#Birmingham Town hall

[bobdylan-n-jonimitchell]

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Bob Dylan “She Belongs To Me” Birmingham Town Hall, Birmingham, England, May 5, 1965.

“For Halloween give her a trumpet— And for Christmas, buy her a drum”

[thefollyflaneuse]

Earl of Plymouth Monument, Bromsgrove Lickey, Worcestershire

In 1833 Other Archer Windsor, 6th Earl of Plymouth, died. Almost immediately there were calls to erect a monument in his honour, and a public subscription was raised. With funds in place, the foundation stone was laid in May 1834. The chosen site was on Bromsgrove Lickey, a prominent eminence which would ensure that the obelisk would be an ornament to the landscape and visible from miles…

[bluesman56]

Jump for joy in Birmingham by Tony

[kitixie]

The Sapphire Ring

request: Hi! If your requests are open, I’d like to ask for a Thomas Shelby x Reader. Tommy gets injured in WW1 at some point and is taken care of the same nurse (reader) at the battlefield medic hospital. She has something distinct about her (I was thinking maybe some unique piece of jewelry so it could apply to anyone). He always remembered the nurse for helping him and the reader always remembered him as a patient she saved after losing a lot of her patients. And then years later they reconnect in Birmingham (he recognizes her jewelry first). Just helping eachother through hardship and fluff and reconnection leading to romance. You’re the best, can’t wait to see what you do with it! Thanks!

word count: 2.5k

warnings/info: no warnings for this, just sweetness and a happy ending :) also, i promise i am working on the next part of “Little Girl Gone”, so be on the lookout for that this weekend!! i had so much fun doing this request, i’d love to do more so if you have any requests, please let me know! enjoy!!

1916, in the midst of World War 1.

“Y/N, there’s a patient down the hall, he’s just out of surgery. Would you check on him, Love?”

You turned to face MaryAnn, the lead nurse tonight. Her curly brown hair framed her face a shoulders, her soft smile aimed at you.

“Of course, MaryAnn,” you said, returning her small smile.

Making your way down the hall, you ducked your head in. Most of these patients you’d already seen, so spotting a new face shouldn’t be hard. Especially if he was fresh from surgery, his moaning and grumbling would probably be heard before he was seen.

You had been working at the hospital for two years, you had only started working here because of the war. Your brother had gone off to fight, leaving you and your father home alone together. Your mother had passed away two years before that, leaving you only her cherished sapphire ring. The piece of jewelry was the only luxury your mother had ever had, growing up in a small town on the banks of Dundalk. It was a large sapphire in the center, flanked on four sides by sparking, clear diamonds. You wore the ring at all times, not much worrying if it would get messed up, as the hospital had paid you nicely, and you’d saved up a small pile just in case something happened to it. You loved the ring almost as much as your mother did, feeling as if it was your only connection left to her. You peered at the ring on your finger, continuing on your search for the mystery patient.

A few doors farther down, a loud bang came from one of the patient rooms. You rushed to the door, only to see a man standing up, and a rolling metal tray lying on the floor. You watched him for a moment, just to see what his next moves were. You observed his pale skin, almost blue tinged; then his dark hair. His head was shaved around the bottom, leaving a messy patch on the top half of his head. He looked to the tray, then to the bed, then to the window on the other side of the room. He leant over to retrieve something off the floor, when he cursed.

“Sir, are you okay?” You called, stepping into the room slowly so as not to frighten him.

He slowly turned towards you, and only when he was fully facing you did you see the bloody bandage dangling from his shoulder.

“I could use a bit of help, I suppose,” he grumbled, staring at you.

You slowly approached him, letting him see that your hands were clear. He was young, a few years visibly older than you, but young enough to justify that the only reason he was in here was because of the war.

“I’m not delusional, I know where I am. So you can stop easing towards me like I’m shell-shocked, aye?” He said, an accent coming out from somewhere.

“You can never be too cautious, ya know,” you stated, straightening your posture back up to full height, and walking normally paced towards him.

You removed his own hand from his bloodied shoulder, and nodded towards the bed. He followed orders, and sat down, rolling his head to the side so you could get a better look.

“I’m Tommy,” he offered, blowing out a deep breath.

“Y/N,” you said, focusing your attention on his now leaking stitches.

You could feel as he watched you, those blue eyes tracking your every movement precisely. He had indeed pulled out his stitches, but it was nothing you couldn’t fix.

“Ya pulled your stitches, so I hope whatever you were trying to do was worth it,” You laughed, casting him a gentle glance so he’d see the joke in your eyes.

“I was trying to get a smoke, so I’d say it was worth it.”

“You want a smoke? I’m about to restitch your shoulder, so ‘ats the least I could let ya do,” you smiled, picking up his discarded pack of cigarettes from the floor, also handing him his pack of matches.

He returned the smile, immediately struck up a match, sending the smell of smoke and tobacco throughout the room. You gently closed the door, not wanting to disturb the other patients with the smell. Walking back over to Tommy, you held a small suture kit in your hands.

“This is gonna hurt, so be ready,” you breathed, not wanting him to lash out at the pain.

“I’ll be fine, Love. But talk to me, will you? Helps distract me,” he said, exhaling a long stream of smoke from his mouth and nostrils.

“Okay,” you agreed. Readying the needle and thread you began speaking right before running the small metal piece through his skin.

“I’m from Ireland, born and raised. Although I used to live in Dundalk, now here we are in Dublin. My brother is fighting in the war, at least I assume he’s still fighting, hasn’t come home alive or in a box yet,” you joked, but feeling a slight twinge of pain in your heart. You continued, “I work ‘ere every night, I like nightshift best because it’s when the least amount of people actually come into the hospital. I don’t really handle losing patients well, but that’s another story,” you sighed, nearly done with the first few stitches.

Tommy nodded his head, releasing another puff of smoke before speaking.

“I’m from Birmingham, it’s not really a place worth talking about though. I fought in the war, ‘ts how I ended up here, but you’ve gathered that much. I’ve got a couple siblings, some still at war, some not, but they’re my only family.” he said, going back to his cigarette.

“I have the one brother, and my father. My mother died a few years ago, but it’s part of my past life now.” You spoke, finishing up the last few stitches. He hasn’t flinched the entire time.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Love. But every sorrier to say I can relate.” Tommy said, gently turing his shoulders towards you now that you were done putting him back together.

“It’s alright, I’m sorry for your loss too, it never really gets better, just more dull,” you remarked, cleaning up the kit from the small rolling tray you had placed it on.

You took notice of Tommy’s staring, following his eyes as the flicked over you, assessing every detail. His eyes caught on your ring, and he cocked his head.

“That’s a lovely ring, Mrs. Y/N,” he said, drawing out the Missus.

“It’s just Miss, and thank you,” you laughed, “it was my mothers.” You gave him a soft smile, looking toward the ring on your middle finger.

You helped Tommy settle back into his small bed, then bid him goodnight with the promise to check on him tomorrow.

-

The next evening, you barely had time to check in before MaryAnn was hounding you about Tommy. He had been refusing care all day, saying that you were the only person he’d allow to check his stitching. The other nurses had tried to reason with, tried to explain that you wouldn’t be here until 10 pm, but he would not listen. He wanted your care, and only your care. You promised MaryAnn you would handle it, and went off on your way to his room. You rapped your hand against the door, slightly cracking it open.

“Tommy?” You called out, not wanting to startle him.

“Oi, finally. I’ve been asking for you all day, where have you been, Y/N?” He said, slowly sitting himself up in the cot.

“I told you Tommy, I work nightshift. It doesn’t switch over until 10,” you laughed, “although I am flattered that you refused all care other than mine.”

“Of course I would, you have the best bedside manner of all the nurses.” taking a drag from the cigarette you hadn’t noticed earlier, “Plus you’re beautiful,” he added.

Your cheeks flushed, and you brought a hand to chest, resting it over your heart.

“Flattery rarely works on nurses, Tommy. Now let’s get those stitches checked.” You smiled, your cheeks hurting from how genuine it was.

After checking his stitches, you gave him the all clear and told him he should be released in a few days, and you swore a frown flashed across his face before straightening back out. You bid him goodnight, with the promise to see him tomorrow night.

For a week straight, this little routine carried on. You’d come see him as soon as you arrived at work, check his stitches, then the two of you would just talk. You talked with him about varying subjects, both of your families, home life (although Tommy didn’t give much away here), and your hopes for the future. You told him of your plans to travel after the war ended, and he told you how he never wanted to travel again. You would compare families, your brother palling in comparison to the array of Shelby boys that Tommy had described to you. Every night, the two of you would talk, some conversations were short, some lasted so long that MaryAnn had to come pull you from his room so that you would round on your other patients. You developed a sense of kinship with Tommy, although the two of you were admittedly very different. You got excited to go to work, marking events in your day that you were excited to tell Tommy about. You thought of him outside of the hospital, more than you should. But how could anyone resist the charms of Tommy Shelby?

