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lannisterdaddyissues · 5 years ago

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The Last Kingdom High School AU - Chapter One

Hey y’all,,, so I finally decided to make this a thing after like 100 years! Anyone remember this post? It’s a thing now!! All my friends in the discord finally convinced me to share my writings with the world so here it is! This is going to be a multi-chapter fic, I will update it during the summer but I have a job so idk if updates will be regular. Anyway here is chapter one aaah!!

Chapter One

TLK High School AU

Word Count: 4.1k

“Oi! Arseling! Get your sorry arse to the principal’s office, now!” Leofric shouted as he slammed the gymnasium’s phone back onto its receiver. Uhtred’s classmates all turned to stare at him with round eyes, like a bunch of identical creepy owls. Uhtred hated those looks. He’d been getting them a lot in the past two years.

“Thank you for coming to see me, Uhtred,” the principal Odda greeted him, smoothing some papers out on his desk as Uhtred shuffled into his office. A steaming hot coffee mug sat to the side, untouched, and a bagel with a single bite mark in it lay on a napkin near the corner of his desk. “I wanted to talk to you about your behavior lately.” Uhtred blinked slowly but said nothing, leaving the ball in Odda’s court. Odda sighed. “You’ve been starting fights a lot lately in the past few months...the most recent one, three days ago, I believe, you sent my son home with a bloody nose and a black eye.”

“He called me names,” Uhtred said tonelessly, “And he’s an arsehole.” Odda grimaced and sucked air through his teeth. “See, Uhtred, that’s just more of what I’m talking about. You cannot just go around speaking like that to adults. You need to respect your elders. Otherwise, you’ll just keep getting in trouble and getting sent to detention. You know these are put on your permanent record.”

“...Fine.” Odda nodded, as though satisfied, and shuffled his papers. The reading glasses perched on the edge of his nose drooped a little and he pushed them back up towards his face.

“I also wanted to talk about your grades this semester.”

“What about them?” Uhtred stated more than inquired, hair falling over his shoulder as he tilted his head to the side. The old man never said anything of interest to him, just that he needed to stay on track if he wanted to be successful in life and that he had to watch his words in his essays. So what. He scanned the rest of the principal’s office nonchalantly, searching for an item to fixate on so he didn’t have to meet Odda’s eyes.

“They were just fine in your freshman year, perfectly average and acceptable for you to graduate, but halfway through your sophomore year they took a turn for the worse. Last year you failed both your English class and your maths class, barely passing your science class with a C-minus.”

“And what about it?” Uhtred repeated, twiddling his thumbs. His eyes alighted upon the globe in the back of the room on top of Odda’s filing cabinet and he exhaled deeply, wondering if he could get it to spin with his breath alone all the way from across the room. It didn’t move and he felt his mood blacken a bit more for no reason whatsoever.

“See here, Uhtred,” Odda said, leaning forward and turning the paper so he could see it, “you’ve got this red letter here. What letter is this?” Uhtred rolled his eyes.

“An F, sir,” he said, turning the honorific into more of a mocking title.

“Yes, I see, and do you know what happens when you fail your core classes, Uhtred?” There was a pointed gleam in Odda’s eye.

“What, sir?”

“It means you fail. You fail the entire year. And when you fail the entire year, do you know what that means, hmm? Let me tell you. You have to retake all of these classes.” Uhtred shot out of his chair, outraged. “I most certainly do not!” he shouted. “I’m not taking these bullshit courses again! I could pass these in my sleep, this is fucked up!”

“Life isn’t always fair, Uhtred,” Odda gave Uhtred another pointed look for his language and Uhtred sat down again, chastised. He sighed. “I know you‘ve had a tough time these past couple years.” Uhtred scoffed and whipped his head to the side.

That was a bit of an understatement, he thought. Uhtred had never known his birth parents. All he had ever known was his adoptive brother Ragnar’s father, who was also named Ragnar. He had grown up alongside Ragnar, Ragnar’s sister Thyra, and Brida, his best friend, and together the four of them were inseparable. Two years ago, Ragnar’s father had died in an accident, leaving Uhtred and his adoptive family to Kjartan, Ragnar’s uncle. Kjartan was neglectful and ignorant; he mostly left them to their own devices since he couldn’t be brought to care enough about them to hurt them. His son Sven was an abusive arseole whenever he visited, though.

“I don’t want your pity. It’s fine.”

“Since I know there are extenuating circumstances involved, I’ll give you an ultimatum,” Odda said. “I’ve asked a boy in your class to tutor you in all four of your core classes. He’s agreed to do it - don’t give me that look - in exchange for community service hours. You don’t have to pay him a dime.” The chair Uhtred was sitting in squeaked as he uncrossed his legs and recrossed them.

“And who am I tutoring with, sir?” Uhtred mocked, thinking his day couldn’t possibly get any worse.

“His name is Alfred Rex, I believe he’s in your class-”

Ohhhhhhhh, fuck that.

“No!” Uhtred yelled, “I am not working with that pain in my arse!” Odda gave him a pointed look over his reading glasses.

“I believe he’s in your class, and you should be grateful that he’s agreed to do this for so little. He’s the brightest student in the school. Surely you won’t be able to fail any of your classes with his help.” Taking a sip of his coffee, Odda leaned back in his chair, looking satisfied. Uhtred was glad one of them was.

“You must have missed the part where I said he was a pain in my arse,” Uhtred seethed, fingers itching to strangle the principal - and maybe a particular student - to death, “We absolutely hate each other! This will be a fucking disaster! He doesn’t want to teach me shit, he just wants to lord over me like he always has!”

“Now I am just disappointed in you. Alfred wants to help, truly he does! And he’s all you’ve got right now, so you’ll just have to suck it up and deal with it, won’t you?”

“How much time do I have to spend with him anyways?” he spat. Odda met his eyes over his reading glasses and pursed his lips.

“You’ll be tutoring with him four days a week. One day for language arts, one day for maths, one day for science, and one day for history. At the end of the week he’ll give you a report of your progress. Really, you should count yourself lucky that he’s taking so much time out of his busy schedule to tutor you.”

I have to spend four days out of every week with him?!

“That’s not going to work, no way, I can’t spend four days out of every week with him. Give me anybody else and I swear to whatever god you worship that I’ll do it. Not him.”

“Uhtred, I already told you,” Odda’s voice grew firm, “You can take it or leave it. You’re not getting tutoring from anyone but Alfred. This is the last straw.”

“Whatever,” Uhtred hissed, “I’m leaving, and I’m not getting any tutoring if it’s from him! Alfred can screw his perfect self as many times as he likes, see where that gets him.”

“Uhtred! Wait!” Odda called after him. Shutting the door to Odda’s office, Uhtred pulled a cigarette out of his backpack and lit it, ignoring the multiple shouts of his name that followed the trail of smoke he left down the hall.

Uhtred slammed the door to his car shut, seething as he aggressively turned the ignition key and cranked the volume on the radio up high. He plugged his phone into the charger cord and hit call on the pre-existing groupchat he had with his best friends, Finan Agil, Sihtric Elflaedsson - his name was actually Kjartanson, but he legally changed it a few years ago when he moved in with his mom - and Osferth Heahengel. “Hey,” Uhtred said as the line clicked and they all greeted him. Gym class with Coach Leofric had just ended, so they were still in the locker room changing their clothes.

“The hell was that all about earlier?” Finan asked on the other side of the line. “You get sent to the office again? What’d he tell you?” The others voiced similar questions.

“You want to know what he told me? I’m fucking failing my classes. I have to get a tutor. I have to see him four times a week. That’s bullshit!” Uhtred ranted. “I’m going to have to repeat a year if I can’t bring my grades up. This is by far the worst fucking shit that has happened to me, ever.” Feeling his temper worsen, Uhtred made a right turn far more violently than he normally did and grunted as the tires squealed.

“What the hell?!” Sihtric yelled on the other end of the line. “You have to get tutoring?! That sucks!” Uhtred nodded his agreement even though they couldn’t see him.

“Do you know who your tutor is?” asked Osferth. “Maybe you won’t actually mind them. I mean if they said yes, they can’t be that bad, can they?” Uhtred gave a mocking laugh.

“Oh, dear Osferth, why don’t you just go on and ask me who it is?” The line went silent for a moment as all the friends considered how bad the news was going to be, and then Osferth spoke again.

“Uh...who is it?”

“Oh, only Alfred fucking Rex, the hugest prick in our grade.”

“You’re fucking kidding me!” “You have to tutor with Alfred?!” “But you two hate each other’s guts!” They all exclaimed simultaneously.

That fucking bastard, Uhtred thought, I know he’s just doing this to get one over me. He’s always bossing me around and acting like he owns the entire school. I fucking hate pricks like him.

“That’s just the worst,” Sihtric said sympathetically. The sound of a door opening on the other side of the line roused Uhtred from his bitter thoughts. They must have finished changing and were now heading to their next classes.

“I know, but Odda doesn’t even care,” Uhtred spat, “He says this is all I get! I can’t believe his audacity! You and I both know that Alfred wants to boss me around and that’s that!”

“I don’t know, Uhtred, maybe give him a chance,” Finan said doubtfully, “At least you’ve got a tutor, and Alfred’s the smartest kid in the school. You’ve got an advantage here.”

“Well, whatever, I’m home now so I’ll talk to you guys later,” Uhtred said, pulling the phone away from his ear.

“Wait, you went home?!” Osferth exclaimed.

“Uhtred, you’re going to get caught. That’ll just be another detention for you. Maybe you should come back.” Uhtred turned the key in his car’s ignition and slid it into his pocket, ignoring Finan’s words.

“Right now, I couldn’t care less about detentions,” Uhtred said. “See you guys later.” Finan protested with a “wait, you bastard—!!”, but Sihtric and Osferth bid him goodbye and he hit the end call button with little remorse before shutting his car door and making his way to the front door.

“I’m home,” Uhtred called out as he shut the door behind him. A chorus of ‘hey’s greeted him and Uhtred left his bag on a chair before walking into the living room. Ragnar - Uhtred’s adoptive older brother - and his childhood-friend-turned-girlfriend Brida were cuddling together on the couch. Some movie Uhtred didn’t recognize was paused on the screen. “Uhtred, what are you doing home so early?” Ragnar frowned at him as he sat up and pushed the blanket off his legs. Uhtred exhaled deeply and plopped on the couch like a deadweight, causing Brida to shove him with her foot.

“Didn’t feel like staying at school,” he muttered. “Left after gym class.” Brida sat up at that and she exchanged a glance with Ragnar, looking concerned.

“Hey, well,” Ragnar began, “Speaking of school, I have something I need to talk to you about.” Uhtred frowned.

Gee, how could this day possibly get any worse? I can’t wait.

“The principal called us a couple days ago and told us that...you’re failing this year, Uhtred,” Ragnar said seriously. Brida nodded alongside him.

“He said you’re going to have to repeat a year if you can’t hack it,” she added. “So Ragnar talked to him and the principal arranged for you to get tutoring with—“

“—With Alfred,” Uhtred interrupted, balling his fists, “Yeah, I already fucking heard.” Ragnar’s eyes widened.

“Oh, fuck,” he said.

“Yeah, oh fuck! I can’t believe you! Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could have said no sooner!” Ragnar shrugged and laid back against the couch, crossing his arms behind his head. “I forgot,” he said honestly, smirking.

“Are you kidding me?! You know how much I hate Alfred! Why are you laughing at this?!”

“I’m not,” he said, “Don’t know what you mean.”

“Ragnar, please, tell me there is another option besides getting tutoring from Alfred of all people,” Uhtred begged.

“Sorry, Uhtred, but there’s no negotiation on this one. You need to get out of this house and away from Kjartan. You can’t do that if you fail your last year of high school. You need to go to college and, well, your principal gave you a stellar opportunity. Besides, you guys have never really spent any time together outside of class. Maybe you could find some common ground and we can finally be free of your constant complaining.” Uhtred dug his nails into his palms.

“How,” he growled, “Could this possibly be a good thing? Stop acting like my dad, Ragnar, you’re only a year older than me. I thought you were on my side about him.”

“Is that what this is about, Uhtred? That you don’t need help?” Ragnar rounded his eyes pleadingly. “Come on, Uhtred, do it for your future. Not because I think you’re going to be some great brilliant fucking Einstein, but you need to get out of here. Don’t be like this. You’re doing it whether you like it or not. I will call Alfred and have him come to our house for tutoring. You can do this on your terms or on ours.” Uhtred growled and reached for his phone, standing up from the couch to head upstairs.

“Give him a chance,” Ragnar said again. “One chance.”

“Fine,” he hissed, “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it. I’m going to hate every fucking minute of this and you’re going to feel extremely guilty whenever you think about it!”

“Where do you think you’re going?! Your first session is at three,” Ragnar called after him. Uhtred just yelled in response and slammed his door shut, the little bells on his door handle jingling.

