#I HAVE which is why I spent thirteen years in the deep south!

[bedlamsbard]

not sure if you're aware of this but. it's cold. in South Dakota.

[elsanna-shenanigans]

February Contest Submission #15: The Old House

words: ca. 6000 setting: 20th Century. Real world (with a twist) lemon: No cw: Some angst. Mentions of parent death. Referenced/implied child abuse.

“It’s time to go.”

She saw through the mist a hand, reaching out for her. Large snowflakes swirled past them like a swarm of puffy hens. The hand could not hold her. It slipped away. She called her parents’ names, or so she thought.

They found her moribund little body in the snow the next morning.

ᚼᛅᛁᛘᛦ•ᛅᚱᚾᚬᛏᛅᛚᛦ

Anna woke up with a start, chest heaving.

It was dark in the hotel room. Her roommate— partner?— stirred groggily next to her.

“Anna? What’s wrong?” Her raspy voice asked. “Was it another nightmare.”

“No,” she lied. “I’m sorry. Y-you can go back to sleep.”

She could feel Elsa’s eyes on her.

“What do you need?” She asked. Her voice spread warmth across Anna’s chest.

“…I could really use a warm hug.”

Next thing she knew, a pair of arms were gathering her into an embrace. She tucked her head under Elsa’s chin and sighed.

It would be a long day, it seemed.

ᚼᛅᛁᛘᛦ•ᛅᚱᚾᚬᛏᛅᛚᛦ

Arendelle was a small town on an island north of Norway. It was born as a fishing town in the 1890s and never changed its trajectory. Only a few dozen houses, a fish-oil refinery, the docks, one church, one school, one hotel, and an administrative building uphill. The people of Arendelle were rustic and gloomy, much like the weather they were brought up in: hail twice a week, snow in winter, and rain the rest of the time. In short: Arendelle hadn’t changed one bit since Anna left.

Being at the foot of the mountain, Arendelle’s surroundings were prone to avalanches, and the most recent one had taken place only a week back. It missed them by a few miles, but it opened up a door for archaeologists from the University of Bergen, who came to study what had been uncovered by the snow.

Anna wasn’t an archaeologist; she was a girl on a mission. She left while her grandfather slept, hopping into a cargo ship to travel north. Her passage was worth weeks of work. She hadn’t expected the sight of the town in the distance to hurt her as it did, so she kept her mind busy, and spent her days searching. 

The day things began to go downhill, she was, as always, searching for her parents’ bodies. 

She climbed up the mountains with her wooden stick and stabbed the snow with it, searching for something harder than mud. Bones, hopefully, although she was terrified of finding frozen flesh sticking to their cheekbones. The sky grew dark and cold, and Elsa would kill her if she arrived one minute too late, so she decided to turn back. She followed her own tracks towards the dig (where they let her sit by the ever-burning campfire as long as she wasn’t too noisy). The skeletal tree-branches rattled above. The wind whistled and swooshed sharply, blowing rough snow that clawed at her reddened cheeks. Her hands were numb even inside her pockets. Anna’s only comfort was thinking about Elsa’s arms around her. Not even the sight of Arendelle downhill quelled the chill.

Anna might be a born-Arendellian, but she grew up in the south of Norway. She was ill-prepared for the hostile North. 

However, if Elsa had taught her anything, was that even under the dark frozen sky there were objects of wonder.

As Anna trudged across the snow-sea which reached her mid-calf, something caught her eye. A narrow stone-wall led deep into the forest. Only two feet tall and falling apart already. Frost covered its surface. 

Her heart leaped. She deviated from her path without a second thought, legs racing, pulse and breath quickening with emotion.

The picture-stone came into view after. It lied deeper into the woods. A bow-shaped slab. Abstract ships, stick-people, reindeer herds gathered on it in a violent array of reds. Waves, antlers, and swords, a story carved in stone. A sacrifice.

And in the center, she found her.

There was something else to Arendelle.

“The Queen,” The hotel-butler had explained.

“The Queen of Norway?” Anna had asked, much to his amusement.

“No, the real Queen.”

The Snow Queen, who with her reindeer-pulled chariot cast a shadow of frost over every corner of the North. Her arms rose towards the sky, where her snowflake curled like clouds, like the winds she sent south. The slab was thirteen-foot-tall and rose high above Anna, with its depiction of the nordic spirit. Below her, was an inscription.

As it usually did, time halted. Anna’s throat dried, her eyes widened. She covered her mouth. She could no longer hear the sharp branch-rattling or wind-whistling over the sound of her own warm blood pounding in her ears. She no longer felt cold. 

She reached forward, tracing with a fingertip the carvings. 

The finds couldn’t be younger than seven hundred years old. Had it truly been that long? Oh, Anna could nearly feel the sculptor’s trembling hands, their warm breath. She placed a hand where someone else’s hands had once been. 

She searched for her journal inside her coat and scribbled down the runes she saw, as well as the stone and the wall she’d seen before.

Anna was no archaeologist— she wasn’t nearly smart enough—, but she understood why someone may choose this path. When she gazed upon this stone, it was as if there was no distance at all. 

The icy wind pushed against her, pulling her out of her haze. Yes! She began to stroll downhill. She’d prove her usefulness! She’d alert the scholars of the new find.

ᚼᛅᛁᛘᛦ•ᛅᚱᚾᚬᛏᛅᛚᛦ

Anna and the archaeologists were two land mammals sharing the same habitat, only, while they searched with brushes and trowels, Anna searched with a wooden stick. As non-competitive species, they often shared the same space, considering they knew her story. Anna wasn’t sure why the scholars tolerated her, but maybe it was because she and Elsa were a package deal now.

As soon as she reached her destination, Elsa threw her arms around her shoulders, kissed her cheek, and asked:

“Are you alright?”

She pulled back, anxious eyes studied her from head to toe. Anna’s heart always swelled with adoration when she heard that voice.

“I am,” she soothed her. “Oh, Elsa, you won’t believe what I found!”

“Wait.” Elsa tugged her towards the campfire and caressed Anna’s cheek with the back of her hand. “You’re cold. Come here.”

Soon, they sat on a log before the magnificent dig. A farmstead, they’d said. Stone walls and a half-rotten roof still mostly standing, surrounded by icy farming grounds where lamb bones were found.

The more awe-inspiring part, of course, was that a family had lived there. The farmstead was someone’s home. Elsa had described the findings in length: a family of three. All of them Christians, and funnily enough, also sheepherders. Thirteenth century. The settlement of Árnadalr lied many kilometers south, but this family lived in solitude.

Anna now wore an extra coat, held a mug of cocoa in her hands, and had Elsa fussing over her like a mother hen.

“What took you so long? You could get lost out there! And you left your scarf behind again. Here, let me find it.”

“Well, aren’t you a protective one,” Anna teased her, sipping her drink. Elsa’s pale skin flushed.

“It’s my job, isn’t it?” she muttered.

Before Anna could snort and ask what that meant, Professor Mattias, who was in charge of the dig, intervened to ask about Anna’s findings in the woods. Her enthusiasm immediately reassured everyone that she brought good news, and while they couldn’t travel at night, they still celebrated in the hotel. They cheered with vodka at the charcoal-sketch of the picture-stone Anna had presented. Yes, she’d made herself useful.

As they congratulated her, Elsa remained silent.

The hotel was so old, half the lightbulbs didn’t work. There was only one phone, and a dozen residents lined up every day to make their thirty-minutes calls and clog up the narrow smelly corridor. Each curtain was half-eaten by moths; you’d be wise not to put your clothes in the closet. Three stories of dusty light, creaky stairways, and dirty cracked windows. You could hear every neighbor from three doors away, and the ice clawed down from the roof into a fang-curtain before every window. They offered only one blanket per bed, but Elsa had provided Anna with a woolen quilt on her first night. That had perhaps been the first step towards falling in love with her. Between paying for both of them and giving up her own warmth, Elsa had extended unconditional kindness towards Anna from day one. Maybe they’d been doomed from the start. 

“They’re out of single rooms,” she’d clarified upon Anna’s arrival. “And I’ve been paying for an empty bed for the past week. Please, I insist.”

It might have passed as simple pragmatism had Elsa not been Elsa. It wasn’t only about her treatment towards Anna, no, but about how she’d treat a stranger in need, that made Anna lose control of her heart. 

She asked her about her silence, in the light of their whale-oil lamp (their room’s electricity hadn’t worked since the ‘30s), as she tried to translate the runes with her journal and a book she’d grabbed from the local library.

“Is everything okay, Elsa?”

Elsa was sitting on her bed, silently combing her hair. She wore only her slip, which was quite distracting, but she didn’t have the intention of getting into bed, despite looking so tired.

At Anna’s words, she tilted her head.

“Why? Are you feeling poorly?”

Anna snorted.

“I’m okay. Are you?”

“It’s nothing.”

Anna sighed. She closed the book and stared at Elsa.

“You never let me pull off this whole.. avoiding the subject thing,” she protested, and then extended an arm towards her, begging to come closer. A new anxious question settled on her tongue. “Are you…? Do you feel…? I mean, do you feel safe with me, Elsa? Like you can trust me?”

Elsa’s eyes studied her for one agonizing moment. She stood up. Well, they did only meet a month back. Weren’t they moving too fast? Her grandfather would certainly disapprove. 

“It’s not that,” Elsa murmured as she approached Anna. She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and nuzzled the top of her head. She planted a kiss there, and Anna’s heart skipped a beat. “I do trust you.”

Anna saw her pale fingers brush over the pages of her journal. Her uncertain translation read:

This stone was raised in memory of Agðar and Iðunn, who met their end in their travels. Their daughter carved this stone.

“You’re becoming quite a good translator,” Elsa commented, and placed another kiss on Anna’s hair. Heat crept up to the tips of her ears.

“T-thank you,” she replied, as she ripped off the page and stored it in her folder, alongside all other translations and sketches she’d scribbled since her arrival: small runestones, illustrations of archaeological finds, and multiple petroglyphs of the Queen, all of which she’d shared with the archaeologists. “You’re an excellent translator as well! I mean, I suppose you are. You work at the dig, after all.”

Elsa hummed.

“I’m not an archaeologist. I’m only a volunteer.” she argued. “In fact, I believe you’ve been more helpful than me.” She flipped over a page. “The Snow Queen?”

“Oh! Uh, yeah,” Anna stammered. “Kind of a passion project.”

“For the Snow Queen?” Elsa raised an eyebrow. “Should I be jealous?”

“Well, legend has it she was single, right? Oh! Thy Majesty! Pardon my manners, but I shoult say thy bosom looks exquisite. Are thee by any chance in need of a shieldmaiden?”

A hand snaked around her waist. Anna shrieked as Elsa’s fingers dug into the sensitive spot. Between laughter and screeching, she curled on herself and tried to swat her hand away. 

“Come on,” Elsa laughed. “It’s getting late. And keep working on your performance. That’s not how people spoke back in the day.”

She ruffled Anna’s hair and strode back towards her bed, and— alright, she saw swaying her hips on purpose. 

Anna pulled her knees to her chest, placing her heels on the edge of the seat and hugging her legs.

“You said you grew up here, right?”

“More or less, yes. Why?”

“Oh, I was just wondering. About the Snow Queen, you know.”

“What about her?”

“…That’s what I meant to ask.”

Elsa sighed. She rubbed her eyes.

“Just… some fairy tale,” she dismissed it, with a wave of her hand. “To make children behave. If you were nasty, a monster would feel your frozen heart and take you to her palace.”

“Was it a nice palace, at least?”

“I wouldn’t know. I was quite obedient growing up.”

“Oh, excuse me.”

Elsa chuckled, and Anna’s heart fluttered with affection.

“I was!” she insisted, giving Anna a mischievous look. “But no. I don’t think it was a nice place. In fact, they say everything about the Queen was cruel and horrible. She never seemed like girlfriend material to me.”

“You think?” Anna asked. “I don’t know. Maybe she was lonely.”

Elsa cast her eyes down, lips curling into a melancholic smile.

“Well, I doubt even she could resist your charms.”

With a delicate finger, she pulled Anna’s hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear. Now the heat was in Anna’s stomach, in her chest, in the way Elsa gazed at her with such an unexpected adoration, she couldn’t help but to raise her head and kiss her lips. Elsa sighed contentedly, her hand cradling the back of Anna’s neck. Her mind spun around as their lips brushed together. 

Then Elsa pulled away, with a pensive expression. She bit her lip.

“Tell you what,” she said, grasping Anna’s hands. “Come with me tomorrow. I want to show you something.”

Anna grinned. That was good enough for her. She’d wait for Elsa to speak in her own terms and time. 

ᚼᛅᛁᛘᛦ•ᛅᚱᚾᚬᛏᛅᛚᛦ

“That’s the thing,” she remembered her grandfather say, when she was seven. “I doubt they got lost. We would have found the bodies by now. I bet the reason they’re gone is because they didn’t want to deal with the responsibility, so they thrusted it on me.”

Anna woke again. Her hands trembled.

That had been a lie. 

That had to be a lie. 

He had always lied, hadn’t he? Maybe he just despised her.

Yes, she’d find them and prove him wrong. 

They loved her. They were dead.

Thankfully, Elsa wasn’t disturbed by her pathetic dreams. Anna was surprised she still put up with her, but it was better not to take risks.

She grabbed her coat and got ready for the day.

ᚼᛅᛁᛘᛦ•ᛅᚱᚾᚬᛏᛅᛚᛦ

Elsa guided her through the lonely snow-sea of the mountains in the dark winter morning. The Queen seemed to have it against them, because she blew her snow all over and made them struggle to climb up the hills. 

“Um… Elsa? How much until we get there?” Anna asked, as she could no longer feel her toes.

“Not much,” Elsa absently replied. Her eyes drifted all over the hills. She grasped Anna’s hand and pulled her along. 

The cliffs overlooking Arendelle were a dark shadow in the distance, but they gained definition as both women approached. They didn’t draw a 90 degrees angle with the ground— rather, the earth elevated slowly, in bumps and rocky points, rising like a heavy breath towards the cliff’s foot. It was a rather secluded spot, where the snow didn’t hit as harshly. There they could rest until the time to search came again.

Yet Elsa had other plans. She toiled forward, along the cliff-wall, until the runestones came into view.

Blood-red lines coiled around the edges of a small stone plate, only half as tall as Anna herself. It protruded from near the foot of the cliff, high above. They exchanged a quick look.

“Can you read what it says?” Asked Elsa. Anna cringed thinking about her rune-reading skills.

“I can try?” She vacillated. Looking up, she read: “…Sif and Afvaldr erected this stone in memory of Nafni, son of Ulfarr, father of Afvaldr and husbandman of Sif, who met his end fighting the snow.”

Her heart skipped a beat. She saw Elsa grin from the corner of her eye.

“Anna,” she tugged at her hand. “Look.”

Anna followed the direction of Elsa’s finger, and saw extending into the distance a trail of stones with engravings on them. Small, big, at some points more spaced out than in others. They followed the length of the cliff-wall like a series of little stars, so tiny under the mountain’s shadow.

Anna’s throat tightened with emotion. 

She stepped towards the next stone. This one had a cross on it.

“Feykir and his daughter, Esja, had this stone raised in memory of Rjúpa, Feykir’s wife and Esja’s mother, who was taken by the wicked snow. May God help her spirit.”

This one was close enough to touch. Anna traced the edge of the cross with a finger. 

“How did you know this place?” She asked.

“Oh, you know.” Elsa shrugged. “This is my home.”

Many of the stones were cenotaphs, Elsa explained. No one was buried beneath this soil, but they might as well be, because each of these people, with names and loved ones, felt only a breath away.

“Bersa raised this stone in memory of Ilmr, her father’s sister. She was killed when trying to kill the snow.”

Anna’s breath grew heavier. She scrutinized these patterns, these strange writings, for several hours; they all dated to this wicked, living, killing snow.

Her heart vigorously pounded warm blood into her fingertips.

Then, she spotted a particular runestone. It was the greatest one of all, far away from the others, and it sported the same figure she’d seen only a day before; the Snow Queen with her arms towards the sky. Around her coiled a serpent with words on its skin.

In her blind excitement, Anna hastily climbed over rocks until she reached it. Elsa followed closely behind. 

“Do you know what it says?” Elsa asked when she reached her.

Anna squinted at the words. Its inscription was the longest she’d seen so far.

“It says… Agðar and Iðunn came from the south. It was with them that the snow came.” She stepped to the side, to read the following line. “It was their daughter that brought the evil, with which she could slay a hundred men in… Árnadalr? So… um… Crap. I don’t know what it says here.”

She turned around, expecting to find Elsa willing to lend a hand, but her expression was painted by an unexpected sadness.

Anna’s stomach sank a little.

“Elsa?”

Elsa lowered her head.

“It says they killed her,” she explained. Anna squinted.

“She was real?”

“So it seems.”

“The Snow Queen? No. That’s… too much even for Arendelle. Besides, vikings wrote a lot of weird stuff, right?”

“It’s what the stone tells.” Elsa pointed out. “I know I said it was only a tale last night, but…”

“Wait. Agðar and Iðunn?” Anna checked the names on the stone again. “Were they…? Oh, Elsa… She really was real. And her parents…”

“…Yes. Agðar and Iðunn were the names of the people who lived in the dig,” Elsa clarified.

“So, the Snow Queen… she…” Anna looked at the carvings in stone again. Despair seized her heart. “Oh, no, Elsa. She had a family. They… Oh, goodness…”

A family, yes, one the Snow Queen had missed very much, enough to raise a stone in their memory. To think about this loss, this pain that she thought she knew even if she wasn’t quite sure, tore her heart in half. 

Her eyes watered. 

“I don’t think she was a monster.”

There was… a long history of death and pain in that family, wasn’t it?.

She heard Elsa breathe behind her. 

“Anna, there’s…”

She dropped whatever it was she was about to say when she noticed the mist behind Anna’s eyes.

“I really hope I find my parents,” she murmured, then furiously rubbed her eyes. “D-did I ever tell you what happened to them?”

She could feel Elsa’s pain-stricken gaze on her.

“If that’s something you want to do, I’ll listen.”

Anna nodded. Her throat constricted. 

“There was a storm,” she recalled. “I don’t remember what happened very well. I-I can’t even remember their names, and my grandfather won’t tell me, and besides…”

“He won’t?”

“Yeah, so I think I got lost, because I couldn’t see them anywhere. Next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital. My grandfather adopted me afterwards.”

“But you’re the one searching for the bodies?”

“What can I say?” Anna shrugged and forced a crooked smile. “Guess he didn’t want to… unbury any painful memories.”

“He didn’t care to find his son?”

“…Or you could put it like that, too.” She wiped her eyes, looking down. “I think I’m beginning to understand him, though.”

Elsa squinted.

“How come?”

“Well…” She kicked the snow at her feet. “He told me once they’d left me in the snow. I like to think I actually got lucky, but I…” She shook her head. “I feel so selfish, Elsa. Like I want them to be dead, just so I can know they didn’t abandon me.”

“They didn’t,” Elsa blurted out with a thick voice. “Anna, your family loved you.”

“Then I shouldn’t be looking for them like this.”

Her voice sounded pathetic even to her.

She brought her hands together, and carefully leaned against Elsa.

“What are you going to do, then?”

She sucked in a ragged breath.

“I don’t know,” Anna admitted. “I don’t wanna go home. My grandfather…”

“Does he hurt you?”

“He’s never hit me.”

Elsa’s arm snaked around her waist.

“What will you do?” Anna then asked, trying to shift the attention from herself. “After the dig is over, I mean. You’ve lived your whole life here, right?”

“In a way.”

“Will you stay?”

That was a difficult question. Elsa could imply she’d leave her and neither of them would know, because Anna didn’t know what she’d do, either. Maybe she’d be the one to leave Elsa.

Elsa closed her eyes.

“I don’t know. Arendelle brings a lot of memories, doesn’t it?”

“It does.”

Then Elsa lowered her gaze. Screwed her eyes shut. She pulled away from Anna and wrapped both arms around herself.

“Let’s just go back,” she said curtly. Anna’s heart weighed heavily in her chest— from thinking of her family, from thinking about the Queen, from this sudden rejection—, but she respected Elsa’s space. Had she done something to scare her away? Oh, she surely must have.

They climbed down from the hills even though Anna’s toes were freezing. The mountains made her feel hopeless but so did the sight of Arendelle, and with Elsa walking several feet before her, not even glancing back, Anna felt as though there was no respite from this tired heaviness. She wanted nothing but to curl into a ball and sleep. 

Just before they entered the town, Elsa stopped.

“Anna… listen.” She began. Her tone made Anna’s shoulders droop. “I-I can’t keep doing this. We can’t.”

Anna’s heart quivered.

“W-what do you mean?”

“I mean… this has to end.” She raised her shoulders to her ears. Avoided Anna’s eyes. “I-I’m sorry. Goodbye, Anna.”

Her heart cracked open. Anna shook her head.

“What? W-why?” She shouldn’t feel this surprised. “Did… did I do something? I’m so sorry if I did. Just…”

The pain behind Elsa’s eyes was indescribable.

“No.” She interrupted. “It wasn’t you. Just… please. I can’t say it right now.”

Anna wanted to reply (to scream, cry, seize her hands and not let go), but words failed her as Elsa turned her back to her and entered Arendelle.

As simple as that, Anna was alone. 

She didn’t begin to cry until Elsa was out of sight, like a pathetic little child. 

ᚼᛅᛁᛘᛦ•ᛅᚱᚾᚬᛏᛅᛚᛦ

During her last night in Arendelle, Anna dreamed of her sister.

Yes, she’d had a sister, and even though she didn’t remember her name or face she remembered she’d loved her, once. She remembered holding her hand and running in the snow, building snowmen and drinking chocolate with her. The affection and tenderness lingered after, as if carved on stone.

ᚼᛅᛁᛘᛦ•ᛅᚱᚾᚬᛏᛅᛚᛦ

"Anna, wait.”

Her breath and heart came to a halt. Turning around, she found her standing there, in her blue dress and gripping a rucksack. Her expression was both serious and desperate; pained. She raised a hand as if to grasp Anna’s.

“Oh. Elsa,” Anna blurted. The need to cover her face nearly overpowered her. “Uh… Hello.”

Elsa took her acknowledgment as a cue to come closer. Two long steps and a stare, just for a moment; and Anna understood she didn’t know what she was doing, either. Did she intend to apologize for being brusque? Her approach seemed to indicate so. It wouldn’t be unlike her. Anna was willing to accept and move on if that was the case, but truth was, she didn’t deserve an apology when she’d been the one in the wrong.

However, Elsa looked anything but angry.

Rather, her blue eyes drifted over to the ship in port; the sea. Her throat bobbed up and down.

“I suppose we’ll be leaving in the same ship,” she pointed out with a lopsided smile. Anna tried to smile back. 

“Yep. So it seems.”

“Though I believe we’re early,” continued Elsa. “I was wondering if you cared for a walk in town.”

Anna looked to the side. 

“Elsa, I… don’t know.”

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she insisted. “I know. I know. Y-you don’t have to listen to me. But I promise I’ll explain everything, if you’ll have me.”

“Oh, Elsa, there’s nothing to explain,” Anna reassured her. “You just… don’t feel the same way I do. That’s normal. I’m not mad, you know.”

Elsa shook her head.

“That’s not it,” she insisted. “It's… more complicated than that. Actually, I’ve been meaning to tell you this ever since I found you.” She wrung her hands together and looked down. “I just hope you’ll believe me when I’m done.”

Regret and desperation were draped over her posture like a heavy cloak, dragging her down. Even when hurt, Elsa still made her heart skip a beat with every gesture of kindness, and this one was no exception. Both her lovestruck haze and her intellectual curiosity compelled her to give Elsa a chance. 

She picked up her bag and extended her arms to the sides.

“I’m all ears.”

Elsa’s grin reminded her of why she loved her. 

“Really?”

“Yep! One-hundred-per-cent. Now, hurry up!”

Elsa sighed in relief. She placed a hand on her chest.

“Alright. Come with me.”

She led her out of the port and into town. Despite having spent the last few months in Arendelle, Anna wasn’t eager to revisit it, but it was different when she knew that’d be the last time she’d see it. She spotted the playground where she and her sister had played (her big sis always hugged her from behind when they went down the slide, because it wasn’t fun going alone), and saw the place where they bought cod and salmon on the weekends. The little kindergarten she’d attended had closed down, but the building still stood. Most streets hadn’t been paved. Mud stuck to her boots. The sky was still white and cold, the houses dull, and the people as austere and uncaring as they’d always been. 