On Friday night, you arrived to the hospital. You checked in, and began rounding on your patients, saving Tommy for when you had a bit of free time; you had a lot you wanted to tell him. You eventually found your way to his room, softly knocking on the door.

“Tommy?” You called, easing through the doorway.

Tommy was sitting up in his cot, stitches almost healed enough to go home. You had come to dread the day he would leave, he felt like a friend, maybe more.

“Y/N, Love, I thought you had forgotten me.” He said, adding his signature Tommy Shelby smirk to the end.

“I could never forget you, Tommy,” you blushed, “Now, let me check up on those stitches.”

He nodded his head, tipping it to the side so that you could access his shoulder better.

“How’s Georgia?” He asked. Georgia was an elderly lady who lived in your apartments, you had told Tommy about how she loved to bake for you.

“She’s good, she brought me meat pies earlier today,” you said, giving a soft smile, “These stitches look healed Tommy, I think you can go home soon.”

Tommy grew a distant look in his eye, gazing to the floor.

“I don’t really want to go, if I’m honest.” He said, pulling you from similar thoughts.

“I know Tommy, but your family probably misses you, I know I would be.” You replied, trying to coax him with a soft rub of his shoulder.

He placed his hand gently over yours, his massive hand covering the ring.

“You would be or you will be?” He said, cheekily flashing you a smile.

“I will miss you, Tommy. You have been a joy to take care of, and a good friend to talk to.” You could feel tears wanting to come from your eyes, but ever the professional, you held them back.

He gave a soft smile, placing a gentle kiss to your hand.

“If you ever find yourself in Birmingham, come find me. I’ll be at The Garrison, waiting for you.”

Tommy had mentioned The Garrison a few times, noting how it was his family’s favorite bar and pub, and how they spent most evenings there. You gave him a soft nod, and retracted your hand.

“Goodnight, and, goodbye, Thomas.” You smiled at him and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, before you exited his room.

-

1921, five years later

You found yourself staring, craning your neck up to the sign in front of you. A hundred questionable decisions had led you here, to Birmingham.

The first decision, was getting married. The second, was getting divorced. Your husband had been a prick, and you knew it when you married him but he was handsome, and certainly you could have done worse.

The third decision was traveling. You had been all over the world, but you had avoided Birmingham like it had the plague. After Tommy was discharged, you quit the hospital. Every time you would walk by his former room, tears would well in your eyes and breath would catch in your throat. You hadn’t realized how accustomed to Him you had become, not until he’d left.

But now, five years after last seeing each other, you stood in front of the doors to The Garrison.

Pushing into the pub, holding the leash on your fear and anxiety, you approached the bar. An unpleasant bar keep took your order, appearing surprised at the order of Irish Whiskey for a young lady. You got your drink, and waited. Waited to see if what Tommy had said still rang true. Had he been waiting for you?

You heard a knock, coming from the window that peered into the back room of the pub. The bar keep opened it, and you nearly fainted. There, ten feet away, stood Mr. Thomas Shelby.

You stared at him, mouth hanging open like a fool. He had only gotten more handsome, a peaky cap now sitting atop his head, which looked much better now that he had some color and a fresh haircut. He was dressed in a fine suit, looking polished and refined, like a real man, not just a patient in the hospital. His eyes caught yours for a single second, and a look of recognition flashed across his face before vanishing. The window closed, and your heart sank. He didn’t remember you, or worse, he didn’t want you here.

You stood from your barstool, slapping a bill on the bar. Your ring, that same ring Tommy had stared at and asked a hundred questions about, still sat on your middle finger. The metal slapped against the bar, and you could only look towards the floor on your way out.

A warm, pale hand snatched your arm from your side, cradling that soft hand that held the ring.

“Y/N?”

You whirled around, face to face with Tommy. He had remembered you! You wrapped your arms around his neck, embracing him in a tight hug. He returned the gesture, wrapping his long arms around you and lifting you from the floor. Your head tucked into the crook of his neck, inhaling the tobacco scent you had always associated with Tommy. He gently placed your feet back on the floor before speaking.

“I never thought you’d come,” he breathed, a grin on his face, “but I am so glad that you did, Love.” He said, just before leaning in and placing a hard, passionate kiss to your mouth.

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

Today, on 27th November, 1973 - Queen Story!

Birmingham, UK, Town Hall

'Queen I Tour'

[artthatgivesmefeelings]

Carel Jacobus Behr (Dutch, 1812-1895) Town Hall, The Hague, 1853 Birmingham Museums Trust

[deweydecimalchickens]

Workers of the world, unite

Trades union wreaths in Pigeon Park. The broken-column monument commemorates the two workers killed in the construction of Birmingham Town Hall, and by extension all workers harmed by unsafe working conditions.

[ourshadowstallerthanoursoul]

On this day... - June 13th

On this day Led Zeppelin performed:

+ 1969 : Town Hall in Birmingham, UK

“According to the ads, the only way to fly is by Led Zeppelin. On Friday night at Birmingham Town Hall, at the start of a five-date tour, the group certainly took off all right. The passengers were Bloodwyn Pig, the Liverpool Scene and a full house. An almighty wall of sound and a huge crashing of drums signaled the start of the group’s act which eventually overran by quite some time.” – ‘Zeppelin Fly High’ by R. Green (NME)

+ 1972 : The Spectrum in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, USA

“The histrionics of the band members, the awesome pretension of their loudness and stage antics, made it clear that several elements go into “superstar” concerts. First, of course, is the music. To fill a hall the size of the Spectrum […] huge amplification systems are needed. Every little instrument, even the hi-hat on the drum kit, must have a microphone place next to it. What happens then is that a little sound, such as a tambourine being shaken, becomes a mighty apocalyptic noise, louder than if the sky were to fall. Everything, in other words, gets bigger and louder and seemingly more important. Then, the ambience of the hall and the people in it is important. With about 17,000 people on hand, rock-festival-like hassles are inevitable. […] And the huge throng, which carpets the mammoth hall, makes demands on the musicians for showmanship and song selection that no one could possibly fulfill. […] Zeppelin played for two-and-a-half hours last night, a rarity. But the overall impression was that they sailed flashily and mightily, but failed somehow to engage, working below the level when the brain gears in.” – ‘Led Zeppelin’s music needs the Spectrum’ by W. Mandel (Bulletin)

+ 1977 : Madison Square Garden in New York, New York, USA

“Down in the arena, it was after eight and the crowd knew it. There was wild cheering after every song on the public address system and waving of flags and banners. […] The massive garden was already alive with a frenzy it would not lose until after midnight. […] Coming almost exactly halfway through the performance, the acoustic set was Zeppelin’s surprising non-surprise. It was surprising because, aren’t these guys the terrible overlords of heavy metal? And yet not surprising because we had all been clued in to this unexpected turn of events. […] Kashmir brought the crowd back to rock reality, as the thunderous Zeppelin epic reverberated through the Garden. […] And for the umpteenth time, Stairway to Heaven knocked ‘em cold. Their ‘song of hope’ is a song that no Zep audience could leave without hearing, for everyone needs the kind of wishful wondering that Stairway has to offer. The crowd was spellbound and did not seem to notice, or care that Plant forgot several verses. The song was there, and that was more than enough.” – ‘Led Zeppelin’s Garden party’ (Sunday Magazine)

[rhapsodynew]

Funny photos of "THE BEATLES"

John and Paul with British musician Georgie Fame at the masquerade party on the occasion of the 21st birthday of Fame's girlfriend Carmen Jimenez at the Cromwellian Club, London, January 8, 1967:

Ringo gives his friend a cigarette, New York, September 1964

Here, There and everywhere: Ringo, John and Paul, February 1964

The mythical "Fifth Beatle" has finally been found, Finsbury Park Astoria, December 19, 1963

With musical instruments belonging to the Police Band, Town Hall, London, July 10, 1964

John and Yoko at the Stonebridge Park Television Studio, December 10, 1968

With young female fans on Miami Beach, February 18, 1964

A carefree Ringo on the desolate plain of Knighton Down in Salisbury Plain during the filming of Help!, May 3, 1965

For security reasons, they were taken to a concert in Birmingham in a police van, on June 10, 1963

Hello goodbye: George Harrison dropped in on his father Harold, Liverpool, December 7, 1963

[emotionalcadaver]

Part 12: Bloodied & Broken

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x OC

Summary: Lucy finds reassurance from an unlikely source.