As he lay on his bed in his room, the door locked, Uhtred took the time to reflect about the day’s events so far.

Alfred Rex...he’s a total fucking prick.

Uhtred had met Alfred in his freshman year of high school. Alfred had gone to a different elementary and middle school than he had, but Winchester High was the only high school in the area. They’d immediately gotten off on the wrong foot and had been bitter enemies ever since. Uhtred thought Alfred was an officious, sickly, annoying pain in his arse and Alfred thought he was a stupid child that needed to be told what to do. Hate at first sight, truly.

Uhtred sighed. His sister Aethelflaed was so much nicer. She was a freshman, so he’d only met her this year, but he had no idea how the two of them were related. Aethelflaed was a social butterfly and tried to include everyone in everything she did, while Alfred was just a complete arseole. Dammit, why was he stuck with him?!

Growling, Uhtred threw his phone at the wall.

3:02 pm. He was past the point of no return. Pushing open the library doors reluctantly, Uhtred poked his head in, scanning the area. A couple of students he recognized were perusing the library’s faculties. Aldhelm Sawyer - an extremely tall brunet who had a bag of wet dicks for a personality - lounged on one of the couches with a science textbook propped on his lap, one leg crossed over the other. A pretty ginger girl whose name he thought was Eadith sat at a table by one of the windows across from a guy with dark hair; Eardwulf was his name, if Uhtred remembered correctly. Aethelflaed, Alfred’s younger sister, was using one of the computers. When he walked in, she turned around and smiled at him and he felt his heart flutter a bit. Something about her had that effect on people. On the other side of the room in the tutoring section, Odda - the principal’s little shit of a son - was giving a freshman tutoring session at one of the whiteboards. Alfred was nowhere in sight so Uhtred headed towards one of the open tables and plopped into a chair, checking his phone.

“You shouldn’t be on your phone if you’re here to learn,” a voice behind him said. Uhtred whipped around, hissing.

“What do you want,” he bit out, before thinking better of it when he recognized the owner of the voice as his tutor, Alfred. Alfred was...how did Uhtred describe him? He was tiny and slender, shorter than Uhtred by about half a foot. The first time they met, Uhtred mistook him for a twelve-year-old, even though they’d both been fourteen. His wispy brown hair fell just below his ears and he had a pair of bright blue eyes that were so intense they always made Uhtred feel uncomfortable, framed by a pair of silver wire lens glasses. In essence, he looked like a nerd, which was another reason why Uhtred hated him. Nerds were annoying.

Uhtred scoffed and pocketed his phone, leering up at Alfred balefully. “Whatever you say, Lord. I’m here for your blessings and guidance, so let’s get this started, shall we?” Alfred sat down and the two of them unpacked their belongings in silence.

“We’re going over English today, as per Odda’s suggestion, so why don’t you show me where you’re at?” Alfred asked, putting his chin in his palm.

“Yeah, go on, teach me stuff...English. I bet you’re fucking great at it.” Uhtred crossed one leg over the other and leaned back in his chair until the front legs were off the ground, hoping to provoke a reaction. He was disappointed; Alfred merely ignored his blatantly disrespectful behavior, instead ducking his head to flip through his English textbook.

“Feel free to disrespect me,” he murmured, “But rest assured that Principal Odda will hear about it, and my reports are extremely thorough. I don’t care what you say to me, but just know that it will reflect badly on you.”

Oh my gods, I fucking hate this guy so much!

“Yes, my Lord, I live only to serve you,” Uhtred snarked, clenching and unclenching his fists under the table. Leaning over, Uhtred pulled his folder out of his backpack and slid a paper out. “We’re reading Of Mice And Men. You might think that’s a bit below your skill set, but here you are.” Alfred snatched the paper from his hand, rolling his eyes.

“Don’t be facetious, Uhtred. Just shut up and let me read this. That’s what I’m here for, as you said.” Never having been one to follow orders, Uhtred opened his mouth to snark again, but Alfred snapped his fingers to grab his attention and glared at him.

“I said shut up. I’m reading,” he repeated, his eyes moving back and forth like the spool of a typewriter. After a couple of minutes, he set the paper flat on the table and bit his lip, looking a bit uncertain of what to do.

“Well, Lord? Does it meet your lofty expectations?”

“Can you not?” Alfred asked sharply, “And no, I’m sorry to say, it does not. What were you even trying to write? The subject of your analysis seems to jump to and fro. And while you are summarizing the story in your analysis, that’s all you’re doing. Summarizing. You’re not explaining why it’s important or what it means. Here, let me show you mine…”

“‘Bye, nerd,” Uhtred sneered, standing up and slinging his backpack over his shoulder. Alfred stood a bit more slowly, organizing all of his supplies into a neat pile before picking them all up and sliding them into his bookbag.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then?” Alfred inquired, not appearing bothered by the epithet apart from his clenched jaw. Good. “Make sure you incorporate what I told you today into your essay. I don’t want you to get a poor grade. And do keep in mind that I am reporting all of this to Principal Odda.”

Sure, whatever, Assfred! Feel free to slit your throat when you get home today! “...Yeah,” Uhtred said, before standing up and leaving without a word of thanks. Aethelflaed waved at him on his way out and he grinned back at her as he opened the doors.

“Welcome home, Uhtred,” Thyra greeted Uhtred as he stomped inside. The smell of spaghetti assaulted his senses and all of a sudden he felt much calmer than he had been a moment ago. “How was your first tutoring session?”

“Yeah, how was it?” Ragnar called from the living room, where he and Brida were cuddling yet again. The same movie as yesterday was paused on the TV and Uhtred had a feeling they hadn’t actually watched any of it and were just using it as an excuse to cuddle. A bowl of popcorn soaked in butter lay on Brida’s lap and the table was littered with empty beer cans, another in Ragnar’s hand.

“It fucking sucked. Alfred is even more of a bastard than I remember. Feel free to regret your decision completely,” Uhtred sniffed. Ragnar grimaced sympathetically.

“Is he seriously that bad?” he asked, snorting. “All I know about him is from your complaining.”

“He’s a fucking midget, but he tries to talk to me like he’s better than me! I fucking hate that, you know I do!” Uhtred threw his hands up. “He treats me like a stupid child and what’s more, he’s telling Odda everything that happens! Like some kind of probation officer! ‘Don’t disrespect me, Uhtred,’ ‘don’t use your phone when you’re supposed to be learning, Uhtred,’ ‘don’t breathe oxygen, Uhtred!’ He’s so annoying!”

“Sounds like a cunt,” Brida said.

“He is!!”

“Well, I’m sorry Uhtred, but if you want to pass your classes, your best bet is tutoring with him. You’re going to have to suck it up. Maybe you two just got off on the wrong foot,” he suggested, playing peacemaker.

“Not true,” Uhtred declared, “He just sucks at being a person.” He kicked Brida’s feet off the table so he could prop his own up and stole a popcorn kernel from her bowl. She flipped him off. “I’m just going to try to pass my classes this year and as soon as I do I’ll be totally done with him forever. Damn, that’ll be a good time.” Ragnar lifted his beer can in a toast.

“To the cunt who’s helping you pass your classes,” he said, and they echoed his toast as he downed his beer can and tossed it on the table.

“Ragnar, throw that empty beer can in the trash right now, you pig!” Thyra shouted from the kitchen. Ragnar shrugged and lazily kicked it onto the floor. “Ragnar!!” Giving Uhtred a ‘what-can-you-do’ expression, he stood up from the couch with a loud, obnoxious groan, plucking the beer can from the floor before lumbering to the kitchen.

“Hey, is dinner ready yet—”

“No! And stop asking, you animal, it’ll be ready when I say it is.”

“Geez, old woman, I was only asking, don’t hit me!”

Uhtred sat back against the couch and lifted the remote, clicking it until the TV changed to an acceptable channel. As the TV faded into background noise, he lifted his head to the ceiling and thought about what had happened that day.

Well, overall today sucked. I’m failing my classes and I’m getting tutored by Alfred, who’s a privileged arseole and also a complete tool. This whole year is going to be absolute bullshit with him around.

One chance, my arse. This year can’t end soon enough.

Art posts: @lauwrite1225‘s sketches of the high school!Coccham squad, @seaberrycloudberry‘s sketches of high school!Uhtred and Alfred, and @seaberrycloudberry‘s sketches of the characters in high school + sketches of Alfred, Aethelflaed, and Edward!!! THANK YOU GUYS SO MUCH. THEY’RE PERFECT. Tagging @bellamehblake, @lonelyislanddaydreamer, @caleb-16charisma-widogast, @ucancallmechlo, @cocchamscrew, @myenglandmylove, @nightskyfangirl, @morganology, @tsukkinami @pokeasleepingsmaug here it is you guys!! I finally posted something!!!

#tlk #tlk uhtred #tlk alfred #tlk hs au #tlk high school au #my fics #fanfic #I HAVE NEVER PUBLISHED A FIC BEFORE IN MY LIFE AAAAAA #pls be gentle #my writing #:(#edited bc copy paste does NOT know what italics are???? apparently???

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armymaryoongi · 5 years ago

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Chapter three: Sakura Handkerchief

pairing: min yoongi x reader

genre: fluff, slightly mature, historical au; king au

warning: mentions of death/alcohol

words count: 1k+

Special appearance: Royal Swordsman Kim Taehyung

Note: English is not my native language. (I’ve added links to the royal marriage attires if you curious to know)

(Names, places and incidents are just based on fiction)

masterlist // Ch. Four

Summary: Just like any other kids, King Min Yoongi also has his own childhood memories but his involved a mystery girl who he met once and was known as his love at the first sight. Will he gets any chance to meet her again? What will he does when he found her? Will the girl remember her too?

8 YEARS LATER

Loud thuds can be heard clearly across the King’s quarter as the two blades striking on one another fiercely. His long blonde hair was poker-straight and it flowed behind him as he sways his body, immersed with the movement of his sword. Only some of his hair is pulled back into a ponytail. His pale skin is glistening with sweats as he continuously positions himself under the blazing sun. Nothing seems different from his previous self except his height, voice, status and manners—maturity and manly.

Before his opponent can think of another strategy, he swiftly cut the air as his blade aimed the man, finishing the battle. “You are magnificent, King!” sincere praise came out smoothly from his swordsman, Kim Taehyung. The praised man unable to say anything in between catching his breath only shows off his smirk. “I would like to suggest you practise only once a week since you are already powerful in a sword battle.” Kim continuously praised his King.

The King slowly walked to the bench near his chamber and took a seat on it. “As someone who I pointed as Royal swordsman, I believe your words. Arrange the schedule and inform me as soon as possible.” He gave his sword to Kim, letting him secure it later. “I will do as you command. Let me know if you need anything regarding your sword practices.” Kim answered and bowed deeply.

“Taehyung, as my most trusted man in this palace. Please be honest with me.” Min looked up at the sky, hesitated to ask his swordsman. “Yes, anything my King.” he wiped off the sweats that threatening to fall from his forehead. Min didn’t answer him, instead, he pointed his right eyes—his scar. Kim doesn’t need clarification as he understood where this conversation will lead to. “Your queen to-be will accept you wholly, King. Unless she’s an ignorant person and fails to understand.” he assured the young King.

Yes, Yoongi has a scar that scratched from his black brow to his apple of the cheek. It happened two years ago when a big war occurred between Joseon and Shangri La caused by economic gain. As a Crown Prince who was skilful in a sword battle, he has voiced out the idea to take part in the war even though the Queen—his mother has opposed the idea, scared anything happens to Joseon’s only heir. A month of the war, news about Shangri La almost conquered Joseon had spread around the world but lucks and victory have chosen Joseon over the opponent country. Howbeit, the aftermath of war has sacrificed a thousand soldiers from Joseon, included Hyung Sun, the Head Personal Guard who wanted to devote devotion to the country. After the death of Hyung Sun, this Royal swordsman named Kim Taehyung has become the most trusted and closest person to Min Yoongi.

Sad to say, the following year, Joseon received another shocking news when their beloved King—Min Yoongi’s father passed away after six months fallen sick. With advice from ministers, Yoongi must take over the throne even though he is an unwed man. According to the rules, someone with a scar cannot be the King to the country but it cannot be applied in Yoongi’s affair. The scar on his face is a symbol of his loyalty and dedication to Joseon. Hence, the entire country agreed to pass down the throne to him.

Killing two birds with one stone; Yoongi is in his mother’s chamber to visit and has a discussion. He is well aware of himself—the King need a companion, a queen and a wife beside him to rule the country. Currently, he is proposing the idea to wed a princess as he is not young anymore for the palace to hold the selection of Crown Princess as they did when he was a little child. “I agree with you, child. Besides, I don’t want to repeat that history.” the Queen Dowager glared at his son as she reminds him. Yet, she only received a soft chuckle from the young King.