“When I was little,” Elsa began. “My family and I were hiding from a very dangerous man. Of course, I didn’t know that until I was much older. At the time it all felt like a game of hide and seek. We left the mainland, and when that wasn’t enough, we went even further.” She gulped. “We crossed a line that night, and someone else suffered the consequences.”

Anna bit her lip but didn’t interrupt. She feared any disturbance may break the spell and chase Elsa away.

“Anna, what do you remember from the dig?”

“There was a family. With a kid. The Snow Queen. And… her parents died.” Anna recounted. “Is that it? You were reminded of your family?”

“…I was, yes,” replied Elsa. “Anna…”

Was that it? Had it been a dumb case of miscommunication? Of course! She’d been so stupid. Neither of them had been in the right place back then, but now they were, and they could sort out the problem. Perhaps, Elsa didn’t hate her.

Only then Anna realized they were standing before the old house.

Her stomach sank. Her breath hitched and a shiver ran down her spine, mouth hanging ajar. She stepped back.

“Oh, no,” she heard Elsa mumble. 

The house was still made of wood, although it had lost its color. Two stories. A window was broken and so was one of the steps leading up to the entrance. From inside came the smell of dust and rust and rot.

“Anna?”

She looked at Elsa, and couldn’t find the words to beg or cry or scream, but she didn’t need to because Elsa didn’t ask questions. She held her reluctant gaze for a moment and then she nodded, stepped forward, and took Anna’s hand. 

She managed to hold her composure and lead Elsa inside. 

The house had been empty for thirteen years, and it had collected dust and spiderwebs over time. It still felt like home, though. A cold fireplace, where Mama often sang to them, or the rocking chair by the windows, where Papa sat to tell bedtime stories.

Anna’s ribcage unlocked with force. She exhaled shakily and blinked the blurriness away.

Elsa was dreadfully silent, but her thumb caressed Anna’s knuckles. This gave her the strength to climb up the stairs towards her old bedroom. The window was so dirty, you could barely see at all. Nearly all the furniture was gone, save for a pitiful nightstand.

“Anna?”

Anna placed both palms on the nightstand and screwed her eyes shut.

“W-would you tell me about your family? Please?”

She did not have a family to embrace her but perhaps she could bask in the comfort of someone else’s warmth.

“My father was a physicist. My mother was a historian,” continued Elsa. “A-and I had a little sister. Even then, I loved her with everything I was.”

The drawer was stuck. Anna struggled with it.

“W-we never meant to leave her behind.” Elsa’s breathing was laborious. “But there was a blizzard; a small avalanche. And she got lost. We tried to go back for her but it was too late. We’d already reached the other side.”

The wood made a horrible rattling noise, but it eventually gave in under Anna’s strength.

“To this day I still don’t understand how such a thing could happen. We spent thirteen years trying to go back, a-and my parents didn’t make it. The people in town saw something in me. They feared me, and I never knew why. I-I didn’t mean to scare them. My parents tried to find a way back, but they—they didn’t make it. I-I took care of them myself. Gave them a proper…” her voice cracked horribly. “T-they deserved to see her again, yet only three years later the very same window opened itself to me. I didn’t cross it. In fact, it crossed over me.”

Inside the drawer was a single photo frame. Anna picked it in her trembling hands.

“Elsa…”

“I was happy. I was back, after so long. And then I found my little sister, too. I can’t describe the way I felt when I saw her again, all grown up after thirteen years.”

Anna traced a finger around her sister’s childish face on the frame’s glass.

“Elsa, I…”

“But then, I began to feel… something else. I thought I was just… happy to have her back, even if I hadn’t dared to tell her the truth. But I was wrong. What I felt… scared me. I wanted to be with her all the time, but I couldn’t stand to look at her face. I felt disgusting. I-I still do.”

Anna put the frame down, and studied her sister from head to toe. The same blue eyes, snow-like hair. The same gentle features but also the same inner strength her broken little mind still remembered. Her thoughts were no longer made of words; she couldn’t hear them over the blood pounding in her ears— her heart would jump out of her chest at any moment. They had all come to a halt as her brain processed Elsa’s words. Her sister. Her sister, who had been away for so long, who was now back, who had taken care of their parents’ burial alone and who still made Anna feel like the most loved person in the world.

Her heart made up its mind. She threw her arms around Elsa’s neck.

“Oh, Elsa…” she breathed, and choked back a sob. “You’re not disgusting. Please, don’t ever say that. I love you.”

Her sister. She was back, from beyond time. She was the same girl who tucked Anna into bed back then. She’d taken care of baby sheep yet she saw herself through monstrous lenses. The Snow Queen, in love with her little sister, who one day vanished from her farmstead and was never seen again. Who raised a stone in memory of their parents, for people hundreds of years later to remember them. This girl with a quivering body, holding Anna in her arms.

A tear ran down Anna’s cheek.

“I realized that, regardless of how I felt, I would lose you again if I didn’t tell you,” Elsa whispered. “That’s all that matters. We can forget about whatever it is that I feel. That’s alright by me.”

Anna shook her head against her sister’s shoulder.

“Well, g-good thing it doesn’t have to come down to that, right?” Anna chuckled wetly. She slowly pulled back, and found her sister’s hands in hers.

“Even now that you know the truth?” Elsa closed her eyes. “No. It isn’t right.”

“What are you talking about? Elsa, can’t you see? I love you. I… will need some time to wrap my head around this, but… All these years, I thought I was alone, b-but I wasn’t! You and Mama and Papa were always out there. You were even searching for me! A-and now I have you back, and… Oh my Goodness, I got my sister back… A-and she’s in love with me.”

Anna hesitated for only one second. For some reason, she could believe her, almost without trying. Her sister, yes, it wasn’t normal, but after walking across time and back– after losing her for so long, normal was out the window for her. She wouldn’t lose her, in one way or the other.

“I’m sorry.” Elsa murmured.

“What? Elsa, have you met you?” Anna spluttered, then laughed. “Not everyone is lucky enough to say their sister loves them this much.” She stood on tip-toes and pressed her lips to Elsa’s— her sister’s— her family’s. The warmth that spread inside her body felt natural, and it did so even more when a hand cupped the back of her neck. She pulled back after a moment. “We have time to figure things out, Elsa,” she said. “Y-you’ll come with me, right? You’ll give me a chance?”

Her sister’s eyes brimmed with tears. Her hand tucked a strand of red hair behind Anna’s ear. 

“I’m scared, Anna,” she admitted. “I don’t know what I’m doing. But I’ll stay with you. I promise.”

Anna grinned like a lovestruck fool.

“We’ll figure it out together,” she reassured her. Then a siren came from the port, echoing through Arendelle. They exchanged a smile. Anna stole one more peck before Elsa could speak.

“Are you satisfied? Shall we go now?” Elsa giggled.

They made it outside the house, and once outside, the brightness blinded Anna for an instant. When she inhaled the fresh ocean air, she felt as if she could float. The damp, heavy odor of the house no longer clung to her lungs. 

She looked back. The house hadn’t changed. Its wood was still colorless and empty of life. It was completely empty.

“Anna?”

Her sister stood next to her, more beautiful than she remembered. She looked at her with all the love in the world.

The siren blared again.

Large snowflakes swirled past them like a swarm of puffy hens. 

Anna grasped her sister’s hand.

“Come on,” she said. “It’s time to go.”

[lokimostly]

Polaris (Ch.2/?)

Loki x Reader, Pirate!AU Word count: 3,707 Warnings: mentions of blood, angst Summary: Your life has always been set in stone. Born to a wealthy merchant family in the Caribbean, you’ve spent your years as an heiress in the daytime, escaping at night to wander the streets of St. Thomas. Now, on the eve before your life settles into mundanity for good, you discover someone who could change everything– if you choose to trust him, that is.

A/N: Tag list is open! Sorry for any typos, I really need a beta reader, lol. Enjoy!

Previous Chapter ~ Chapter Three ~  Chapter Four ~ Chapter Five ~  Chapter Six ~ Chapter Seven ~ Chapter Eight ~ Chapter Ten ~ Chapter Eleven ~ Chapter Twelve ~ Chapter Thirteen ~ Chapter Fourteen

“Daughter, if we don’t leave now, we’re going to be late!”

“It’s not like it starts without me!” You snapped. You heard your father let out an exasperated noise, quickly followed by his footsteps down the hallway, and then they disappeared entirely. He’d given up fighting with you for the meantime, it seemed.

One of the maids your father employed stuck her head cautiously through your open door like she was peeking into the lair of a waking dragon. “Miss, would you like any help–”

“– I’m fine,” you replied curtly. “You may go.”

She dismissed herself with a relieved expression.

You returned your gaze to the vanity mirror in front of you. You didn’t look anything like yourself. Your hair had been tousled with and brought to heel, stacked so high that you felt like you might topple over if you leaned your head the wrong way. Your face was painted with vermillion, cheeks unnaturally red. Your lips were pigmented, too– they tasted sour and metallic when you ran your tongue over them.

You stared at yourself. You looked miserable. Your eyes dropped to the ornate set of jewelry that had been laid out for you on the vanity. You sighed noisily and reached up to the mountain of hair, searching for the clips that held it so carefully in place. If you were going to be forced into a corset, an obnoxiously heavy dress and even heavier jewelry, you had to compromise somewhere. Besides, how was your future fianceé supposed to know what you looked like if he couldn’t see your real features?

You paused with a hair clip between your fingers. Huh. You’d never thought about your betrothed before. Not as a person, at least – he was always a concept, an abstract figure that you could argue about and passionately loathe for ruining your life’s plans. You didn’t even know what he looked like.

If you were lucky, he might be that handsome stranger.

You threw away the thought just as quickly as it came, and began undoing the mountain of curls on your head. What a foolish thing to think. You’ll never see him again. You don’t even know his name.

He didn’t know yours, either. It was an arrangement he suggested at the beginning of the night, and you had agreed. After all, the less he knew about you, the better, right?

But he was the first thing on your mind when you were roused by the maids, only a few hours after falling into bed. You blamed the dark circles under your eyes on a bad night of sleep, on account of nervousness – which was laughable. This marriage had been arranged since before your birth. What did you have to be nervous about?

After you pulled a final clip your hair came loose, tumbling down your back in loose curls. Much better. You sighed again – you seemed to be doing that a lot lately – and gave yourself one last look. No, as much as you could daydream about the handsome stranger who walked along the docks with you on your last night of freedom, you knew the truth. You would never see him again.

You tried to convince yourself that it was for the best.

“Daughter–”

“I’m coming down!” You called, pulling at the dress to try and ease your discomfort somehow. It was peach-colored – sweet, soft and innocent, as you were supposed to be. You reached up and rubbed the back of your hand against your lips, removing the blood-red stain from them at the last minute.

You could practically feel your father’s veins about to burst when he called you again, this time by your first name. You picked up the hem of your dress, stood, and smiled politely at your reflection: half-practice, half-goodbye. This was, after all, your farewell to your better self. The girl that would walk out of your room would be someone else entirely.

Your eyes pricked with tears and you inhaled quickly– no crying. Instead, you put your chin up, took as deep a breath as you could manage, and walked out the door.

The lone candle stood flickering on the windowsill.

~

It was mid-afternoon by the time you arrived.

“You changed your hair,” Your father observed as he stepped out, offering you his hand.

“It looks better this way,” you replied testily, taking it. You picked up the fabric of your dress with one hand and carefully descended the steps, until your soft-soled slippers touched cobblestone. You purposefully avoided your father’s expression of displeasure. Instead, you looked ahead.

The estate was enormous. You couldn’t have imagined a house so large, even though yours was the biggest in St. Thomas by far. There were more windows than you could count. The gardens went on forever. Ornate pillars of alabaster stone framed a wide, curving staircase up to the gilded double doors. They were wide open: music and light chatter flooded out like water, ringing out across the grounds and reaching you even as you stood in the drive.

“It seems that it does start without you,” Your father remarked as he offered you his arm– a jab at your comment from earlier.

Your eyes flitted over the estate with an unenthused expression. However skilled the musicians inside may have been, to you the distant music only sounded discordant.

You took his arm and travelled up the stone walkway. Your stomach felt like it was sinking to the depths of the ocean. By the time you reached the stairs, you were surprised there wasn’t a visible thundercloud looming over your head. The servants at the door greeted you – you didn’t hear a word.

When you came through the foyer and into the main ballroom, you had begun preparation for a swift exit.

There were too many people, far too many. The afternoon heat only amplified your feeling of claustrophobia. The room was obscenely large and still felt crowded: lords and ladies dressed to the nines, not a beauty mark or a wig hair out of place. You were immediately grateful for altering your appearance. You stood out now. To this crowd, you undoubtedly looked childish and plain. To your fianceé, at least you might look something like yourself.

A string quartet played subdued, slightly melancholic notes from one corner. You were reminded of the four-string fiddler in the tavern last night – and the sea-green eyes of the man who’d saved you. You felt a pang in your chest. Why hadn’t you run away for good? Smuggled yourself onto a ship and let it take you far away from this?

I’m a coward, you thought miserably, as you flashed a reassuring smile towards your father. No matter how hard I try, I’ll will always be afraid.

You were vaguely aware that the servants had announced your presence, because suddenly the music quieted, and everyone turned to look at you. Hundreds of eyes burned holes in your skin, tearing apart your clothes, makeup, expression– you felt more naked than if you’d stripped. And yet muscle memory prevailed: you smiled, just enough to look seemly, and told yourself it would all be over soon.

Your father tugged subtly on your arm, ushering you into the room. Your heart felt like a bird trying to escape through your chest as you continued to draw the gaze of the crowd. Why were they still staring? Surely your appearance wasn’t that shocking.

“My friend, how good to see you. You look well.”

You turned your gaze and found your father shaking hands with someone: an older man. Your soon-to-be father-in-law. You knew him only by the name of his company: Odin & Sons, the wealthiest shipping merchants in every corner of the Caribbean. Unlike most of the English guests, he wore no wig or lace-covered clothing. There were a few metal clasps in his greying hair, and nothing more. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you recognised it to be a more traditional Scandinavian style of dress.

Not that it matters, you reminded yourself. He’s the richest man in the South Pacific, he can wear what he likes.

“And you must be her,” he said, turning his attention to you and extending his hand. You snapped out of your thoughts and forced a smile, giving it to him. He pressed a kiss to your knuckles as you curtsied.

“It’s an honor, Sir,” you said robotically, faltering a little at his title- you weren’t sure if it was the right one.

He noticed, and chuckled. “Odin will suffice, my dear.”

You forced a titter through your lips and straightened up – a small laugh that meant silly me, what an easy mistake. There had to be some kind of award for a performance this convincing.

Odin gestured broadly behind him, directing your gaze as he spoke. “May I introduce my sons– Thor, my firstborn, and Loki.”

Your eyes fell on the two tall figures, and then your jaw dropped.

It was him.

The one who walked the town with you last night, who saved you in the tavern, standing there and smiling with all the congeniality his handsome face could offer, like nothing had happened.

And next to him was your fianceé.

“My dear, that’s hardly becoming,” your father teased nervously, and you quickly closed your gaping mouth. Your father chuckled, trying to make light of your inappropriate expression. “I hadn’t told her of your son’s good looks.”

Thor laughed, and you looked at him for the first time. He was good-looking. Like his father, his golden hair was pulled half-back and tied with metal clasps; there were a few braids hiding behind his ears as well. Broad shouldered, with a light beard and twinkling blue eyes … yes, he was handsome.

But then there was Loki.

Gone was the simple dress you’d seen him in the night prior. The wide-sleeved shirt he wore now was a deep sea-green, embroidered to shimmer like water when he moved. The only addition to his appearance was a loose braid that fell to his collarbone, but God if it didn’t do wonders. He looked marvelous: understated yet elegant, with a smirk that betrayed exactly nothing. Even here, he had that air of mystery, like he was somehow a touch out of place.

You let Thor take your hand automatically, but your eyes stayed fixed to his brother: staring at him with such intensity that you were surprised you didn’t leave burn marks in his forehead.

It’s me, your eyes said desperately. We’ve met before.

Loki’s eyes said nothing in return.

“May I have the first dance?” Thor asked politely. Right, there was dancing. You broke your gaze from Loki (with difficulty) and allowed Thor to take you from your father, capturing you with a hand around your waist. You stiffened at his touch, and then forced yourself to relax. This would be your husband soon— you couldn’t flinch every time he touched you.

The string quartet music swelled and in one choreographed movement, the guests paired themselves up. You knew how to dance, of course, but given the nature of your predetermined marriage you had never actually danced with anyone other than your instructor.

“You must forgive me,” Thor said, smiling apologetically. “I’m usually too busy for dancing. I haven’t made a habit of it.”

“You and I both,” You responded distractedly. Your hand barely touched his shoulder as the music steadied to a waltz. Simple enough. You avoided Thor’s gaze like the plague, looking around the room instead – searching for his brother. Did he really not recognise you, after last night’s excursion? Your appearance wasn’t that different.

Then again, if he was feigning ignorance, you wouldn’t be surprised. He had already proved that he was clever beyond your understanding.

“Your hair is lovely.”

You forced yourself to pay attention to your partner. “Thank you,” you murmured, still avoiding his gaze. “I like yours, too.”

On cue with the music, Thor spun you out and brought you back seamlessly, pulling you to him once more. You found yourself staring at the floor, watching the marble tiles move beneath you. He was obviously taking great care not to step on your feet.

“If we are going to be wed, we should learn to look each other in the eye,” he said gently.

Your gaze snapped up to him as your face flushed. Apparently Loki wasn’t the only one with a watchful gaze. “My apologies.”

“Not necessary,” He smiled, which only made you feel worse.

There was another beat of music-filled silence. You combed your brain for something witty to say, and came up empty. How were you supposed to talk to him? With respect? As a friend? The two of you barely knew each other– you hadn’t the faintest idea where to begin.

You heard Loki’s familiar, musical laugh and glanced across the dance floor– he had a woman caught up in his arms, spinning her like she weighed nothing and smiling as though he was having the time of his life. You felt an unfamiliar twinge of jealousy, and quickly shoved it back down, forcing yourself to look at Thor again.

By the time you had half a sentence constructed in your mind, the song was over.

Thor parted from you and bowed politely, offering you a genuine smile. “If you’ll excuse me – there is business to attend to that I must oversee.”

Your eyebrows raised and you managed to conjure a mildly disappointed expression. “Oh, it’s alright,” you said, and gave him a condoling smile. “I understand.”

“Don’t worry, brother,” came a familiar voice over your shoulder, as two large hands set themselves on your shoulders. You froze. “I’ll ensure that she won’t perish of boredom.”

Thor laughed. “I have no doubt of that.” He gave you a final nod, and strode through the crowds, disappearing from your sight.

As soon as he was gone, you whirled around with wide eyes, feeling like you were about to combust. “You–” you began accusingly.

He didn’t let you finish. Instead, he swept you up into his arms just as the music swelled again, grasping your hand and wrapping his arm around your waist. It sent shivers up your spine that you did your best to ignore.

“Darling, we must stop meeting like this,” he said, and began twirling you across the dance floor. You were forced to stare at his face so you wouldn’t get dizzy. He led effortlessly, weaving through other pairs and picking you up off the ground by a fraction of an inch when called for – unlike Thor, whose dancing required rigid focus, you felt free in Loki’s arms.

Loki. You savored the name in your mind, wondering how it would taste on your tongue. It certainly suited him.

“So you did recognize me,” you said, after you’d reigned your thoughts back in and remembered what you were talking about.

Loki merely smirked, tilting his head slightly in a nod. “You’re hard to forget.”

Your cheeks burned and you scowled. “Don’t try and flatter your way out of this,” you warned him. “Did you know I was your brother’s betrothed when we met? Is that why you wouldn’t tell me your name?”

“Surprisingly, I was unaware,” he admitted, lifting you up and forcing you to hold tightly to his shoulder before setting you back down again. So fluid and simple, but your heart was racing from the adrenaline of it. “It’s a shame. He’ll have a hard time reining you in.”

Your scowl deepened as you tried to discern the meaning behind his statement. “Is that an insult?” You asked, gazing up at his face. Goodness, that jaw of his could cut glass.

In contrast to your faithful stare, Loki’s eyes never seemed to meet yours. “A compliment,” he corrected. He spun you out without warning, pulling you in and holding your back against his chest. His elegant hands gripped your waist just enough to lead without ever making you feel like he was touching you indecently. The irony was that it left you wanting for more of his touch. You wanted to feel his fingers dig against your skin.

You felt a surge of guilt. You shouldn’t be thinking of him that way, not when you were going to marry his brother.

Why wouldn’t it have been him?

He brought you back to face him once more, catching your hand and bowing as the song ended. Unlike the first, this waltz seemed only too short. You had a hard time masking your regret when you curtsied.

Then he offered you his hand again.

“What say we catch our breath?”

~

The gardens were a maze. Tall, neat hedges lined the walkways and climbing vines wove around overhanging tree branches, hiding you from the sweltering heat of the evening sun. The grass underfoot was obviously well-tended: there wasn’t a blade out of place.

Loki looked different in sunlight.

The night before, you hadn’t been blessed by the opportunity to observe him in full. You had only seen the shadows and suggestions of his features, alluding to what he truly looked like. Now, you could see the curve of his cheekbones, the angle of his nose, the way his eyes spoke volumes before he ever said a word. He was mesmerizing, and you had a difficult time diverting your eyes.

So he’s not a pirate after all, you thought amiably. Just a wealthy merchant’s second son.

When you put it like that, he hardly sounded impressive – but he held your fascination nonetheless.

“Tell me, is there something on my face?” He asked suddenly without looking at you. His eyes were, in fact, drawn upward towards the low-hanging bows of the trees.

Your face flushed and you diverted your gaze. “No. I’m sorry, it was rude of me to stare.”

“You’ve been doing it all evening, don’t stop now,” he remarked sarcastically, dropping his eyes and gazing at you. In the light of day, they were more of a light green than the deep sea color you had previously thought. “And you sound terribly mechanical when you talk that way.”

You pressed your lips together to hide a smile, and dropped the formalities. “You don’t know me like you think you do.”

It was true, to an extent: you had told him almost nothing about yourself last night. Then again, you knew he saw more than he let on.

But to your surprise, he agreed. “No, I don’t.” He paused, slowing down to consider the roses that were blooming elegantly along the archway above you. They were the same color as your dress. “But I know you’re already tired of him.”

You frowned. “Thor?”

Loki rolled his eyes. “Stupidity isn’t becoming on you, either. Who else?”

You crossed your arms over your chest and watched him through narrowed eyes as he looked up at the roses. “I’ve only just met him, I couldn’t be tired of him.”

“I saw your face.” Loki reached up, and there was a small snap as he broke the stem of one flower between his fingers. “This world you’ve found yourself in, full of business meetings, garden parties, empty conversations– it bores you to tears. And Thor is all of that personified.”

His voice and face held no emotional weight– only cold calculation. He was stating a matter of fact.

You reached out to take the flower when he offered it. The wheels of your mind mulled over his words. He was probably right... they had grown up side by side, and if Loki said it, then it must be so.

Thor had left you for a business meeting right after your dance. You hadn’t cared at the time. But the duration of your interaction – and the fact that it felt like he was doing the bare minimum – did make his entrance into your life lackluster. And when you married him, what then? The least you could expect from your fianceé was his attention. And today, Thor hadn’t been able to give you that.

You had a feeling it wasn’t going to change.

Loki watched silently as you thought it over and your countenance fell, and he hummed through his nose.

You looked up sharply. “What?”

He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head, smirking. “So unhappy and yet you do so little to prevent it.”

You stiffened as a rush of heat rose to your face. “You don’t know me,” you repeated, more serious this time.

“No?” He asked, stepping towards you so suddenly that you took a few steps back, hitting the trunk of a willow tree. The bark dug into your back as you stared up at him with wide eyes.

His expression had changed. The deep sea-green color of his eyes was back, dark and dangerous like an impending storm.

