifts

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elyserollston · 4 years

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COVID-19 – Impact on Small Businesses & A List of Small Business Grants

It’s hard to think about tomorrow. In a matter of 18 days, we experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows. Sharing my thoughts on being a small business owner during this time.

Honestly I just don’t know what to say. All of our lives have been turned upside down by the current events. I can’t sleep, my anxiety is through the roof, and I get stomach pains every time I eat. What keeps me up at night is Artemis. I just want to share with you my perspective as a small business owner during this time.

Outfit 1

Rejina Pyo

Marissa Webb

Jimmy Choo

Burberry

LELET NY

Outfit 2

Cecilie Bahnsen

MERLETTE

Topshop

AMINA MUADDI

Burberry

Outfit 3

BLAZÉ MILANO

ASOS

Stuart Weitzman

Burberry

Outfit 4

cuyana

BA&SH

Madewell

COMMON PROJECTS

Outfit 5

MUGLER

Elizabeth and James

Nine West

LOUIS VUITTON

Outfit 6

Banana Republic

Equipment

Madewell

JIMMY CHOO

LOUIS VUITTON

This was the last set of shop outfits I shared before we closed the store. We celebrated Artemis’s one year anniversary a few weeks ago (in the brick-and-mortar world, this is a milestone). We signed a 5-year lease renewal on March 1st. We hired our first team member on March 11th. We temporarily closed our shop on March 18th. In 18 days, we went from the highest highs to the lowest lows.

As a small business owner, we’re taught to innovate, put our heads down, and put the shoulders to the wheel. And we did. Once the shutdown hit, we started a courier service, curbside menu and pickups, appointments, phone consultations, and medical deliveries (we actually service a lot of clients who need CBD in conjunction with medical cannabis for medical conditions). We also continue to build out interactive exhibits for when we do open again. With all of this being said, we’re uncertain of the future. Words can not explain the fear I feel. We’re completely self-funded, we work everyday at the shop, and we watched her grow. Now, it just feels very dark.

My heart aches for all those impacted by this pandemic (I’m hoping to be part of a Medical Relief Effort and will update you on that soon). For some, the result of this is boredom, for others it’s quality time spent with loved ones. For some, they get to cook with their loved ones, for others they’re recalling the last meal they had with loved ones who’s passed. For some businesses this is a time to pause, for other small businesses this is one step closer to the reality that their dreams are shattering. The truth is… We’ll-get-through-this doesn’t apply to everyone. They’re projecting that over 50% of small businesses won’t make it. I’m not saying all of this to cause fear. I’m sharing this to acknowledge the despair, heartache, anxiety, and heaviness that some people and small businesses are going through right now.

With the hardships ahead, I’m going to continue to search for more grants and will continue to update the list below. If you are a small business or know of one that is struggling, please feel free to share this post and this list with them.

SMALL BUSINESS GRANTS

Grants.gov – Grants search hub.

Amber Grants for Women – Up to $25,000, small business grants for women.

San Francisco COVID-19 Small Business Resiliency Fund (SF ONLY) – It allows impacted small business owners to access up to $10,000 for employee salaries and rent.

NYC Employee Retention Grant Program (NYC ONLY) – Eligible businesses will receive a grant covering up to 40% of their payroll for two months. Businesses can access up to $27,000.

Office of Economic Development Fund (SEATTLE ONLY) – Grants will be awarded in an amount up to $10,000. Grant money may only be used for the operating expenses.

Opportunity Fund – Supporting small business owner whose business has been impacted by COVID-19. Contact them directly for more information.

James Beard Foundation Food and Beverage Industry Relief Fund – They are currently building out this fund. Stay tuned for more information.

Facebook Small Business Grants Program – Facebook is offering $100M in cash grants and ad credits for up to 30,000 eligible small businesses in over 30 countries where we operate. More details to come.

Amazon Neighborhood Small Business Relief Fund – This fund is intended to help support neighborhood small businesses in Seattle (South Lake Union and Regrade neighborhoods) and Bellevue.

Nellie Mae Education Foundation (AAPI COMMUNITIES ONLY) – Grant request must respond to a time-sensitive, unanticipated event or urgent challenge or need in communities. This grant is not intended to support ongoing programs and projects. Up to $15,000.

Ending this post with some joy… can you share your favorite coffee shop, boba shop, clothing store, tailor, speciality store, nail salon, sushi spot, etc? And why are these places special to you? Were they where you went on your first date? Had your first kiss? Had a super memorable customer service experience? I’d love to hear your story, and moreover, how these shops and businesses have brought joy to your life.

Thank you so much for reading! Wishing you and your family all the best in health. Please stay safe and please take care.

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fashioncurrentnews · 4 years

Text

COVID-19 – Impact on Small Businesses & A List of Small Business Grants

It’s hard to think about tomorrow. In a matter of 18 days, we experienced the highest highs and the lowest lows. Sharing my thoughts on being a small business owner during this time.

Outfit 1

Rejina Pyo

Marissa Webb

Jimmy Choo

Burberry

LELET NY

Outfit 2

Cecilie Bahnsen

MERLETTE

Topshop

AMINA MUADDI

Burberry

Outfit 3

BLAZÉ MILANO

ASOS

Stuart Weitzman

Burberry

Outfit 4

cuyana

BA&SH

Madewell

COMMON PROJECTS

Outfit 5

MUGLER

Elizabeth and James

Nine West

LOUIS VUITTON

Outfit 6

Banana Republic

Equipment

Madewell