“Mother, as you just said, that happened when I was a little child, too young to understand about palace rules. Now, I’m the King and I need someone that not only can rule this country with me but to share life, emotions and problems together for eternal.” he pressed his lips into a thin smile. His cheeks became rosy as he felt shy to utter these words to his mother. The Queen Dowager said nothing as she felt relieved when she listened to his son. Evidently, Min Yoongi has improved himself these previous years by through learning day by day. She’s confident that Yoongi will be another good king just like his late husband.

The news about the Royal Marriage has been announced to the folks and they are happy for the King and excited for the next Queen. They have hung lanterns and decorations along the streets and market to celebrate the exciting week while the fireworks will take place later at midnight. The palace guards have light up the torch fire to brighten the mood around the palace. Whereas the court ladies have decorated the Royal banquet hall, King and Queen’s quarters and tidy up the bridal’s chamber.

The Sakura handkerchief he bought eight years ago is in his hand. The base is pure white but its colour has faded a bit. Nevertheless, the pink colour of embroidery still stays radiant like before. Yoongi caressed the handkerchief as it is his lover. It feels nostalgic, how strong the memory has stayed in his mind even though he had tried to vanish it. Without he notices, the corner of his lips lifted as he rewinds the memory. The soft thud came from the door, startled him who is standing by the window. “Your Highness, I am here.” Kim alerted his King. The soft chuckle succeeds to escape from his mouth. “Drop the formality, Taehyung. We shall have a drink like friends.” he walked pass Taehyung to keep the dear handkerchief in the chest. Only tea is being served for tonight, no alcohol as tomorrow is the King and Queen’s marriage. The Queen to-be has arrived at the palace this evening and the King being a shy man, avoided from walking out from his throne hall as he doesn’t want to collide with her.

“Aren’t you nervous?” Taehyung asked Yoongi as he pouring the hot tea into the small teacups, started the conversation. Yoongi who chose to stay quiet just nodded his head. “I know you still can’t forget that person but make some room for your queen. She deserves it.” a reminder left out his mouth as he wants the best for the King and the Queen. “Of course I will. She will soon be the mother to our—” Yoongi abruptly shut his mouth as the realisation hit him. His tip of ears becomes red as he’s burning with embarrassment.

Ha! I knew it. You already think about—” now it’s Taehyung’s turn to shut his mouth as he realised with who he is speaking now. “Please punish this commoner for being rude to you.” he quickly stand up before knelt down in front of Yoongi. The King said nothing but laughed out loud. His swordsman looked at him with widen eyes, frightening with the sudden change of atmosphere.

“Since this is not liquor for us to drink until blackout, let’s drink until our stomach bloated!” Yoongi and Taehyung clinked their cups against one another to celebrate the night. It’s been a while since the King behave like this. Perhaps, he is now on the cloud nine as he finally will tie a knot with a Princess Y/n from Daeshin, a kingdom not to far from Joseon.

The next day, the streets crowded with the villagers from distinct class and status, wearing various colours of hanbok—from dark to bright colour. The upper class dress up elegantly while the commoners dress up nicely. The villagers are now on their way to the palace as they will gather at the throne hall to witness the Royal ceremony as well as celebrate the glorious newlyweds. The striking red hwarot is now on your body. The hwagwan and royal binyeo are placed on the gold tray, waiting to be placed at the front of your head and in your hair. Your body is moving slightly as the court lady is shaping your braided hair into a bun. Your chamber becomes as quiet as a mouse, only the rustles can be heard as you keep smoothing the front fabric of your hwarot.

“The Queen Dowager is here!” announced the court lady who is guarding the door. As the Queen Dowager entered your chamber, you tried to soar but she quickly asked you to remain at your place. “Are you doing good, princess Y/n?” she looks at you through the reflection of the mirror. The court lady named Yeon is carefully sticking in the binyeo to secure your bun hair from unravelling. You giggled softly, cover your mouth with the back of your smooth hand. “Your majesty, thank you for asking. I am quite nervous since I never expose myself to the public.” Truthfully, it is prohibited for maiden moreover the princesses of the kingdom to appear in the public of eyes. The Queen Dowager tried to soothe your feelings by telling you that the ceremony will run smoothly until the night where King Min and you will spend the night together. Her words made you feel shudder as a chill runs down your spine. You just smile at her words and your face started to heat up as you nervously thinking of tonight.

#bts suga #yoongi fluff #yoongi imagine #yoongi x reader #yoongi x y/n #yoongi x you #bts #bts fluff #bts v #kim taehyung #min yoongi #daewchita #joseon au #king yoongi #bts imagines

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mothercetrion · 5 years ago

Text

Acceptance

Summary: Kuai Liang decides that it’s time to tell the Lin Kuei that he’s with Hanzo. It’s not easy news, but it feels right.

Characters: Sub-Zero (Kuai Liang), Bi-Han and Saibot, Sektor, Cyrax, Smoke (Tomas Vrbada)

Word Count: 2202

Request: “If you want, could you write Kuai telling Bi-Han, Smoke, Cyrax, and Sektor about his relationship with Hanzo (or at least one of them).” - anonymous

another request!!! woohoo!!! this has been done for a while but I’ve just been so busy. I apologize for the wait

I gotta be real, this fic is heavy. deaths are referenced, hatred is mentioned, and it’s mild angst. but I promise all of you that there is a happy, hopeful ending. this is on ao3!! enjoy

———

He waited until Hanzo was on good terms with the Lin Kuei on purpose.

Once they all could be in the same room and it not be tense, once Hanzo could attempt to joke and the others laughed, that’s when Kuai Liang knew that it was time to tell the others that he and Hanzo were together.

The moment they started staying at the Lin Kuei temple again, he knew one thing: he did not want to overwhelm them. Being revived and jumping right into normal life alone could be challenging to manage. They needed a while of transitioning into a normal life, as Kuai Liang did, before learning about anything too drastic.

It took a month. It took a month before the night terrors were mostly gone, and smiles were natural. It took a month before Hanzo could visit the temple, and they’d have a good few hours of jokes and laughter and fun. It took a month before Kuai Liang felt that things would be okay if he told them.

He told Hanzo, and Hanzo said that he was okay with him telling them. He wanted them to know anyhow; they were six months into their relationship, and he didn’t want them to find out through someone that wasn’t them… namely, Johnny Cage, who tended to spill secrets when excited.

Light snow fell at the temple, and Kuai Liang had decided to give the Lin Kuei off for the evening to do whatever they desired. Some of them rested, some of them meditated, and some of them sparred. Some of them even had snowball fights at various locations around the temple, and their laughter filled the air and made the whole area happier. Kuai Liang figured that it was as good a time as any.

He invited Bi-Han, Saibot, Tomas, Cyrax, and Sektor to tea to “celebrate their great mental strides over the last month,” which was a valid reason. The group had made excellent strides towards a better life since their revival. Nightmares were few and far between. Discussing their pasts was easier. They actually slept peacefully. Kuai Liang was, to say the least, incredibly proud of them.

As they sipped their tea, they discussed everything that they could possibly think of. The clan, one another, new friends, everything. Even Hanzo was brought up by Cyrax; he said that he wished to visit the renewed Shirai Ryu Fire Garden one day. The rest of the group agreed. That alone helped ease Kuai Liang’s racing heart.

When nearly everyone was concluded with their tea, Kuai Liang cleared his throat. “Before we conclude our tea, I… I have an announcement to make.”

The rest of them immediately put down their teacups. “This is a drastic mood change… Is everything alright, Kuai Liang?” Cyrax asked with a frown.

“Oh, of course.” Kuai Liang nodded hurriedly. “Everything is fine. Everything is… great. That’s exactly what I want to talk about.” He ran a hand through his hair. “This is a… a deeply personal thing that I’m telling you all today.”

“Kuai Liang,” Tomas said, smiling, “we already know that you’re gay. We’re cool with it, remember?”

The rest of the group snickered quietly, and Kuai Liang felt his cheeks turn red. “I… I know that, Tomas. I told you all ages ago. Thanks for the reminder.” He shook his head, failing to keep a smile from forming on his face. “Tomas, you threw me off!”

They all began laughing louder, and Kuai Liang covered his face with his hands in an attempt to compose himself of his laughter. “Goodness, okay… Look, everyone, um… there is no simple way to say this, so I’ll just say it upfront.” He uncovered his face and looked to all of them. “I am currently seeing someone.”

The entire group gasped, their laughter vanishing into the air. “Oh, Kuai Liang, that’s wonderful!” Cyrax said excitedly.

“Who is it? Someone that we know?” Sektor turned to look at the others, his smile growing. “I bet it’s that… that Cage fellow.”

“Do not tell me it’s Cage,” Bi-Han said teasingly. “I cannot handle him as an in-law.” Saibot’s quiet giggles were heard next to him, and they fell into his side, their white eyes closed in joy.

“No. No, it is not Cage.” Kuai Liang pinched the bridge of his nose. “I can assure you, it’s not him.”

“Don’t leave us hanging!” Tomas wiggled in his spot in excitement. “Who is it?”

Kuai Liang sighed deeply. “Just… keep an open mind, okay?”

“Absolutely, brother,” Bi-Han said, nodding. “We will love who he is, I’m sure.”

Kuai Liang closed his eyes for a moment and opened them again, looking down at the table to avoid their faces. “It’s Master Hasashi.”

Silence fell upon the group, and Kuai Liang got the courage to look up after a few moments. The first thing he noticed was that Tomas was grinning like an idiot, and Cyrax was struggling to not do the same thing. Sektor’s mouth hung open in shock. Saibot was pointing two thumbs up in Kuai Liang’s direction. Bi-Han’s expression was unreadable. “Oh, my gods. You’re kidding. It’s Hanzo? You’re dating Hanzo?” Tomas asked excitedly.

“I am,” Kuai Liang said, releasing a breath he didn’t even realize he was holding.

“How long?” Sektor asked. His happiness was evident in his voice.

“About… six months.” Kuai Liang felt his cheeks reddening. “They’ve been wonderful. Every second has been amazing.”

The three men all awwed. “That is so great. I’m so happy for you, Kuai Liang,” Cyrax said kindly. Sektor and Tomas immediately agreed.

Kuai Liang thanked them and looked over to Bi-Han, who was still neutral in expression. “Bi-Han?” he asked quietly. “What are you thinking?”

Bi-Han looked Kuai Liang in the eye. “I’m… processing. It’s a big shock, you know.”

“I understand.” Kuai Liang gripped at his fingers nervously. “I waited until I believed you could handle it. I know it’s—it’s big news.”

Bi-Han nodded and averted his gaze. “Yes, it’s… I honestly don’t know what to say.”

“Take as long as you need,” Sektor said quietly. He put a careful hand on his arm. “You are in no rush at all.”

“He is correct,” Kuai Liang agreed. Cyrax and Tomas said quiet agreements as well.

Bi-Han closed his eyes for a moment, and Saibot vanished into his side. Kuai Liang watched in stunned silence as Bi-Han climbed to his feet. “Please excuse me for a moment. I-I need to spend some time alone.” He turned on his heel and left the room, stepping outside the temple with quick steps.

Kuai Liang stared ahead in shock and did not notice Sektor move to sit on his side of the table with Tomas and Cyrax. “I… I waited,” he said quietly, “until I thought he could handle it.”

“There wasn’t a better time,” Tomas assured. “You waited as long as you could manage. He would have reacted the same way no matter what. It’s big news.”

Sektor put a hand on his shoulder when Kuai Liang’s hands began to shake. “He’s mad,” Kuai Liang mumbled. “He—He hates me.”

“Kuai Liang, listen to me,” Sektor said. “Bi-Han does not hate you. He loves you very much, he tells all of us this frequently.” Cyrax and Tomas nodded in agreement as he went on. “It is big news to take in. He needs some time to process it. He will come around, most assuredly. He just needs some time to think.”

Tomas and Cyrax were quick to offer him comfort as well, and Kuai Liang simply looked down at his lap with a shaky breath. “You all are happy about it, right?”

“Yes! Of course,” Cyrax assured, hugging Kuai Liang from the side. “We are ecstatic. Master Hasashi is a fine man.”

Tomas and Sektor were quick to offer side hugs of their own, so Kuai Liang was enveloped in support. Kuai Liang’s eyes fell closed, and he fought back the emotion he so strongly felt. “I want him to be happy too,” he whispered.

“He will be,” Tomas said confidently.

Time passed. The remaining four finished their tea, though with a much less happy tone for the gathering. Soon enough, Sektor encouraged Kuai Liang to go talk to Bi-Han, which was the last thing he wanted to do. But Sektor all but shoved him outside of the temple. He knew it was for the better, and Cyrax and Tomas agreed.