Word Count: 3,810

Notes: Warnings for depictions of injuries and hospitals.

Masterlists: Main • Series • Fic

Previous Part • Next Part

Chapter 4: Cinnamon Tea

Lucy stared up at the ceiling, fingers fiddling with each other mindlessly. Rain pattered lightly against the window outside. 

Tommy was asleep in the cot beside her hospital bed, the gentle buzz of his light snoring enough to lull her into a slight doze. With her finally awake, he seemed to have relaxed somewhat, even though he still had yet to leave her side for any considerable amount of time. 

The truth was, she didn’t particularly want him to go. The warm protectiveness of his presence helped to soothe and distract her, especially with how boring it was to be shackled to a hospital bed for days and days on end. 

It was good to see him actually getting some rest. She doubted that he’d slept much at all while she was unconscious. He must have been exhausted.

But without him there to talk to and distract her, the thought that had been scratching at the back of her mind finally was able to fully take root, leaving her to stare miserably up at the ceiling, fighting back the lump building in her throat. 

She would not be able to leave the hospital for awhile, yet, and even after she was discharged, the activities she would be allowed to partake in would be limited for a considerable amount of time. Resting would still be her primary task until the doctors told her otherwise. 

Which meant her usefulness to the company would be small, to say the least. She might still be able to work, but so much of her job involved physical movement, be that just accompanying Tommy around town, or following a latest mark to collect information on. And that wasn’t even taking into account the fighting and shooting she was often tasked with.   

She hated feeling like a burden. Like she was useless. And with those feelings, came the sudden fear that Tommy would start to see her the same way. And then he would get bored with her. Tired of constantly having to take care of her. The idea that he would only keep her around because of feelings of guilt or obligation and not because he genuinely wanted to made her want to curl up and cry. 

And all the others already hated her. She didn’t exactly need to give them anymore reasons to want to throw her out onto the street by not being able to pull her own weight. 

Logically, deep down, she knew that she was probably just being silly. Tommy loved her. He wouldn’t have remained watchfully at her bedside all this time, skipping out on work, if he didn’t. But still, the worry would not leave her alone. 

She knew she probably should have just told him about her thoughts. So that he could smile at her in kind bemusement and kiss her hands and cheek, telling her sweet reassurances in his rich Birmingham baritone. But after all the stress and worry she’d put him through over the past couple of days, she didn’t want to burden him with even more.  

From outside in the hall, she heard the click of heels against the floor, not really paying much mind to them until they came to a stop near the door to her room. Lucy frowned, adjusting her shoulders against the pillows, eyes darting to Tommy’s sleeping form beside her. She didn’t think that they were expecting any visitors today. 

Slowly, the door creaked open, and she was greeted with the very last person she was expecting to see. 

Polly was dressed in a pinstripe black and white coat over a white blouse, her black hat tipped at a slight angle on her head. In one hand she clutched a dripping, folded black umbrella.

When she saw Lucy awake and looking at her, she froze halfway through the door. For a moment, both of them just stared at each other, like two deer caught in headlights. 

Polly recovered first, back straightening and stepping the rest of the way into the room. She leaned her umbrella against the wall by the doorframe, removing her hat then approaching Lucy slowly. For a moment, Lucy caught herself considering just how likely it might be that Polly had come to try to smother her. 

Probably very unlikely. Not to mention stupid, with Tommy right there in the room with them. Even if he was still asleep. 

Polly sank into the seat by her bed, hat resting in her lap. In the cot, Tommy stirred, but didn’t wake. Polly cleared her throat awkwardly.

“Hello.”

Lucy could have almost laughed at the absurdity of it, if she hadn’t still been so surprised. “Hello.”

Polly shifted uncomfortably in her seat. “How are you feeling?”  

“Oh, um,” she and Polly almost never talked. And when they did, it was short and business-focused. And only lasted as long as absolutely necessary. “Alright, I suppose. You know, for having just had a bullet pulled out of my skull,” she smiled awkwardly. Polly nodded. 

“I’m sorry I didn’t come to see you sooner.”

“Oh…no, no, it’s fine…” 

Polly shook her head, face turning away to look at the bedside table, where a vase of flowers, a stuffed bear, and some trinkets were all on display. Presents from Ada, Arthur, John, and Esme, Tommy had told her. 

“Tommy is angry at me for not coming by earlier.”

“I’ll talk to him–” Lucy immediately started to offer. Despite her and Polly’s issues, she’d never wanted to be the thing that came between Tommy and his aunt. 

“No, that won’t be necessary,” Polly was still staring at the flowers on the table by the bed. “He’s right. I could have at least sent flowers or something.”

Lucy looked down at her hands, fingers still fiddling with each other unconsciously. “I don’t expect any of you to send me anything. Really. It’s not a big deal.”

Polly finally looked at her again, dark eyes stern. “You saved mine and Esme’s lives almost at a cost to your own. That’s not nothing.”

Lucy looked down bashfully. “You two would have figured out something else if I wasn’t there.”

“Maybe,” Polly agreed. “Or maybe not.” 

Behind her, Tommy made a small sound in his sleep, and they quieted for a moment until he settled again. 

“He’s really tired,” Lucy said, taking care to keep her voice soft. “I don’t think he slept much at all before I woke up. Normally he’s shooting awake at the smallest of sounds,” she stopped herself at the last bit, looking away again. But Polly didn’t comment on the slip up that more or less confirmed that Lucy had experience with regularly sleeping beside Tommy. 

“You know, I’ve never understood it,” when Lucy looked up, it was to see that Polly had her eyes turned to focus on the window, where little droplets of rain were rolling down the glass. “The attachment he has to you. There are dozens of girls, many far more his type, who could do what you do.”

Lucy winced a little at the subtle slap, gaze moving to the frayed edge of the comforter pulled up to her chest. She internally struck herself for be so stupid as to think that Polly had actually come to visit just because she was concerned for her.

“And yet, he keeps choosing you. Over and over again. Tells you things he would never tell the rest of us. I’ve spent so long wondering why,” she turned her gaze back to Lucy, and the look in her eyes was so contradictory, so simultaneously warm and cold that Lucy wasn’t wholly sure if she should be comforted or insulted by Polly’s words.

“I thought that I would be relieved, if the day ever came that you died. But from the moment I heard you collapse onto that bettering shop floor, I haven’t been sure what I feel.”

“I figured you’d be hoping that I would never wake up.”

“Half.”

“Half?”

“Half of me hoped that you would never wake up. For the family’s sake. The other half hoped you would. Because I don’t know what will become of Tommy if you didn’t.”

“He’d be alright–”

“No,” her voice dropped an octave with sternness. “He wouldn’t,” a sadness suddenly entered her eyes. “You two have a bond that I will never be able to understand.” 

“I’m sorry…” Lucy didn’t really know what else to say. Polly just gave a shake of her head, lip pursed. Lucy sighed. “Polly, I know you won’t ever accept me. I’ve known that for a long time, now.” 

“You understand why.”

“Yes, I think so,” she swallowed hard. “It’s never been my intention to try to take him away from any of you–”

“But you might, someday. Whether intentional or not.”

“Tommy can make his own choices.”

“Yes,” Polly acknowledged. Lucy sighed. When Polly looked at her again, her expression was a little warmer. “I doubt much will change regarding our feelings or behavior towards each other in the future. But just so we’re clear, I am glad that you’re not dead.”

Lucy huffed out a small laugh. “Well, I suppose that’s something.”

“You are good at what you do,” they both knew that Polly wasn’t just talking about her official job description. “And for that, you have my respect.” 

“Thank you,” she supposed that respect was about as good as either of them could hope for. Though at the mention of her job she cringed slightly, looking away as the doubts of her usefulness that had been swirling in her head prior to Polly’s arrival reappeared. 

Polly cocked her head. “What?”

Lucy shot her a suspicious glance, not entirely sure if telling her would be a good idea. But after Polly had been more forthcoming than she’d ever been before to her, Lucy supposed she ought to return the favor at least a little. 

“I’m probably going to be out of commission at least partially for a while. I might not be able to be as…helpful to all of you as I have been in the past,” without her rings to fiddle with, her nails started picking at her cubicles instead. “I don’t want to be a burden, or a bother to Tommy or any of the rest of you…”

“Hm…” Polly rubbed her thumb and index fingers together in thought. “I don’t think there’s a scenario in existence where Tommy wouldn’t do whatever it takes to ensure you’re looked after. Despite my best efforts, he hasn’t gotten rid of you yet,” the smile that briefly flexed across her features was humorless and a little bitter. “It doesn’t matter if you were unable to work at all. For the rest of your life. He’d take care of you. And he’d be glad to do it. It would be no burden to him.”