“I know that it wasn’t just surprise that held your gaze on me and not your beloved,” He stated. His voice was low and sultry as he reached forward, holding your chin between his forefinger and thumb so you wouldn’t look away. “Tell me, little one, when you’ve finally wedded him and resigned yourself to a life full of everything you despise, how long will it take before I find you in my bed, whimpering in the dark, begging me for the comfort your husband cannot give?”

There was a sharp sound.

You stared, petrified, as you watched the pale skin of Loki’s cheek blush crimson from where your hand had struck him. He pulled away from you and reached up, slowly, ghosting his fingers over his skin.

You were speechless.

Loki stepped away, leaving you pressed against the willow. You were gripping the rose so tightly that the thorns had pricked your skin, little rivulets of blood trickling through your fingers. Your chest heaved with emotion, but still you made no sound.

He chuckled, dropping his hand and narrowing his eyes. His genuine smile sent a shiver down your spine - and not an unpleasant one, either.

“I think," he said slowly, offering you his arm with a smirk to walk back, "that you and I are going to get along.”

Next Chapter

~ ~ ~

Tag List: @neontiiger​, @un-consider-it​, @jessiejunebug​, @nerdypisces160​, @lokiisntdeadbitch​, @e-wolf-90​, @cursedmoonstone-blog​, @kikaninchen-2​, @bluebellhairpin​, @evy-lyn​, @midnight-queen-1​, @travelingmypassion​, @harrybpoetry​, @adefectivedetective​, @absolutecraziness13​, @kumikokagato, @randomfangirl7​, @timetraveler1978​, @tarynkauai, @arcanethamin​, @ornate-ribcage​, @julianettedoe, @kinghiddlestonanddixon​, @yespolkadotkitty​, @befearlesslyauthenticc​, @ladybugsfanfics​

[winchesterbrotherstan]

Kong: Skull Island- Brothers

Pairing: Eventual Reg Slivko x Irene Conrad Brown (OC)

Jack Chapman x Irene Brown (brother-sister relationship)

James Conrad x Irene Brown (brother-sister relationship)

Summary: An ex-mercenary and his younger adopted sister get themselves into a mess because they want money from the US government

Warnings: cursing, crying, etc

Word Count: 2777

SAIGON, VIETNAM

I caught the ball as it bounced back from the wall. James had gone out for the night, and he refused to let me come with him. It was already enough that he had brought me out to Saigon with him. The hotel room was cramped, with one bed, a wooden chair, and a TV that didn’t work perched atop a large dresser with drawers that only pulled halfway out. James and I kept our stuff in bags anyway. I had finished reading The Time Machine, and only read halfway through The Island of Doctor Moreau because it was rather horrifying. James told me he’d be back rather late, so I was to lock the door and go to sleep at a reasonable time.

I sighed deep as I threw the bouncy ball again, only this time it bounced onto the floor instead of onto the bed. I let it go and rolled onto my stomach. James had been decommissioned for the past week and a half, but he didn’t want to talk much about the war. It was understandable. I had never been to war, but I had seen things as simple as photographs that had shook me to my core. I couldn’t imagine what being out there fighting would be like.

I realized my body was falling asleep while my mind was still running, which was unsurprising. James and I had spent the day exploring the city. He had almost forced me into picking something out from a store, because my birthday was coming up soon. I responded with a cheesy classic.

“All I want is for you to stay home.”

He ate that one up. James had basically been taking care of me since I was barely a teenager. That was when my father married his mom. My father had died a year or two after, and his mother three months after, of grief. I was thirteen by the time that happened, but James was much older. He could’ve taken me to an orphanage or left me on my own. He took me in instead. He joined British Special Forces three years after he brought me to live with him. He was decommissioned two years later, which brings us to today. I had been living basically on my own for that time, but somehow my brother always found a way to make sure I had enough of everything to get by.

I jerked up when I heard the door open.

“You didn’t lock it?” Blue eyes squinted at me.

“I was going to, I promise. I’m not even asleep yet, Jay.” I stifled a yawn.

He gave me a deadpan face, locking both locks on the door as loudly as possible. His face softened as he pushed me over, making room for himself to sit down next to me.

“What’s up?” I could tell something was bugging him.

I felt my heart drop to my stomach. He wasn’t going back to war, was he?

“Irene, listen … you know I’ve been decommissioned.” He trailed off, picking stray hairs off the blanket as he avoided my glances.

“Yeah, and?”

He sighed, contemplating something. I scratched at my finger, increasingly nervous.

“I’ve been offered a job.” He blurted.

I looked up. Why was he so slow about telling me that?

“Where?” I heard the weak sense of betrayal in my own voice.

He looked up to meet my eyes. I felt like I was on the verge of holding back tears as he stuttered.

“A-ah-an island. An uncharted island in the South Pacific.” He averted his gaze back down.

I paused before speaking, more aggressive than I wanted to be. “You’re ex-special forces, what do they need you for? Who even needs you?”

He sighed. “It’s a group of scientists, Ire. Look, they need me to be their tracker, essentially. It’s only supposed to take a week, and I could leave you wi-”

“No.” I stopped him, feeling my own face contort into one of despair.

“Irene.” He raised an eyebrow at me.

“You did not already say yes.” I felt the tears well in my eyes.

His face mirrored mine, sadness and what was probably regret on his features.

“Jay, you’ve only been back a week, and you’re leaving again?” I cried.

“Irene, I didn’t think it would upset you so much.” He pulled me to him, hugging me.

I slumped against him and whimpered. If he was going, he was taking me with him. I would guilt him into it if I had to.

“Irene, I’m so sorry.” He mumbled, rubbing circles on my back.

I curled up tighter. “James, please don’t leave me.”

“Bitsy, I-I…” He trailed off.

I pulled back far enough to look up at him.

“Take me with you.” I urged with tear-stained cheeks.

He met my eye, which was a mistake on his part. I frowned again, letting my shoulders drop. He sighed through his nose before finally breaking.

“Fine. I’ll tell them you’re good with jungles and animals.” He let his hand drop on the bed.

“And?” I smiled a little.

“And that we’re a package deal.” He narrowed his eyes at me.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you!” I threw myself at him, hugging him tightly.

He hugged back with a grunt, taken off guard by my excitement.

“We’re leaving in a few hours, so pack up whatever’s lying around.”

I finally pulled away from the hug, ready to shove my toothbrush and two books into the bag.

“And the island might be extremely dangerous. So when we get there, stick to me, okay?” He was serious about that part, because he grabbed my hand and practically made me promise.

I nodded. “Okay.”

He broke into a smile. “Now pack and get some sleep, I have a feeling you aren’t going to like the plane ride.”

BANGKOK, THAILAND

“James Conrad. This is my younger sister Irene. I need her skill for the biological aspect of tracking.” James spoke to the blond man in a Landsat uniform.

“Oh, no. You can’t bring her with you.” The man answered rather snarky.

“I don’t think you understand. We’re a package deal. If she can’t go, you don’t get me.” James reached back to grab my hand, which I gladly gave with a squeeze.

The man eyed me before sighing. “Fine, whatever. You take responsibility for her.”

James scoffed. “Of course I will. She’s my sister.”

The man rolled his eyes, but James just pulled me past, pushing me ahead of him and holding onto my hand.

“Jay, I don’t know which way we’re going.” I mumbled back over my shoulder.

He pointed ahead, “Follow the soldiers.”

I caught sight of who he was talking about, the group of tall men dressed in army green. I followed loosely, but I stopped when they did. I looked back at James, then to the man that was standing at the start of the boat’s ramp.

James took my hand again, this time leading the way. I stood off to his side as we waited for the men to finish talking to him. As they began to walk away, and James approached the man, one of their hats fell to the ground. I bent down to pick it up before the wind could take it away. I realized how close I was to the guy who’s hat it was once I stood up. I bit my lip, suddenly anxious.

“Here.”  I pushed the hat in his direction.

He grinned toothily before taking it. “Thank you, miss.”

I felt my cheeks heat up, but I was sure that he couldn’t see considering it was dark and he was at least half a foot taller than me.

“Slivko, stop flirting with the girl and get! We’ve got things to do!” The man that James had been talking to yelled.

The guy, who was more likely my age than actually a man, winked before scampering off, following the rest of the army men. James pulled on my wrist, breaking my attention.

“You’ve just gotta stick with me, but other than that Colonel Packard over there don’t care that you’ll be joining us.” He explained.

I nodded, following him up the ramp and avoiding the glare of the colonel.

                                                            ***

I leaned against the same wall James leaned against. I scratched at my wrist, uncomfortable around all the Landsat people and the soldiers. I wasn’t sure what we were waiting on, and the loud cranking of the projector in the middle was making my skin crawl. James noticed this, and ruffled my hair.

“This should only take a few minutes, and it’s just a briefing. After this you can hole yourself up in the room if you want to.”

I scoffed and pushed his hand off, narrowing my eyes at him. “I don’t want to hole myself up. I’m just a little antsy.”

“Almost done, Bitsy.” He motioned at the man who had taken his place at the front of the room.

“Hello and welcome. I’m Landsat Field Supervisor, Victor Nieves.” He had an awkward posture, but smiled anyway as he pointed to the blond guy from earlier.

“This is my colleague Steve Woodward, our data wrangler.” There was a light chuckle from the Landsat team, but James remained stoic and I noticed a few soldiers roll their eyes.

The projector cranked again. “Our expedition takes us to a place every nautical trade route known to man has avoided for centuries.”

An image of an island popped up, shaped somewhat like a skull.

“As our satellites show, the island is surrounded by a perpetual storm system, allowing it to remain hidden from the outside world.”

That doesn’t sound right.

I felt James shift his posture, but my eyes remained on the projections as they changed.

“But with Colonel Packard’s helicopter transport, we will be the first to break through to the other side.”

My eyebrows furrowed. This sounded very much like something out of a twisted horror movie.

“We’re also pleased to be joined, for the first time, by the resource exploration team, led by Mr. Randa and accompanied by biologist Miss San and geologist Mr. Brooks.”

“Aren’t those the guys that hired you?” I whispered over my shoulder at James.

“Yeah.” He whispered back, eyes still narrowed.

He didn’t like this either.

Nieves continued, “Our focus will be on the island’s surface, theirs, what lies beneath. Mr. Brooks.”

The man with glasses stepped up to the front of the room.

“Simple, really. We’ll use explosions to shake the earth and create vibrations, helping us to map the subsurface of the island.”

The projection changed again.

“We’ll fly in over the south shore and then strategically drop seismic charges to better help us understand the density of the Earth.”

I hadn’t exactly gone through any type of geological science in high school, but I understood the words “seismic charges” and it raised some concern.

“You’re dropping bombs?” James spoke up.

All eyes turned to him, including mine. I would’ve never actually spoken aloud in a room full of people, but James didn’t care. And I trusted him to make sure things were safe before getting involved.

“Mmm.. S-scientific instruments.” Mr. Brooks countered.

“You hear that, boys? We’re scientists now.” A voice called from the rows of soldiers.

Even though he was sitting low in his chair, I could tell it was the one that had dropped his hat earlier.

Slivko, I think?

The soldiers laughed, but the Landsat people didn’t seem amused. I’m sure James would have laughed, had Mr. Brooks not dodged his question about the bombs.

“You guys are not scientists.” Steve muttered.

I rolled my eyes.

“We’ll then land and make basecamp for ground excursions led by Mr. Conrad and Miss Brown.” Nieves gestured our way.

I glanced up at James. He met my eyes, his face softer now. I shot a face at him, one screaming “I am definitely not a tracker!!” He only shook his head.

“Major Jack Chapman.” Nieves stepped aside.

My eyes snapped up.

Before my father had married James’s mother, he had dated a few women. One of those women had been Elise Chapman. They dated for a few years, during the prime of my childhood. Her son Jack had become my best friend. My dad moved me away after a few years, never really telling me what had happened between them. Jack and I would write each other letters, but after a few years he stopped answering. I hadn’t talked to Jack in two years.

But here he was now, about to tell us whatever it was he had to tell us about this possibly lethal island.

He stepped up and took the pointer from Houston, “All right, once on this island-” he caught my eye.

I shivered, seemingly unable to pull my eyes away. James clasped a hand onto my shoulder. He knew all about Jack, just like he knew about every detail of my life.

Jack snapped himself out of it and started talking again.

“Once on the island, the storm’s interference will block all radio contact with the ship. That means we’ll be by ourselves.”

The projector again. I swallowed hard.

“Three days later, the refuel team will meet us here on the North end of the island. That may be our only safe departure window for an unknown period of time.” He glanced back my way.

“So, tip for everybody. Don’t miss it. Please.” His eyes came back around, but it seemed that James caught him this time.

Jack looked away, and he didn’t look back again.

                                                           ***

“James, where are you going?” I asked as he turned to leave the room.

“I want to check something out. Why don’t you stay here, catch up with Chapman?” He tried to pull himself from my grip.

“James, I haven’t seen him since I was a kid.” I grabbed at his wrist again.

He sighed and faced me, hands on my shoulders. “It’ll be okay.”

I bit down hard and closed my eyes, sighing hard through my nose.

“Okay.” My voice was quiet.

“I’ll see you up in the room later?” He patted my cheek.

I nodded, slowly letting go of his wrists.

“Be careful.” I mumbled.

He kissed my forehead. “Of course, you too.”

I heard someone clear their throat from behind me. I breathed hard before turning myself around.

“Hey Irene.” Jack stood there, a gentle smile on his face.

I looked up at him. “Hey, Jack.”

“How’re you, kid?”

I broke into a grin, unsure of what else to say. He gingerly pulled me into a hug.

“I missed you, ya know.”

I hugged back, nodding even though I knew he couldn’t see it. “I missed you too.”

“Colonel told us ‘Conrad’, but I didn’t even think it could be your brother.” Jack finally pulled away, hands on my shoulders.

I only shrugged. “I didn’t exactly think I’d see you here either.”

He chuckled and shook his head. “You haven’t grown since you were twelve, have you?”

“Shut up.” I shoved him, laughing.

We both quieted down quickly. I sighed, twiddling with my fingers.

“How’s Billy?” I asked. Last time Jack had written to me, Billy was four years old.

Jack perked up at the mention of his son. “He’s doing good. Gracie’s sent me a few photographs. I can show you later if you’d like. He looks just like his momma.” He gushed.

“Well I would hope so. Jack, you’re uglier than a dog. I would feel bad if the poor kid looked like you.”

It was a teasing lie, of course. Jack was what I considered pretty, with dark hair that he always styled up at the front, tiny freckles that you could only see if you were close enough, and eyes that switched between shades of green like nobody’s business.

He narrowed his eyes at me. I narrowed mine right back before breaking out into another fit of laughter. He messed my hair up.

“Where’d your brother go? I was planning on introducing myself.” He hesitated on the word brother, but forced it out anyways, looking around the room.

I wasn’t exactly about to tell him that James had gone to snoop around the ship, so I just shrugged again.

“Not sure, he told me I should stay and talk to you. I don’t really think you need to formally introduce yourself, though. He knows all about you.”

Jack nodded. “I see. Do you wanna meet the rest of the boys? I’ve got a feeling they’ll just love you.” He extended his hand to me.

I smiled and took it. “Sure.”

Previous: N/A

Next: Photographs and Flirts

[evelynzumaya]

Rudolph Valentino’s close friend & business manager, George Ullman in 1975 with one of his grand-daughters. 

S. George Ullman, An Affirmation by Evelyn Zumaya

In thinking about this making this statement, I thought of the Mount Rushmore National Monument, the sculpture carved into the granite of Mount Rushmore in the Black Hills of South Dakota. The artist Gutzun Blorglum worked on the monument for fourteen years, collaborating with many sculptors to complete the iconic masterpiece. I thought of this monument because it is a creation seen best from a distance.  It would be impossible to appreciate or even view the entire monument if one were to examine it inch by inch and in close proximity.

I use this as a metaphor for how I feel the legacy of S. George Ullman as Rudolph Valentino's executor should be appreciated.  To stand closely and examine his tumultuous performance inch by inch and by searching the cracks and creases, is to miss the actual monumental scope of what he accomplished.

On the sudden death of his close friend Rudy, he faced the daunting task and alone... of managing the star's complex and financially involved estate. Very little seemed to be left in perfect order; which was understandable as most 31 year-olds do not generally have their minds preparing to face their mortality. Ullman knew Rudolph Valentino's business and at the time was the only one who really did.

When I began my research into this man's performance as Valentino's executor, I had no opinion about him, knew very little about the settlement of Valentino's estate and will confess all the numbers and legal format made learning about it difficult. As I began to learn what George Ullman did and what happened to him as a consequence of his affiliation with Valentino, a portrait of this man took shape. I understood why Valentino held such faith George, why he discovered him and asked him to be his manager. I understood why he confided in him and ensured  it would be his pal George who would take care of things if he should die. Well that is what happened on August 23, 1926.

George did take care of Valentino's postmortem business; paying bills and some 200,000$ of them which by today' standard would be to multiply by thirteen. He organized two spectacular auctions, kept Valentino's various properties functioning, kept staff fed and worked feverishly to recuperate life insurance policy premiums and market Valentino's movies to generate income for the estate. At that time, no actor, dead for even a minute, was worth a dime at the box office. George managed Valentino's production company and he and his wife Beatrice accomplished this as an office of two and a secretary. George would say later in life that he worked harder after Rudy's death than he ever did before.

I wrote the story of what happened to S. George Ullman as a result of his hard work and you can find that in Affairs Valentino. Because he would spend his entire adult life living and working under the collection pursuit by Valentino's brother as he tried to collect money which he himself spent years before. This incredible story came about as Ullman dispensed money to Alberto believing him to be a rightful heir. When he was found not to be, the executor was deemed responsible for those funds dispersed to Alberto. Now logically the court told Alberto that the money which Ullman advanced to him years before and in good faith should be dismissed from Ullman's responsibility. Alberto was advised by the court to establish a “Fairness Lien” which is a fancy term for “Do not make George Ullman pay you back the money you already spent.” Alberto did no such thing and held George to the fire for thirty years.

Over those years, the amount owed reached almost $200,000 with interest accrued (again times 13 by today's currency standard). George did repay the monies he was ordered to pay back for a portion of his own salary not allowed, but did not pay Alberto the money he advanced to him. George struggled financially throughout his life, declaring bankruptcy along the way. I was the first person to report on his performance as executor and tell the truth about the monies he owed the estate. Despite sharing my documentation, the innuendo still bandied about today implies George Ullman was ordered to pay this money to the estate because of mismanagement. This is not the whole story or the correct one. He was completely exonerated by the court and praised by the judge.

But as in the case of the viewing of those faces of the four US Presidents on Mount Rushmore, it is best and fair to judge this man's performance from a bit of a distance. Of course he fumbled, he was not infallible and not a saint and yes he could have used 4 or 5 other people to work with him. Despite facing many obstacles, including the fall of the stock market in 1929, what he accomplished as the country sank into a deep depression, was truly remarkable.

George voluntarily resigned as executor; saying he did not want controversy to mar the memory of his friend. Now, there exists controversy surrounding his own legacy and this as an act of revenge against my book Affairs Valentino. Threats have been issued in what known bullies have gleefully called, “ a wonderful debunking” of my work; threats that defamatory hit pieces on Ullman will be generated with the intention to certainly mar his legacy and mine. This by people who would surely judge Mount Rushmore by crawling over the surface to judge the work by the tiny cracks here and there... rather than examining the facts as revealed in  those court records and standing in awe of this performance.

George Ullman is the hero of this story and I am sure Rudy would be very pleased with his friend's loyalty and performance. I am also sure Rudy would be amazed to know how George's story of managerial fabulousity would finally be told as the result of his godson Bobby Ullman's efforts.

I could post all the numbers here, line after line detailing years of accounting and hard work in the millions of dollars to document Ullman's accomplishments made by himself, on behalf of the Valentino estate and out of loyalty to his friend Rudy. But it would be a substantial list for it is a long tale indeed. I direct you instead for more information to Affairs Valentino where the story is laid out. And then if you wish to still have more numbers sent your way, I refer you to the Affairs Valentino Companion Guide where I share some of the critical documents and if you still want more then yes, I will provide. By the way, I hope to soon have a digital archive of the entire case file online. And the books are available on Amazon.

The current threat of those Ullman hits pieces stands for me as the lowest possible  low in the destruction of the memory of Rudolph Valentino and the absolute highest of the high in these people's bullying efforts against me. The vilification of Ullman is, and always has been, erroneous and ludicrously unfounded when the documentation of the events he faced are presented for review. As far as any more injury, petty rumor mongering and name-calling which has been promised to be hurled his way, for me this is tantamount to these bullies driving by this fine gentleman's home, at the end of his life, to just throw shit at him. These bullies out to hang Ullman high, have their drive-by hit poised against this man who Valentino trusted implicitly and who played such a critical role in Valentino's career, life and death. I consider these threats particularly shameless and dishonest because they are openly executed as being just against my work. Despite this, I remain proud of my discovery of S. George Ullman's story along with the actual court records testifying to his Mount Rushmore level of monumental success. 

[fresh-outta-jams]

Kiss and Cry

Kiss and Cry Namjoon x Reader Soulmate AU

Author: Admin Mo

You squinted at your Soul Mark and then at the characters on the screen. Nope. Not a match. Not that one either. Nope. Nope.

When you were seventeen, the mark had appeared on your wrist. You had learned after some light digging that it was Korean. You didn’t have much spare time, but you took whatever time you did have trying to translate it. You couldn’t find anyone that could read it and tell you what it said, so most of the time, like many others who had a Soul Mark, you kept yours covered up.

And you forgot it was there sometimes.

Other times, you stayed up all night studying the characters there. Especially recently, with your upcoming trip and all.

When you were 18, you had gone to your first Winter Olympics as a figure skater. This year, you were going again, and with the games taking place in South Korea, you could feel that the time was coming to find whoever your soulmate was. So, you did what any logical girl would: you took a picture of the symbols on your wrist, traced them so you wouldn’t just be posting a Mark pic, and asked your steadily growing Twitter following for help.

***

Kim Namjoon had been following your Twitter for four years now. He, like many people who had a Soul Mark, covered his up to prevent people, fans mostly, from messing with fate. When it happened, it would happen...but that didn’t mean he couldn’t watch your skating highlights on YouTube in his free time.

And he hadn’t seen your wrist either, so maybe he was looking for the wrong (Y/N) (L/N). He didn’t know. But when you sent out a Tweet in the wee hours of the morning asking, “Can someone who speaks Korean help me translate this?” accompanied by a picture of his name, he almost fainted.

His heart was racing so fast he could feel it in every part of his body. He was lucky it was Yoongi who found him like that and not one of the others. Yoongi was the only one who knew about the name on Namjoon’s wrist, and only because he had seen it on accident before their debut. That was before you were an Olympic Athlete. Before he had been able to put a beautiful face to the name. Now, things were different. The other boys didn’t understand why they sometimes found their leader watching figure skating videos and trying to hide it from them. But Yoongi knew. He stood off to the side wearing a sly smirk. If there was one thing Yoongi could keep, it was secrets.

“Are you okay? You look like you’re going to throw up.” Yoongi raised an eyebrow.

Namjoon locked his phone and nodded, sitting back. He took long breaths, trying to stop the world from spinning. “I’m fine.” He lied.

Yoongi tilted his head and crinkled his face. “No you’re not.” After living with each other for seven years, there wasn’t really much they could hide from the other.

Namjoon sighed and turned his phone over to the white-haired boy. He looked over the Tweet and the corners of his lips turned upwards.

“So it’s her, then.” Yoongi couldn’t help but chuckle a little at the sight of his brother in this state. “Well, are you going to help her with her translating problem?”

Namjoon thought about it for a little while. And then he did what any logical boy would: he made a fake fan Twitter and slid into your DMs.

***

You had landed in PyeongChang without any problems. You checked in, got registered for everything, and found your room in the Olympic Village hassle free. After resting up for a while, you got into your Team USA jacket and met up with the rest of the Americans for the Opening Ceremony. It was a whirlwind. One moment, you were waiting, waiting, waiting to walk in and sit down, and the next, you were in the seats enjoying the show. But you did remember a familiar song playing. One that made your heart race.

One of your followers on Twitter had told you that the symbols on your wrist actually spelled out the name of a rapper named Kim Namjoon and that he was part of some Korean boy band called BTS. So, like any sensible and curious girl would, you had maybe looked him up. And maybe listened to his music. For the entire 14 hour flight to South Korea.