And there he was, stood outside his temple and staring at his brother, who was sat in the snow. He was creating snowballs with his cryomancy, tossing them in the air and watching them dissipate. Saibot was sat on the other side of him, gathering snow into their palms and messing with it with no intentions in mind except to pass the time. Kuai Liang could see half of Bi-Han’s face, and he was clearly thinking about the events of the day. The snow fell a tad heavier, but not much.

He saw Kuai Liang suddenly and turned his face to look at him. Saibot noticed him then and instantly vanished into Bi-Han’s side. “Why are you out here?” Bi-Han asked.

“I have to talk to you, Bi-Han,” Kuai Liang said. He stepped further away from the temple and sat in the snow in front of his brother. They sat in silence for a few moments before Kuai Liang cleared his throat. “I’m sorry.”

Bi-Han frowned. “Why would you ever be sorry?”

“I upset you by mistake by sharing the news of my relationship.” Kuai Liang averted his gaze from his brother. “I wanted you to be ready to hear it, and you were not.”

“There is no reason to apologize. I promise,” Bi-Han assured. “It is just… It is just a big surprise. It would have been no matter when you told me. Hell, he and I could be best friends, and it would be a surprise.” He sighed softly. “My history with Master Hasashi is very complicated. You know this better than anyone, obviously.”

“I do.”

“And I don’t… I do not hate Master Hasashi.” Bi-Han looked off in the distance, past the mountain ranges and towards the horizon. “I used to. I used to live in the Netherrealm and think of how he wronged me. Since my revival, in addition to this hour or so of thinking, I have realized and fully understand the truth behind his actions. I have come to a conclusion.”

Kuai Liang looked back to his brother, frowning. “What would that be, Bi-Han?”

Bi-Han looked Kuai Liang in the eye. “I would have done the same thing that he did.”

Kuai Liang felt his heart stop in his chest. “You… You would?”

Bi-Han nodded firmly. “If the Lin Kuei were to be brutally murdered, and Sektor and Tomas and Cyrax and you were killed, and I believed it to be Master Hasashi that did it…” Bi-Han stopped, his voice cracking. He closed his eyes as he imagined the tragedy. He continued in a whisper. “I would kill him in an instant. I would avenge you without a moment of hesitation.”

His eyes opened. “I understand how guilty he feels, knowing the truth. But I… I have forgiven him for what he has done. It would be wrong of me not to, considering that I would do the same thing. It has not been easy, but it is what I feel is right, and that must be done, no matter how hard.” He stopped again, and he took in a breath and gave Kuai Liang a smile. “You have found yourself a respectable man, brother. It will definitely take some getting used to, but that comes with any new relationship.”

Kuai Liang’s heart began beating again, heavy against his chest as he processed what his brother was saying. “I… I do not know what to say.”

“Besides, if anyone should apologize, it’s me.” Bi-Han frowned as he thought back to their gathering earlier in the evening. “It was incredibly rude of me to walk out on you and the others like that. I plead that you forgive me for what I have done.”

“What? Yes, of course.” Kuai Liang shook his head in shock. “I expected it to a certain extent.”

“So everything is cleared up, yes? I want to see Master Hasashi soon to congratulate him, and… I am delighted that you have found someone that makes you happy,” Bi-Han said kindly. “You have spoken fondly of him for weeks. I fully believe that this is a good thing for you both.”

Kuai Liang could not help but grin. “Thank you, Bi-Han. It means everything to me to hear you say that.”

Bi-Han returned the smile, and he chuckled to himself. “So… Have you two kissed yet?”

“Bi-Han!” Kuai Liang gasped. He glanced away from him, very clearly embarrassed. “It is none of your business what Hanzo and I do.”

“I’m just kidding.” Bi-Han laughed aloud and smacked at Kuai Liang’s knee. “Teasing you will always be a joy. That will never change.”

Kuai Liang felt relieved to hear his brother’s laugh. He knew things would be easier with time. Everything was easier with time.

#kuai liang #sub zero #noob saibot #bi han #mortal kombat #mortal kombat 11 #smoke #tomas vrbada #sektor #cyrax #fic #my fic #mine

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dishonoredrpg · 5 years ago

Photo

Congratulations, REY! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE HERMIT with the faceclaim of LUCY BOYNTON. History loves a revolutionary, and there’s no doubt in my mind that this sentiment will extend to Marceline. I could feel her desperation to be part of something bigger than herself -- maybe even larger than her father’s ambitions -- they practically leapt right off the page. I felt for her in her loss, ached for her in her need for revenge, empathized with the pain and appreciated her determination to change things for the better. The Hermit has the potential to be small-scale, but you’ve taken her far beyond that, and I cannot wait to see what Marceline does on the dashboard!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

OOC

NAME: Rey PRONOUNS: She/Her AGE: 25+ TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: PST. Because I am currently working from home, I would say on a scale of 1 to 10, I am a 7. I try to log on at least once a day. ANYTHING ELSE?: Just how much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood!

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: The Hermit NAME: Marceline Ash Pelagius FACECLAIM: 1. Lucy Boyton 2. Lindsey Morgan AGE: 22

DETAILS: I’ve chosen the Hermit because she reminds me so much of the French republican youths that got involved after the French Revolution (as most famously depicted in Les Misérables) and I’d love to dig into the historical parallels. Like Enjorlas, Marceline is born into wealth, but she sheds herself of this reputation and becomes a bleeding heart for the revolution. (Also like Enjorlas, she’s a “charming young (wo)man who is also capable of being terrible.”)

Revolutions rarely begin with noble aims, even if the outcome might not suggest so. For Marceline, revolution begins with vengeance. Her attempts to get closer to the Fool and the guards of the city in order to avenge her father’s death opens her eyes to the social and political inequalities of the kingdom. What was once simply about revenge is now about so much more. She’s a woman who knows she wants to kill a king, but her reasons for deciding to do so only keep growing with time. Before long, she begins to assume her father’s radical political beliefs: tear down the monarchy and replace it with a republic. I find myself drawn to dedicated characters with unyielding drives - especially ones whose moral compass seems so set but will in actuality change at the shift of a tide in order justify their end goals.

Marceline is very much a person to be reckoned with. Her fight becomes a fight against her own grief, her unknown magic and the monolith of monarchy. Each of these seem to be an immovable object, but she is the unstoppable force that beats against them. The Hermit tarot card can signify someone who is taking too much time for self reflection or too little. In the case of Marceline, she is someone who thinks she knows herself well enough to simply act; she is so set on her path that true self-reflection is something she doesn’t spend enough time on.

BACKGROUND:

You know this is not a rebellion, you know it’s a revolution.

You are born of a noble house, the only child, last of your name. Your mother is revered in court as the Keeper of Coins. She has a mind for finances and business, though you inherit the steel of her spine and the cut of her jib more than anything else. If you trace her lineage far back enough you’ll see that before nobility came piracy and maybe that’s why she’s always been so good with gold. She’s a smart woman with a sharp eye that upholds her family’s reputation by being someone that can sniff out a poor deal or a tampered book with ease. She’s never really sailed the seas, but you can see that she misses it. And thus, so do you. Most of your lullabies are sea shanties and you take your first steps along the banks of Tyr’s Tear. You cannot remember a time when you didn’t know how to swim. Your mother, for some hidden reason, knows how to fight and she is the one to teach you how to use a sword. ‘A cutlass’ she clarifies the first time you call it something else. ‘There’s language used correctly and then there’s language used beautifully.’

Meanwhile, your father is hopelessly bound to the land. More specifically, he is hopelessly bound to his books. He is an academic that is fortunate enough to be born into nobility. His father lived a long life as a trusted advisor to Octavius Valmont. A former educator at the Bard��s College, the birth of you brings about a new chapter to your father's life causing him to leave the college and spend most of his days in Tyrholm writing, reading, and discussing matters of political science. How he wooed your mother you’ll never know, but because of them you’ll never doubt what love is. If you had to guess though, your father enchanted your mother because no one used language more beautifully than him.

Your father has a secret though. When you are four years old, you learn that you’ve inherited it. The two of you are Inferi magi.

The fastest way to someone’s heart is through conspiracy and you and your father are bound by this secret you share. He’s spent his whole life hiding this, and he teaches you to do the same. You hate being anything other than outspoken, anything other than untruthful about what you think and who you are, and the only anchor is you know how much he hates it too. The two of you hold tight to something the world hates and work to make it a gift more than a curse. This is what connects you to your father. Inferi magic is destructive, but your father shows you that sometimes that is the way of life. He tells you about the pine-trees that depend on heat to crack open their seeds. He talks about entire forests that are born from the ash of forest fires. Sometimes, in order to make something stronger, you must burn it down; sometimes, in order to make something last forever, you must destroy it. You know the story of the wolves and the snakes, he’s told you it over and over again to lull you to sleep, but he tells you it again now. Political structures - you are five so you say ‘what’ and he replaces the phrase ‘political structures’ with the words ‘Kingdoms, like Tyrholm’ and you say ‘oh, okay’ - Kingdoms, like Tyrholm, get better, continue surviving, by being torn down and rebuilt. Just like the wolves and the snakes.

‘Let me teach you little one, how revolutions begin.’ He tells you instead of bedtime stories.

Your father believes in revolution, in a way that is before his time. He wants to dismantle the monarchy and in its stead assemble a republic government. His political ideology stands stark amongst the beliefs of this world and you are young enough to be enraptured by the optimism of it. Your mother, far better at playing society’s game than your father is, tells him not to speak so loudly about such things when you are not in your home.

And it is a nice home. For all of your father’s gripes against King, it seems the current system has given you and your family everything you need. You have all the flourishes that come with wealth: a respectable reputation, a lavish upbringing, a thorough education. You’re a lady and the dresses and the etiquette and the social gatherings don’t let you forget it. In many ways you are like your father, you debate and you discuss and think deeply on things with little regard to how that reflects on your station in life. Your mother is the opposite. She teaches you how to lie and survive within the status quo.

You are ten when your father begins writing pamphlets - ‘purely educational,’ he defends - about what a republic is. At least once a month he meets with a handful of like-minded people who are interested in discussing such things and their conversations often go late into the night. They sit tucked away and hidden in the back of a low-lit tavern - and you know these things because you are wily enough to try and follow him one night. Your father catches you and drags you back to the manor by the scruff of your neck like some stray kitten. Your mother is furious - at the both of you.

You are sent to bed without any supper and your father sleeps in the library that evening.

So goes your life. You become your mother’s apprentice as the Keeper of Coins and she makes it worth your while by teaching you to spar in the evenings. Your footwork improves more quickly than your mathematics, but you’re not too bad at either. Your life as a lady blooms. More lessons, more competitions. You find love, a first love, so you don’t understand that there can be different kinds, and even sour kinds. All you’ve ever witnessed is the warmth between your parents, even in their bickering, and so the most naive parts of you believe this to be true of all love.

This routine is almost enough to make you forget about the plights of the kingdom and that you live in a gilded cage.

Your father gets bolder in his commitment to a radical political movement. You’re 15 when you start staying up late to help him proofread the pamphlet he writes. The two of you start taking camping trips to the Volkun Forest, so that you may discuss such things freely amongst the trees. Out here, if the wrong word slips out or if a little bit of magic pushes through your fingertips, there is no one to pass judgment. Out here is freedom.

You take these trips and your father returns, only to lock himself in his study for the next three days. Sometimes you’ll press your ear to the door when the house is quiet and hear nothing more than the quick and furious scratching of a quill across parchment. Not too long after there will be fresh sheets of radical ideas floating through the city.

When you are 17, the fabric of your world is ripped apart at the seams. Your father’s ideas are labeled as treason and the King’s Guard ambushes you in the middle of the Volkun forest. They run your father through with a broadsword more times than necessary to kill him and he is left in a bloody, bloody heap. You manage to survive by playing dead. It’s a decision you replay over and over and over again. The anger over it lingers for years. You should have leaped to your feet and fought, and instead - you chose a coward’s route.

You dig a grave for your father using only your hands and still, somehow, you manage the return home.

The rage in your mother’s eyes when you tell her complements your deep sorrow. She dries your tears and you dry hers, but both of you agree that no one else will see you cry. Your magic burns in you that night, so hot and unknown that you throw yourself into the river to temper the flames that lick your blood. Your lack of training has never been more apparent than now. At such times you’d ask your father what was happening to you and even if he told you that he didn’t know, the shared loneliness made it bearable. He is not here now, and you must weather this alone.

Your mother doesn’t speak for 13 days. At first you think she will never speak again, you have heard of those that die of heartbreak, but you soon realize that she is scheming.

“I know what we will do.” She says on the thirteenth day and you nearly drop the sword you are polishing.

A plan forms. Together, the two of you plot. How do you kill the men that struck down your father? How do you kill a king? It’s decided that you will join the guard. You abandon your engagement. Like that, you abandon your life. Your reputation is ruined and your mother barely scrapes by.