Lucy looked down. She’d felt silly as soon as the words had left her mouth. But the reassurance, despite the bitter twinge in Polly’s voice, helped her to relax a little.  

“And head injuries can heal faster than you’d think,” Polly added with a small shrug. 

Lucy smiled a little. “Right,” her hands stopped fiddling, moving instead to smooth across the bedspread while she cast Polly a sheepish look. “Thank you.”

Polly nodded, and gave her perhaps the closest thing Lucy was likely ever going to get to a genuine smile. With one graceful move, she rose from the chair, reaching into the handbag she had hooked over her shoulder. 

“I have to get back to the shop, but here,” she held out a small tin to Lucy. “If you ask, the nurses or Tommy can brew some of it for you.”

 Taking it curiously, she tilted the label, listening to the sound of loose leaf tea shifting inside the tin as she turned it. On the label, scrawled in Polly’s familiar looped handwriting, it read: Cinnamon Tea.

A smile pulled at her mouth before she could stop herself, eyes raising to meet Polly’s. “Thank you.”

Polly just nodded, like it was no big deal. Like it wasn’t a silent admittance that she actually may have cared enough to pay more attention to Lucy than she had ever indicated before. 

“Polly?” they both started at the sound of Tommy’s voice. He had sat up in his cot silently, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck as he blinked the last bits of sleep from his eyes. 

“Hello, Tommy. I was just dropping off something for Lucy, then heading back to the shop.”

His eyes darted between them, landing curiously on the tin in Lucy’s hands, then snapping to her face.

She wasn’t mean to you, was she?

She shot him a soft look. No.

Satisfied, he turned his gaze back to Polly. “How are things?”

“Fine. Quiet,” she glanced at Lucy. “There are whispers already spreading on the streets that your little Red Demon is unkillable.”

“Oh, good,” Lucy said dryly. “I’m always looking for ways to spice up my reputation.”

Tommy snorted before addressing Polly again. “Thanks for keeping things afloat while we’re here.”

“The least I can do,” Polly shrugged, placing her hat back on her head. “I’ll come back tomorrow, with some things I need you to look over.”

“Right.”

She nodded to Lucy. “Speedy recovery to you, dear.”

“Thank you, Polly.”

The Shelby matriarch gave one last, sharp nod, her heels then clicking against the floor as she went to retrieve her umbrella, and departed the hospital room without another word. 

Lucy stared at the door she’d just left out of, half wondering if the whole encounter had just been a hallucination of some kind. 

“What’s that?” Tommy asked, moving to sit down in the chair Polly had previously been occupying at her bedside, nodding at the tin still clutched in her hands. 

“Cinnamon tea,” Lucy held out the tin to him. He took it, examining the label. He looked at her with a raised brow.

“Why?” 

“It was what I was looking for in the kitchen right before the robber broke in.”

He hummed, turning it over before setting it down on the bedside table with the other gifts. “Surprisingly thoughtful.”

“I thought so too,” she smoothed her hand up and down his arm. “Of course, it’s always possible that she’s poisoned it…”

He chuckled, leaning in to peck her lips. “You’re terrible.”

“You were thinking the same thing.”

“Maybe a little,” he nuzzled at her cheek before leaning back. “How are you feeling?”

She shrugged. “Fine. Head still hurts, but not as achy as I was earlier.”

“Tired?”

“A little. It’s hard to sleep with this stupid thing on,” she tapped the brace lightly.

“It’ll come off soon.”

“I look ridiculous.”

He smirked. “Only a little.”

She pouted at him. “I’m so bored of being like this, Tommy.”

He took her hand, kissing her knuckles sympathetically. “I know, sweetheart.” 

With a small sigh, she looked down at her hospital bed, silently and illogically hating herself for being stuck in it.

Tommy squeezed her hand to get her attention. At her questioning raised brow, he smiled, eyes soft.

“She’s right, you know. I’d take care of you no matter what.”

Lucy groaned softly, eyes closing. “How much of that conversation did you hear?”

“Most of it,” at her skeptical look, he smiled deviously. “All of it,” he shrugged. “I wanted to hear what she would say if she thought I wasn’t listening.”

“Devil,” if she could, she would have shaken her head fondly as she hooked her fingers into the front of his shirt, drawing him down for a kiss. He practically purred against her lips, nose knocking affectionately against hers after they parted. 

“You’d never be a burden to me,” his voice dropped with the sudden seriousness in his tone. “Not ever. I love you. I want to take care of you.”

“I know,” she swallowed hard around the emotion his words conjured up. “I love you too.”

He cupped her cheek tenderly, eyes silently urging her to talk to him. 

“I just…” she closed her eyes, taking a deep breath before speaking again. “I hate feeling so useless.”

“Oi, enough of that. You’re not useless. You’re injured and you need to rest.”

She must have looked unconvinced, because he scooted his chair closer to her and leaned in, thumb tracing the shape of her cheekbone. 

“You stopped a robbery at the shop and saved two family member’s lives. That’s hardly useless,” he smiled at her reassuringly. “It’ll be okay. I’ll have Polly or Esme or someone bring some of your books from your flat next time they come over to keep your mind busy. And you can help me with the paperwork Polly brings over tomorrow, if you’re feeling up to it,” his brows raised. “You’re not useless. You’ll never be useless. But if you really are feeling that way, we can find things for you to do. I just don’t want you overworking yourself. You need to focus on getting better, eh?”

She couldn’t fully contain her sniffle at his words. Her attempt to nod was impeded by the brace and a small shock of pain the back of her head sent her in complaint.

“Yeah,” she wetted her lips. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

“My girl,” he kissed her between her brows. “It’s all gonna be just fine. I promise.”

Hooking her fingers back into his shirt before he could get too far, she pulled him back down until his forehead rested lightly against hers. “Thank you.”

“Nothing to thank me for, love,” he kissed both her eyelids before she could argue.

“I suppose I should enjoy Polly being so…amicable while it lasts,” she sighed. She was not naive enough to think that the niceties would last for long. “I wasn’t so sure when she first came in…and given that she left me lying on the shop when I asked her to stay…”

Tommy went stiff, a dark cloud passing across his face. “She what?”

Lucy blinked. “After I shot the robber, I was laying on the floor, and I asked her not to leave me, but she ran out after Esme–Tommy!” she managed to somehow grab at his arm when he moved to stand, latching on tightly to him before he could fully pull himself away. 

“I’m going to fucking kill her.”

“No!” she squeezed tighter at his arm. “Tommy, it’s…it’s fine…”

He shot her a disbelieving look. “Fine? Fine!? No, it’s not fucking fine! She left you there? While you were bleeding out on the fucking floor?”

“I don’t even know if she heard me asking her to stay. And she may have been going to get help–”

“She told me you were dead when she and Esme came outside.”

Lucy frowned. “Oh.”

Tommy’s eyes were still dark, staring at the wall, thinking hard as he shook his head. “I had wondered, given that you were awake when I came in, and that she’d said that you shot the robber after being shot yourself, but I’d hoped I’d just misunderstood her…”

“Don’t–please, don’t make this into another fight with her, Tommy.”

“I can’t just let it go–”

“Yes, you can. You have to. I don’t want to be the cause of any more problems. I’m already enough of an agitation in your relationship with her as it is.”

He frowned, eyes narrowed. “You’re not a problem,” he touched her cheek. “She left you to die,” he whispered hoarsely.

“We can’t really know what Polly was actually thinking. And if you come at her about it, she’s just going to get defensive,” Lucy looked down. “Maybe she was in shock. Maybe she was going to get help. Or maybe she really was hoping I’d die,” she gulped around the tightening in her throat. “I don’t think we’ll ever really know for sure. But she came here, Tommy. She brought me this,” she gestured to the tin of tea, “That’s more than I was honestly expecting from her.”

Tommy’s throat worked as he swallowed. “I can’t just forget about it, Luce.”

“And you think that I can?” she asked with a raised eyebrow. He sighed, and she smiled, aware that she’d won. “I’m injured. You have to do what I ask.”  

“That’s not fair,” he huffed, eyelids fluttering as she cupped his face.

“I’m sure that there will be plenty more opportunities for you to fight with her regarding me in the future,” her eyes dropped down, greatly undercutting any sort of teasing humor that the statement may have had. Tommy’s hand urged her gaze back up to his, brows creased with concern. She sighed, shrugging weakly. “I hate rocking the boat like this.”

“No,” Tommy said sternly. “Don’t ever worry about that. When she’s treating you badly, I want to know about it.”

“I know,” she drew his palm to her lips, pecking the scar that ran across it, then each of his fingertips. “I know, love. Thank you.”