You had fallen into a K-Pop hole and you doubted you would ever climb out of it. Not that it was a bad thing. Hell, they put American boy bands to shame. When you landed, you Tweeted out “Just discovered BTS thanks to @RMfangirl94. Is it too soon to pick a bias?”

And you had forgotten about the Tweet, your Twitter long forgotten until DNA was playing and suddenly you remembered everything that had happened earlier. The name on your wrist and what it meant. Sure, maybe there was another Kim Namjoon, and maybe he was the one you were meant to be with, but you couldn’t deny that BTS had some bops, regardless of whether or not your soulmate was one of them.

But you hoped he was.

***

Namjoon read your Tweet a few times over while watching the Opening Ceremony. The cameras managed to catch you jamming out with your fellow Olympians, snapping selfies, recording videos, and just having a great time in general. And when DNA came on, he grinned like an idiot watching you mouth along. To every single word.

“Hyung, isn’t that the figure skater you watch?” Tae asked. He couldn’t pretend he hadn’t notice their leader’s secret obsession with Team USA’s secret weapon.

“Yeah, uh.” Namjoon coughed, a blush creeping across his cheeks. “She’s great.”

“You think she’s a little more than great.” Yoongi muttered. The other boys looked at Namjoon suspiciously. Yoongi waited as Namjoon exhaled a long sigh. “They’re going to figure it out eventually.”

“I know…” Namjoon shook his head and thought about it for a second before reaching for the thick bracelet that was always around his wrist covering up the curling letters of your name.

The boys crowded around to read the name and then looked at eachother in shock. No wonder. This explained everything. Every longing look at his phone screen, or in this case, the TV. Every giddy smile when you came on screen or the way that every word they said about you seemed to resonate especially with their leader.

“So when are we going to PyeongChang?” Jimin asked, grinning.

“Well, I don’t know-”

“You would do it for us.” Jungkook interjected. He glanced at Jimin. They had learned the extent to which Namjoon was willing to go to the hard way when all seven of them had made an emergency trip to the states to see Jimin’s soulmate. This was different though. They didn’t have to fly across an entire ocean to see her, she was here in South Korea.

“We’ll see…” Namjoon settled. He sat back against the couch and scrolled through your Twitter. You had responded to someone’s Tweet.

*@yourusername who’s your potential bias?*

Namjoon read your response with the biggest grin on his face.

*RM for sure. ;)*

***

The next day, you spent a lot of time in the gym working out, running through your routine. Training was tough, but your playlist (new and improved recently) pulled you through. You took a lunch break and Tweeted out “God, I would kill someone for a shamrock shake right about now…”

You didn’t think much of it and continued your day, hanging out with some of the other skaters, grabbing coffee, going shopping. It wasn’t until later that afternoon that you checked your phone and found a response from BTS’s official Twitter account.

*@yourusername we don’t have shamrock shakes here, but I can bring you some mint ice cream and a blender. #imnotkidding #RM*

Let’s just say you were #Jungshook.

You showed all of your friends on the skating team and they playfully teased you, but they were happy for you. With all of the time you spent with them, of course you explained what the symbols on your wrist really meant, even though you still kept them covered up. They were really supportive, if not the teeniest bit jealous. But you Tweeted him back, fingers shaking and surrounded by your eagerly watching friends.

*@bts_bighit #RM I have some free time tomorrow if you want to meet up. #forrealthough #imserious*

You got a message in your DMs approximately thirteen and a half minutes later. Not that you were counting.

“Ooh, who’s that?” Adam smirked and gave you a little nudge.

“Who do you think?”

Bts_bighit: Hey, it’s RM. So...where do you want to meet up?

***

Namjoon’s hands were shaking the entire drive to PyeongChang. The other boys had tagged along under the circumstances that they would behave themselves and not draw too much attention. As for Namjoon, he was going somewhat incognito. Black jacket, black shirt, black hat, black mask, sunglasses, and ripped jeans. He hoped he would avoid being spotted and swarmed by fans.

You had asked Namjoon to meet up with you outside the big Olympic gift shop, as it was easy to spot. And then he would tell the guys where to bring the blender and the ice cream they packed into a cooler.

He got out of the car and walked to the big store, looking around for your Team USA jacket. He was almost scared to find it. Instead, he busied himself with his phone, trying to distract himself on Twitter, but when he thought about Twitter, he thought about you, so he opened some mindless game and started playing it until he felt a timid tap on his arm. He looked down to find the most beautiful girl he had ever seen.

“Namjoon?” You whispered quietly, not wanting to draw any attention.

His heart raced. He didn’t know you knew his name. But hearing how it sounded in your voice filled him with warmth. He could feel it deep inside: you were the one. You had to be. But he still had to make sure.

“Hey.” He lowered his mask, raised his shades, and held out his hand. “It’s nice to meet you finally. I’m a big fan.”

“Likewise.” You could feel the heat rush to your cheeks. God, it had been a long time since someone had made you feel this good and this vulnerable at the same time. “So where’s this blender I’ve heard so much about?”

“The boys are bringing it to your building in the village.” Namjoon explained.

You nodded. “Perfect. I’m so excited. Thank you so much for this, by the way. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate it.”

Namjoon took one of your hands in his, rubbing your knuckles with his thumb as he admired your little fingers and palms. You swore your heart was about to hop out of your chest and run down the street. His touch was unlike anything else on the planet, and even in the bitter cold, his warmth flooded you instantly.

This. This was what it felt like.

“Where are we headed?” he asked in that deep voice. You intertwined your fingers with his and though he didn’t show it, his heart soared.

“This way.” You pointed ahead and he nodded, trying to act casual even though he was sure you could hear his heart pounding inside his chest.

At this point, Namjoon couldn’t tell if it was his fingers shaking or yours. But he held on tighter just in case. It had been a while since he had held hands with a girl like this, but this was electric in a way he couldn’t even begin to describe. When you finally got to your building, you found six giggling boys standing around a cooler, a blender sitting on top.

Namjoon said something to them in Korean and they perked up, looking you over. Yoongi smirked, holding out a hand.

“You have no idea how long he’s been waiting to meet you.”

Namjoon’s eyes widened at the white-haired boy’s sudden fluency. He had been doing all of that studying just to tease him in front of his soulmate. He chuckled and shook his head, trying desperately to ignore the heat rushing to his cheeks.

You showed the boys up to your room and they helped get the cooler and the blender in safely, one of them explaining to you as best as he could that Namjoon broke things. A lot. You laughed at how fast his face reddened. He reached up to scratch the back of his neck, one of his hands still clasped tight around yours until you helped set up the blender.

“Stay out of trouble!” Namjoon called after them.

Jungkook turned around, shot him a thumbs up and said in perfect English, “Don’t worry Joonie, I’ll keep them in check.”

You looked up to him in confusion. “I didn’t think he was fluent.”

“He isn’t. That’s his soulmate. They switch bodies.” Namjoon explained.

“Oh. Okay then.” You chuckled a little. You had never heard of soulmates switching bodies before, but these days, more and more rare soulmate genes were popping up. Yours by comparison was pretty common.

Your mark was still covered up by the thick bracelet you wore over it. It was light blue with a snowflake charm, an ice skate charm, and now, the Olympic rings. Namjoon glanced at your bracelet, but his eyes flicked away when you looked at him. You both knew why you were here, or at least you hoped you did. It was still nerve-wracking. What if one of you took off your bracelet and the wrong name was written underneath.

Now that he was in front of you, he was the only person in the whole world you wanted.

Shaking off the longing feeling that had wrapped its tendrils around your heart, you plugged in the blender while Namjoon got out the ice cream and the scoop. He packed vanilla and mint, and thankfully, you had milk in your mini fridge.

He scooped them in and you poured in some milk and then put the lid on and pulsed it until it was nice and thick and mixed together.

“I have some cups over in that bag by the bed.” You pointed behind you. “Sorry it’s a mess in here. My parents keep buying souvenirs.”

“Believe me, my room is worse.” He laughed and retrieved the novelty cups from the bag. “Here you are.”

“Thank you.” You grinned at him and poured the cold concoction into the cups. “Cheers.”

You clinked your glasses together and took your first sips. It was perfect. Amazing. Just what you needed. You ended up sitting on the beds, facing eachother with the aisle between you. You were both quiet for a little while, awkwardly waiting for the other to speak.

“So uh,” Namjoon broke the silence, “I think you’re...I’m pretty sure you’re my…”

You set your drink on the nightstand and smiled softly. “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”

“A Harry Potter reference?” He raised an eyebrow.

You grinned and smiled. “Goblet of Fire is my favorite.”

Namjoon didn’t think it was possible to be THIS in love with someone after having just met them. Something about you resonated with every fiber of his being. And you both felt like the universe was watching.

He reached forward, his warm brown eyes asking for permission to take your bracelet off. You nodded. He was shaking, every molecule trembling as he undid the clasp and pulled it away from your soft skin. He almost couldn’t look. But he did. And there it was. His name written on your wrist. Tears were rolling down his cheeks, and the brightest smile you had ever seen lit up his handsome features, showing off his adorable dimples.

“My turn,” you whispered.

Namjoon nodded and held out his wrist. You unfastened the silver buttons holding the thick black band together. Sure enough, there it was written in the curling letters of your handwriting. (Y/N) (L/N).

As soon as your eyes landed on the mark, both of them flushed gold. You reached out and traced over the letters with one of your gentle fingers. Namjoon shivered under your touch. You didn’t even really notice you were crying until he switched beds so he could sit next to you and wipe away your tears.

“I knew it…” You whispered, a disbelieving smile on your face. “I knew it…”

“So did I.” He grinned, looking over every inch of you. He wanted to remember how you looked in this moment. This brought him to looking at your lips. Namjoon wondered if they were as soft as they looked.

You reached up and took his face in your hands, rubbing his smooth skin with your thumbs. He inhaled a sharp breath and then let it out slowly, his heart racing. Slowly, you leaned in and met him in the middle.

Kissing Namjoon was better than any feeling on the planet. You might not have skated yet, but you already felt like you had won the gold. 

Sequel link in masterlist.

[ofdanny]

mmmk so hi !! i’m taylor, i go by she/her pronouns, and i am very very excited to be here. my two muses are danny and todd and i’m not very good at these posts ?? and i also kind of don’t like them so lets just dive right into this, yay !!

HELLO my name is ( DANIEL HARTLEY ). people often mistake me for ( DYLAN O'BRIEN ). i find this very silly but people also tell me i’m ( EASY-GOING ) and ( APATHETIC ). i am born in ( MEDFORD, OREGON ) but i now live in ( SEATTLE, WASHINGTON ). if there’s one song that describes me the most it’d have to be ( WEEKEND by MAC MILLER ). — ( taylor, 19, est, she/her )

to say the least daniel was a surprise to his parents. they had no desire to have kids, but the only plus to him was that he just so happened to be a bouncing baby boy, and his father saw an opportunity to keep the company alive. as a child the only parental guidance he ever received was from his caregiver and homeschool teacher, ana— walking, potty training, puberty, his first kiss… ana was there for him through all of it.

his parents never gave him much attention outside considering they were too busy living their best lives as one of the most well-loved power couples. of course, it hurt him but ana eased the pain. the only time he received any actual attention from his mother was when his father would be working late and little four-year-old danny would walk into his parents room to find his mom. she’d let him brush her long, dark hair, or sing to him when she was in an exceptionally good mood some nights, or listen to him play the piano ( which he was learning at the time ) — those few evenings are engraved in his mind, his love for his mother growing with every short-ended second he spent with her. 

when daniel was thirteen his father told him that he was the heir of the greatest company of all time. to a normal, tween kid this would have sounded like a dream. but daniel loathed even the thought of it.when he was sixteen when his mom left him and his dad without any warning, and the reason for her leaving…? danny has no clue. he wasn’t very involved with his parents when he grew past the age of eight. ana was all he needed to an extent. 

due to his mothers disappearance his father kind of went off the deep end— anger issues, drinking, sleeping with other women. the communications technologies company that his father owned held it’s own for the time being until his father got back on his feet. that’s also when they up and officially settled in new york rather than switching between oregon and new york. all of this would have left danny unphased until his father fired ana out of spite, merely because he saw daniel was fine while he was drowning in sorrow. that’s when things started to go south for hartley. 

he had started to resent his father, his mother, and this posh lifestyle. he started to fight with people in public places, affecting his fathers reputation. he blew off every other new teacher that came in to teach him ( even though, eventually, he finally let up and is learning about business— his fathers wishes, of course. ), and he practically formed an unhealthy habit of spiraling, using booze and alcohol to help drink himself into incoherence. the only thing that helps clear his head is when he plays the piano, and he plays it well considering he mastered it at a young age.

nowadays, his father has him attend meetings and consistently tries to convince him to embrace the wealth and the power he may gain one day, but the discussion always ends in one of them red-faced, steam coming out of their ears. as said before, daniel hates this lifestyle. he never asked for the riches or the power, and he certainly doesn’t want it. you’d think he’d want love and affection, but he’s gone without it for so long that he no longer has a the cravings for it. he has very little for friends, and he prefers to keep to himself. he will purposefully hurt your feelings if you don’t leave him alone when he wants you to, and he won’t think twice about verbally abusing you, hitting your insecurities and things of the sort.

long story short, daniel is 23 years old. he’s very sarcastic, very dead-pan, and if you catch him on a bad day? he’s not nice, and he’s very hard to get along with so good fucking luck loldanny came back to oregon because his father said ‘it’d be good for him to gain some perspective’, but in reality he knew his father just didn’t want to take the time off of work and the thought of coming back to the place where he and his mother were once still together is… catastrophic. daniel didn’t fight against his dad wishes to come to the cabin. although, he also hates how nostalgic the place is. all in all, danny is just here to it in a corner and drink tbh

WANTED CONNECTIONS  ;

long lost friends - he gets to the cabins and runs into someone who looks familiar. turns out it’s his old buddie from when he was just a tot !! and wow you’ve changed kind of and shit daniel you’re still a dick huh lol

drinking buddies - the pair always meet at the same time on the same day, unspokenly, and it slowly grows from causal bar talk from across the counter to them pouring their souls out to each other and laughing until they crY ok how cute i stan

frenemies - the typical banter on these two is expected from everyone around, and at times they may cross the line with their horrid words and degrading insults but in the end they always result to tough love. but, god forbid one of them get’s too mushy with the other… they’d never live it down.

twisted - as toxic as they seem the pair always seem to end up together… in bed… naked. they are so wrong for each other that anybody could take one look at them and know that they wouldn’t last a day. but, somehow, they always manage to sex it out with no strings attached despite the screaming and the infuriating words they say to one another. they are perfectly wrong for each other and they both hate and love it at the same time. but how much longer can they keep this up…?  

HELLO my name is ( TODDERIC TENNER ). people often mistake me for ( THEO JAMES ). i find this very silly but people also tell me i’m ( AFFABLE ) and ( MANIPULATIVE ). i am born in ( MEDFORD, OREGON ) but i now live in ( NAPA, CALIFORNIA ). if there’s one song that describes me the most it’d have to be ( VOICES IN MY HEAD / STICK TO THE PLAN by BIG SEAN ). — ( taylor, 19, est, she/her )

when todd was pretty young he moved from foster house to foster house pretty much until his adopted father found him ( more on that later ). the story is that as a baby, todd was left at child services doorstep so tbh no one has a clUe who his parents are. • his history is the typical sob story of hating every home he moved to bc the people who took him in didn't want him in their home bc he was too problematic  and a "bad influence on their other children". he was just a very angry kid honestly • all that being said, when he was 15 he left the family he was supposed to stay with for another week or so but he honestly couldn't take being around that family anymore so he packed his backpack with the three pieces of clothes he had and left. he didn't know where he was going but when he turned into a dark alley he found two men beating and stomping another man nearly to death. like any kid with the least bit of common sense he turned around and legged it only to run into what felt like a wall but was a man three times his height.

long story short they dragged him back to their headquarters and pondered on whether or not they should just kill him or let him stick around. the man who was three times his height spoke up and they decided to keep him to help with operations.

all in all, Todd was adopted into this huge ass drug industry and was adopted by the super tall man who turned out to be basically this really big drug lord who wanted a son and found one yay !!

so todd basically learned how to lie, scheme, steal, fight, intimidate... pretty much a bunch of negative traits and he was great at it. he didn't like it but he simply did as he was told.

todd's now 27 and on a job that was supposed to be an easy pick up and dip out but it turned out to be a fucked drop bc the feds came and they caught todd and he was immediately put in prison but they soon let him out because they somehow could pin any hard evidence against him so he's now a free man rip

after that whole shabang todd took it upon himself to ditch the whole gang lifestyle and create a life for himself. he got on a bus and hit the road from oregon to california, using the money he made and saved from the past jobs to buy himself a comfortable house in napa and now he sells wine :)

he figured his old gang would come for him but they haven't yet and he isn't going to complain about it either. he's keeling his head low and staying quiet for the time being.

in reference to coming back to oregon is interesting bc after settling down in napa he went on a search for his parents only to find out that his father died in a car crash ten years back and his mother supposedly passed with him too, but they never found the body.

his father had a will written out though and in it stated that there was a house oregon that was left for todd and with it was a note with a simple apology, that hardly explained anything about why they abandoned todd and who they were, and an address that belonged to the cabins

todd is only here to find more information on his parents and history. ( wanted connection: maybe someone who knew his parents ? maybe someone else's parents knew his parents, recognized the name and "i'm so sorry for your loss...."

now his personality? he seems like a typical guy. he keeps to himself most of the time. since he's on a mission to find information he won't be afraid to use someone to get what he wants. if you get in his way he'll find a way around you or a way to move you. simple as that.

WANTED CONNECTIONS ;

roomies - todd and his roommate soon become acquaintances but it’s open for pretty much anything ? todd doesn’t truat anyone so maybe they sOMehow gain his trust and he lets them help find clues or information ? idk lets talk omg

use me - they’re friends but then again they’re not. lovers? yes and no. either way, the sex is great and when either is feeling stressed or sad or whatever the feeling, they text / call each other up and “my place or yours?”

you knew my parents ...?! ( this could potentially include multiple muses !! ) - todd is only here by chance and he is desperate to know who his parents were. one would think finding information would be hard, but the minute he mutters “tenner.” at check-in, some stranger places their hand on his back and whispers “i’m so sorry for your loss...”

  okay !! so this is very general and informal i'm sorry if it wasn't clear ?? if you have any questions or anything of the sort please feel free to ask !! ask me anything pls ill spill my guts to you. also i may be adding more wanted connections over time so please click here just in case i add more mmmk. again, ( i’ll keep saying this ) i’m thrilled to be here h2gkmo

[thegreenwolf]

In case you aren’t aware, the Columbia River Gorge is on fire. Over the weekend, a group of teenagers setting off fireworks in the Eagle Creek canyon set dry brush ablaze, and as I write this over 20,000 acres are now burning, to include precariously close to well-loved landmarks like Multnomah Falls. Over 150 hikers had to be rescued by the Hood River Search and Rescue Team (who could really use donations, by the way.) The easternmost edges of the Portland metro area are under evacuation warnings, and over forty miles of Interstate 84 are closed in both directions.

What I want to tell you is about how broken I feel at this moment, how powerless and weak. I was thirteen when the woods that were my solace were bulldozed flat to the ground, an event that was legitimately traumatic for me and contributed to both my Generalized Anxiety Disorder and to my deep drive to learn about and protect non-human nature. I want to tell you about how I am suddenly back in that moment of despair, anger and helplessness, and fighting to not fall into the deep pain and disconnection that swallowed me for years afterward. I want to tell you about how the red clay of the earth torn up by machinery a quarter century ago is reflected in the flames in photos of my beloved Gorge, the first place that welcomed me with open arms when I moved to Portland a decade ago, and which is permanently tattooed on my left arm in gratitude. I want to tell you how difficult is it for me to keep to my daily schedule and list of tasks while I know that places where I have set foot for many years are burning to the ground, and all I want to do is curl up in my bed and cry.

Instead, what I am going to tell you is what led to this devastation, and how to respond in ways that actually have a concrete, measurable effect. Perhaps it is my grief and pain that make me more sensitive and cynical, but all the calls to “send energy to the firefighters” and rituals to try to make it rain just seem like wasted effort. Normally I shrug and let people do whatever their path says is right in this situation, but I am raw and angry and fed up as my sacred places burn. We don’t need prayers for rain. We need to stop the processes that are preventing the rain in the first place.

What is happening now is the culmination of centuries of human stupidity and greed. Our climate IS changing because of our industrial activities and the pollutants they create, as well as the destruction of mitigating natural factors like the oceans and forests that are supposed to absorb atmospheric carbon. This is leading to drier, hotter summers in the Northwest; this August was the hottest on record in Portland, and the rest of the area isn’t far behind. The entire area is a tinderbox of dead plants.

Add in many decades of fire suppression led by timber companies not wanting to lose their cash trees, and budget cuts that keep forestry services from engaging in prescribed burns. See, fire is natural in forests; some plants even need fire to properly germinate their seeds. But because fire also damages timber and threatens tourism, any natural lightning-strike fires have been quickly put out, and Smokey Bear reminds us that “only YOU can prevent forest fires.” But this all resulted in the understory of the forest–ferns, rhododendrons, salal, and more–growing much thicker than is natural, and many smaller trees getting a roothold where before fire would have thinned them out. This creates what is called ladder fuel, which allows fire to climb higher into the older trees who, in a normal intensity fire, be protected by their height and thick bark. When fire is allowed to occur naturally, it burns out the understory long before it gets too thick, and the big trees survive, and the seeds in the ground replenish the land. But we humans stopped that, and now all that built up tinder has exploded.

Add in one small group of ill-educated teenagers with illegal fireworks dropping them over a cliff into a pile of brush. Yes, the human brain doesn’t full develop until the mid-twenties, and the part that manages impulse control is still under construction in a fifteen-year-old. And here is where our lack of nature literacy become a problem: if children are raised from a very young age to constantly understand the risks of fire, it become a matter of course to act with respect. There are just certain things you don’t do, because you’ve been brought up with the knowledge of why and what happens when you don’t listen. Yet these entitled little scumsuckers apparently didn’t get the memo, because they were giggling like their act was a big adventure.

So: what to do? Here’s the game plan:

—Educate yourself on the role of fire in forest ecosystems. This goes doubly so if you claim to be a nature-based pagan, or if you somehow think you have an affinity for the element of fire, because you’d damned well better know the actual nature of fire, and not just its mythos and romanticism. Educate yourself on how climate change is leading directly to bigger, hotter, worse fires. And once you’ve educated yourself, educate others, especially anyone who intends to spend any time outdoors.

—Educate your elected officials on all levels about the need for prescribed burns and other forest management practices that will help undo the damage from fire suppression and hopefully mitigate the effects of climate change. Tell them to fund forestry and natural resources services on all levels of government instead of using those funds for really stupid ideas like building a giant wall at the south end of the country. And while you’re at it, make sure you tell them about the connection between climate change and the more devastating fires we’re having, especially if your elected officials are in the minority that happen to still be pretending human-caused climate change isn’t a scientifically-validated reality.

—Urge the stakeholders in the land in the Gorge, both public and private to replant with a wide diversity of trees, not just Douglas firs. Logging companies like the Doug firs because they grow quickly and are valuable on the market, but when you have a landscape that has nothing but the same species, it becomes much more vulnerable to disease and parasites which lead to more dead trees–and more fire fodder. Moreover, they plant the trees more close together than they would be naturally, and as the trees are all the same age there isn’t as much chance for bigger, older trees to shade out smaller ones and thin the herd, as it were. A healthy forest has many trees of different species and ages for a reason, and monocrops of Douglas firs contributed to the fires we now see. Or, better yet, let the forest recover on its own and at its own pace. Here, educate yourself on forest succession and how a forest can come back all on its own.

—Donate money to those who are actively fighting the fires and help people evacuate. I don’t care if all you can give is a single dollar–it HELPS. There will no doubt be local environmental and conservation organizations working to restore the natural and historical features of the Gorge in the aftermath of this, so be on the lookout for their calls for funding.

–And when those organizations call for volunteers, if you’re close enough and can do so, step up. Even a few hours helps. Right now if you want to volunteer call the Hood River Sheriff’s Department at 541-387-7035. And there will be ongoing work. I have spent the past couple of years volunteering for Cascade Pika Watch, and I’m hoping we’ll be able to do a post-fire survey this fall to see how many places still have pikas afterward. The Friends of the Columbia River Gorge and Columbia Riverkeeper are also highly active in this beautiful area’s ecosystem restoration, so no doubt they’ll be involved in whatever work is ahead.