You move out of the familial manor, out of safety for your mother. She’ll still write you letters and you will still visit to sleep in your childhood bedroom, but the two of you agree to keep these instances to once in a blue moon. You move to Lowtown. You know that one of the men you want six-feet under is the Captain of the Guard.

When you first ask to enlist, they think you are pranking them, trying to pull the wool over their eyes because some noble has dared you. When you don’t leave though, that’s when they grow from disbelief to skepticism. ‘Why?’ You are asked. ‘Because I dream of a better world.’ Of course you’re met with laughter. You, however, refuse to lie. You stay steadfast in your plot. You wait for their amusement to die down before challenging the man nearest to you to a spar - if he wins you’ll leave and never bother them again.

That evening, you bring your cutlass and you win your way into the Guard.

After all is said and done you hear a stray spectating guard say to another, ‘She fights like a pirate.’

No one can stop you once you are a woman decided. You spend the next few years putting your head down and doing the work. You become the youngest lieutenant the Guard has ever seen. You are not intimidated by this, you swallow it easily with the knowledge that you are here with a higher calling. The truth has a tendency to make things harsh and unwelcoming, and yet it is the very thing that makes the men here listen to you. They look at you and see someone unwavering in their honesty, merciless with their virtue. It earns you a level of respect that most lieutenants spend their whole lives scrounging for. The world may not be fair, but you intend to make it so. That is seen and that is respected. They listen to you, but more importantly, they trust you. You make it clear that you’ll take an arrow for any of them, parry whatever blow comes their way. When a man is struck down in the field, you’re one of the first to volunteer to tell their family. They start letting you do this by default, your stoic demeanor and steady nature prove to be the exact temperament needed to weather a storm of their family’s sadness. Every time you do this - every time you confront a freshly widowed bride, a newly motherless son - you promise to take care of them. You won’t let their death be in vain, you say. You find yourself caring for all these families as much as you care for your mother. In this way your family grows, and it no longer feels like you are last of your name.

All of this goes without mention of the elephant in the room. Your job puts you in painful proximity to the Fool, one of the men that killed your father. However, these days it seems you’re on the same team in more ways than one. Together you lead the Guard, together you declare you’ll fight in the same revolution. You seek forgiveness within yourself, but your heart finds it hard to go back on a judgment once it has passed. You know that striking him down would be a poor move on your part tactically, that it would scatter the men, that it would lead to a different kind of revolt. You don’t want to tear your new household in two just. So you take his name to that list of names you intend to make your way through and shift it to the bottom. That night you begin a new list, one of additional grievances to call upon that specifically the Fool is responsible for and you decide that you will savor and remember these grievances when the day of his death finally comes.

You’re intense, you ache for revenge, you age for revolution. Those that would think less of you for the latter are nowhere nearby; they’re far off in some ivory tower. Those that surround you are bolstered by it. Each breath is spent on the growing rebellion, each action is dedicated to felling an empire and an unjust king. You are a flame that keeps your friends warm, you are a fire that chases your foes into action.

Living amongst the Guard has taken you out of luxury, out of a life of nobility, and placed you in the thick of a growing revolt. Each citizen of Lowtown comes with their own history, of a life earned through hard work and skill, and you realize that a monarchy is bullshit. Power to the people, you think.

It’s difficult to remember the girl who existed before your father died. But try and you remember. You’ve still got your family crest, it reminds you of the sea. A mutt wanders onto your path one patrol of the Volkun forest and you swear it looks part wolf. You take him in. Two weeks from now he’ll chase after a snake on your hunting trail and even you will say “Oh come on” at the heavy handed metaphor life has thrown your way. In these ways, the world continues to remind you of who you are.

And then, only on quiet lonely nights do you let your mind wander, galloping through the memories back to the day your father was butchered before you. You clawed your way back to the city, clawed your way back to your mother. You’ve defied death once and so hell nor heaven scares you anymore. Buried deep within all your noble intentions is an undeniable truth: you have your revolution, you have your decided aims for a republic, but you would put it all on the line, just to get back at the men who killed your father. You pray to the wolves and snakes you will become a better person.

You are not a revolter, you tell yourself, you are a revolutionary.

PLOT IDEAS:

Marceline doesn’t believe in kings. As the revolution grows, there are plenty that want to replace this king with a new one. Who will take Septimus’ place? The Emperor, the Chariot, the World? None. Marceline thinks that’s just trading out one cage for another. As mentioned: down with the monarchy, up with a republic! Marceline believes in the ideals of a republic, the same ideals her father believed in, and she wants to work to stoke that fire in the same way he did. It might be a moment before she returns to distributing pamphlets or standing on soapboxes, but natural rights and equality for all citizens of Tyrholm is something that she is determined to fight for. She will try to convince every revolter she comes by of her radical ideas and even when they turn her away, she’ll find a way to stay. She’s always been a woman bad at understanding the word no. I’d like her to try and convince as many people as she can and I think this has the potential to be an interesting plot. Not everyone is going to agree with her and I’m sure it’ll cook up a new batch of allies and enemies. Her father wrote and distributed pamphlets against the king and in favor of a whole new political structure, and Marceline would like to get this radical political movement going again through these handouts. However, Marceline is not the same wordsmith her father was. She’ll do it, if she has to, but I would love for her to find that person to help her write a new round of Enlightenment principles with. In general though, Marceline will be at the forefront for a push for a republic. It’s an ideology that she’s willing to die for. In the long run maybe this even causes a schism in the revolution between those that want another king and those who want something else entirely. TEMPERANCE: Marceline breaks off the engagement, returns the ring that is given to her, leaves without a word. Marceline knows she loves the revolution more, but still her love for Temperance lingers. From where she’s standing, it seems as if her former fiancee has had no trouble moving on and so Marceline is doing her best to drown herself in work and other people. If she could pick one person to convert in favor of her ideal vision for the future, it would be her. But the more Marceline stays with the Guard, the more she sees that Temperance is blind to her own privilege. She wishes Temperance could see things her way. If Marceline ever had to pick between the revolution or Temperance, she would do her best to try and save both. Marceline has left the life of nobility behind, but I would love to see the life of nobility try and drag her back in through her undeniable love for this for this woman. THE FOOL: Until a new republic is built, Marceline still has to live in this monarchy, and there is plenty to do here. There’s her own vendetta, for Marceline will do anything that’s necessary to track down and kill the men that killed her father. Fool kills Dad. Hermit kills Fool. That easy, right? Wrong! Things are already messy as is because both she and the Fool are revolters and thus technically on the same side in more ways than one. Because of this, Marceline needs to find cleverer ways to retaliate against him. Their relationship is a complex one as she is always quick to undermine him, but still sees him as her co-partner in leading the Guard. For a girl who believes in keeping a judgement once it is passed, I want to push the boundaries of her decided vendetta. As she lies in wait, I imagine Marceline trying to be close to anyone that the Fool knows. I’d also love her feelings for him to grow and for her to have to wake up every morning and have to conscientiously decide that she wants to kill this man. I want the Fool to make her change as a person so that by the end of this she’s either consumed by hate for this man or consumed by love - no in between. THE MOON: The Moon is possibly the only friend Marceline has outside of the Guard. Every time Marceline ventures Volkun forest, she brings back something new for her botanist friend. There’s a comfort she feels with this one - one she hasn’t felt since her father was around. Something tells her it’s magic, but Marceline knows the dangers of asking about such things. Still, she will do everything to maintain a friendship with the Moon, as she is one of the few people around whom she is utterly at peace. I see them growing close because of the revolution, and I can see them growing even closer if they ever choose to tell each other about their magic. Ever since the death of her father, Marceline has completely turned away from the magical side of herself, but that does not mean the magical side of her does not exist. I see her magic being a grab bag of abilities that she has absolutely no control over. (And per admin discussion, I have some ideas on this.) She feels utterly lost, but Marceline does everything she can to avoid letting anyone know about this side of her. (She always tells the truth, except in this instance.) There’s probably less than a handful of people that know and while I would like this number to slowly grow, I imagine the Moon would be the first. Ultimately, I would like Marceline to come to terms with her magic and see how it influences her thoughts on the war and the revolution. Eventually she’s going to come to understand that her magic might be able to help her take down the king. She might even like to try and travel to Hypatos sometime to seek out mentors. Maybe this is somewhere she and the Moon journey together. Marceline is willing to train up anyone who wants to learn how to fight, be they part of the Guard or not. If you’re part of the revolution, or even if you take no particular side, she thinks you have a right to be able to defend yourself. Just expect to eventually get an earful about some radical political ideologies. Marceline hates pirates and bandits. She cannot stand either of them, especially when they terrorize her Guard. She wants to make a statement to show that the Guard won’t turn a blind eye to being messed with. She’s willing to offer both groups a shot at joining them against the king, but if they refuse, she won’t hesitate to go against them for the men they’ve harmed. In the meantime, any pirates or bandits should steer clear of her as she won’t go easy on them. Marceline sees every single guard as a member of her family and when a guard dies she makes a commitment to look out for that guard’s family. I don’t want this to be easy for her. I’d love to try and throw her up against her own moral compass while trying to stay true to a promise she’s made.

CHARACTER DEATH: Totally cool with you killing my character. My character’s dog however, needs to live forever.

WRITING SAMPLE

There are those that shared his beliefs that come knocking at their door to share their condolences. Marceline and her mother had vowed not to show their tears to the public so Marceline’s mother greets the guests with solemn eyes and a quiet nod of thanks. Marceline doesn’t even make it out of her room. Her father’s death is still too fresh, too heavy on her heart and it’s difficult to be confronted with the fact that someone the world keeps turning.

Marceline is coming up on three days without sleep. Her throat is sore, her eyes are raw, and they are both nothing compared to the dead thing in her chest. She tries to sleep, but etched onto the underside of her eyelids are the faces of four men that she will never forget. She knows grief is nonlinear, but she wishes it would leave for a while and return later when she feels a little stronger. Finally, utterly exhausted, her body gives up on her and she falls into a restless sleep.

There’s a full tangerine moon in the sky and Marceline wakes up in delirious pain. She finds herself on the floor, covers still tangled around her legs. She’s rolled off her own bed. She is still herself though - and that’s what matters. She can see through the haze of pain her hands, her fingernails, the bits of dirt underneath them.

What is this pain? It’s her magic, she thinks, or maybe it’s her grief. She’s buried this part of herself so often, that she forgets about it until it makes itself known. It pulses in her blood with such unpleasantness that she cries out for her father before remembering he is too far to hear her.

She doesn’t want to do any of this without him.

The pain licks up and down her spine. She can feel this Inferi magic coursing through her blood, taking her immense sadness and twisting it. This is in no ways normal, but each time she’s had to face it she’s always had her father.

Marceline kicks with trembling legs at the covers still wrapped like mummy bandages around her body. She crawls to the chair at her desk and grips at the chair leg with her sweaty hand. The wood begins to glow red - at least she thinks it does - and she knows she is going to set it on fire if she doesn’t move it. She grabs higher, pulls herself up, grabs the curved back of the chair until her feet are flat against the wood floor.

Marceline takes a shaky step, then another, and then she stumbles with the inertia of pain out the door of her bedroom. She nearly collapses as soon as she reaches the bannister of the stair. Her torso hits the wood and the impact blows another wave of fire all through her, knees crippling - she catches herself before she hits the ground but the world spins around her.

She is going to die. She is going to die. She is going to die.

And whatever it is inside her is going to kill and destroy everything in this house. How did she ever think she was going to survive in this word three days without her father?

She must though, she must.

Another wave of pain throws her to the floor. She curls into herself; her sadness magnifies and triples tenfold. Like a wave it washes over her, and then recedes. Here, she will die here -

And then Marceline gets up.

Only this time, it is her magic rising from inside her. It surges through her, hardening the muscles in her legs. She slaps a bloody hand on the counter and straightens up. She breathes hard: in and out, in and out, in and out. As her eyes close, she hears - she swears - the steady beating of wings, as it reminds her swelling heart to keep beating.

She crunches her way out of the hallway, down the stairs, and then out into the garden where the moon hangs low. It is watching her, she feels it. Its light pours over her bloody form with every step she takes. At first she steps slowly, she eases her toes into the cool grass. But then faster, steps more steady, and then even faster, until she is running away from her family’s manor, towards the river, as though she could flee from her sadness.

But she is fleeing towards the moon.

Her magic gives her strength and gives her pain. It roars in her chest now, harmonizing with her grief. She hates it, she hates it so much, hates how it makes her hide, hates how it’s always been a mirror of her emotions.

She remembers her father and how he could look at a burning thing and see the growth that will come after. She’s never going to see him again and there are precisely four men to blame. She can’t stop her tears as she splashes to the banks of the river and falls to her knees inside the reflection of the full moon, which dances on the surface of the water. Her hands press into the sand. She fists the rocks and shells. She is probably going to die. And she should fight it still, but her magic is the only part of her father that is still left.