He kissed her forehead, pulling back to look down at her for a moment before straightening and reaching for the tin of tea. “Right. Let’s get some of this tea brewed then, hm?”

“I’d like that,” all the rain outside was making her feel like curling up in bed with a cup of tea and a book.

Tommy ducked out only momentarily, returning with two steaming teacups smelling strongly of cinnamon and a dash of vanilla. Tucked under one arm, he had a book he’d snagged from the little library that the hospital allowed patients and waiting family members to borrow from. 

“Did you check that out before you took it?”

He shrugged as he handed her one of the teacups. “My donations made to this hospital helped fund the building and stocking of that little library. Technically I’m pretty sure that this book is already ours.”

She snorted, blowing on her tea before taking a sip. The liquid was warm and pleasant, coating her throat and heating her from within. 

Shoving the chair out of the way, Tommy pushed his cot to rest right up beside her bed, so that when he climbed into it, it was almost like they were laying side by side in the same bed. He shuffled in closer to her, until their sides were brushing and he could gingerly wrap an arm around her shoulders, being careful not to bump her brace or jostle her bandages. 

Cracking open the book, he turned his head to kiss her forehead. “Try to rest, alright?”

“Yes, boss.”

He just snorted at the title, giving her shoulder a squeeze.

Laying in that hospital bed, she managed to find peace in the sound of his deep voice reading to her, his chest rumbling under where one of her hands had come to rest on it, with the scent of cinnamon tea wafting through the air. 

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

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Masterlists: Main • Series • Fic

[notyour-valentine]

Aristos Achaiōn ~ Tommy Shelby x Reader (Fluff/Angst)

Summary: Tommy becomes intrigued with a scholar at the library Ada works at, even if he doesn’t know why, even if he sees no point in her work- that is, until he does

Note: This was written for the wonderful Lee's @zablife celebration of 600 followers for which I am offering this 📚 Book return. Congratulations my dear. You and your writing deserves each and every one of these and many more. I hope you enjoy this a bit longer than little story I wrote for you, based off of the fact that many former soldiers after the two world wars sought comfort in the Iliad and Odyssey because of the way they described mourning your fallen comrades.

I also can't wait for my very own library card...

I do not consent to my work being translated, copied or posted elsewhere on this platform or any other. This hasn't been beta'd so I apologise for typos or mistakes

Here you can find my Masterlist

Warning: PTSD, mention of war, and war related brutality (18/21+). Expect canon confirming mention and description of violence. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. 

Wordcount: 6176 words

~

Tommy nearly laughed when Polly had told him that Ada had taken up work in a library. 

Ada, who never had the patience to read a book without skipping to the ending first, who hated staying quiet, who got kicked out of school assemblies, church services and town hall meetings for chatting too loudly and disturbing the procedures in any way imaginable.  

No, a library was not the place he would have expected to find his sister in. 

And yet, she had chosen this as a place of work, less for the money and more against the boredom. 

And her choice had decided his. 

The expansion into London had gone quicker and more efficient than Tommy would ever have guessed, even hoped, but in the absence of a proper office, he had to make do. 

First, he had tried to work at Ada’s house, but she lacked not only a typewriter (which he had bought her the following week) but a proper desk, proper light and proper quiet. 

He couldn’t blame Karl for making noise, he was only a boy and children had every right (and maybe even a duty) to be loud, but it didn’t help when he had to go over numbers or comb through contracts. 

So he came here, to this age old building with high arches and classic pillars, with a forest of bookshelves - filled with more books than any human being could hope to read in a lifetime, or maybe even in ten. Old books and new books, newspaper collections and archives that held letters and publications that preceded the United Kingdom itself, all joined forces to create an air of timelessness - as if these halls themselves transcended these numerical, linear bounds, and seemed to float somewhere between the past and the future, just not fitting into the present. 

Screens at the windows prevented the sunlight to blind during the day while reading lamps spread their pale glow during the later hours. 

It was quiet, though not silent, which was a distinction he never would have made if it weren’t for France. The sounds there haunted him every night, the gunshots, the explosions, the distant murmur of German behind ever thinning walls of dirt, the sound of shovels - but it was the silence that terrified him. 

The silence after a blow to the head, not knowing how badly he was wounded, if maybe this was it. 

The silence after an explosion when his ears had not regained their ability to process sound, when he did not know who was alive, who was hurt and who was dead or dying. 

The silence after the tunnels had caved in around them, as the panic had paralysed them. 

In his Birmingham office, the silence was drowned out by the constant buzz of the factories by the banging of metal, the hissing of smoke, the roar of engines in their restless beast of a city. 

There was never any silence in Watery Lane either, for that the walls were too thin and the people too loud. 

No, silence was something Tommy Shelby never wanted to experience again. It was nothing but waiting, merely stalling a possibly catastrophic truth. 

Here, it was always quiet but never silent. 

He could hear the faint squeak of the wheels on the book wagon as library workers pushed it through the corridors, while the lamps at the countless reading desks buzzed like fireflies. 

He could hear the whisper of pages being turned and the scratchings pens or pencil made on paper. 

And he could even hear the movement of the other visitors, the sound their chairs made when they moved them, the rustle of the fabric of their clothes, even their sighs and occasional, slightly more irritating coughs. 

Sometimes, when his eyes felt strained or his hands got too tired (Ada had forbidden him to use a typewriter in here), he would lean back in one of the chairs of brown leather with upholstery thinned by year- maybe decade long use. 

Then, when his thoughts outran his bodily limitations, he’d let his eyes drift over the library and its patrons. 

Sometimes, he’d try to guess which type of books they were here for and for what - a book about botany for the old man with the white beard and green suit jacket, history for the stern woman with the white high collared blouse and dark purple jacket and suit that must have predated the war. The young man with the slightly ruffled hair looked as if he was here for his studies, and the ink stains on his cuff somehow made Tommy think he would be the type to write page long poems in his dorm room in the light of candles, filled with love and sorrow in equal measure. 

It was only a game, of course, but something that stretched his mind the way he’d stretch his fingers after some more extensive writing. 

The only person he couldn’t place, not even in his game, was the woman who always sat at the very same spot between the very same shelves every single time Tommy Shelby was at the library, no matter if it was morning or night. 

From his place, he could watch her just fine, as she was seated across from the gap at the centre of the library space, from where one could look down at the lower stories all the way to the black and white tiles of the entrance hall. 

The woman was dressed ordinary, almost boringly, in dark skirts, white blouses and a cardigan that time and wear had pulled slightly out of shape. 

And she read, but she didn’t only read, she wrote as well, yet not always. Sometimes she would look like she was writing but she couldn’t be. For that, the movements of her hand were to elaborate, too large and almost too erratic, taking up too much space, switching between left and right, top to bottom.

Sometimes she’d just take a sheet out of that greyish blue folder of hers and stare at it for a while, sometimes minutes, before she resumed her writing or her scribbling or whatever she was doing. 

So she wasn’t just reading and she wasn’t just writing, but no matter what she did, she did with purpose, control and a deep rooted sense of calmness, as if there was nothing in the world that could rush her. 

It was almost as if her body and mind had assimilated to the strange way time moved in a place like this, not quite forward, not back, as if the timelessness of the library had found its way under her skin. 

And that irritated him, well, not exactly. 

It irritated him that he couldn’t place her, that he couldn’t just slap a label on her, independent of whether that would be right or wrong, and that made his eyes return to her time and time again, but they never lingered as long as his mind did. 

And that he was wasting so much of his precious and limited time watching her, who apparently possessed an abundance of. 

“Ada,”, he asked, the next time his sister passed him. 

Making rounds, she called it, but he knew she was simply too curious to stay away, eager for any glance at his writing. About ‘their’ company. 

“Ada, what section is that?”

He pointed at the shelves across from the gap, where she was sitting, reading this time, not just one book, but two at the same time, one lying in front of her, the other in her hand. 

Ada’s eyes followed his hand and she scoffed. 

“Don’t even try, Tommy.”, she warned him. 

“I’m not trying anything.”, he hissed, glaring at his younger sister and her assumptions. 

“Does she work at the library?”

Ada pursed her lips and crossed her arms over her chest. When she did that, she looked exactly like Polly, having perfected the look of annoyed disbelief and frustration. 

But in the end, she relented. 

“She works here but she doesn’t work here.”, Ada said, which told him absolutely nothing. 

He raised his eyebrow and she sighed. 

“She’s a classicist.”

“A what now?”, he asked, tilting his head in the direction of his sister as if the closing of distance would somehow make the word less coherent. 

“A classicist.”, Ada repeated, making him wait for the explanation. “A specialist in the classic cultures.”

He stared at his sister in confusion. If this was supposed to mean something to him, he was at a loss.