–Work to fight climate change, the biggest factor contributing to greater forest fires, as well as the more violent hurricanes that have been bludgeoning the Southeast. Don’t know where to start with such an admittedly tall order? Here. The Drawdown website lists the 100 biggest causes of climate change and how to fix them. The book goes into even more detail. Pick just one of those causes and put effort toward it, whether it involves making changes in your own life, or pressuring corporations and/or governments to change themselves.That’s how you get started, and you can take that as far as you’re willing. Then pick another cause, and work on it. And so on.

–Most importantly, educate yourself on nature and how it works. We’ve spent centuries trying to distance ourselves from the rest of nature, and it’s been terrible for everyone and everything involved. Maybe if we pagans were as picky about how our paths line up with science as we do with history, we would be a greater force for the planet. Try starting your education with this bioregion quiz from the Ehoah website.

Finally, I know I was pretty harsh on those of you who are praying for rain and trying to send energy to the firefighters and all that. Even if all your rites do is give you some solace in a tough time, that’s constructive enough; just please also focus some on the efforts that are absolutely proven to have a more direct effect on the fires and what caused them. Let your rites inspire you to take more physical action, rather than replacing it. We can’t wave our wands and chant our chants and expect the fire to go out, but we can put our money where our mouth is when it comes to claiming to be practitioners of nature-based spirituality, especially when we need to undo the damage we’ve done to nature more than ever.

(Reblogs okay and encouraged.)

[beautifulramblingbrains]

Crush - Chapter 1. Daydreaming.

Pairing: Eric/OC *Abbey* Fandom: Divergent Rating: M

A memory from Eric's past plays tricks on him. And it's all about the girl, Abbey Ainsworth.

A/N: So, as I’m in a state of limbo, I’ve taken it upon myself to slowly edit my way through my old work. This is my first fanfiction I ever did and I think it’s about time I began uploading it on here.

Abbey Ainsworth.

Fuck. He hadn't thought of that name in over three years. If it wasn't for the number boy he probably wouldn't have thought of it for another ten.

But today is different. Today he has the time to sit in remembrance. He has time to reminisce about what was - even if the memories give him a heated inner core and a bad case of the Monday's.

Stretching his legs leisurely under the table and sitting further back in his recliner chair, he has no further duties that require his personal attention for a good hour. He was enclosed and cocooned by the safety of his dimly-lit office with the blinds half-mast. He was safe here to empty the trashy thoughts that seemed to have crept up on him out of the hazy mist of his youthful brain.

Abbey Ainsworth.

Eric lazily flops his arm down to the drawer on the side of the desk, pulling the secret cigarettes that he always kept there. In fact, they weren't really a secret, he would smoke if he wanted and wouldn't care for who's say so. But he liked to think for his health that it was his dirty little secret, and right now, there didn't seem any better time than to pull one, bite the filter and light the damn thing. It was a need, a must, and he's already blazing it habitually as the name seems to simper back into his brain again.

Abbey Ainsworth.

He couldn't really remember when they became friends back at Erudite. It just, sort of, happened…

She used to be in his class. Brown bob, skinny, and her teeth too big for her head. They hadn't even spoken in between the years, he didn't even really know she existed and treated her to that same effect.

Eric regarded her as any other little annoying girl and that boys didn't hang around with girls, they were disgusting, vile, whiners.

That's until they got put together randomly in biology.

He'd just turned thirteen and honestly, couldn't think of anything worse than having to discuss with her the ecology and evolution of life through frog dissection. Having a girl as his lab partner… he all but groaned as he imagined her freaking out or possibly hurling like Sandy Morrison. But she didn't.

In fact, she'd taken the knife out of his gloved hands, smiled up at him through her vented safety goggles and sliced the stomach open before the teacher even gave them the go-ahead.

It was in that moment, the little annoying girl with the brown bob and teeth too big for her head, professionally and enthrallingly slicing and pulling apart the frog's skin like she was a complete psychopath - It was in that moment he knew they would be the best of friends.

It only seemed to get better as the year passed.

She helped him cheat in his Math's test at fourteen. They had devised a unique tap of the foot in the silenced room, to which she swirled numbers on her back with a finger once he'd alerted her to his entrapment, sometimes throwing a coy smile over her shoulder when authority wasn't looking. Afterward, they ditched all further lessons and took to the biggest oak tree they could find.

It was her idea.

She climbed first, swinging her bright blue bag over her shoulder and tying her woolen knitted jumper to her waist, calling him "Chicken shit," when he didn't attempt to climb in the first instance. But to be fair, he was just trying not to look up her dress as she uncaringly climbed from branch to branch.

There, they sat for hours until their asses felt raw, talking nothing but utter nonsense and mocking over the nerdy freaks in their class. Soon, it seemed to become a regular thing, so much so, that one day they both carved their names at the top - No hearts or any other drivel, just their names. But she drew a smiley face…

At one point when they were fifteen Abbey never turned up for school one day. It wasn't like her, she always turned up and he couldn't understand why.

It wasn't like he could message her - he got his phone confiscated by his parents when it got reported they had prank-called Desmond Drip too many times in one night.

But in the one day, he'd never felt so lost. Not even his other friends shared the same sense of indulgent humor as they did, and it was a plain fact he'd clock watched the entire day until he could go looking for her.

He'd found her, eventually. She was at home, and she'd answered the door barely able to look at him.

"What happened to your face?" he asked, and she diverted her eyes to the floor. There was one specific eye blackened and shining as a massive indicator of injustice, and the mere thought and sight made his blood boil to an inhuman temperature.

He knew by the way she was looking indirectly to the floor, that nothing was alright in the life of Abbey Ainsworth. He knew this look, it was a look he did himself, one of loss of pride, but also something she'd been trying to hide.

"Sarah Mackey." The words fall from her quivered but rosy lips.

"Why?" He watches as her eyes well up, but she won't cry, won't allow herself to, not in front of him.

"Because she says I'm a whore for hanging around with boys."

He'd left her that evening having found the new knowledge of deep personal interest. He'd found Sarah Mackey's older brother by the bench of the south entrance the next morning and, quite frankly, beat the living shit out of him.

"That's for Abbey!" he let bellow from the pit of his stomach once he'd dropped him. But it also earned him a matching black eye amid the chaos - that he wasn't too pleased with. It didn't matter though, as when he went to see Abbey later on that day, they matched…

Her smile beamed from ear to ear and strangely she threw her arms around his neck for thanks. It was their first ever hug… but it wasn't their last.

At sixteen, Abbey's hair was long. She'd filled out perfectly and she sported breasts, whereas he sported half-decent facial hair for once. But they still acted as if they were thirteen, name-calling, jinxing, free-hits.

They had their aptitude tests at the beginning of the year, and Eric was unsurprised to find that he wasn't Erudite after swiping the knife in the fear simulation and easily obliterating the dog. They weren't allowed to say what they got, but it didn't mean he hadn't the insatiable urge to ask Abbey. They settled for: "Not Erudite" instead, and that's the way it stayed.

Eric's father passed halfway through that year from a sudden heart attack.

The news was delivered to him after being escorted from their English class by their main professor and he was sent home accordingly. She turned up later that night, she didn't say anything, didn't have to. He saw she was already aware of the news. Instead of offering her condolences, Abbey pulled him into her arms, his face in her peppermint hair, her nose against his neck. He couldn't figure out how long they stood like that, but it was a long time. But it was enough, being with her at that moment was enough…

Then one day everything changed.

Abbey found him after class and jingled a cigarette in his face, well, what he thought was a cigarette. It was not until they were back at their tree within the ruined cities wilderness that he actually found out it was a joint.

They smoked that shit till their lungs burned and eyes bled.

They practiced blowbacks and he'd burnt his lip. She tried to teach him to blow rings but he Just. Simply. Couldn't. However, that didn't matter, they laughed highly for what seemed like hours at practically nothing. And it was the best time of his life.

Laying softly on the small pit of earth beneath the tree, watching the branches sway in the light breeze as the moon decided to make an appearance. He remembers it being a full moon, the dewy blue haze settling upon them softly and deliciously cool - that eventually he felt cold fingers slide over the back of his hand, placing themselves entwined with his.

The breath practically hitched in his throat and he'd froze, but it didn't stop him from turning his head and noticing the way she was looking at him. When their eyes met she'd smiled softly and chastely said:

"You're my moon."

Before slowly turning her gaze back up towards the tree and the sky and whatever else she was looking at. However, he didn't, he allowed him a few extra minutes to take in her never-noticed-before features. The gradual slope of her nose, the puckered lips, her long lazily blinking eyelashes as she was pooled by a pillow of her own chestnut hair framed around her head. It was in that moment, he realized how beautiful she was and wondered why he'd never seen it before.

They held hands in silence until midnight.

Eric's life came to a blazing, sharp, gut-wrenching, panicky ball of nerves when Abbey's parents invited him to dinner. He'd spent the whole day of the Friday panicking. He'd gone home and changed between four shades of blue before finalizing on something parent-worthy but utterly, boringly, blue... But what got to him the most was how he couldn't really figure out why this bothered him so much…

Of course, he'd met her parents, but briefly. And usually, it was because they were in trouble or he was coming to see if she was home. It was never formal, however.

All night he put on his best behavior and told them stories about himself, how he was doing in his classes, things he liked and didn't like. But in his side-view, Abbey just smiled at him from across the table as he spoke. He would almost say it was as if they were the only people in the room and his gray eyes would hold hers for moments far too long.

Till she slid her foot up his leg…

And continued to do so through dessert, earning him a temporary cough and marks in between his fingers from his own nails.

At seventeen, they had one year left to the choosing ceremony. And this seemed to pain Eric more than he would like.

He hadn't told her about which faction he was planning on joining after Erudite. He was far too broad and significantly provoked in the Erudite navy uniform with his great height and strong jawline. He wasn't in the slightest muscular, just athletic, but better built than the average men he'd seen milling around. But it wasn't just that…

Eric wanted more. He wanted freedom. He wanted power. He wanted to be Dauntless… But all those things he wanted with Abbey. However, the unknown faction of her choice was simpering on the fine edge of earth shattering heartache.

However, he could never find the right words to tell Abbey appropriately, even when every inch of him screamed him to out it. And when he felt that perhaps he had stumbled upon them and was about to let them slip, she turns and smiles at him, holds his hand, plays with his hair. It's like she knew what he was thinking.

At break, with his head in her lap and under the familiar oak tree. She lazily picks the petals from a flower. Nipping the petals softly, letting them flutter past his head, while he stares between her face and the puny white monstrosities of flower spawn. Then unexpectedly, she meets his eye.

"I want to show you something…" Abbey's cheeks ignite, and a million things run through his head. Had he missed something? Nothing usually gets by him.

She pushes him to sit and he drawls "Okkkay," unsurely.

Abbey blushes as she looks to the floor again and Eric hides his embarrassment for her.

She shrugs off her cardigan and slowly, her dainty fingers work at the buttons of her white shirt, painstakingly leisurely. All he can seem to do is stare with his Adam's apple bobbing repeatedly as he tries to swallow the saliva that's decided to form quicker.

She throws off her shirt and sits in a white lacy bra in front of him with her milky skin exposed. He tries his hardest to keep her gaze but he can't help the momentary acts of defiance his eyes seem to make.

"Wh-" Eric tries to talk with his jaw slack, but she hushes him quickly.

"Shh." She shuffles closer on her knees. "Don't ruin it." Slowly, she moves forwards, her eyes searching each of his and he stares back with the same passionate glint that he sees beginning to form in hers.

She kisses him.

His first kiss.

Her lips were hot and lusciously soft against his own, and he let his eyes close along with hers.

She bites at his bottom lip while pulling away slowly. He was surprised at first, but smiles when she tilts her head back to roam over his face briefly, maybe checking if he was possibly still breathing.

"Chicken shit," she says. "You're supposed to kiss me first."

"You're not exactly conventional." And she kisses his smile. This time he opens his mouth a little and she responds instantly, sliding her sweet tongue to search out his, hands sliding round to the back of his head and through his hair. He grips at her waist and pulls her forward, sliding a hand up her back and finding the lacy material of her bra, mentally trying to figure out just exactly how he's found himself in this scenario and whether he's the most luckiest son of a bitch on this planet.

"Take it off," she practically purrs, moving back a little to catch his reaction.

"What if someone sees us?"

"What if…" She shrugs. And like a classical school-boy, he fumbles for about five minutes trying to figure out the stupid clasp and can't fathom why it won't naturally move the way he wants it to. She merely giggles, and with a special superhuman ability – unclasps it with one hand.

Eric doesn't want to look out of courtesy but just can't help it. Perfectly pert, untouched skin sits before him, the nipple hardened and tempestuously pink.

"I want you to touch me, Eric." And he didn't need telling twice. The soft skin sits pleasantly against his palm as he lightly squeezes. Abbey leans in and kisses him again, pushing him further and further backward until he's almost lying flat and she hovers over him.

That day she tells him.

"I think – I think I love you…"

But he doesn't say it back, and she doesn't appear to be disheartened. She knows him too well to be put off by his uniquely restrictive mind. To be honest, he didn't even really know what love was, so how could he say it? Was this love?

Abbey had always been more openly emotional in front of him to some extent, she was a blunt girl when it came to him. Apart from physically showing emotional attachment, they'd never really talked about it…

But not only that, she didn't know that he was planning on choosing Dauntless next year. That's where his mind took him and it would be unfair to whisper the sweet nothings to her if he had no plan on staying.

Being with Abbey here was ultimately pleasing too, but he was so sure she would pick Dauntless. She had all the strengths and cunning, and if he was going, she would be going too. He could feel it, he knew it, no doubts.

Things became serious the day before the choosing ceremony.

Abbey shows up at his parent's place and is shown to his room by his mom throwing the door open unexpectedly. "Thank you, Mrs Coulter," Abbey says sweetly and smiles while stepping into his room.

Eric throws the book he was reading to one side and takes a minute to take in her appearance. She's sodden, walked there in the rain.

"I wanted to see you… before tomorrow, in case…" She shivers.

He signals for her to sit on the bed and throws her his towel. Her damp, flattened locks lay limp by her face. She looks pale, almost frightened.

"Don't, we shouldn't say…"

"That's not the only reason why I'm here. Lock the door," she talks very seriously and he complies - with a little sense of hesitation. She holds her hand out as the lock clicks and sighing lightly under the unknown, he walks over and holds it. "Lie down with me." Her eyes appear watery, hazy and he wonders what exactly is going through her mind right now. He moves, but she stops him. "Without your clothes."

"Are you sure?" He wasn't going to detest.

"I've never been so sure."

He would like to say that it was the most perfect sex anyone could have for their first time, but he would be lying. They were a giggling set of fools, clumsily roaming parts of their bodies that he'd never thought he would have the delight of seeing… or feeling. He'd made her squirm uncomfortably on their first try and he pulled out apologizing only to be dragged back with Abbey's natural stubbornness.

What was more thrilling was the fact that they could've been caught. However, they were lucky on this night, his mother had left them to their own devices. He did think that perhaps she maybe knew why Abbey was here and that was the reason she had let them be. Eric guessed he would never know and for in that moment – didn't care either…

Abbey gets called to choose before him, throwing him a long look before fixing a sturdy gaze towards the bowls of factions.

Eric can't help the nervous shifts and racing heart as he waits somewhat patiently, his mother's hand lightly laying on his knee for small comfort.

"She's a smart girl," his mother tells him. "And I know how close you two are but you have to do what's right for you, not for others…" At the time he didn't think too much of it, but his mother had openly predicted their fate.

…Abbey chooses Amity.

Every inch of skin on him is ablaze as he watches her make her way to sickening pink and yellow. looney nut-jobs. She looks utterly lost and tries to look back for him but is pulled into one of the open seats with the Amity faction. Abbey smiles to other members, but it's not her usual, he should know, he knew her better than anyone else. However, he didn't expect this, never knew which way her heart was taking her.

If he'd thought about it hard enough, the signs were there: Their oak tree, the outdoors and love of flowers, hate of violence with Sarah Mackey, the relaxing smoke they took together under the moonlight and hugging him obsessively for the last three years.

He'd always classed it is a warped sense of Dauntless, never Amity.

His blood burned with a sense of betrayal. It felt like she had lied all this time, but he knew she hadn't and that he couldn't truly be mad of her choice in all respect. The anger was more at himself for feeling how he did towards her, and for the main element – he'd have to let her go.

The last time they saw each other, he shared an expressionless look towards her watery eyes as they parted ways on their journey to their new factions.

Dauntless was his new home.

Sighing as he pulls himself from his lost thoughts, he once again curses Four for his untimely reminder of Abbey Ainsworth and wiggles the mouse of the computer to check the time.

11.50AM

Eric clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth in annoyed anticipation that he would have to deal with this onslaught of deliverance. Amity would be arriving soon. Their trucks dirtied and thick tiered tires crunching the broken concrete of Dauntless instead of their plush fields, laden with the hippies of Amity and batches of produce for the glutinous warrior faction.

Just fucking dandy.

Every vertebra clicks as he stands, his room washed with the smell of a chain-smoker and an awful temper for inconveniences. He doesn't bother to pick up his phone, but he attaches his gun to his right thigh and an A4 page of the checklist he will no doubt develop a headache over.

The walk from his office to the warehouses isn't long, and he's never bothered by anyone. No one now would dare talk to him when he was in this mood, nor even make eye contact, and that was the way he liked it these days, a far cry to how he was in Erudite.

He supposed the behavior was always there in a way. He spat at the youngsters and she would laugh. He would fetch the ball from the moat and she would stay by the shore and dry. He would physically beat anyone that touched his Abbey and was always rewarded by her smile.

Eric shakes his head vigorously; he's not going back down that road again. That was a hell of enough for one day.

"So glad you could join us, Eric." Max stares out to the trucks rolling up in front of them. "I had a feeling you might not even turn up."

"Is that a sense of sarcasm I'm hearing?" Eric places his hands behind his back and imitates the strong look towards the truck, unbothered by the small questioning glance to his rather unusual passive state. "Let's just get this done."

The few subordinate Dauntless soldiers run a-mock as they divert the trucks to their certain bays. The heavy beeping and shouting drowning out even the deepest of thoughts as the gassy smoke from the exhausts back-fire and smolder the burning oil towards his nostrils.

Eric has stood here and overlooked this arrangement fifty times over, and as far as he was aware everything was working out the way it should before him and he didn't feel the need to intervene.

…Until one of the trucks stall and the backdoor unhinges, sending bags of produce tumbling out the back and smashing onto the floor, spilling ungracefully across the lot.

"Fuck," Eric mutters and Max sends him an incredulous look, unmoving from his position. "Fine. I'll go then."

Eric closes the gap brutally with his swift stride and arms himself for the onslaught of abuse that he's going to send the clumsy Amity packing-with. The Amity and Dauntless alike in the nearest vicinity move hastily in retreat and he doesn't bless them with even a small act of acknowledgment.

Instead, he grips the door handle of the red rust-bucket truck and yanks on it with limited grace. "You want to tell me what the fuck-"

He stops mid-sentence.

Eric must've have smoked too much tobacco and daydreamed far too much to be imagining her blushing down at him from the wrecked material seats of the truck.

Abbey.

It was her, he was sure of it, albeit a little more mature and magnificently filled out to the svelte of her curves. It was her.

Abbey's hair was still chestnut, her eyes still green and flecked with hazel, her adorable pout, and perfect nose. But she had bangs, side-swept bangs that were the only difference.

"I'm really sorry…" She begins and he wished he could have said anything other than:

"Abbey?" The word was so out of character and soft that he didn't believe he'd even said it. He naturally pulls his features into his usual frown, but the eyes are less intense, it was all about the eyes.

He physically hadn't said her name in years, it was all mainly in his thoughts from earlier. Fuck, he hadn't even thought of her since - until today…

Abbey's face is a maze of assumptions as she mulls over exactly who's standing in front of her. Slowly, but surely, disbelief arises. "…No way…" She whispers under her breath and his skin prickles at the sound. "Eric?"

He takes a small look around him to make sure no one's really paying attention before shifting closer. "What are you- why are you here?"

And as casually as ever, she laughs, smiling that familiar smile he remembered so well. "What does it look like?" He could bite his own tongue off for his stupid questions and stupid face so pitifully brimming on a long-lost hope.

Abbey slides down the seats and roams over his attire, curling her nose up a little and probably taking in the thick tattoos swamping his neck along with the piercings above his brow and multiple ear pieces. "Wow, Eric, you look…huge…like…really big…" Her eyes light up as she talks and expresses each word specifically. "Buff."

She looks pretty, too fucking pretty at this moment in time and every inch of him is trying to suppress the urge to grab her by the arm and take her all the way back to his apartment and bite at her skin and relish all the ways that he missed that knotted feeling at the pit of his stomach.

"You know me, full of surprises…"

"I heard you got ranked really highly… a Leader… Wow, look at you…" She rubs his arm and he thinks perhaps she doesn't know how offensive that would be if it were anyone else, but he lets her anyway.

Eric breaks the intense study he's performing over her appearance and directs a sharp look to the Amity standing around. "Well, don't just stand there, clean it up!" he snaps and Abbey shifts beside him, turning fractionally to do as he says. "Not you." He should say something else, something casual. However, he's somewhat out of practice. "You haven't changed a bit…" Good one.

"You certainly have. I mean, I barely recognized you. It's been-" She peers off in thought, her lips pouting slightly.

"Three years."

"Somebody has been counting…" She devours him with her eyes and he's actually nervous… nervous… he is never nervous. But he supposes every monster has their weaknesses.

"I, er, have been thinking about you…" Eric practically whispers, breaking any personal contact with her. "-because of the deliveries and Amity, and I knew you were-"

"I've been thinking about you, too." She stops his murmuring and lightly touches his arm again. "I hoped I'd get the chance to see you again."

His expression must ask the question 'why' as she answers anyway.

"I want you…" She hesitates for a split second. "I want you to come to my wedding…"

What. The. Fuck.

"No!" Eric spits the word venomously, a heat running from the base of his spine and blanching onto his neck. "Don't be stupid, you're not getting married."

"Erm, yes I am… In two weeks."

Eric knew she couldn't possibly love her fiancé; he wouldn't be enough for her, no one ever would be. Only Eric was meant for the girl. - This girl of all his firsts. This girl that spent far too much time clogging his mind today and sculpting his childhood.

The possessiveness was beginning to peak under the new assault of jealousy and lust. He would rip any person that would touch his Abbey, from limb to limb and enjoy himself while doing it.

"No," he says gruffly. "No I will not come to your wedding and you're an idiot for thinking so…" He leaves the words to linger in the air and it physically hurts when her face unravels in absolute surprise at his outburst and brutal honesty.

"Have I… done something to offend you?" She shrugs with her palms towards him in great apology, but it's not enough.

Eric beats down the eloping misery and turns away from her, feeling her eyes burn into the back of his head and the ripping sensation in his chest.

Loudly he snarls, "I hope you have a very happy life together."

This was not what he planned, not what he wanted to say, but the monster that was him couldn't bare her anywhere near him anymore. Not with those hideously exposed revelations.

Abbey will not marry another man… not while he still breathed.

He just needed time to figure out how. Marking his own words, he'll fucking stop her from devoting herself to someone else. He had the power swaying heavily in his favor and contacts heavily primed in Amity to help him do so.

Mark my words, Abbey Ainsworth will be mine.

[pendragonfics]

Starman

Paring: The Doctor/Reader

Tags: gender neutral reader, set in Season 4, Episode 18 “The End of Time (2)”, angst, fluff, unrequited crush, outer space, time travel, closure, creative licence, regeneration. 

Summary: If you both hadn't been fussing over era-appropriate clothing or the fact that Doctor had no idea why you'd want to talk about immunology when the pair of you were in pre-Beatles England, you might have noticed. If you'd noticed the little boy with the scruffy mop-top hair, then all what happened next wouldn't have happened. If you'd noticed, you'd probably have locked the TARDIS behind you.

Or, the Doctor and Reader whisk away a twelve year old named David into outer space. On accident.