She doesn’t want him to be gone, and it’s the last thought she has before it feels like she goes up in flames.

Marceline falls forward into the river.

The next morning, she wakes to the sound of the water, as it kisses at her toes and her ankles. Slowly, Marceline blinks her eyes open to the sunlight appearing over the river. The pain is over. Her body felt peaceful and brand new. Three days of mourning and now - rebirth. She feels like she’s just shed her own exoskeleton. She’s done it all on her own too.

A raven picks at the hem of her blouse and forces her to sit up to shoo it away. Tyrholm is still here. She is still here. She breathes in like she needs to remember what it is like to have her lungs expand. Both her magic and her grief, she thinks, are strange, strange things.

EXTRA

A few extra headcanons: While growing up Marcline’s mother would temporarily stay in Noble quarters at Castle Tyrholm. Marceline and her father lived in the Pelagius manor in Hightown. After her husband’s death, Marceline’s mother moved out of the Noble quarters and returned to the manor. Her mother is still Keeper of Coin for the king. Marceline lives in Lowtown but makes sure to visit her mother in Hightown at least once a month. She writes letters often. One does not simply become the youngest lieutenant of the Guard without being a skilled swordsman. Thanks to her noble upbringing, she’s had access to top tier mentors and tutors. What Marceline lacks in size and sheer strength, she makes up in swiftness and cunning. In fact, Marceline’s noble upbringing has left her with a handful of random skills that she is never sure she will use again. She’ll spend most of her evenings these days in the Barracks playing cards or drinking with the Guard. They are her pack. Marceline is slowly starting to pick up where her father left off with his pamphlets. Marceline has a mutt that is probably part wolf... no one really knows. But his name is Little Wolf. He’s her hunting dog (and possibly her best friend.) He follows her around plenty while she is on patrol. He loves members of the Guard and hates the aristocracy.

A few stray musings: Look, I’m not saying she wants to inspire the French Revolution of this world. But... yes okay that’s exactly what she wants. Big Enjorlas from ‘Les Mis’ vibes. Mixed in with some Hamilton. There’s a touch of Isabella from Shakespeare’s ‘Measure for Measure’ thrown in there as well. “So men say that I’m intense or I’m insane.” Most likely to yell “Wake Up Sheeple!!” in the middle of a crowded ball. Bisexual AF.

#accepted #accepted: the hermit

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nonasuch · 7 years ago

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continued from here, some more of this rambly and, now, less-abbreviated AU:

for obvious reasons, Harry does not get a lot of sleep that night.

he wants the whole story, and Sirius-- without quite meaning to-- tells it to him.

in another life, he might not have done so. in another life, there might have been things he’d been told Harry shouldn't know, and things that he’d simply forgotten over the years, and things that still hurt too much to talk about.

but in this place, and at this time, none of those things are true. Sirius spent two awful years in Azkaban, and five years free.

since the day he found Harry, he has been saving up all the things he wants to tell his godson.

so he starts at the beginning:

“I met James and Lily on the train to Hogwarts, when we were eleven. that's the school for witches and wizards; you'll go there too, when you're older.”

for the rest of his life, Harry will remember how his first impression of the wizarding world was formed: his godfather’s hoarse voice, full of affection for the dead, the only sound in the silent house. the darkened kitchen, the wandlight Padfoot casts throwing his too-thin face into sharp relief.

that light and that warmth, keeping the dark at bay.

when he gets to the part about Harry’s aunt and uncle, he hesitates. he’s plowed through the telling of the awful night that James and Lily died, Wormtail’s betrayal, his own mad grief, and it’s only now occurring to him that much of it was not a story an eight-year-old boy ought to hear. no matter how much of a right he has to hear it.

so he says: “you were supposed to go to live with your mother’s sister. I don’t know why, exactly, but you ended up here instead. no one in the wizarding world knew how to find you.”

(this is only very slightly a lie: four years ago, he and Remus tracked down the police report filed by the officers who took Harry away from the Dursleys. then they destroyed it, so that no one else could follow the same trail to Harry.)

he tells Harry, “in Azkaban, five years ago, a visitor let me have a newspaper. I saw that your aunt and uncle had died, but you were missing. so I escaped, and I found you.”

Harry asks, “but what happened to them?”

Sirius says “I don’t know. not for certain.”

(this is rather more of a lie. he has some very good guesses.)

this is clearly not enough of an answer for Harry, but he is eight years old and it has been a very eventful night. he’s yawning, his eyes drooping shut.

“I’ll tell you the rest, but not tonight,” Sirius says. “can you sleep on the sofa?”

Harry makes a face. “it’s too squashy,” he says.

so his godfather transfigures the sofa into a decent approximation of Harry’s bed upstairs, and tucks Harry in. he turns back into Padfoot and flops down across Harry’s feet.

just before he falls asleep, harry murmurs “you’re my godfather. and you’re a dog. you’re my dogfather.”

this is the funniest joke in the history of eight-year-olds, and Harry falls asleep mid-giggle.

in the morning, Harry wakes up to find the sofa has gone back to being a sofa and his dog has gone back to being a dog.

his mum is putting on her earrings in the hall mirror, and whistling to herself. his dad is making breakfast noises in the kitchen.

but: there is a large tawny feather on the end table. Harry recalls, vividly, watching the owl preen itself while Padfoot read his letter at the kitchen table.

he looks at Padfoot. Padfoot holds his gaze for a long, deliberate moment, and then he winks.

that whole day, Harry is full of restless energy. he and his dad finish painting the spots they missed the day before, and put his furniture back where it belongs. but his heart’s not in it.

all day he is wondering: am I really magic? what does that mean? what kind of magic can I do? do I need to have a magic wand? how do i get a magic wand? will Padfoot let me borrow his? can I do magic without it?

his parents notice his distraction, of course, but they let it pass. Harry will tell him what's wrong when he’s ready to. he always has before.

by bedtime, Harry is practically vibrating. Padfoot flops down across the end of the bed with a little more force than usual, and fixes Harry with a doggy glare until Harry settles.

his mum reads him a chapter of The Sword in the Stone, and Harry lets her sing him a lullabye even though he’s started saying, lately, that he’s too old for lullabies.

she sings, to the tune she made up when Harry was a baby, come away, o human child, to the waters and the wild, and Harry does his best to act sleepy as she goes through the verses.

when the house is finally silent, Harry sits up in bed.

“now?” he asks. Padfoot sighs and grumbles and jumps down from the bed and turns into a human being again.

“try not to explode,” says Sirius, and Harry’s eyes get very big.

“can that happen? to wizards?” he asks, and Sirius has his first really good belly laugh in about seven and a half years.

once they have both calmed down a little, Sirius answers as many of Harry’s questions as he can.

he tells Harry that, yes, most wizards need a wand to do most magic, but that children sometime will do wandless magic by accident. that there are wizarding banks and shops and bureacrats. that there is owl post and order-by-floo. that there are wizarding towns and magical neighborhoods hidden all over the world.

that while werewolves are real, reverse werewolves are not.

harry remembers to ask, then: “who sent you the owl last night?”

so sirius explains that there is one other wizard in the world who knows where Harry is, and who knows that Sirius was wrongfully convicted, and that he is using the Fidelius charm to protect them.

Sirius has not seen Moony in person for more than a year, and misses him like hell. the last time had been when Harry and his parents had gone to visit a family friend with very bad allergies, and been out of the house long enough that Sirius could Apparate away.

the flat where Moony was staying was shabby and awful, of course. even though, years ago, Sirius had given Moony the key to his bank vault and all but ordered him to use it.

the shabby, awful flat had not actually mattered very much to either of them. it had a table where they sat side-by-side for an hour or so, shoulders pressed together, and went over what Remus had found in the course of hunting for Wormtail.

it also contained a bed, where they spent the rest of the day.

and that was all, for year. writing letters helps, a little. a very little.

(none of the above is included in Padfoot’s explanation. that is most definitely a conversation for the future, when Harry has known his dog is a wizard for more than twenty-four hours, and Sirius had worked out what to say without using horrible euphemisms or embarrassing them both to death.)

once Harry has run out of questions, or at least paused to pick out the next set, Sirius says, “we should talk about your mum and dad. what are you going to tell them?”

(he’s read all the parenting books in the house. they mostly recommend that parents should do the exact opposite of whatever his own parents would have done, so he thinks the Muggles might have the right idea on this particular front. and they’re all very big on honesty and communication.)

“well,” says Harry, and falls silent, thinking. “should I tell them I’m magic?”

“that’s up to you,” says Padfoot. “I think you’ll want to, sooner or later, and you’ll have to, before you go to Hogwarts.”

“wait,” says Harry, “if no wizards know where I am, how can I go--”

“don’t worry about it,” says Sirius. “Moony and I are working on that.”

(this is not a lie because they are, in fact, working on it. they just haven’t actually found a solution yet.)

“okay,” says Harry. “then I want to tell them soon. and they should meet you. but, um. you should get some not-magic clothes?”

“what’s wrong with my clothes?” asks sirius, who is fully aware that they are basically rags, but he spends ninety percent of his time as a dog, nine percent alone, and one percent with Moony. so he only really wears clothes at all for that nine percent.

(sometimes, as Padfoot, he condescends to wear a red bandanna.)

“they’re a bit, um.” says harry. his trying-not-to-disapprove-and-failing look is so perfectly Lily’s that Sirius cannot bring himself to disagree.

“all right, all right, I’ll smarten up a bit,” says Sirius. “think about how you want to break the news, eh?”

Harry agrees, and now the day’s nervous energy is entirely used up. he is asleep before Sirius has even changed back to Padfoot.

so Sirius nicks some of Harry’s dad’s clothes from the laundry and charms them to a) fit and b) not look obviously stolen.

also he cuts his hair. it makes his ears feel cold but he does look less like a crazed escaped wizard murderer, so ten points to Harry on that one.

the next night Harry says “oh that’s much better” in deeply relieved and deeply Evans-esque tones, the moment Padfoot turns into Sirius.

Sirius is too happy to be insulted, much.

#harry potter #harry potter au #sirius black #the dogfather #not-fic #hp au #yer a wizard harry #original #dogfather story post

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david3096 · 6 years ago

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I thought you liked her. (Tyrus Week 2018 Day 4: Double Date)

AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15694179

This was a bad idea. Now, TJ realized. The four of them were sitting with some baby taters and burgers and sodas in front of them, in the most uncomfortable silence that could happen in history. Something was definitely wrong.

TJ wasn't a guy who dated a lot, but he knew this wasn't right. Especially when his date was not the person he was expecting. Even worse, it was a girl. And no any girl.

"Then" Cyrus attracts everyone's attention at the table, TJ hopes this will allow them to feel less uncomfortable. "How was the training?"

"Pretty good," says Buffy, who's next to TJ who just nodded. "Nothing really new." Again silence, the only sound is their mouths when chewing, other clients chatting and the sound of the TV.

TJ wish he wasn't there. And by the face of Cyrus, Buffy and Amber, they all feel the same way.

It all started last weekend. Cyrus and TJ walked together after school directly to the park, then go to Cyrus's house to study a bit and although Cyrus was not a math genius could help TJ a bit. And his only presence was enough for TJ to feel better.

Sitting on the bench in front of the swings was the first mistake. TJ decided to talk about basketball; Cyrus didn't mind at all, but he couldn't understand half the words he said.

"Can I ask you something?" Says Cyrus.

"Is something wrong, underdog?"

"No" All of a sudden, smile. "I was wondering, do you like someone?" The question took TJ by surprise. When it comes to questions, Cyrus could be anything. But mostly it’ll be to ask his opinion about a dinosaur or a movie he had recently discovered had bad ratings and he loved it.

"I think I do" TJ doesn't know where the courage came.

"Who is it?"

"I don't..." TJ didn't know what to say. The truth was the most reliable way, but he was not prepared to make a confession of that magnitude. Lying would be the best option. But his brain, now, did not want to cooperate to make sound a logical excuse.

"It's Buffy, isn't it?" Cyrus smile vanished and stopped looking directly into his eyes, now focusing on the sunset and the few children playing not far from there.

"Yes" TJ took the easy way out. Perhaps, it would take a long time to amend that tremendous and stupid mistake, but for now, he needed the stability of having Cyrus at his side, he couldn't afford to lose him. Not like this.

“Andi said that was the reason you were so good to me” Andi couldn't be more wrong, TJ thought. And if he wasn't deeply in love with Cyrus, he could swear his voice sounded sad.

"She’s wrong" at least he can say that. "I'm good to you because I like you. We're friends" Cyrus smile came back and TJ felt so helpless for not being able to make it even happier and have to lie.

"How about I ask Buffy for a date?" TJ looked away, but he could feel Cyrus's gaze on him, as if he were waiting for a signal to tell him that Buffy was not the person he liked.