“The Greeks and Romans.”, Ada said impatiently. “You know? Statues and vases and all that.”

She nodded vaguely towards her.

“She’s specialised in Ancient Greek poetry…or balladry or something.”

Tommy’s eyes moved from the woman to his own paperwork and back again. 

“And that’s her hobby or…”, he asked slowly, barely believing he had to ask. 

“It’s her job, Tommy.”, Ada said. “She’s here for some translation or other."

He snorted as he leaned back in his chair. 

“People pay for that?”

“Apparently.”, Ada said with a shrug. 

~

Ancient. Greek. Balladry. 

Tommy didn't even know what to make of that, nor did he see a point in it really. 

Antiquity was well and good in a museum, in artefacts, if people wanted to look at them. 

Greece wasn't exactly his country of preference, but some claimed it was nice enough, although then one ought to focus on the here and now and not whatever happened not even centuries but millennia ago and balladry? 

He liked ballads. Ever since he had been a boy, he had loved to hear the rough voices mix in the air with the smoke and sparks of the fire as they sang of long dead heroes and age old tales, whenever they went on the road. 

But ballads were something to be listened to, not to be read, and he had the nagging suspicion that an analysis, the way a doctor would analyse a patient, would ruin it, would remove all traces of mystery, of muse and magic. 

So why anyone would waste their time, let alone their money, on a pursuit as futile as that, was beyond him. 

And yet, the next time he arrived at the bottom floor of the library, he took the left stairs instead of the right ones. 

He reached the floor Ada worked on just fine, only this time he had to pass the length of both sides. 

That path took him right by her desk. 

He could see a collection of papers all spread out, some printed, some written in hand. 

It was soon evident which one was the fair copy, but even that was written in pencil. He could only tell it apart by the fact that the writing on the other pages was more slanted, in less than straight lines, more like explosions of words like fireworks going off in different corners of the page than a coherent, linear descriptions of her ideas. 

He also spotted a thin blue notebook like the ones school children used for their writings, and a dark red leather bound book which lacked the marker that indicated library property, and several others that possessed it. 

But between the books, the notebooks, the sheets of printed and handwritten papers, he spotted something he really had not expected. 

The greyish blue folder from which she had pulled forth sheets to stare at, was open, and in it, he saw a sketch. 

It was a rough sketch, admittedly, but done well enough to not only show that there were men, but to see their differences. 

Both were muscular, wearing the dress-like cloth of the ancient Greeks, with broad shoulders and strong arms. 

One of them was leaning back, his legs stretched out and a cup of wine in his hand. 

The other was sitting across to him, leaned forward just slightly as he held an instrument in his hand. It was too small for a harp, but it had a couple of strings, which his fingers caressed with skill and tenderness.

As he played, a few strands of long hair fell into his strangely beautiful, almost feminine face, but the eyes focussed on nothing but the other man, as if eagerly awaiting his reaction. 

Each man had his name written on the side of their arms, in small, but neat writing. 

There were also other sentences to the side, a few select lines of text, but before Tommy could read them, his head snapped up. 

"Can I help you?", She asked. 

Her voice was lowered to abide by the laws of the library as not to disturb the other patrons, nor to infringe on the integrity of the place, and yet her words were clear. 

Tommy had not heard her approach, and now he felt caught, somehow, like an intruder who had no right to survey her work. 

Quickly, he stepped back. 

But she didn't seem to mind. There was no anger in her eyes, no mistrust in her voice, and instead of a frown, she wore a slight smile. 

"Ah no.", Tommy said, clearing his throat. 

The escape route he chose was to stride with purpose towards the shelf closest and build himself up in front of it. 

Taking two side steps for good measure, he found himself staring at a shelf containing Sophocles and Aristophanes, Aeschylus and Agathon as well as something called Euripides which sounded suspiciously like an illness. 

"Are you looking for something in particular?", She asked, apparently keen to ruin a possible dignified exit. "Or are you a general lover of theatre?"

Tommy turned slowly. 

"Theatre?"

She nodded towards the shelf he had been studying for the last minute, still sitting at her place, surrounded by her papers and drawings. 

"No- not really.", He stammered. 

She smiled again. 

"What interests you? History?", She suggested. "Poetry? Philosophy? Politics?"

As she spoke, she put down a pencil he hadn't heard her write with, and got up slowly, brushing down the wrinkles of her skirt. 

"The politics section is over there.", He told her, waving across the gap to the part where Ada worked. 

She nodded, but the smile never faded. 

"That's true, but this part has the original text transcriptions and their translations."

Tommy did not know what to reply so he just shifted on his feet. 

"You're Mrs. Thorne's brother.", The woman said, studying him with interest, but it wasn’t the kind of interest he was used to facing. 

Her eyes did were filled with curiosity, but lacked any trace of hunger - for him, his money, his influence. She studied him the way he had seen her gaze at the works in front of her, and in the absence of any desire apart from knowledge, Tommy didn’t know what to do. 

"She told me about you."

With that she stepped closer to him. 

She smelled of old books, of tea leaves and a little bit of ginger, yet her perfume had a faint note of oranges. 

Between the collar of her blouse he could spy a necklace with a single small pendant, showing the imperfect shape of a freshwater pearl, not round, nor a drop, something in between, something unique. 

"According to what she told me, you'd be more inclined to Thukydides than Aristotle's definition of man."

Tommy huffed at that. He had heard the name Aristotle before but whatever he thought of man or of anything really, was not something he had concerned himself with. 

The woman only smiled. 

"Anyway, I'm sure you'll be just fine. If not, you seem to know where I am."

Tommy turned away before she could see the heat rise in his cheeks. 

~

At first he thought his little encounter with her would be enough to satiate his curiosity, but the opposite happened. 

Instead of becoming a passtime during his breaks, watching her had become a distraction, something that actively drew his gaze and not just caught his eye on occasion.

Why, he could not tell.

She wasn’t a stunning beauty like the dancers in his newly seized nightclubs, didn’t dress in flashy dresses and shining jewels made to capture his eye like their guests, nor did she try to enrapture him in any way - and yet Tommy couldn’t tear himself away, even if he wanted to. 

Sometimes he caught himself having stared at her for the better part of God knows how long, without even remembering when his eyes had strayed from his own work.

He watched her read, then write, then read again, scribble, cross out, and then draw, or stare at an already finished work for several minutes. Soon he grew familiar with the way she'd chew on her bottom lip when lost in thought or how she'd occasionally mouth the words to herself again and again, to a rhythm he couldn't understand while reading. 

It wasn't intentional, but soon he could read her emotions just as well as he could read the writing in front of him. He saw her furrowed brows when in doubt, and how her eyes would brighten in joy. Once, he had looked up and seen her shoulders quake as she wrote, her lips trembling.

With the hand that wasn’t holding that shortened pencil, she clutched a handkerchief, occasionally dabbing it under her glassy eyes. 

The sight of her tears made his chest tighten. 

It irritated him, especially since he hardly knew the girl, having only exchanged a few words with her of which he had understood very little.

Besides, she had no cause to be upset- over what? A few lines of a text written millenniums ago about people that probably never existed experiencing hardships that never took place. That was nothing to cry over. 

And yet her tears seemed to burn right through him. 

~

Tommy was just finishing up a proposition for new trade routs between Birmingham and the Liverpool docks (something he could have well done from his Digbeth office), when he heard a woman clear her throat. 

He glanced up, surprised to see her standing in front of him. 

She was wearing a brown skirt, a white blouse and above it a short sleeved woollen jumper making her look like a school girl, especially with her gray folder, her notebook and another book clutched to her chest.

“I’m ever so sorry for disturbing you.”, she said, offering him an apologetic smile. “Mrs. Thorne said I better ask you.”

Out of instinct, Tommy snapped his folder shut, hiding his writing. 

“Ask me what?”, he wanted to know, leaning back in his chair. 

She smiled another embarrassed smile and shifted on her feet.

“Well, I had a question, you see, and I asked Mrs. Thorne to help me find a book on it, but it’s a very peculiar question and it would take a very long time to find an answer in the biology section, especially since it’s not my forte, but she said you’d know…if anyone did.”

Those were a lot of words to tell him nothing. 

Usually this waste of breath, time and energy annoyed but he almost smiled at how she tried to present her proposition, her curiosity clearly overriding her uncertainty.

“And what question would that be, eh?”, he asked. 

She bit the inside of her lip before answering. 

“Mr. Shelby, you wouldn’t happen to know if horses cried?”

He blinked twice, leaning closer to make sure he had heard correctly. 

“If horses what?”, he asked, leaning forward over the old oak wood table. 

“If they cry.”, she repeated before approaching his side of the table and setting down her books and files.