Word Count: 2,722

Posting Date:  2017-04-19

Current Date: 2017-06-12

HERE’S SOME LINKS TO THE SONGS MENTIONED IN THE FIC!! [X] [X]

You were never a good traveller. Maybe it was because of that time your family went to the seaside and forgot you on the trip home and left you with the gulls for eight hours. That had been borderline traumatic. Or maybe it was because that you couldn't tear yourself away from your little town and little life and all that you lived and loved. That ... was unfortunate. But that was until at the little shop you worked at in the hospital you came across a very sad-looking man wearing sand shoes and a long coat, and he whisked you away into the heavens above to see the stars. 

But things don't change that drastically. The man who you met, an alien named the Doctor, took you all over the world, and worlds you could only dream of both far and near in his magic box. A box so magic, it was able to go forwards, and backwards and more ways in time and space that you could ever imagine. In fact, when the fact things don't change drastically is waved about, it should mean you, in particular. You couldn't just magically make souffle without reading a recipe - and being in the TARDIS didn't change that you were never a good traveller.

You'd heard many stories of the other people who had come into the blue box - of the girls who grew into their strong words, of those who adapted to survive under circumstance, of the lady he'd met, with fire in her breath and fear in her eyes. And then, there was you. Born to work, working to live, living to survive, surviving until the day you died. But then Doctor came along and broke that cycle, did't he. 

He had a good habit of getting in the way of bad things. 

All you'd done is started a debate with Doctor, going around time and space without proper vaccinations because of space diseases and such. Without much of a thought, the TARDIS had landed, and keeping the ball rolling, the conversation kept going as the pair of you walked down the lane-way where you parked the big blue box. All you knew was the little screen was reading figures of South London in mid-August 1959. 

If you both hadn't been fussing over era-appropriate clothing or the fact that Doctor had no idea why you'd want to talk about immunology when the pair of you were in pre-Beatles England, you might have noticed. If you'd noticed the little boy with the scruffy mop-top hair, then all what happened next wouldn't have happened. If you'd noticed, you'd probably have locked the TARDIS behind you. 

Dressed in his usual sweeping coat, you'd picked out something a little more era-appropriate - a knee-length (f/c) Peter-Pan collared shirt with matching flat shoes - and off you went. But things were running awry fast, and the alien of the week causing mayhem upon the soil of Britain was soon quelled with the both of your help, and before you knew it, the day was saved, and the Queen of England had given you a written letter to pass on to the next monarch after her (to which, you didn't want to tell her that in 2017, it was still her). And like any other day, the Doctor and you returned to the police telephone box, and went off to who knew where. 

But this time, when the pair of you landed on the largest moon of Saturn, and heard the vague sound of retching from somewhere within the console room of the TARDIS. Sharing a glance between the two of you, the pair of you advanced the opposite way to the door, and there, sitting with head between knees underneath the walking area, was a young boy with mop-like hair, with a pile of sick at his feet.

"I don't think we've met, I'm The Doctor," Doctor introduced, poking his head over the railing, looking at the young boy. "What are you doing in my TARDIS?" 

You interject, and swiftly, jump down to the same level where he is. "That's not what he meant to say, sorry, sometimes his mouth moves too fast for his brain to catch up, or the opposite." You put a hand on his shoulder, feeling the poor guy shaking. "What's your name ... erm, are you alright?"

He shakes his head, wiping his hand over his mouth. "I didn't - I was just trying to get away from them. I'm sorry I came in, it's just ... I'm David. David Jones." He offers you his hand, but it's the one which had wiped his mouth, and he put it back. 

"It's nice to meet you, David." You smile, and glancing up, you see Doctor moving down to see the stow-away he had just whisked away from 1959. "So, David, do you need anything, a drink of water?" you wonder. There's just something about this boy that makes you want to keep him safe, or at least, do your best to make sure he's okay. 

"You're not angry at me?" He frowns. "I -,"

You shake your head, but it's Doctor who speaks, having come down to see the boy close up. "So, David Jones, from England 1959. What's so special about you? What did you do to end up being here at this time, this place?" He asks him, squatting down, and squinting, taking in the sick and pale face of little David Jones. "You're about twelve, or thirteen, aren't you?" He asks.

David nods, eyes down. "Twelve, sir. Sorry, sir."

Doctor shakes his head, giving his big grin. "No need to call me sir, Jones. Just Doctor. So, you said you had to get away from them? Who were they?" You could tell from Doctor's voice that he was hoping that little David had seen an alien or something he really shouldn't have, but what came next 

David shook his head, "I was in a fight, with John and Kenneth Wilson. They took my tape, the one father brought home, with Mr. Elvis Presley on it. I think I broke his nose, and then John was chasing me, and I -," he took a deep breath, "I thought I could hide in here. "

You nod. "Did you get it?" Sensing his confusion, you add, "the tape. The one they took."

A small smile formed, along with an affirmative nod. But at that moment, there was a groan, and a thud and the TARDIS shook, and slowly settled. From your knowledge of being around the Doctor, and generally being off-planet, and around time and space, if anything made the little blue box sway where it was standing, it was a very not good thing at all.

Falling onto your bum, you cuss, "You didn't say Titan had fault lines, Doctor," you complain, glad that you didn't bash your head against the round things on the wall. 

He shook his head. "There aren't any fault likes on Titan."

David stilled. "What's Titan?"

But at this, you were up, and helping both the boys before you to their feet, and rushing to the screen to take in the external readings. It was a good thing that the pair of you didn't rush outside like you did often enough - from the screen, it said the temperatures outside were well below sub zero, and you had landed outside of a settlement, which if you were three metres to the left, would be situated inside of their life support systems. But from what you could see on the sonar, you were glad that you were not. 

"Doctor, there are life forms approaching us, and they do not look friendly!" you shout. 

If you knew how to fly the TARDIS, you would have flown the three of you right away from that then and there. But you didn't, and you were at the mercy of his lace-up shoes and that flappy coat of his that sometimes got in the way of his running skills. At once, he was at the console, and for the first time in ages, instead of deciding to go outside and make friends with the strange creatures, he was off, and the familiar de-materialisation noise filled the console room. 

"How about I take you to the nice and harmless Ood Sphere?" He thought aloud, as he often did. "After Donna and I solved their enslavement problems, I tend to go back there a bit to check out their progress. And," he added, twirling a dial until it lit up with a purple light, "Ood Sigma has a great singing voice - great for quelling near-death experience fears."

At the sound of landing, you turned to David, and squeezed his hand. "You're probably scared witless, aren't you?" you ask the poor boy. 

He doesn't say anything for a moment, but when he does, he looks at the Doctor. "Do you have, a bathroom in here?"

He nods, pointing down to the stairs, with the exit into the rest of the TARDIS. "Ah! Yes. Yes we do. First right, second left ... past the macaroon dispenser."

---

By the time little David is done, and all cleaned up from the ordeal of being whisked away across space and time, all of you have geared up for a nicer cold atmosphere, and are on the way down to the Ood society in their ice buildings. You'd been here once before, back when you had been on the first ride into space and time, and you had to say, you had a fondness for the soft and caring culture of the Ood. 

"Why did you take us here, Doctor?" you ask him. 

You know he does like to show off, especially around people he doesn't know, but this young boy beside you wearing a coat fit for someone twice his size from the streets of London isn't anyone like Maggie Smith or J. K. Rowling. Or is he? You've spent all your life in that little town and the shop in the hospital. For all you knew, there could have been an innovator or a technician who influenced the world named David Jones. 

He turns to David. "We're in space, David." he tells him, pointing out to the civilisation below where the Ood live and breathe and sing. "For someone your age, I bet this is the farthest you've been from home. The Horseshoe Galaxy, David - across the other end of the universe, somewhere further than anyone in the 20th century could ever imagine to be ..." 

"Press your space face close to mine, love -," You're not really sure why, but with all of the Ood singing their song below, you can't help but remember a song that always used to play in the hospital, and humming, you recall the lyrics aloud. "Freak out in a moonage daydream, oh yeah!" 

It's then you realise.

David Jones. David Bowie.

The Doctor shares with you a soft smile through the hood of his thick coat, and gestures to the little blue box that is nestled in amongst the snow not too far away. "I think it's time we got you home, now, David, yeah?" He asks the young lad, placing a hand on his shoulder. 

You know it's a long time since he's been this close to anyone, let alone a sort of father figure at all, and seeing the both of them walk back to the TARDIS, you can't help but feel a pull inside of you. You were young - but he was not. And seeing him there with the little David Bowie-to-be, you couldn't help but wonder if this was what spurred the super singer with the fascination with outer space, and that if you'd ever be bold enough to realise that you were into Doctor ... and he you. But that was the thing - poor Martha had to leave from the pain of not being loved back. 

You could only hope it didn't reach that far. 

It's not ten minutes later that you've delivered the twelve year old David Jones back to South London in mid-August 1959, on the same day he was gone from, and you're once again left alone in the blue box with the man with the stick-up hair. You haven't taken off or anything - the both of you are just sitting around in 1959, waiting for either one of you to speak up and hit the controls to whiz off into space. 

"I didn't tell you, but after I met Donna, I met a man named Wilf," Doctor bites his tongue, and taking shallow breaths, he adds, "He was a soldier, once, and looked like he'd seen the war with his two eyes and was haunted until the ends of time." 

You cock your head. "This man sounds a little like you," you hum, crossing your arms. "I suppose you learned something from Wilf, didn't you?" you ask Doctor, raising one of your brows in a quizzical manner. 

Doctor nodded. "He was worried about dying, he'd seen the world in his little human head, and he was an old man, but I'm nine hundred and nine years old, _________ - I'm a Time Lord and I've seen the Devil and black holes and the time vortex itself. I saved Wilfred Mott - and for three years, I've been stubborn." He turns away from you, not looking into your eyes. "I don't want to go," he adds, voice crackling.

You frown. "You've been with me, for three years," you think aloud. 

He doesn't respond. 

"What do you mean, go? Are you going to die?" You ask, and reaching out to turn the Doctor to see, his eyes, you feel your voice wobble. "Don't die, Doctor." 

He shakes his head. "It's not dying, so much as changing. Everything about myself, but the brain. Sometimes, the brain too. I have to regenerate, and I've been stifling it for so long, I just ..." he looks to his hands, as a tear falls onto them. "Rose held these hands, not the next one's." His chin wobbles, and at once, you feel yourself hugging him, keeping him from sliding into the floor and all over the walls in a puddle of emotions. 

Righting him, he stands, leaning on the consoles of the TARDIS, his head bowed. But then you have to rush back, skittering away from the golden energy that bursts from his skin, from under his skull, from his fingers. Shielding your eyes, you try to see, and try to avoid it going into your eyes, but there are fires growing inside, and you can't help but choke on the smoke that's building up. 

"Doctor?" you call out, voice thick, dry from the heat.

But the man before you that had the stick-up hair and those brown eyes is not there. Those eyes are greenish, sort of halfway between green and brown, and a long sort of fringe of hair that falls over his eyes, and at once, he's bouncing around the place like his hearts have restarted all of a sudden.

"________?" He asks, pushing the hair out of his eyes. "Did little David get out? Can't remember if he got out alright, oh, we'd screw up history if there was no Bowie, because if there was no Bowie, then rock and roll wouldn't roll any stones, and -," 

You place a hand over his mouth, and stare into his eyes. "You didn't kill David Bowie, Starman." 

You were never a good traveller. Maybe it was because once you were out of the house and gone you didn't really want to come back, and when you did, you found reasons to keep on going further, and further and further still. Damn the seaside trip, you were a child, and you'd seen the heavens above and seen creatures the people you called family could only dream up. You weren't sure if you'd ever go back to working in that little shop in the hospital, you weren't sure if you'd one day die in space from all of the escapades. That was the greatness of running in your present through the past and future - anything could happen. 

Oh yeah, you were never a good traveller. But you had a Doctor on standby.  

---

There's a starman waiting in the sky 

He'd like to come and meet us

But he thinks he'd blow our minds  

[obeydontstray]

Chapter one of Christ Haunted: Saved

(Will be posted on AO3! This is my headcannon that Jim Hopper spent a few summers down south in South Carolina with a beloved Aunt, where he was immersed in her pentecostal religion. Really I needed a Jim Hopper southern goth au and sassy Joyce.) ------------------ Jim Hopper wasn't the same after the summer he turned thirteen. For one, he had a thick southern accent for two months after he came back to Indiana. Spending all summer in South Carolina had changed his speech. And he'd grown increasingly withdrawn, quiet. "What's your deal, anyway? Someone traumatize you over break or something?" His neighbor Joyce enquired over lunch on day at school. "No. Just a little homesick, I guess." He replied, pushing his mashed potatoes around on his plate. He had a taste for fried chicken today so badly he could taste it. And sweet tea. He'd grown quite fond of it over the last two summers at Aunt Delia's house. All the southern soul food he'd eaten during the summer was making his middle soft, drawing more jeers than his acquired accent. "But you are home. And what's with this?" She asked, reaching for his neck to grab the wooden crucifix that hang from the leather cord. He snatched it from her hand and tucked it inside his shirt. "I got saved and baptized." Joyce's laugh was loud and boisterous. "Saved? You really believe all that bullshit?" "Joyce!" He fussed. "It's not bull- it's not hogwash." She laughed again. "Hogwash? Do you even speak english anymore or is it all just hick talk?" He rolled his eyes, feeling the strain of being her best friend and spending a whole summer apart. Suddenly it felt like they were from different continents. "I knew you wouldn't understand." But it still hurt. Her eyes softened. "Did they brainwash ya or something?" He shook his head. "Aunt Delia said I won't get into Heaven unless I have Jesus in my heart. But I don't feel no different." He admitted. "They say Hell is hot. Hotter than a Southern summer, and that's hot." "What did you expect?" She asked. "I dunno. Some sort of feeling. I imagined like something warm and fuzzy. The people in church act possessed when they catch the Holy Ghost." Joyce looked at him as if his head had suddenly grown three sizes larger. "Catch the Holy Ghost? Like with a baseball glove?" She was enjoying teasing him and he knew it. He stood abruptly and emptied his tray in the trash can and returning it before gathering his books and leaving. She caught up to him, her half eaten candy bar and open can of Coke in her hand. "Hop! Hop! I'm sorry!" She called as he strode outside to the courtyard, headed for the back of the school. When he slumped against the wall and slid down she followed suit. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't pick on you. Was it a big choice? Did she pressure you into it?" "No, I wanted to do it." Joyce tapped a cigarette out of her pack and offered it to him. "Nah, I quit." "What?!" She exclaimed, sticking the cigarette between her lips and cupping her hand to light it. "Jimmy Hopper quit smoking?" "It's not real Christian like." He replied. "Wow, you're really on this holy roller kick, aren't you." "Quit it Joyce." He scolded. "I gave up a lot of things this summer." "Like what?" She asked out of curiosity. "I'm never going to drink. The Preacher said it was a sin." "What about my favorite sin?" Joyce asked raising her eyebrows and he looked at her with an unknowing expression. "Sex, ya dummy." She had kissed Lonnie Byers shortly after her twelfth birthday and considered herself more experienced than everyone else. "I'm uh, saving for marriage. I signed a vow in sunday school." "Oh my goooood!" Joyce moaned. "Don't use his name in vain!" He scolded. "I though Jesus was his name and God was his title?" "It is and it isn't. I mean, there's the Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. But they're all the same thing. I don't understand it but Auntie said man is not supposed to understand God." Joyce rolled her eyes. "They really did brainwash you." "Hey we don't have to be friends anymore if you want to persecute me." He snipped. "Woah woah woah, slow down Jesus. Come down off your cross there." He prickled at the comparison. "Just...just don't talk about that stuff around the others, okay? You'll get a royal ass kicking if you do." "I preached a little bit." He informed her. "That's when I really felt saved. All those eyes on me. Everyone listening to me. Standing behind the pulpit. It felt good." Joyce gave him an astonished look. "You preached? You panic every time we have to do spoken reports. "That was before I got saved! Jesus took my fear away." Joyce rolled her eyes for the hundredth time during this conversation. The bell rung and she stood. He gathered up his books. "Is that a Bible?" She asked, lifting his other school books from his hands. "Auntie calls me Paul. I wanted to read about him." Joyce breathed in deep. "You'd better read that Bible at home. If someone spots it, there's gonna be trouble. As they walked the hallway, Lonnie Byers slammed into Jim's shoulder, causing him to drop his books. The Bible fell on top, face down with it's marked and notated pages spread wide. "Why my lands! Is Jimmy Hopper a Jesus geek now?" Lonnie shouted in an exaggerated fake southern accent. A small group gathered around them as Lonnie seized the Bible and tore out a hand full of pages. Lonnie stood a head and a half above Jim, having hit a growth spurt when Jim hadn't. Jim gasped and grabbed at the pages. "Lonnie leave him alone!" Joyce said, protecting her best friend with outspread arms. "You're going to Hell, Lonnie Byers!" Jim yelled. Lonnie chuckled and shoved Joyce aside, socking Jim in the eye. In the end both boys and Joyce ended up in the office. Joyce had jumped on Lonnie in Jim's defense, slapping and punching. She vowed to never go out with him again. Called him a sleaze and a loser. Jim declared he'd turn the other cheek, God would punish Lonnie. It was all a giant mess. As the year rolled on Jim spoke less and less about his faith. He wore his cross tucked away under his shirt and left his Bible at home, which he never finished reading through. He went back to smoking and drinking, but never forgot his vow of chastity. And Lord, there was plenty of temptation to forget it. Especially when he came home from his summer vacation after his fifteenth birthday and found that Joyce was beginning to fill out into the woman she was growing up to be. To be continued....

[godiva640vbucks-blog]

Just what the Oxford English Dictionary Does not Show you About how to hack fortnite

How Fortnite Captured Teenagers’ Hearts and Minds

The craze for that third-individual shooter sport has elements of Beatlemania, the opioid disaster, and taking in Tide Pods.

V BUCKS TOOL

It had been having late in Tomato Town. The storm was closing in, and meteors pelted the bottom. Gizzard Lizard experienced designed his way there following plundering the sparsely populated barns and domiciles of Anarchy Acres, then by preventing the Wailing Woods and preserving the storm just off to his still left. He spied an enemy combatant on large floor, who appeared to have a sniper’s rifle. Inside of a hollow underneath the sniper’s perch was an deserted pizzeria, with a large rotating register the shape of the tomato. Gizzard Lizard, who experienced promptly constructed himself a redoubt of salvaged beams, reported, “I think I’m about to attack. That’s considered one of my most important troubles: I need to start being extra aggressive.” He ran out in the open, pausing in advance of a thick shrub. “This is actually a extremely superior bush. I could bush-camp. But naw, that’s what noobs do.”

Two Adult men enter, 1 guy leaves: the fighters shut in on one another. Inside the movie match Fortnite Fight Royale, the late-activity stage is often by far the most frenetic and thrilling. Quickly, the sniper released himself into a nearby industry and began attacking. Gizzard Lizard unexpectedly threw up Yet another port-a-fort, amid a hail of enemy fire. The objective is usually to obtain, or make, the significant ground.

A second afterwards, Gizzard Lizard was dead—killed by a grenade. Afterward, he replayed the ending, from various vantages, to analyze what had long gone Incorrect. To get so near winning and however arrive up small—it was aggravating and tantalizing. One particular would like to go again. The urge is strong. But it absolutely was time for my son to perform his research.

I spent additional time as A child than I care to recollect seeing other Young ones Participate in movie games. Space Invaders, Asteroids, Pac-Man, Donkey Kong. Commonly, my buddies, around my objections, most popular this to enjoying ball—or to other preferred, if fewer edifying, neighborhood pursuits, which include tearing hood ornaments off parked cars. Every single so often, I performed, as well, but I used to be a spaz. Insert quarter, match about. Once gaming moved into dorms and apartments—Nintendo, Sega—I uncovered which i could just go away. But in some cases I didn’t. I admired the feat of divided attention, the knack that some guys (and it had been always men) appeared to have for keeping alive, both of those in the game and within the battle of wits about the couch, as though they ended up both of those actively playing a sport and executing “SportsCenter” simultaneously.

I thought of this the other day when a colleague explained watching a gaggle of eighth-grade boys and girls (amid them his son) hanging close to his condominium taking part in, but typically viewing Other folks Perform, Fortnite. A single boy was enjoying on a big Tv set screen, that has a PlayStation 4 console. One other boys were being on their own telephones, possibly participating in or observing an expert gamer’s Are living stream. And the ladies were being participating in or watching by themselves phones, or searching in excess of the shoulders from the boys. Among the list of girls explained to my Pal, “It’s enjoyable to begin to see the boys get mad every time they lose.” No-one mentioned Substantially. What patter there was—l’esprit du divan—came from the youngsters’ minimal screens, in the form of the professional gamer’s mordant narration as he vanquished his opponents.

Fortnite, for anybody not a teenager-ager or perhaps a father or mother or educator of teens, will be the 3rd-person shooter video game which includes taken over the hearts and minds—and time, equally discretionary and in any other case—of adolescent and collegiate America. Launched past September, it's at the moment by a lot of actions the most well-liked movie recreation on this planet. From time to time, there have already been more than 3 million men and women enjoying it without delay. It's been downloaded an estimated sixty million times. (The game, available on PC, Mac, Xbox, PS4, and cell gadgets, is—crucially—free, but quite a few gamers pay out For extra, beauty characteristics, including costumes referred to as “skins.”) Regarding fervor, compulsive habits, and parental noncomprehension, the Fortnite trend has aspects of Beatlemania, the opioid disaster, and the ingestion of Tide Pods. Mothers and fathers speak of it being an dependancy and swap tales of plunging grades and brazen display screen-time abuse: underneath the desk at college, in a memorial services, in the toilet at 4 A.M. They beg each other for options. A pal despatched me a video he’d taken just one afternoon although endeavoring to end his son from participating in; there was a time when consistently calling just one’s father a fucking asshole would have led to huge issues in Tomato City. In our household, the big danger is gamer rehab in South Korea.

Sport fads occur and go: Rubik’s Cube, Dungeons & Dragons, Angry Birds, Minecraft, Clash of Clans, Pokémon Go. What individuals appear to agree on, whether they’re seasoned gamers or dorky dads, is the fact that there’s a little something new emerging all over Fortnite, a type of mass social accumulating, open up to some Substantially wider array of men and women than the games that came in advance of. Its relative lack of wickedness—it is apparently largely freed from the misogyny and racism that afflict many other online games and gaming communities—makes it much more palatable to the broader audience, and this charm the two ameliorates and augments its addictive power. (The game, in its essential method, randomly assigns players’ skins, that may be of any gender or race.) Common anecdotal evidence indicates that women are participating in in wide numbers, equally with and with out boys. There are actually, and possibly at any time shall be, some gamer geeks who gripe at these types of newcomers, just as they gripe when there aren't any newcomers at all.

A buddy whose thirteen-calendar year-old son is deep down the rabbit gap likened the Fortnite phenomenon into the Pump Household Gang, the crew of ne’er-do-effectively teenager surfers in La Jolla whom Tom Wolfe occurred upon within the early nineteen-sixties. As opposed to a clubhouse within the beach, there’s a virtual world-wide juvenile corridor, where by Youngsters Get, invent an argot, adopt change egos, and shoot each other down. Wolfe’s Pump Dwelling Young ones went on beer-soaked outings they called “destructos,” by which they'd, at neighborhood farmers’ behest, demolish abandoned barns. Now it’s Juul-sneaking minimal homebodies demolishing Digital partitions and residences with imaginary pickaxes. Teens almost everywhere are swinging away at their world, tearing it down to outlive—Innovative destruction, of a kind.

Shall I reveal the game? I must, I’m worried, Although describing movie game titles is just a little like recounting goals. A hundred gamers are dropped onto an island—from a flying university bus—and fight one another to your Dying. The winner is the last a person standing. (You are able to pair up or type a squad, as well.) This can be what is meant by Struggle Royale. (The original Model of Fortnite, introduced previous July, for forty dollars, wasn’t struggle on the Demise; it is the new iteration which has caught fireplace.) A storm encroaches, little by little forcing combatants into an ever-shrinking spot, where they need to eliminate or be killed. Alongside just how, you seek out out caches of weapons, armor, and healables, even though also gathering constructing supplies by breaking down current buildings. Hasty fabrication (of ramps, forts, and towers) is An important aspect of the sport, and this is why it is commonly referred to as a cross involving Minecraft and the Hunger Game titles—and why aggrieved moms and dads will be able to inform themselves that it's constructive.