"What?" He doesn't know how he managed to not scream. He still had a chance to tell the truth, didn't he?

"I have liked two people and with none of them I have been brave enough to admit how I feel. It's horrible. " There's a pause, as if Cyrus was expecting TJ to ask something about those two people. "And if I can at least help you have a date with the girl of your dreams, I'll do" TJ felt moved and thought that maybe, if he'd told the truth, he'd be kissing the boy of his dreams right now. Or at least He'd be in a less uncomfortable conversation because there's no way possible in this world that Cyrus wants to stop being his friend, right?

"I'm not sure, underdog"

"It's just a date, you'll be fine" and then an idea came to your mind.

"How about you fix me up with Buffy and I'll fix you a date with some girl?"

"What?" The fear in Cyrus ' face was more than visible, TJ could feel it and tried to hold a laugh.

"It's just a date, you'll be fine" and just when TJ was about to tell him that he didn't need to do that, Cyrus agreed.

Back in the Spoon, the silence between them seemed almost deafening. "Guys, today is my day off and TJ begged me to come and spend time at the place where I work. Make it worth." She gave a sip to her soda and TJ hopes she won't say a single detail more about how things went.

Cyrus and TJ decided that Friday would be a good day for their double date after school. But TJ didn't know who he could ask some girl to go on a double date with Cyrus, without being a threat to him. He didn't want anyone to take away the possibility of having a relationship with the boy of their dreams. Even though he decided to complicate everything like an imbecile.

The problem is, he knew perfectly well who would be willing to help him, but he didn't want to.

"I need your help." It was the first thing he told Amber when he entered the Spoon, she was waiting for some orders from the few people who were in the restaurant.

“No”

"I haven't even told you what it's about."

"Whenever you need help, it means you need me to do something stupid, boring or embarrassing." TJ knew that this time, they were all the previous ones.

"Please"

"TJ, no" TJ doesn't remember exactly how he started his friendship with Amber, but since he met her a day when TJ was looking for Cyrus at The Spoon, a strange friendship began.

"At least let me tell you what it's about."

"Okay, but first I have to take these orders" In that moment TJ decides to sit down and wait for his friend, who does not take long to return to his side. "What's the matter?"

"I need you to come to a double date with me."

"A double date? With whom?"

"With Cyrus and Buffy"

"You want me to go out with Buffy?" TJ remembers that afternoon when he decided to tell Amber the strange feeling he felt every time he was with Cyrus and the anger he felt when he saw him talk to a boy or girl at school. And Amber being Amber told him that he seemed to like Cyrus more than a friend. At that moment he realized everything.

"No, with Cyrus" He does not dare to look at her friend to the face, he knows that he is blushing, that those three words sounded rather childish and he can do other thing but scratch his neck.

"Are you willing to give me your boyfriend?"

"No!" Maybe he said it too loud. "And he's not my boyfriend. He just asked me if I liked someone and I chickened out and I didn't know how to tell him the truth. And I don't know where he got the stupid idea that I like Buffy. "

They both looked at each other and said at the same time. “Andi”

"And why the hell do you want to have a double date with me?"

"He doesn't know it's you. I told him we should have a double date. So technically I will have gone out with him" Says TJ with a smile.

"I can't believe you're saying that. I can't believe I'm listening to you so seriously" And there was one of the dramatic breaks that still cost TJ to assimilate comfortably. "And I can't believe I'm going to help you."

“Thanks”

"But you owe me a favor."

"As always"

"Seriously guys" starts Buffy. "I choose to be here with you instead of spending time with mom and dad" Now Cyrus felt guilty. "And Cyrus begged me to be here, too." Maybe he didn't feel so guilty anymore.

"I need your help." It was the first thing Cyrus said on the phone, he was lying in his bed, looking at the ceiling, feeling useless.

"Is something wrong?"

"Yes and no"

"What going on Cyrus?"

"TJ likes you"

"What? That cannot be true! "

"And I may have promised him a date with you."

"Why did you do that?!"

"Because I know how horrible it is that the person you like doesn't interest you. I want to help him."

"But I don't like TJ"

"I know it. But it'll just be a date and you can make it clear that you don't want any kind of relationship with him. Plus I'm going to be there."

"Why would you be there?"

"Because it's a double date"

"No, I will definitely not help you"

"Please Buffy. Besides, technically it will be as if he and I had gone out together."

"Things don't work that way"

"Buffy" said it in the perfect whining for her to access.

"Okay, but the next time we go to the movies, you'll pay everything I ask for."

"Thank you Buffy"

And now they were there, with four burgers finished, the plate of baby taters emptied and a silence that none seemed to know how to make more tolerable.

"Thanks for the food, guys, but I think I better go," says Amber.

"I'm going too. It was the most boring afternoon of my life. "

"Counting the evenings you didn't have Wi-Fi?"

"Counting those evenings." Says Buffy before she’s gone.

They both look at each other and before anyone says anything, they both start laughing.

"This was the most uncomfortable afternoon of my life," says Cyrus, still laughing.

"Why the hell did we do this?"

"Because you like Buffy"

"Do you still think I like her? We didn't even have a good conversation topic all afternoon "

"I thought you liked her"

"Underdog, obviously I like someone else" that's the moment the waitress decides to go pick up the dishes. TJ orders chocolate cake for both of them. "But it looks like you got along with Amber."

"That's what I wanted to ask you" the waitress leaves the chocolate cake and they both thank her with a smile. "Why did you make me date with Amber? It's obvious he's not interested in me. "

"How do you know?"

"We're friends. And because she knows who I like"

"Is that why you smiled every time you looked at each other? And wait a minute, does she know and I don't?"

"I think it's pretty obvious that I like you" Cyrus is not even aware that he says it, not until he feels like escaping.

"Do you like me?"

"It's pretty obvious, isn't it?"

"No! If I had known before I would have told you that I like you" Neither of them know what to say, but they know that they complicated things without having the need to do it.

"Would you like to have a real date?" Question TJ, he knows he shouldn't feel so nervous, but it's the effect that Cyrus has on him.

"Of course I do"

"Now? We could go to the movies"

"I'd love to." After all, that double date wasn't a bad idea.

#tyrus #tyrus week 2018 #andi mack #cyrus goodman #tj kippen #fanfic #mine

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halfrican-heat · 7 years ago

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A Nest of Stars (3)

Pairing: T’Challa x Black!OC

A/N: Long overdue. I am almost sure y’all have forgotten about this story but if you have not, here is part one to Chapter Three. It’s super long but you all finally get to meet a very important character! So, I hope this is okay!

Warning(s): Discussions of the black community; Nothing much other than more of getting to know Tiana. Reunions take place in part two; This is kinda long.

Song Reference: Call Out My Name by The Weeknd

Chapter Two: Call Out My Name

"We found each other...”

Present Day Wakanda

The clock ticks quietly as Tiana regards her class with a solemn stare. Today was a rough day for her students and she knows it but she can’t back down now. Debating the strengths and weaknesses of the black community proved to be a hot button topic with her students. She saw a more vulnerable and emotional side of her students today.

Hell, even she herself came close to tears more than once.

She glances towards the clock to check the time. She places her hands on her desk, resting her palms flat. She then scans the group of disgruntled teenagers and a ghost of a smile reaches her face.

Despite the difficult day, her pride is overflowing.

Whether they were arguing for or against the black community, each student showed her that she was doing something right. Even the students who normally shy away from debate stepped up and contributed. Their growth as students was evident and she could see a growth in them as people too.

“We have twenty minutes left. Time to wrap up discussion time. Whether you were for or against the African American community, you learned something today,” She says. “Today was rough, yes but let’s keep moving forward. Are there any questions?”

Some students have zoned out and are lost in their thoughts. Others stare holes into their desks. Tiana arches her eyebrow.

“So y’all are too in your feelings to ask questions?” Tiana crosses her arms. “I’m shocked.”

One of her boys, Ashad, glances around before slowly raising his hand.

“Ashad, yes?”

“Today you mentioned that blacks--”

“African Americans,” Tiana interjects. “You know the term, Ashad. Use it.”

“Pardon me,” He responds sincerely. “When you tell us that African Americans are not as uneducated as we think, does this extend to the ways they speak too?”

Tiana glances at the clock. “You’re talking about Ebonics, yes?”

The boy wrinkles his nose in confusion. “Ebonics?”

“Simply put what you are referring to is hood vernacular. Colloquial English. Slang,” Tiana states, looking at him. “African American Vernacular English. To most American English professors, it is improper English.”

“You think otherwise, though. Don’t you, Ms. Davis?” Ashad asks.

“In my opinion, the term ‘improper’ is misleading and oppressive to African Americans. It implies that the way we speak is wrong and that everyone else who speaks ‘standard’ English is correct. But, in America, who sets that standard of propriety?”

“The white man,” Ashad says, understanding taking over his face.

Tiana nods. “So where does that leave us, as African Americans, in regards to our behavior and speaking? We have no say in what is considered standard because American society was built by us, not for us. The rules cater those at the top of the food chain. African Americans will always be ostracized, even for the simplest things.”

“You think that the standards the colonizers set maintain the racial divide?” Someone in the back asks.

“Definitely. I also believe that Americans will find any excuse they can to misunderstand African Americans. Just because we lack usage of subject-verb agreement and tend to speak in our own special way does not mean we cannot be understood.”

Patina raises her head slowly to look at Tiana. She raises her hand.

“We. You said we, Ms. Davis.”

Tiana furrows her brow, nodding slowly. “Yes, I did.What of it, sweetheart?”

“You said you left America when you were fifteen, yes? How is it that you can still identify with those people, African Americans, when you have been here so long?”

“No matter where I go, those are my people,” Tiana replies. “Are you not Wakandan when you’re in my classroom and in the village and in your own home? Who you are does not change because you change location.”

“That’s why you still use your vernacular English sometimes. Because it’s still who you are? Well, oppression and ostracization is still a part of your identity,” Patina says. “Does the feeling of being ostracized and being an outsider still plague you?”

The question takes Tiana aback. She bites her lip glancing at the clock again. Patina was known for asking the tough questions. Tiana knows the girl means no harm but the question still stings like a slap in the face. Of course she still feels like an outsider even after ten years.

But she would never admit that out loud.

“Uh, that’s enough for today,” She says. “We will continue our discussion of Ebonics next week and then delve deeper into the history of AAVE next week. You all are dismissed.”

Her students talk amongst themselves as they pack up their things. Tiana gathers her papers, thinking deeply about Patina’s question. Her students send her goodbyes over their shoulders as they exit.

“Ndiza kubona mva,” She says to each of them.

Tiana lingers a moment in her packing to wonder where Shuri is. The girl was supposed to come by to pick up paperwork for her brother. Tiana decides to wait a moment for her.

But after twenty minutes of waiting, Tiana makes her way out of the recreational center and begins her walk home. She observes the beautiful and bright blue sky and takes in the normal sounds of the afternoon. The marketplace is bustling as people make their four o’clock transitions from work to last minute shopping. Vendors shout out prices and new items as the customers make their demands and call out questions. Children and adults alike seem to exude merriment and contentment despite the heat and crowded marketplace.

That was something Tiana always loved about Wakanda.

It seemed like no matter how awful something was or how worried the community was as a whole, they came together. They shared in each other’s energy and found a way to celebrate. The Wakandan people always found a way to overcome. It was like second nature to them. Even on simple days like this, walking home from work felt like a celebration. Tiana smiles to herself and decides to take the long way home through the crowd of people.

As Tiana walks she allows herself to get lost in the noise of everyone surrounding her. What seems like a normal day to the natives of the country feels like pure ecstasy to Tiana. She feels a part of something grand and that is enough to lift her spirits. Towards the end of her walk, a few little girls beckon her over to a tree near the edge of the city line. She obliges them and spends time playing with the toys they offer her and braiding their hair for them. They even teach her hand games she hasn’t played since she was young.

When the sun goes down, the little girls refuse to leave without Tiana agreeing to return to play with them again. When she finally agrees, the children disperse. However, Tiana notices one small girl, sitting in the tree. The child observes the setting sun with awe and adoration.

“Omncinci,” Tiana calls up to her. “What are you doing up there? Shouldn’t you be getting home?”

She receives no response until the sun is completely behind the horizon. Then, the little girl looks down at Tiana with a wide, gap toothed grin.

“Do you know what my baba says about the sunset?” She asks giddily as she climbs nimbly down the tree. “He says that ours are the best in the whole world!”

“Does he now? Well perhaps it’s time to return home so you can tell him what you saw, yes?”

“I would! But I have to wait for my titi to return. She left me with the other girls to find her friend.”

Tiana furrows her brow with worry. “She left you? Your auntie left you?”

The girl nods. “Yes. She said ‘Nailah, stay with these nice girls and do not tell your utata that I left you here’. She promised me all the goodies I could eat if I keep quiet.”