“Well, there is this one part - “, she said, flicking through the papers.

“The original is not quite clear. Some translate it as cry as in cry out, he says cry as in weep. This one says mourned.”

As she spoke, she pointed at different phrases from different words. 

“It’s all rather upsetting.”, she admitted with a deep, dramatic sigh.

Seriously?, Tommy thought. 

When he got upset it was because Arthur was off of his mind on snow, or if John blocked his company moves, if Sabini or Solomons plotted something to bring him down or if Polly was on his back again - and she, apparently, was frustrated because someone wrote something down thousands of years ago and she couldn’t figure out the exact meaning of his words. 

Those are problems I’d like to have. 

It was such a benign, unimportant detail and yet she was getting all worked up about it. 

Enough to look for books, to ask Ada and now to cross the gap come to him. 

And he did not want to repel her.

“Horses only cry when they get something in their eye, or if it’s too dry.”, he explained. 

She glanced up at him and hummed softly but he could see her mind racing. 

Then she returned her gaze to her drawing, which showed the necks and heads of two large stallions.

Her horses were not nearly as well shaped as her humans had been, and still better than any Arthur had ever drawn, maybe in spite or even because of her rough edges. 

It’s not your problem, he told himself. It’s not even a fucking problem. It’s people making unnecessary work for themselves. 

And yet his hands reached for her drawing. 

 “They don’t have eyebrows,”, he said, taking the file from her hands and placing it in front of him, covering his own paper work up. 

With the other hand he took the pencil from her grip, feeling the fleeting warmth of her touch.

“But if they’re sad or frightened, the inner corners of their eye raise up. Like this.”

The addition was but a few, soft strokes, but even he could see that it changed the expression of the whole creature. 

“Huh!”, she gasped, looking from the drawing to him and back again. 

In her eyes he could see awe mixed in with a realisation he could not place. 

Tommy would have paid a fortune for her thoughts in that moment, and an equal sum never to hear them. 

They'd only distract him further.

~

A few days later, Tommy found himself leaving the library at exactly the same time as she did. 

It wasn’t a complete accident. In fact it wasn’t an accident at all. 

He had finished his own work nearly an hour ago but since he didn’t have anything to rush to, he decided to linger a little, and when the sun began to set, he considered it irresponsible to go without making sure she got to wherever she had to go safely. 

So he made sure to bump into her on the stairs on the way down.

She had two bags, a brown leather one that reminded him of the one his school teachers used and another one made of fabric which she wore under her shoulder. 

Both looked packed to bursting, poor thing. 

“Need a hand?”, he asked. 

“Oh that would be very kind, thank you!”, she insisted. 

And so Tommy held her leather bag while she rearranged the other bag’s contents, finishing by slipping in her pencil etui in a gap between several books. 

“Why do you always use pencil?”, he wanted to know. 

“To correct mistakes, of course.”, she said, giving him yet another smile, as she put the bag over her shoulder. 

When she reached out to take her other bag, he waved it off and fell in step with her. 

Maybe his expression gave it away, or perhaps his silence, but as they continued on their way down, she chose to elaborate. 

“Translating isn’t as easy as opening a dictionary, especially with poetry or verse.”, she told him. “You always have to weigh the tone against the literal translation, the lyrical style and of course the context.”

“That sounds very vague.”

She tried to hide her giggle behind her hand, because even if they were on their way out, and two of the last souls in this place, it was still a library.

It was a sweet, careless sound and one Tommy was surprised she offered so willingly. 

“If you want certainty, Mr. Shelby, I’d suggest you turn to mathematics. There’s no such thing in languages.”

That made sense, in a way, but he still couldn’t understand why someone would voluntarily take it on if it was so complex. 

“So why the drawings?”, he wanted to know. 

She lowered her eyes, trying to hide her embarrassment from him, but then she grinned slightly. 

“Most times it’s easier to translate words into pictures than into a different language, easier to capture the tone of the whole thing.”

He raised his eyebrow in confusion. 

“It helps me get a better grip on the scene.”

To Tommy it just sounded like an infinite pool of unnecessary work. 

“Why the Greeks?”, he asked, the sound of her heels echoing in the entrance hall, as they passed the front desk. 

He chose to ignore Ada’s questioning glare. 

“Why not?”, she asked, before answering her own questions. 

“In their writings you can find the birth of our culture. Democratic ideals go back to the Athenians, our medicinal principles to Hippocrates, war strategy to Thukydides and well, literature to Homer.”

She sighed a dreamy sigh as if these long dead dusty old men were a youthful fantasy of hers.

“In a way, this language is the mother tongue of our civilization, well, one of them at least.”

Even though she was providing him a very pretty and passionate proposition, Tommy didn’t buy it. 

“Maybe once.”, he argued as they stepped out into the cool evening air, and into the noise of the city. “But it’s not accurate now. Not anymore.”

She looked almost shocked, so much so that Tommy’s mouth went dry. 

“But now more than ever, Mr. Shelby!”, she insisted. “Especially the Iliad.”

The fire in her tone betrayed her, and offered him a way out. 

“That what you’re working on?”

She nodded. 

“What’s it about?”, he asked.

“The last year of the war between the Greeks and Trojans.”

“The one with the horse? And that woman they all wanted?”, Tommy asked. 

He had heard about it in France, with some cavalry officers referring to the tunnelers as their own Trojan Horse. 

“Well,”, she said, taking a deep breath as if bracing herself.

“That’s the war but that’s not what the Iliad is about.”

“But people have already translated it.”, Tommy remembered. “Why are you doing it all over again? What's the point?

Both her face and her tone softened, making him realise he was on safe ground once more. 

“There’s a lot of power in translation, a lot of trust, and because it’s not an exact science, there is no right way of doing it.”

When Tommy only blinked, she licked her lips as she searched for a different way of explaining it. 

“There is a theory,”, she began, “that we only recognise what we know, or what we were taught to know. That every person’s view of the world depends on their standing in it, on how they learned to see it. You and I could look at the very same thing and see something quite different, perhaps even contrary.”

She said it lightly, almost carelessly, and yet Tommy felt these words would stay with him for a long time, even if he needed more time to think of them.

“Then of course, it’s the type of story that is often distorted to fit a narrative.”, she added with a shrug.

“And what would that be?”, Tommy wondered. 

She took her bag from his hands, holding it in front of her as she looked up to him.

“They tell tales of the soldier and not the man, not the son, brother, father or lover.”

Tommy felt his jaw muscles clench as he stared at her, her young, innocent face, and the kind of eyes that had never had to see hardship except in her stories and novels and long dead poets.

He pitied her for her folly, and at the same time envied her naivety. 

“Trust me love,”, he said, his voice dangerously low, “There’s no difference.”

All that melted away to give way to the soldier, a mindless, unfeeling being whose sole purpose was to obey and live, if possible.

A line of thought appeared between her brows as she tilted her head.

“What a curious thing to say.”, she said softly. 

~

When he watched her walk away that evening, Tommy Shelby decided he was done with the library and the scholars in it. 

There were on a different fucking planet, with enough time to waste on useless pursuits, chasing details of shadows that had never mattered in the first place, least of all now, in the modern age, where war wasn’t a fucking fire place story anymore. 

And yet he had been standing in a book shop, flicking through a copy of the work she was working on, only to find a passage where some soldier was saved from a spear by a cloud of perfume or some nonsense - proof, as if he needed any more, that there was no point to any of it. 

He bought the summary of several ancient myths, in normal English, all the same, and read the part about her story through that very night. 

~

He was done with it, with her - and he was only in the library because he had to talk to Ada. It had nothing to do with her, nothing at all. Otherwise he wouldn’t have come. 

It was only on the way back where he passed the desk in the section she had chosen at her workplace. 

And something was different, one glance told him that, because she did not have one drawing in front of her, but several. 

One showed the general scene but there were smaller ones, like the sketches a painter made before a larger creation.

The first showed the old man’s face, with fallen cheeks and deep furrows of worry on his brow. Large bags grazed his swollen eyes, tears shining between the wrinkles, and his lips seemed to glistened. 

But there was a fire in his eyes, that made Tommy turn away, the hair on the back of his head standing. 

The second more detailed picture was of a younger man, with hair with strands of different lengths as if someone had hacked at it carelessly. 

He was young, and beautiful, with a square jaw, but delicate features - petal lips and large eyes, long lashes and shapely brows. 

His features, apart from the strong, and muscly neck, were so delicate, they were almost feminine. His face was stoic, but he could see the tears running down his cheeks, and recognised the pain in his eyes more than he would have liked. 

In one picture, he could see the old man and the young man both, huddled together, kneeling in front of a corpse, their hands clasping each others as if they were the last thing they had to hold onto in their grief, the last thing in the world. 