Ahead of a recreation commences, you wander about in a type of purgatorial bus depot-cum-airfield ready until eventually another hundred have assembled for an airdrop. That is a Bizarre area. Gamers shoot inconsequentially at one another and pull dance moves, like actors going for walks aimlessly all-around backstage practicing their lines. Then arrive the airlift along with the drifting descent, by way of glider, to the battleground, with a delicate whooshing sound that is certainly into the Fortnite addict exactly what the flick of a Bic would be to a smoker. You may land in a single of 20-one particular regions over the island, Each individual which has a cutesy alliterative name, some suggestive of mid-century gay bars: Shifty Shafts, Moisty Mire, Lonely Lodge, Greasy Grove. In patois and in mood, the game manages for being both equally dystopian and comedian, darkish and lightweight. It might be alarming, for those who’re not accustomed to this sort of matters or are attuned to your information, to listen to your darlings shouting so merrily about head pictures and snipes. But there’s no blood or gore. The violence is cartoonish, at the least relative to, say, Halo or Grand Theft Car. These kinds of are classified as the consolations.

The island alone has an air of desertion but not of utmost despair. This apocalypse is rated PG. The abandonment, precipitated because of the storm, that has either killed or scattered almost all of the environment’s inhabitants, seems to happen to be recent and relatively fast. The grass is lush, the Cover comprehensive. The hydrangeas are abloom in Snobby Shores. Buildings are unencumbered by kudzu or graffiti and possess tidy, sparsely furnished rooms, as though the inhabitants had only just fled (or been vaporized). Seemingly, Absolutely everyone on the island, in People prosperous pre-storm moments, shopped in exactly the same aisle at Concentrate on. Each time I watch a player enter a Bed room, be it in Junk Junction or Loot Lake, I Be aware the multicolored blanket folded throughout the bed. These cobalt-blue table lamps: are they available? Probably in the future They are going to be.

[taffytrotski]

It's Cold Enough Out There

This photo was taken on the coldest day and night of that February, two years ago. I had gone to Burlington, KY to spend a few days with Sami Bisharah and on the second day I bundled up to venture out into the single digit temperatures to take some photos of his wooded hillside property covered with the sugary chrystaline snow from a storm two nights previous. After an hour out there, despite the fact that I was sweating as much as I would on one of those late July Ohio Valley afternoons at 95° and 95% humidity, all motor control in my hands had come to a state in which my fingers were operating with all the dexterity but even less articulation than a Barbie doll’s legs, and feeling as if they were at a searing temperature sufficiently hellish to transform those perfectly and impossibly shapely doll legs into the puddle of molten plastic they would be as it reaches flash point, begins flaming and regains the blackness of the sludgy, cloying state that it held as petroleum buried deep in the earth for many, many millions of years. Let me explain. On the afternoon of Christmas 1977 I got on my bike, heading to the home of the Hanson family(Jenifer Hanson). That day it was unseasonably warm, in the high 50°s and I was anxious to get away from my home where the holiday was that year (most years) driven by the dysfunction of an alcoholic, abusive father and a mother who, though physically impaired by a serious and painful injury, was perpetually holding onto all she could; house; kids; cars; even husband, as every case of beer and bottle of licour he consumed threatened to wash it all away into an abyss that she had been raised in but managed to escape and was determined never to return to. Add to that less than idyllic household my homosexuality as a third, or possibly sixth elephant in the room and you should understand why after the chain broke on my bike a scant quarter mile out, even after I struggled unsuccessfully to fix it in the rapidly falling temperatures, I chose to tarry on as an Alberta Clipper of phenomenal and now legendary force delivered it’s unexpected and massive cargo of sub-zero white Canadian inconvenience. By the time I had reached the outlying, houseless streets of the undeveloped part of the Glenn Lakes subdivision I had been walking against the storm or attempting to repair my bike for over two hours. As I walked past a short cul-de-sac I stopped, marvelling a beautiful swirl of drifted snow about four feet high that had formed there, and thought I should lie down and rest. I had been enveloped by an ironic warmth and a heavy eyed sleepiness that implored me to curl up in that soft blanket of snow bank, but as I tried to put my bike down, I couldn’t release the handlebars and noticed that my fingers had become as white as the snow. That is when I realized something was seriously wrong: I shouldn’t feel that warmth; white immovable fingers is only a good thing when one’s hands were feminine and the stars of an Ivory dishwashing liquid commercial; I have icicles clinging to my fourteen year old’s wispy mustache and my eyebrows and oh, wow, my hair! I have no idea how long I stood there, more than three times talking myself in then out of the deadly respite I wanted to take, but I do know that I left my home at 3pm and arrived at the Hanson’s at 6pm. After peeling my pearly fingers from the icy glaze that had formed over them as they grasped in determination to keep that bike in the afterlife, I rang the doorbell , and a depricating dread washed over me as I stood waiting, thinking how I was going to ruin Christmas for this family that I had come to treasure for its welcoming and loving normalcy that for someone like me was elusive as Bigfoot in the untethered social upheavals of late 1970s America. In a display that heralded the lack of dysfunction and endearing charm of the Hanson family, all six children, ages six to seventeen, and Mom and Dad answered the the door, ready with a good natured, teasing joke about the cold and snow, but their smiling faces were replaced by ones of shocked concern as the gravity of the falling mercury pulled all the levity out of that moment’s orbit and was sufficient, ans cause time to slow and allow me a front row seat to the consequential fallout of the poor judgement of a teenager. Finally Matt, who was seven or eight broke the spell by saying with a humorously candid aplomb “Oooh! His hands are all white!” and this family of eight individuals went into action, leaving behind the dismayal that rang their doorbell on that Christmas evening, so they could attend to the boy whom it had escorted and from whom it needed an immediate intervention. They did so with a precision that dysfunction would have stalled, or worse derailed when presented with such urgency. This is when things become clouded in my memory. I know that Jen called the hospital and relayed the instructions to put my hands under cold running water while Christine assisted me at the kitchen sink, but as the icy cold water ran over my hands, awakening nerve cells that had shut down along with capillaries as the skin cells in my hands had begun to rupture under the expansive preasure of the water inside as it had turned to ice, making it feel as if she had thrust them into fire, and then I passed out from the pain. With little regard for the Winter Storm of the Century that was raging, Jack and Shirley Hanson got me to Bethesda North Hospital while either Christine or Jen held me in the back seat of their car, waiting with me until my parents were able to get there. For several weeks my hands were useless due to pain and the dead skin turning a dark blue, thickening and stiffening before pealing off. To this day I lose feeling and blood flow below 50°, my hands turning that same ghostly white, then as temperatures approach freezing the burning sensation returns, although only to a ghostly degree of what it had been that Christmas night in 1977 when I got frostbite. That afternoon, two years ago at Sami’s house, I came in from the cold, spending the time it took for the burning to abate and the color of life to return to my hands, relating that story as he prepared a dinner of stuffed Arabic aubergines and the two of us drank one of those red Zinfandels with a flavor so big it was practically chewable. With the wine in full effect and dinner settling into our bellies for a along Winter’s nap, we reminisced about the first of many Christmas parties he had hosted after being back in Greater Cincinnati from his native Kuwait. My ex and I along with another friend had spent the night at Sami’s while a snow storm and an ill prepared Kentucky Department of Transportation stranded us and hundreds of travelers just four miles north of us at the Ohio border, far to the south at the Tennessee border hundreds more, and an estimated 10,000 on the Commonwealth’s Interstate Highways. As the evening proceeded and we became as stuffed as those aubergines and were satededly regaled by reminiscences of the early days of our neer twenty year friendship we listened obediently to the truth in the wine as it reminded us that this night the temperature would be dipping to -16°F, making it one of the coldest nights since the Winter of 1977-78, and therefore one best spent protected by a thick layer of blankets and the distractions of dreams. We said our goodnights then he went to his room and I to mine at opposite ends of the house. Within an hour a pain that had thrice before vexed me over the same number of years had me writhing and moaning as it’s severity grew progressively intense. Just two weeks before, in similar circumstances, had I suffered for twelve hours as I waited unnecessarily for a call from my doctor’s office that the naïveté of a fifty-one year old with health insurance for the first time in his adult life (thanks to the ADA) erroneously had me thinking was prudent and requisite. By the time I received that call the pain had passed making it unlikely that the suspected cause of gallstones would be detected but I was told to not hesitate going to hospital emergency should it return. In 1996 I was diagnosed with a disease that is manageable with expensive medications, though without those medications most die within five years of diagnosis, and because that diagnosis resulted in an ineligbility for insurance coverage, I had spent the preceding thirteen years knowing that this disease was ever increasingly likely to bring about by death. Every illness, major and minor, skin blemishes, periods of lethargic exhaustion, for more than a decade seemed a plausible harbinger of my impending demise. I began having fevers monthly, then weekly and finally after three years of this, every few days. Though none were that grim herald, the physiological and psychological impacts of living with such uncertainty, for such a long time, had compounded the then undiagnosed CPTSD I have been treated for over the past two and a half years. What happened next is the linchpin around which these recollections hinge, and that door to which those hinges are affixed opens to a greater sense of humanity. I woke Sami up on what was indeed the coldest night since that long ago Winter and he drove me to University Hospital in his Chevy Suburban with an interior so roomy that after the 45 minute drive the temperature hadn’t climbed much above 0°, though when the nurse at the hospital took mine it was 94°. Once there I had the wretched remains of my badly diseased gallbladder and the single, fist sized gallstone that had been precipitating the plethora of symtoms that, because of the inaccessibility of medical treatment, were attributed to the manageable but deadly disease of which I had been aware. The surgery with complications that directly resulted from the dysfunction of living for such a long time with a badly diseased organ, and a two day hospital stay did not incur a bill that would have been impossible for me to pay, and soon after, for the first time in my adult life my physical and mental health began to improve. When confronted with crisis, the dysfunctional will more often than not become distractedly mired by considerations and worries, some germane most not so much, until the crisis is no longer the focus of action, allowing the impact of that crisis to compound. When confronted with the same crisis those not impaired by dysfunction readily and with the barest modicum hesitation, necessitated by mindful assessment, then immediately following will seek resolution to that crisis, eliminating or working around any impediments. Although far from perfect the ADA sought to eliminate many of the barriers to resolution of the crisis in health care that the dysfunction of American society had allowed to snowball as market forces were given deference over humanity. I will fully admit that health care is not a right under our great Constitution but it is a dysfunction of our society that with the third highest per capita economy in the world; the strongest most sustained economy of the modern era, that such a crisis has perpetuated for more than a century, despite the mission of the government, clearly stated in the Constitution to “promote the general welfare”. Sad.

[depechemodespiritera]

DEPECHE Mode is a band of existential angst, pain, sadism, horror and darkness. There’s a communist aesthetic, a fascist element; no bubblegum. Everything is multi-layer, contradictory and ambivalent.

Not my words, but those of Richard Spencer, the American white nationalist who caused gasps and shudders last month – as the band were about to announce their Barrowlands show – with his claim that “Depeche Mode is the official band of the Alt-Right”.

The group were quick to disassociate themselves from Spencer and his politics. Their derision felt genuine, but so does his devotion. His favourite album, according to his Facebook page, is 1986’s Black Celebration, released when he was seven years old, although he has a lot of time for 1983’s Construction Time Again, in particular the single Everything Counts. One might hope that the line, “See just how the lies and deceit gained a little more power” would have some uncomfortable satirical bite for Spencer in the age of Trump, but perhaps not. If the whole unseemly incident proves anything, it is that everyone keeps faith in their own version of Depeche Mode.

“It’s really hard to express how much Mogwai love Depeche Mode. It’s beyond language,” says the Glasgow band’s Stuart Braithwaite. “I think they might have written some of the best pop songs and most powerfully anthemic pieces of music of any band. They’re an important group. It’s going to be amazing to see them at the Barrowlands, probably my favourite venue in the world.”

The gig at the venerable Glasgow concert hall sold out in minutes; hardly surprising given that their only other British date is the 60,000-capacity London Stadium and that they last played Barrowlands (having made the leap from Tiffany’s) in 1984, back when they were deep within their M&S-meets-S&M phase, and their big new track was Master and Servant. This time, it is likely that Just Can’t Get Enough, if they play it, will be the song of the night, given its adoption as a terrace anthem by Celtic fans. In that particular venue, in that part of town, it should be quite a moment – a cultural collision to shake floors and walls and bones.

One man who will certainly be there is Andy Pollard, who owns a bar in Aberdeen, Halo, named after a song from the Violator album. Pollard is a member of The Kilts, a small group of hardcore Scottish Depeche Mode fans – ultras, you might call them – who follow the band around the world. “They have been,” he says, “the soundtrack to my life.” He has seen them around 200 times, his first gig being back in 1984, at the Edinburgh Playhouse, when he was thirteen. “And that was that,” he says. “There’s been loads of parties and rammies along the road.”

The Kilts are a sort of auxilliary force of the tartan army, forever popping up, pint in hand, in post-Soviet capitals. That the Barrowlands show coincides with a World Cup qualifier against Slovenia means that Pollard will miss his first Scotland home game in 21 years. They wear black (though not leather) kilts while painting the town red, and have formed swallied alliances with similar groups of fans from other countries – “the mad Danes, the Irish mob, the Black Swarm from Germany”. Pollard is more interested in the live experience than in collecting memorabilia, “but I did once try to buy Alan Wilder’s jacket. The auction was on while I was watching Scotland beat Lithuania 1-0 at Hampden. I got some bids in before I lost signal.”

Why do Depeche Mode provoke such obsessiveness? “The band seem to think that they are still outsiders and attract outsiders,” says Simon Spence, author of Just Can’t Get Enough, a history of Depeche Mode’s early years. “But even though they have never been particularly mainstream, they are the only band of their generation that are still able to do these huge international stadium tours. They are unique among British bands for longevity and still growing as a creative force.”

A few months ago, I was in London in a part of the South Bank where streets are named after Dickens characters. On Copperfield Street, I chanced upon an old church – All Hallows – deconsecrated and shuttered, ivy growing over the wooden, weatherbeaten figure of Christ crucified which was cemented into a concrete plinth. This, according to a sign pinned to a “Church Notices” frame, was once the home of Blackwing studios, where, in 1981, Depeche Mode recorded their debut album, Speak & Spell. Press an ear to the locked door, and you can almost hear the fading chords: new sounds, new life, ghosts of synthpop past.

Depeche Mode were, back then, just kids. A short film of the time shows them fresh-faced in Blackwing, working on an evangelical song (most of them came from a faith background) and later sitting at the foot of the crucifix for a discussion of their cultural moment. “Depeche Mode,” explains the narrator Danny Baker, “show how much futurism has changed now it has hit Essex.”

They had come from the new town of Basildon, “a new sort of band from a new sort of town” as Dave Gahan once put it. Is there an argument that what Depeche Mode did so effectively, like some of the best black music, was mix sex and spirituality? “That’s hit the nail on the head,” says Simon Spence. “Their music is a sort of British blues.” They came from the Thames Delta, he says, which in the late 19th century, was “all shacks and swampland” as working class speculators from London bought up small plots of farm land. “So there is that romanticism to Basildon’s history, the town itself is all modernist and brutal, and if you add the influence of the church – those are the roots of Depeche Mode and you can hear it all in their music.”

Remarkable that this very English confection should have become so popular in America, and yet – as documented in DA Pennebaker’s documentary 101 – that is exactly what happened.

Lori Majewski, the US author of Mad World: An Oral History Of New Wave Artists And Songs That Defined The 1980s, saw Depeche Mode for the first time at Christmas 1987 in Madison Square Garden. She had fallen for them hard. “Their songs spoke directly to the teenage heart,” she recalls. “I remember I had been in gym class in school and the girl sitting in front of me had a shaved head and this Black Celebration T-shirt on. Oh my God, I just wanted to be her. So I started taking pictures of Dave Gahan to my barber where I’d get my hair shorn like his. And I only wore black from then on.”

What was it about them? “I love a lot of bands from that era, but Depeche Mode woke me up sexually. It was the way they sang to women. A Question Of Lust, A Question Of Time, Dressed In Black – I went from girlhood to womanhood because of those records. And they say you never grow up from high school, right? Today, when I see Dave Gahan swivel his hips, I’m 16 all over again.”

As in New York, so in Ayrshire, where one man’s relationship with the band exemplifies their ability to creep into the quiet places of a life and stay forever. “Growing up gay in the 1980s and loving Depeche Mode could be my specialist subject on Mastermind,” says Ian Morrison, who comes from the former pit village of Auchinleck. The subject feels raw and live for him. He buried his father the day before we talk. Ian Snr, a former miner who was supportive of his son’s musical taste and sexuality, had driven him to Edinburgh for his first Depeche Mode gig, in 1988. “He’s intertwined with the story,” says Morrison. “He was never ashamed of me, although he was maybe mortified when I walked down the street with my bleached Martin Gore hair.”

Morrison got into the band in the summer of 1986, aged 13, listening obsessively to a C60 copy of the singles collection. That music, the sadness and euphoria and frailty and strength of it, he’d never heard anything that went into him so deeply. He needed to hear more, but pocket money didn’t stretch far. “So I went to town with my friend and, on the way to the cinema, shoplifted the first five albums from Woolies. We then casually went to the Kilmarnock Cannon and watched Big Trouble In Little China.”

What was it like being a massive Depeche Mode fan in Auchinleck? To wear black nail varnish in a community with coal dust under its fingernails? “As far as I was concerned, no one else knew what I was going through. It was almost like a parallel with being gay. ‘Nobody understands! Nobody gets me!’ I got called a poof at school just for wearing a band T-shirt. I used to laugh that off.”

He would wander in the fields near his home, walking his dog Ben, listening to Shake The Disease. Fed up being the only fan in the village, he put a personal ad in Smash Hits (“If you’re aged between 1 and 101, get writing to Ian Jnr”) and ended up with 25 pen pals around the world. Having come out as a Depeche Mode obsessive, he felt able, in his letters, to start telling people he was gay. It is just one of the many ways in which the band have shaped his life.

In the hospital, at his dad’s bedside, in the last days, Morrison learned that a friend had managed to get him a ticket for the Barrowlands show. He texted back that he was excited, but in truth he didn’t feel anything.

Now, though, with the funeral over, and staying with his mum for a few days, the longest period he has spent in Auchinleck for 25 years, Morrison has had time to reflect on the the band, his father, his love for both, and how linked they are in his mind.

“He ran me to so many gigs, and so I take a wee bit of comfort that he’d be happy I was going to this concert,” he says. “If this was the last time I ever saw Depeche Mode, I’m sure I could live with that.”

Depeche Mode play the Barrowlands, Glasgow, on March 26 as part of the BBC6Music weekend in the city. The Kilts are hosting a pre-show party at the Solid Rock Cafe, Hope Street, Glasgow, from 2-6pm

[emthinks]

Empire of Storms by Sarah J. Maas

You know, I think I’ve gotten too used to SJM being nice to us and not giving us cliffhangers. And then this came along. So. My feelings are a mess, my heart is shattered (as per usual) and I am most likely not coherent enough so this might take a while to edit down.

Edit: This took a lot longer to edit down than I thought. So. Many. Feels.

Rating: 9.5/10

(Also, I’d like to make a disclaimer about my rating: I’d like to give it a higher number. I really would. But the main issue I had with this book was that, while the actual super-intense battle scenes were beautiful and just as wonderfully written as I’d expect from a Sarah J. Maas, the other bits just dragged on. All the trudging in the swamps and on the ships were just blergh. Granted, this is the second to last book, so there has to be a lot of setup, I suppose. Still, 9.5 is pretty high on the scale, all things concerned.)

An Overview (of my thoughts, the plot, whatever comes to mind, really):

So some of my notes is coherent, some of this, not so much. Especially the end. So let’s get on with it, shall we?

So early on in the book, we’ve got Aelin and Lysandra and Rowan and Aedion traveling up to Terrasen, all chill and ready to reestablish the court, right? No. Oh, no. We get the meeting with Darrow and it is shit. Darrow, who’s more concerned with the “rightful ruler” of Terrasen than all the evil lurking down below, like a gods damned Valg king, refused to acknowledge Aelin as Queen of Terrasen. And I was so pissed. Like, when Aelin sliced her hand and made that promise to Darrow about raising an army, I didn’t pay that much heed. But gods, am I regretting that now. Because she did. She really, truly did. She raised an army of thieves and assassins and exiles and commoners to aid Terrasen.

But like even during that shitty meeting, we get a new message: the Ironteeth are flying for Rifthold. To sack it. Like, fuck. No. Dorian. What. Please. So we send Rowan off and agree to meet at Skull’s Bay.

Meanwhile, Dorian is trying to fight off the witches that have suddenly come to Rifthold and he’s getting better. He’s got his raw magic and he control it better. But it’s not enough. Too many witches and just one of him. And Rifthold is a fucking mess right now. And Dorian is cornered. And then – wait for it – Manon comes! Manon saves the day! Manon actually kills the Yellowlegs and is thus labeled a Witch Killer, even though she herself is a witch.

Which, yay for Dorian because Rowan then comes and they’re all set and leave. Manon, on the other hand, is fucking screwed. Because Manon goes back to the Ironteeth and her fucking grandma sentences Asterin to death. Like, no. And then Manon invokes her right to execution. And I’m on the edge of my seat and screaming and flailing and and and. And then she turns on her grandma. Manon finally turns on her bitchass grandma and tears into her to buy her Thirteen time to run. And it is glorious. We knew this was a long time coming and it was just as wonderful as I had imagined it to be. Finally, Manon rebels completely. (In the process, we find out she’d just killed her half-sister because apparently she’s the last Crochan Queen and was a child of peace born in the hopes to unite their two witch kingdoms.)

I really loved it when Rowan and Dorian go in to meet with Rolfe and they flip on the lights only to find it’s Celaena there. Celaena, not Aelin. Celaena, who’s such a bamf and just so chill. I loved how she was flipping the emeralds and Rolfe was like “put them back. All of them. Even the one up your sleeve…Even the one you shoved in your mouth” and Dorian is like “how tf did she do that?” This scene also gave birth to two of my favorite quotes:

“You will find, Rolfe, that one does not deal with Celaena Sardothien. One survives her.” – Dorian Havilliard

“Rowan’s always looking for an excuse to show off. Dramatic rescues give him purpose and fulfillment in his dull, immortal life.” – Aelin Ashryver Galathynius

With Lorcan and Elide, I didn’t know how to feel about them. I was like “yes, Elide, go find Aelin” and “bad, Lorcan, stop being a bastard” and that was basically it. Like, they were kind of like the Manon chapters of HoF for a while, a bit of a snoozefest. But the – but then. Something changed. Maybe it was when Elide showed her teeth, showed that maybe even if she wasn’t a fierce warrior like fucking everyone else, she had her mind and she was cunning and brave all the same and she was still a badass. And she has Lorcan on a leash, man. Like, Lorcan is so gone for her, it’s not even funny. Loved how Lorcan was wondering why the fuck he kept on staring at Elide at the carnival. Like, it’s hilarious because I don’t think Elide even knows the power she wields over him. I am Elorcan trash now.

So we spend a shit ton of time on Skull’s Bay talking with Rolfe. Apparently Rolfe is the last of the Mycenians? Wow, that’s convenient. Yet again. And we manage to semi-convince Rolfe to join us. Mostly because Aelin again risked everything and willingly called the Valg to attack. The resulting battle was very Pirates of the Caribbean-esque. And I have some bones to pick with it. Like, Aelin manages to dig so deep into her well of power fucking goddess Deanna shows up? Her like great-grandmother reincarnated into the goddess of the hunt? She’s such a bitch. And then we almost kill Lysandra, who I love, because she kills the first three sea-wyverns, but just barely, only to find out they were the babies sent as bait so the mommas will have more fuel for their anger and I’m just screaming for Lysandra alongside everyone else and and and – thank God Aedion and Dorian were up at the towers, lbr. I was so fucking worried.

Afterwards, there’s the Rowaelin sex scene(s). Which. I can just picture there being like scorch marks of Aelin’s naked ass and it being roped off hundreds of years later and used as a tourist site.