She had been so immersed in her writing, she had not reacted to him stepping closer, not even when he came up to stand right behind her, his shadow falling over her papers, but Tommy had been so immersed in the emotion the men in their drawings showed, he had not realised she had begun to watch him. 

When he did, he felt his cheeks burn. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”, she said, her voice uncommonly tender. “And I’m relieved. After all, it’s the most important part of the entire epic. Achilles and Príamos crying together.”

The second name would have been entirely foreign to Tommy a week ago, but since he had read the summary, he knew what it meant. 

The old man, he could understand, but the young one couldn’t possibly be Achilles.

He looked tired, with slumped shoulders and strained muscles, gaunt, with a haunted look in his eyes which Tommy had seen back in France, in the trenches, a look they had brought home with them.

“Achilles?”, he asked, remembering the description he had read. “But wasn’t he the most ruthless of Greek warriors? Their best soldier?"

She nodded. 

“Aristos Achaiōn.”, she confirmed, telling Tommy that he had not made a mistake. 

“Does that mean that the corpse is Hector?”

She nodded once more, sighing deeply, her eyes returning to the image. 

“The man who killed his comrade in arms? Whom he hunted down for revenge?”

Hunted, killed, and dragged around the city walls in an attempt to mutilate the man in an act of vengeance. 

“That’s a very loose translation.”, she said. “I would chose something like 'most beloved' to describe his relation to Patroclus.”

Tommy swallowed hard as he sat down next to her. 

Never mind what word she used, the fact stood. That man had killed someone close to him, and he had been out for revenge, which he had gotten, and yet… 

“Why is he crying?”, he asked, staring at the fallen enemy. “With him?”

Achilles had no business crying over the man who had killed his closest companion, especially not while holding onto the dead man’s father. 

They were enemies. They were meant to fight together, not cry and hold hands. 

“Why wouldn’t he?”, she wanted to know, her voice barely above a whisper as she turned to look at him. 

Her voice was thick emotion and her own eyes shone. It would have been a lie if Tommy claimed a different reaction. But still…it didn’t make sense. Soldiers didn’t cry, shouldn’t cry, especially not ancient heroes like these, who had weapons, whole strategies named after them, and least of all with their enemies and their fathers.

“Can’t you see?”, she asked gently. “They are the same…Hector and Achilles, Peleus and Príamos. A father weeping because he can never hold his son again, cursed to outlive him and others, a son weeping because he will never again feel his father’s embrace, mourning the price he will pay for his participation in war- and the price he has already paid."

He didn’t want to hear it, not any of it, and he didn’t want to see it either.

She knew nothing of war. 

And it wasn’t like it was in the stories. One didn’t weep in front of one’s enemies. 

If he had encountered Kaiser Wilhelm in the trenches, he’d have ripped the bastard’s head off with his bare hands if that could end the war, not cry with him over the fallen. 

“Warriors don’t cry.”, he hissed through clenched teeth. Under the table, his hand had clenched into a fist, his nails digging so far into his palm he feared they would soon draw blood.

“Why not?”, she asked, tilting her head. Despite everything she had not lost the tenderness in her voice. 

“Aren’t soldiers men? Laughing, hoping, praying, crying, fearing like the rest of us? The opposite would be rather worrying.”

Tommy tried to take calming breaths, to focus on something, anything in front of him, but her eyes were too piercing and the image to vivid to allow him any form of distraction, to block out the emotions bubbling up inside him, emotions a soldier should not feel. 

Emotions, he had taught himself not to feel because they made him vulnerable and vulnerability, on the battlefield, meant death.

His hand shook as he reached for her blueish-grayish folder, flicking back a few pages to be rid of the image. The papers settled on a peculiar scene. 

He knew of Achilles, he had known of him even before he had read that summary. 

He was the namesake of battleplans, of strategies, of weapons and ploys, his murderous rage, his hot blooded anger, the havoc he rained down on the Trojans was famous - the highest of soldiers, the ultimate warrior.

She had chosen to give him a broad back and a tall frame, but in the image he saw now, it had crumbled. 

It did not show a soldier, not a warrior, not the type of man to butcher dozens, to slay a man out of vengeance and then attempt to mutilate his corpse out of grief born rage. 

On that page, Tommy saw nothing but a broken man, with his pain having brought him to his knees at the shores of the raging sea. 

But he wasn’t alone. In the middle of the breaking waves, a woman had emerged from the water, standing right in front of him. She was beautiful, in a timeless, otherworldly way, with waist-long dark hair that was as wavy as the sea itself. 

He was clutching her thighs, his head buried in her stomach as burning hot tears ran down his cheeks, his face- his whole body, contorted in anger.

There he was, the greatest of warriors, the fiercest of soldiers, on his knees like a frightened child, clinging to his mother's skirts.

He was looking up at her with utter desperation, meeting her eyes, which mirrored his pain, her hands cupping his face, worry, concern, agony all in her face. Tommy could practically feel her hands trembling, but he could also almost feel their warmth. 

She had written the words next to the drawing of the two, barely three small lines of texts that blurred in front of Tommy’s eyes as they began to water.

“My child,”, the mother asked her son, “why weepest thou? What sorrow hath come upon thy heart? Speak out; hide it not.”

Tommy took a shuddering breath, trying to blink the tears away. When his hand came up to wipe under his nose, he could feel her eyes, her wide, seeing, knowing eyes.

"So you see now,", she said softly, her hand reaching out to take his arm, "why it's more important than ever."

His other hand covered hers, as he gave a single nod.

End. 

~

Thank you very much for reading this far. I hope you enjoyed and as always I’m very much open to your feedback.

Dear Lee, thank you so much for hosting this challenge! I can't wait to hear your thoughts.

~

Here you can also find the Iliad scenes mentioned in the text in order of appearance in this story: 

Hom. Il. 9. 185-190

Achilles plays the lyra for Patroclus before receiving Odysseus and Ajax 

Hom. Il. 16. 865

Balius and Xanthus, the horses of Achilles, mourn the death of Patroclus 

Hom. Il. 5. 310

The goddess Aphrodite saves the life of her son Aeneas

Hom. Il. 24.507 - 590

Príamos comes to retrieve his son Hector's corpse, imploring Achilles with the mention of his own father. Both men cry together. 

Hom. Il. 18. 70-75

Thetis emerges from the sea to comfort her son Achilles in his grief after Hector kills Patroclus

If you have any further questions or opinions about the references in this, or any other story of mine, I’d be more than happy to chat

Taglist

@lilyrachelcassidy @jyessaminereads @watercolorskyy @books-livre

[bluesman56]

Anthony Gormley in Birmingham by Tony

[freddiemercurylegendabovelegends]

November 16th, 1974 - Queen Story!

Queen perform at the Town Hall, Birmingham, UK, during 'Sheer Heart Attack' tour

👉 Freddie Mercury on stage wearing a Zandra Rhodes tunic

[johnspookie]

★ : John Lennon at Birmingham's Town Hall | 4 June 1963

[savage-kult-of-gorthaur]

"THE ONLY REASONABLE BASS THEY HAD WAS THE DAN ARMSTRONG."

PIC INFO: Spotlight on live shots of Terence "Geezer" Butler of the mighty BLACK SABBATH, playing a Dan Armstrong Plexiglass Acrylic bass guitar while performing live at Birmingham Town Hall, Birmingham, UK, c. 1972, during the band's "Vol. 4" era.

GUITAR WORLD: "On "Black Sabbath Vol. 4" [1972], you’re pictured playing a Dan Armstrong plexiglass bass."

GEEZER: "I only used the plexiglass bass because we were on tour in America, somewhere between Detroit and Toronto, someone had opened the case of my Fender bass and smashed it to pieces. You could see the hammer marks.

It was a Sunday, and shops weren’t open, so we got in touch with the promoter, who had a friend who ran a music shop. He opened it up for us, but it was mostly cheap stuff . The only reasonable bass they had was the Dan Armstrong. That’s what I used on "Vol. 4," which probably has the worst bass sound of any Sabbath record.

On the next tour, that bass was stolen. That’s when I started having custom Jaydee and John Birch basses."

-- GUITAR WORLD, "Geezer Butler on BLACK SABBATH's early days, the making of 13 and which album has the worst bass sound," by Rob Blasko, published 8 January 2020

Sources: www.guitarworld.com/features/geezer-butler-on-black-sabbaths-early-days-the-making-of-13-and-which-album-has-the-worst-bass-sound & Vinyl Records.

[ultra-francesca-mercury]

#Queen performing at the Birmingham Town Hall in Birmingham, England, on November 27, 1973, from the “Queen I” Tour.