Also during this battle (where Lysandra doesn’t die thank God), we hear again that Aelin needs to seek out the Lock to bind the Wyrdkeys. Whatever the heck that is. Like, there was Brannon at the Mycenian’s temple (where they also met Celaena’s Endovier overseer taken over by Erawan, joy among joys) who also told them that so they’re like “okay, whatever” and of course Rolfe has some sort of hint, right? The Swamp Marshes or something. Whatever. So along they go.

And Manon lands on their boat.

Good job Abraxos. Abraxos is the best. I’m not going to dig deep into what Manon gets onto on the boat, because the Danon shit will be discussed later.

Meanwhile, Lorcan learns that Elide is carrying another Wyrdkey to Aelin and – finally – that the one he carries is a fake. So they turn tails and book it down south too.

And Lorcan manages to warn them about the incoming Ilithia or whatever the fuck those shit are. There was like five hundred or something. And so Aelin makes a stand. And this is when you really see her fiery power on display. And it is scary and awesome and terrifying and everything you could possibly wish it to be. Lorcan barely manages to shield himself and Elide from it.

So eventually, the gang is now basically all in one place. And they find out this Lock is…a mirror. Wtf? Okay, we’ll figure that out later, because Aelin has called in some debts.

It’s Ansel of Briarcliff, the human queen of the Wastelands. I think. There’s a lot of characters and I can’t remember all their titles. But she seems decent enough. Whatever.

But it’s not the end of the book yet. The finale has yet to come. Because just about then, we learn that Lorcan, upon seeing Ansel’s ships on the horizon and not knowing they were friend or foe, had called for Maeve to protect – wait for it – Elide. So Maeve is attacking them now.

This isn’t going to go down well.

But then, to make it worse, Dorian just grabs Manon and grabs Aelin and is like “you’re iron, you’re fire” and they look at each other and are like “wtf, what’s the worst thing that could happen? We’re all fucked anyways” and they just jump into the mirror without consulting anyone else. On the eve of a super deadly battle. And when everyone else finds out, they’re like – reasonably – what the actual fuck. Like, seriously?

Thank the fuck we have Rowan though. Rowan. Rowan seemed so meh before, but Rowan. Oh Rowan. We are outgunned, outmanned, outnumbered, outplanned but at least we have Rowan. Rowan, who spent the eve before the battle flying from ship to ship of his cousin’s, begging them to listen, to help, to convict treason, to turn them on Maeve. And then when all of the Whitethorn families turned on Maeve’s own armada. Like, that was great. And Aedion is all “well, it’s a good thing most of the magic users Maeve brought are from Rowan’s fam.” Like, lol, Maeve brings her enemy’s mate’s fam to fight them. Not the smartest move, Maeve.

But even then, it’s not enough. They’re still so screwed. But then – but then! The Thirteen come back, led by Abraxos. Abraxos, the most wonderful puppy-dragon who is so loyal to Manon it’s ridiculous and they just rain complete and utter destruction.

Pirates of Carribeans: Take 2.

Meanwhile, we learn Aelin has basically been raised as a pig for slaughter. So. I’m not going to discuss that. I don’t have enough feels to discuss that. “Nameless is my price.”

And when Manon and Aelin are done with Elaina (which, fuck her), they’re thrown onto the island. With Maeve. Where Elide is captured. Fml. And shit goes down there. Like every page turn was so hard for me because it didn’t get better.

When I realized that my predictions were so fucking off and Aelin wasn’t actually invincible (though I had desperately hoped she would be) and Manon was waiting for a signal that was never going to come because Aelin had nothing left in her, not even an ember, and she was actually going to submit fully to Maeve and she wasn't going to be able to fight herself out of this one. That. That tore me the fuck apart. Like, we always think of Aelin as strong and able to endure everything, that’s how she became Celaena in the first place, so to see her suffer through the whipping was hell. Absolute hell. And best (and worst) thing was that she refused to count. Even after all that time, she refused to count.

It kind of killed me, though, when all her allies finally arrive…like five seconds late. Like, where were you two minutes ago? One minute and maybe you could’ve stopped Maeve. What the fuck?

Okay, now that I’ve gotten it out of my system the whole Aelin sacrificing herself (again “for the greater good”), let’s talk about what it revealed: I find it ridiculous and mindblowing the reveal of Aelin’s whole masterplan. How she literally got a whole fucking army and more from Galan and the Ilias and Ansel and everyone. How she raised an army to counter Morath and save the world. How she planned everything out, knowing her demise was looming. How she married Rowan, so Terrasen would have a legal ruler. How she discussed with Lysandra how Lysandra would wear her skin and marry Aedion so their kids would have Ashryver eyes. Like, Aelin. Jfc. That’s not planning anymore, that’s called fucking seeing the future.

“A court that wouldn’t just change the world. It would start the world over.”

The Characters:

Now Aelin. Aelin, Aelin, Aelin. I can't decide if I hate or love her in this book. I just felt so disconnected to her, especially as this book progressed. I just couldn’t get behind what she was doing because she was literally doing like a million things all at once and I, like most of her companions, didn’t understand why she was doing all of that and not allowing herself to talk to anyone about anything unless it was absolutely necessary (like with Lysandra and the whole “wear my skin for the rest of your life when I die”). Like, no. Like, she planned so fucking far ahead it's not even planning its seeing the gods damned future, especially with Galan and the coordinates. But she didn't plan to save herself. Because she knew she couldn't. Knew that someday, sometime, she'd have to give up herself, that she was, very aptly put, living on borrowed time anyways. And she still didn't reveal anything – none of her schemes until it all fanned out beautifully. Now, I still have loads of respect for her and how powerful she is and how badass, but just. There was just something off about Aelin for me in this book that just made me feel meh about her the whole time. Like Aelin as Celaena, I was 120% behind, but Aelin as herself just has so many burdens sometimes, it’s just really dark and difficult to understand her and where she’s coming from and what she’s been through and is going through. Until the end. The end portion is a whole different ballgame.

Remember when we hated Manon? We first met her in HoF and her chapters were so boring. We wanted to go back to Dorian and Chaol and Aelin and Rowan. We didn’t care about this new character. Why was she here? What is her role in this? Who knows, who cares, etc. In QoS, we get to know Manon a little bit more and she seems okay now. Likes Elide and all. But still. No context to the rest of our core group. And then. And then this book happened. And really, the evolution of Manon’s character is seriously impressive. So honestly, Manon might be my favorite character in EoS. Honestly, the shit she went through and the shit she did was just so badass and up my alley I can’t.

Also remember when we first met Lorcan? We hated him, too. We hated him. He taunted them with the ring of Athril. He nearly ruined Aelin’s plan to take down the clock tower and almost killed Rowan and Aedion. And then he met Elide. And Elide did to Lorcan what she did to Manon.

Elide, in my humble opinion, is a fucking miracle worker. With all types of people, human and not so much. I love watching her talk her way out of shit. She will be such a great asset for Aelin’s court. Like, Varys the Spider or something.

Abraxos is officially the best puppy dragon ever. That’s all I’m saying. Also, is it just me or does he remind you of Toothless (from How to Train Your Dragon)?

Okay was it just me or did Dorian feel like a side character in this? I swear to God he did. He was like, kinda there, kinda not, and didn’t have much input besides the end where he sent Manon and Aelin into the mirror. I mean, he helped with the battles and shit, but he was just another one of the many members of Aelin’s growing group. Like, by the end, we were traveling with so many people, it was kind of ridiculous. So Dorian was just hovering in the periphery. Although, I was super happy to hear about him and how he was mastering his magic. That was nice. I liked how much better and more powerful and just sheer awesome he got. Because Dorian has raw magic that can basically be shaped into anything. Like, he can do anything if he just trains it, and that’s just sheer badassery right there.  

Lysandra was fucking amazing. Like, especially when she had to fight off those wyverns as a sea dragon and she was so tired but she did it only to turn around to see three fully grown wyverns headed straight for her and it was so fucking intense and I was so worried but she did it and she was just stunning.

I don’t have much to say about Aedion besides the fact that he basically tore his father apart when he first encountered him. Like, he cornered him in the bar and surprised him and just. Wow. That was a lot harsher than I thought he would be.

I feel like I should feel bad for Gavriel. I mean, he's trying his hardest, all for Aedion, but Aedion totally dismisses him from Day One where he absolutely breaks him but Gavriel still tries and I should feel worse but I'm very meh about him. It was kind of hilarious to read about the random subplot where Gavriel is literally a fucking dog that perks up whenever Aedion is within range. That was adorable and funny. He’s an immortal Fae warrior who just wants to please his son. What a relatable guy. Not to me, but hey, everyone else seems chill with him. Like, sure, he's helpful and shit, but he didn't do anything super important and then he got fucked over by Maeve like everyone else did at the end.

I guess the same can be said for Fenrys, but I think with him, even though he was a complete bastard at first, much worse than Gavriel and totally tore into Rowan, I felt more for him. I especially enjoyed/hated that background we got of how they were all coerced into the blood oaths. Fenrys because of his poor twin (Connall, is it?) and how he's been fighting the oath since Day one. I really hope Fenrys joins Aelin as well. Him and his twin, ofc. You can never separate twins. That’s like a cardinal rule or something.

Funny thing is, even though Erawan is supposed to be our Ultimate Villain, we barely see him. Yes, we encounter his ilken and Valg, but meh. We are always encountering the ilken and valg. They’re not exciting anymore. All they do is increase in numbers. We’ve got Erawan in the Endovier overseer’s body, but even that was just to more mentally torture Aelin than anything.

The actual villain of this book we don’t realize until much later on: Maeve. Jfc. Where do I even begin with her? Okay, we knew Erawan and the Valg were shit from Day One. Maeve though, Maeve we were on the fence about, when we first heard about her (in CoM maybe? At the end?) And then we met her. She is a gods damned spawn of Satan himself jfc I can't deal with her and I just wish we could leave her in a burning, rotting pit for all of eternity but apparently that's not a thing and now I just. Can't. I can't talk about her. I will literally murder someone right now I'm not ok. I can't do this.

Lol also: Chaol wasn’t even in this book. Haha. Dorian got bumped to side character, while Chaol got demoted to like three mentions.

“Let them come. Let them get close enough for his magic. He might not have Aelin’s long range, might not be able to encircle the city with his power, but if they got close enough…He would not be weak or cowering again.”

The Ships:

Rowaelin (Rowan/Aelin): Okay, now don’t get me wrong: I don’t have anything against Rowan and I think Rowan and Aelin are perfectly fine. My problem is the fact that Rowan popped out of freaking nowhere. Like, we had two books where he didn’t exist. Two freaking books where we had two perfectly fine men and we picked one and got behind them and then suddenly, this third dude just appears and claims everything. Like, bruh. Besides that though, congrats on being mates. Idiot for Aelin not telling Rowan that, and for Rowan to fucking ignore that just because he wants to pine over Lyria. (And Maeve for being the bitch she is for forcing Rowan to undergo that.)

Danon (Dorian/Manon): This ship is canon now. This ship is so canon, it’s not even funny. Like, that scene where Dorian walks in and starts untying Manon’s shirt with phantom hands was just – jfc. This is not PG-13 anymore. We are not in Kansas anymore.

Aedion/Lysandra: damn I was so behind this ship it's not even funny. Like Aedion was so onboard and him promising Lysandra marriage that day on the beach after that fight with the Valg ships was so beautiful and then. And then. Well. Then my heart broke, is what happened, because we find Lysandra was only onboard after she and Aelin concocted this ridiculous ass scheme where she will pretend to be Aelin forever and she will marry Aedion so they can give birth to Aelin’s line. Like, no. No. what about love, Lysandra? Do you not love Aedion? Did you ever love him? Wtf is this shit

Elorcan (Lorcan/Elide): Jfc ok I find Lorcan a complete bitch too because he sent out that signal to Maeve, but damn have I found a new otp. I'm so behind this ship. I think this is the ship I am now most behind, now that my original two Celaena ships have crashed and burned and I'm not a huge fan of any of the new ones and even Aedion is so screwed right now. But seriously. Props to Elide for getting Lorcan to break everything he's known and loved, willing to sacrifice himself for this girl with a limp. Seriously. I'm thoroughly impressed. I love everything about this ship. I love how their relationship progressed and you could trace all the little changes and how you can just watch Lorcan slowly but surely sinking into Elide’s grasp and it’s great. It really is.

“Even when this world is a forgotten whisper of dust between the stars, I will love you.” – Rowan Whitethorn Galathynius

My Questions

Why was both Manon and Aelin needed to go through that mirror thing to see the past?

Because honestly, what is Manon’s role? Yes, she’s the last Crochan Queen and she is of Ironteeth and she’s going to unite all the witches, etc. but what is her role here? With Aelin? Like, her ancestor made the mirror, cool, but what else?

Oh oh oh! I know! Maybe the whole thing was planned. Because I questioned why the gods dropped Aelin and Manon on that beach right in front of Maeve, but maybe beause they knew. Maybe they needed Aelin to undergo some shit and Manon had to be the messenger. Manon had something else she needs to do in order to save everyone and it’s all part of a greater plan. At least, that’s what I hope it is.

And the real head scratcher: How do we save the world without killing our favorite characters?

Because I don’t know about you, but I don’t want anyone to die. Not Dorian, not Aelin. Maybe Aelin only needs to give up her magic? Or maybe just her immortality? Like, Aelin accepted this ages ago – all this shit she planned for everyone else to survive in her absence waiting for just this day – and Dorian seems okay with accepting it but no. I refuse. We need a loophole. We will find a gods damned loophole if it kills me.

“I’d walk into the burning heart of hell itself to find you.” – Rowan Whitethorn

Predictions/hopes for the future:

Um…Aelin being saved by Rowan & co. would be a nice start. Preferably early on in the book

Also along the same line of thought: Aelin not having to actually die to seal the Lock would also be nice. You know, good bonus

Also, what if Fenrys is the one who helps Aelin? Keep her sane. Leaving clues for Rowan & co. to follow and trying to find loopholes. Because he knows Rowan is coming. And I do feel for Fenrys. He didn’t even want to be tied to Maeve in the first place, and his poor twin.

I really hope Fenrys ends up joining Aelin’s court. Him and Connall. All the cadre. Leave Maeve with nothing, the bitch

Rematch between Manon and her grandma. That shit needs to go down

Darrow eating his words. Apologizing to Aelin on his knees and begging, the whole nine yards. This needs to happen. Please. Fucking asshole.

Dorian becoming a really strong + fair king

Talking to mom + brother and maybe (hopefully) changing Jeoffrey Hollin for the better

Ooh, I know: a happy ending! We’ve never read a Sarah finale/conclusion so I’m so worried.

“The world will be saved and remade by the dreamers” – Aelin Ashryver Galathynius

[rilenerocks]

The year 1990 was more than the beginning of a new decade for me. I had just survived three years of traumatic losses, hits to my primal weakness, abandonment. My cousin had committed suicide in 1987. My best friend committed suicide in 1988. In 1989, both my parents were diagnosed with cancers. My mom survived hers, but my dad died. My husband ran for public office and won after having lost an election 4 years earlier. All the walking door to door ultimately took out his back. After writhing in pain for weeks, with me sleeping on the floor because he couldn’t get comfortable in bed, he had surgery. Everyone was in a physical mess but me. I was working, helping my parents, helping Michael and taking care of my kids who were seven and two and a half. What a mad time that year was. I just ran from place to place, tending to people and trying to keep up with the daily demands of life. I knew I was changing inside but I couldn’t tell how those changes would manifest themselves. I was 38 years old.

  When 1990 began, I decided to try fixing what I could. I planned a trip with my mom and kids, wanting to meet a long held dream of hers to visit Colonial Williamsburg, Virginia. My dad wasn’t a big traveler. I thought that I could give her a dream and also get a few goodies for my tired brain. I’d spent years studying the Civil War and figured that I could pack in a few sights of my own that were near enough to be reasonable add-on destinations. What an ill-conceived plan. My mom never got a driver’s license, so I took off as the only driver on a 12 and a half hour trip with her and my two kids in the back seat. We managed a stop at Jefferson’s Monticello and then spent a few days walking the cobbled streets of Williamsburg. My mom had a bad knee. She’d stubbornly refused surgery and was favoring it a lot as we roamed around. I was excitedly getting ready to head for Richmond to check out the history and hit a few battlegrounds before we turned for home.

Our first stop was Jefferson Davis’ White House of the Confederacy. We drove down Monument Avenue, the site of many enormous statues which have since ignited controversy about celebrating the heroes of a slave-owning culture.( A story for a different blogpost.) When we arrived at our destination, I was immediately anxious as the house had multiple stories and no elevator. I tried to talk my mother into staying on the first floor but she insisted on seeing everything, stairs or not. Up we went and down we came. By the time we reached the first floor again, she could barely walk. We made our way to our hotel where the kindly matriarch of a family reunion there, dispatched some young men to help me get my dependent menagerie to our room. In those pre-cell phone days, I went down to the lobby to call Michael and both furiously and tearfully told him I was bringing everyone home the next day. I was angry and despondent. This was supposed to be the corner-turning time for me. Instead, it just felt like a continuation of the previous years.

We made it back home with me driving through some white-knuckle rainstorms in the beautiful Blue Ridge Mountains. We dropped mom off at her place and arrived at our house, the kids still miraculously alive. When we got there, Michael told me that the day before the return home, our dog Sydney had run out into the street to chase an animal and had been hit by a car. She was alive with a new thousand dollar leg. I felt battered in almost every way. But there was nothing to do but move on. During catastrophic 1989, I hadn’t any extra time to work on my burgeoning garden. Too many sick people.

We’d been in our home for almost 12 years. For the first eight or nine, we’d been reclaiming our old house from its life as a three apartment rental building. In 1930, at the height of the Depression, such a large home was too expensive to maintain. We were slowly converting it back into a single family residence. The yard was mostly barren except for some overgrown shrubs along the front sidewalk which were filled with huge weeds and volunteer trees. Over time, we reclaimed that space. We fenced the back yard and Michael started thinking vegetables while I gingerly began making my way through the world of flowers, shrubs and ornamental trees. I started with petunias and marigolds. Then the ball began rolling.

  I decided to attack the ground. My dear friend Joanne heard what I was doing and showed up one day carrying a big flat of perennial plants that had been sold on the cheap after a flood wiped out a lot full of flowers. Perennials. I knew enough to realize that you couldn’t just slap those any old where, and after reading what they were and what they needed, I decided to de-sod a large section of my south front yard to give them a proper home. Every evening after work and on the weekends, I became a human rototiller, digging 6-8” deep until I was in the dark rich soil for which this part of the world is famous. I heaved all the grass and roots into a wheelbarrow which I carted away every day. I planted all 36 of my new plants and then added more. Water and hope came next.

In the meantime, I’d crippled myself. My right side ached from hip to foot. I went to the doctor who prescribed painkillers and muscle relaxers which didn’t do much but make me groggy and feel as if my tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth. While chatting with a friend, I found out about a unique Norwegian massage therapist who practiced the art of reflexology. I wasn’t sure what it was but was game for anything to relieve the pain. And in those days, I had health insurance that covered the treatment. I remember my first appointment. You would lie on your back on a table with otherworldly spacey music playing softly and Bjorg would gently begin elongating your body. Her motions were smooth, gentle and slow. I had the sense of being heated taffy, pulled into a shape other than the one I’d brought to her. The pace of each soft tissue pull was glacially slow and I found myself relaxing into it. As she went along, Bjorg asked me questions about my activities, basing those on what she was feeling in my body. On the first day, she told me that both my hip area and my heels were crunched up into balls that didn’t much resemble the normal feel of long muscles, tendons or ligaments. I wasn’t exactly sure how she knew all that but after she worked on one side of me, I could tell that it definitely felt longer than the other. I decided to make a series of successive appointments. After four of them, the initial pain which had driven me to her was gone.

That was terrific but even more interesting were the discoveries that she helped me make along the way. She would stop at a place like my thumb muscle and ask why I thought it was unusually large. I started remembering all the things I’d done with my hands. I remembered angrily squeezing a baseball bat while in elementary school when getting teased about my softball prowess and thinking angrily about how I was going to hit a ball far over the head of anyone trying to catch it. I could feel myself lifting my Danish cast-iron casserole and pots that I stupidly chose when I got married, never thinking about how heavy they’d feel after years went by. They never broke so I didn’t replace them – I just got more tired of lifting them. Why didn’t someone tell me about lightweight stainless steel? Bjorg told me that my neck felt like I was someone who hurled myself headlong against life. That sounded right to me. While working on my soft tissue in my thigh, she stopped and asked, what happened here? After thinking a minute, I remembered a ligament tear I got in that spot one summer when I was thirteen. My appointments with her began to evoke all kinds of memories which we’d discuss as she worked out my knots.

One day, I was talking with her about how surprised I was to be delving into so many things that had happened long ago. She made one particular statement that I’ve always thought about over the years – the body remembers its pain. I believe that and more. I’m not sure what magical powers Bjorg possessed. I always thought she might be some kind of shaman or witch doctor. But she resonated with me and said things about the human body and ultimately who we people are in our entirety that make a lot of sense to me. The body remembers its pain. We can all look at scars that we’ve acquired over the years. I dropped a glass jar when I was a kid, trying to use it to save newborn guppies from their cannibalistic parents who gobbled them up right after their births. While scrambling to save the babies, I gashed my leg, creating part of my body’s story. The vestiges of that day are visible on my right knee.

When I broke my nose when I was eight, it healed with a deviated septum. In cold weather, both my cut leg and my nose ache, the way you feel when you eat something that gives you brain freeze. I’ve taken some bad spills in my time, a few memorable ones from horseback. The images of my spine show the signs of those falls from my teen years through my early 30’s. As I age, they will exact a price from me as have the other physical choices I’ve made throughout my life. The body remembers its pain.

But what about our minds, housed in our brains, the memory areas stimulating the study of the hippocampus, the amygdala and other regions which are responsible for everything from motor skills to memory? The brain remembers its pain?

I suspect this is correct. But the accumulation of experiences over time make those memories difficult to access. Is this papering over of memories accomplished by personal cognitive necessity, by time or by a combination of both? Is preverbal learning and experience difficult to remember because the language tool is necessary for unearthing them? I don’t know the answer to these questions but my instincts tell me that even the smallest babies are recording and processing experiences that, barring physical injury to the brain, remain parts of them for the rest of their lives. The emotional and psychological wounds that affect us are as durable as any physical injury but are harder to see. The same is probably true for the good things that happen to us. What gets complicated is when we have reactions to situations that seem inappropriate to what’s actually happening and can’t feel or find the reason for those responses. I’ve been thinking a lot about this topic. My husband was raised by parents who should probably never had children. After they left him, very sick with pneumonia, alone in a hospital at age 2, he’d gotten up and wandered out of his room. He was then restrained to his bed. That was his first cognitive memory. When I met him, he was twenty-two. At the first sign of what he perceived as an emotional threat, he withdrew into what I called his rabbit hole, a safe alone place where he could protect himself. He’d clearly developed that place as a defense mechanism for when he felt isolated and threatened.  Happily, I was just the person for diving into rabbit holes, trying to discover why they existed. I, who was well loved by my parents, was encouraged to be outgoing and rewarded for that behavior. We made a perfect pair with our very different origins. His psychological wounds were always operating in the background. And of course, in time, the ones I collected were lurking around as well. I think that’s probably how it is for most of us. Some people have no idea how they came to be who they are and are utterly uninterested in figuring it out. They choose to be shut off from those painful times. Others, like me, go poking around all the time, looking for reasons for everything. From my personal vantage point, I find that looking for and through those painful times ultimately disarms them from their power to resurge and take over my behavior. They are from the long ago. I guess we all have to find what works for us. I still can’t help wishing I could convince everyone to try things my way. Michael wished I would intermittently “take a hike,” and stop tromping around in his scar-filled interior landscape. Oh well….

Some time ago, I was walking down a sidewalk and a woman was walking toward me, pushing her baby in a stroller. The baby made eye contact with me which held as we got closer and closer to each other. I made a concerted effort to smile brightly and warmly at this child although I knew it was unlikely we’d ever see each other again. The way I see it is this – I’d rather make a positive, happy, even if unremembered, memory than scowl and put a durable wound into a little head. Maybe that’s simplistic but I’m well-intentioned.

Durable Wounds The year 1990 was more than the beginning of a new decade for me. I had just survived three years of traumatic losses, hits to my primal weakness, abandonment.