Tiana sighs and beckons Nailah over.

“Come with me. It’s getting late,” Tiana says, taking her hand. “Maybe I can return you to your baba. Where do you live?”

“I can show you! My titi showed me a fast way home!”

Nailah drags Tiana across the city line and down the road, past several large homes. And as the houses begins to shrink in size, Nailah pulls Tiana down a rocky path between a few small cottages. The path becomes steep and turns into jagged stone stairs along a high stone wall. Tall trees and thick greenery blanket the left side of their path. Tiana chews her lip wondering where this child is taking her.

But the child is immune to Tiana’s silent worries. She hops easily from step to step and swings under branches and vines in her way. Tiana follows as best she can despite the sky growing darker by the minute.

“This way! Look at the lights,” Nailah calls.

Tiana does she the tall lights that Nailah is referring to. They hang over the high wall to right of their path. As the stone stairs even out into a smooth, flat path, Tiana sees statues of Bast perched between the light fixtures. Before she has time to question them, Nailah stops at a large wall.

“Here, Tiana! This is where my titi makes the walls move,” Nailah says excitedly.

Tiana glances to the side and sees only the tops of trees. She becomes nervous, realizing how high they have actually climbed. Who would bring such a small child up this way? Nailah looks back at her and grabs her hand. Tiana looks down to her.

“Don’t be scared. Titi says that there is nothing to be frightened of,” Nailah comforts. “Look what I can do!”

She releases Tiana’s hand and whispers gently to the wall. Immediately the wall begins to break down stone by stone until a door is revealed. Tiana has no time to be surprised as Nailah pulls her into the dimly lit entrance. It closes behind them as soon as they are inside. Nailah drags Tiana over to a huge metal wall.

“Vibranium wall,” Tiana murmurs. But then she snaps to her senses. “Little one, where have you taken me?”

Nailah knocks twice on the large wall and it slides to the side revealing an exquisite garden.

“This is my home,” Nailah says, releasing Tiana’s hand.

The girl smiles brilliantly before running off to frolic in the gardens.

A/N: Next part will be posted tomorrow! I have an audition so it may be late but it will definitely be up! I am considering doing a faceclaim/getting to know me for the characters so let me know if you are down for that!

Xhosa Translation(s): Ndiza kubona mva means “See you later”; Omncinci means “Little One”

Tags: @brianabreeze @royallyprincesslilly @babygirl-bri @blue-ishx @hutchj @laauurreennn @wakanda-shit-is-that @mermaidchansons @reignsxjackson @turn-thy-paige @ask-janelle-reynolds @harry-hears-a-who @airis-paris14 @sisterwifeudaku @youngprodigy15 @thegirlonhamilton

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lovehotelreservation · 7 years ago

Text

I’ll Say “I Love You” Until We Get Along - Je T’aime [4/15]

Summary: Begotten by the gods, Ardyn has sought to return the favor, their precious world to burn. Until he runs into you, a cherished reminder of his past that he thought to have closed his heart to centuries ago. Now, however, he finds your heart sealed shut to him, and he is determined to pry it open one way or another. Prequel and sequel to “The Most Beautiful Boogie Man”

Rating: R

Pairing: Reader/Ardyn

[Previous Chapter]

[Next Chapter]

Hello everyone! I must say, I’ve been looking forward to Fridays, given how excited I am to share each new chapter of this story with you all! And this chapter is definitely no exception!

While this fic as a whole has been inspired by Phoenix’s “Ti Amo,” today’s chapter in particular was also influenced by the band’s “Fleur de Lys”~!

All that said, I hope you enjoy this part~!

*Warning: this fic will contain themes of unhealthy relationship behavior, obsessive behavior, stalking, and somnophilia

--------------------

So icy, so frigid, so cold.

Ardyn may as well have been standing before the befallen goddess Shiva as he did when she was properly defeated and conquered.

And yet, he only felt heat, a burning inferno consuming him from within as though he was smited by the fist of Ifrit.

Were he to go so far as to strip off his heavy coat or the rest of his clothing, he would still feel enflamed, even if he was certain the source of the cold would only intensify until he was left frozen to be shattered with a simple touch.

Five pairs of eyes were trained on him, all of which expressed varying forms of distrust, but none as intense as one.

Amidst Noctis and his friends, all of whom remained apprehensive while they all stood around the famous lookout point of Lestallum, was you.

At long last, staring at him with such disdain was none else but you, his beloved queen who traded the crown for a sword.

Who was glaring at him for his sudden proposal.

"I would be delighted to take you to the Disc--on the condition that darling Venus Fly over here accompanies me."

The rejection was immediate, with the squawked "Waitwaitwait-- What?!" of Prompto, the incredulous "I beg your pardon?" of Ignis, the protective shift of Gladiolus towards your side, and the harsh glare of Noctis with an added "Gimme one good reason why."

A full, rich chuckle rose out of him while he clasped his hands together, his expression bemused, "Why, consider it insurance for yourselves! I can see it on your faces..." Bringing a hand over his eyes, he glanced around the five of you, his tone remaining light, "...a kind stranger with a flare for the dramatics?" He lifted his shoulders up in a shrug, his hands cast aside, "How could you even think to let your guard down, especially with all that transpired in Insomnia?"

His stare directing itself straight towards you, he stretched out his hand your way in a gesture for emphasis. "If anything, I should be on my best behavior around one of the Crownsguard's most capable and formidable member, wouldn't you think?"

The four looked to one another questionably, though before they could ask for your input at last, Ardyn silently rejoiced at hearing you sigh out, "...Very well, Ardyn."

Noctis called out your name, his expression reluctant and concerned. "You...sure about this? Any one of us could take your place instea--"

"Out of the question~!" Ardyn interjected with a chirp. There was no way that he would squander this chance, nor have to bear further witness to your reincarnated self sitting alongside that of Izunia's, all in the same way he used to take you out on spontaneous romantic getaways out of Insomnia.

Your face softened slightly, warmth peeking through as you reassured, "I'm sure. The mission that King Regis entrusted to us cannot be delayed any further, especially over something as small as seating arrangements."

What Ardyn would give to be the recipient of your genuine sweetness once again.

Still, before the other four were given time to contemplate further, he clapped his hands together once more as he hummed out, "Then it is settled! A scenic drive to the Disc of Cauthess we go!"

It could've ended here, really.

Here you were, sitting in his car, right beside him, the two of you together.

Ardyn could obliterate Noctis out of history to hell and back much like his sullied name while whisking you away with little effort, to bring you back to Insomnia and reawaken your former memories.

Even sating the neediest his twisted desires and rampant lust had ever been by pulling over to the side, offering Noctis and his friends the spectacular presentation of him pinning you onto the hood of his car. With your clothes in disarray, your face as red as the marks his mouth would leave on your skin from his lascivious touch and putting you through his brand of exhibitionist perversion, you would look ever so ideal and pristine in his eyes while he viciously pummeled you with his cock.

It was clear you did not recall him, if by how apprehensive you behaved around him while looking so passive even as he switched on his car's music player for some Altissian disco—some tunes similar to those the two of you danced to in the streets during your honeymoon to the city, any words uttered by you in conversation as rare as could be.

He could've done so.

He wanted to do so.

But if he was to truly exact his revenge against Noctis--against Izunia--and everything he stood for in your honor, he would need to be patient enough to delay his gratification a bit longer.

Waiting was nothing for him at this point.

What is it to wait another day when he has already waited millennia?

He wanted to cherish the feeling of you physically beside him for as long as possible.

A gentle breeze blew from above, furthering the sense of nostalgia he felt as he continued to drive. Save for the music on the radio, the drive was quiet, as it would be between two strangers.

"Enjoying the ride, darling?" Ardyn hummed, his fingers tapping onto his steering wheel. You interpreted his action as him drumming along to the radio, when really he needed a distraction to refrain from reaching over and squeezing your thighs with obsessive reverence.

"I'm enjoying the access to the Disc of Cauthess--let's leave it at that."

Your head was turned away from him as you gazed out at the lush greenery of Duscae.

Were it not for the excited thrum of his heartbeat while he remained captivated of the heavenly sight of your hair blowing against the wind, he could hear the snickering of the Astrals as they continued to string the two of you along in their twisted glee.

How much more of a fool would he be made for their pleasure at this point?

On one hand, he could have honestly wept that you were in front of his eyes at last despite your newfound hatred for him. However, he couldn't help the delighted shiver that trailed up his spine and the heated rush of blood traveling straight to his groin.

But then again, he could subjugate you for being so disrespectful to your king and god, or punish you for acting so cold and spiteful to your own husband.

However, this wasn't the time to be morose or even bitter over your lack of recollection, how he currently remained to be some meaningless stranger to you.

While you ignored his teasing, flirtatious remarks, or offered few words to whimsical attempts at conversation, there was a song in his heart--the same one that played on the radio while he whisked you away after your wedding celebration, your chests feeling so light and free while so deeply in love with each other, eager to spend your lives whilst so tightly intertwined.

Terrorizing your neighbor

I'm a Siberian tiger

I'll always be an outsider

Don't neglect me Fleur de Lys

No rest till I get to you, no rest till I get to you

No!

His fingers continued to drum along the steering wheel as he drove, lips parting to either hum or even sing along. Never once did he stray too far from the song, and, in turn, he will remain devoted to seeing the fruition of years spent planning and plotting.

Ardyn will have everything he so desired all this time, including and especially you.

In the days yet soon to come, the two of you would be renewing vows.

#ardyn izunia #ardyn lucis caelum #final fantasy xv #ffxv #ffxv fanfiction #reader insert #fic #i'll say i love you until we get along #super freaknasty writing #management will return in a queue minutes

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drcolumbosnotepad · 7 years ago

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Being Mortal | When Breath Becomes Air | How We Die

The Fighting Temeraire - J.M.W. Turner

Introduction

Prelude III: Mortality – Santiago Wu

At the break of dawn begins a new day,

Now I am one with the world,

To be part of something greater, I pray.

All of us part of the same mystery unfurled.

Time past and time future,

Everything that came before,

To everything that follows.

All my love to long ago,

And my hopes for days to come.

Heart selfless, soul mindful.

Live, laugh, love —this the meaning of life?

My candle burns at both ends.

All the places I’ll never see,

All the people I’ll never know.

This might be how it ends.

Memento Mori - Remember that you have to die.

Vanitas – Philippe de Champaigne

Death is inextricably entwined with life, hidden in the shadows patiently waiting to take us on the day we take our last breath. Reading the accounts of dying men and women is truly humbling, whether it be in their twilight years or prematurely - death comes for all of us. All their stories and memories of human life and emotion: all the joy, love, laughter, tragedy, sorrow and regret willing us all to live more fulfilling, meaningful lives.

If I were a writer of books, I would compile a register, with a comment, of the various deaths of men: he who should teach men to die would at the same time teach them to live.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

I think you always know the moment when you finish a book whilst digesting the last words and the text as a whole, its impact and importance in your personal life. The books I am writing about all discuss mortality – a taboo topic normally hushed about and swept underneath carpets. To read and understand the writings of these books in such a raw and honest fashion was a welcome albeit overwhelming change in gear. These books have had a massive impact personally and have formed an epoch in my life and attitudes to life and death. Being Mortal by Atul Gawande When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi and How We Die by Sherwin Nuland are books which have the rare privilege of being read more than once, truly understood, annotated to grasp every fragment of detail of wisdom shared in their pages. The authors are doctors (American surgeons, all sons of immigrants). These men had the privilege and the burden of looking after and treating people with fatal illness in their daily practice. Their accounts are beautifully written, one from the perspective of a doctor looking after patients in their end of life and the other written as a patient facing his own death and one written in his twilight years recounting his medical practice and patients and sickness and death. I have heavily quoted all three books because I believe they offer profound wisdom which is literally life-affirming, in fact I have written this for myself as much as my reader in order to truly understand the essence of the lessons of what these three books and their themes can teach us.

I was first introduced to Atul Gawande from the 2014 Reith Lectures on BBC Radio 4 which were a series of four excellently given speeches on life, death and medicine. His deep research on medicine for the dying draws upon many different threads with a surgical precision. His striving to be better and to constantly improve is remarkable and sets a paragon of medical practice. I was humbled by his admissions and failures and his striving to be a better surgeon. The lectures provided a grounding to my burgeoning clinical experience and taught me to never take anything for granted – never to be complacent of my abilities because to have another human being’s life in your hands is a huge privilege which some say is playing god with a small ‘g’. He understands the fine line between offering false hope and deciding when to cut your losses which is never a clear choice. I immediately related to Paul Kalanithi’s love of literature. It is rare in medicine to meet someone who loves literature so much – stories of humanity, emotions ranging from highest peak to lowest ebb… I can tell this deep affection directly influenced his writing and indeed his medicine and approach to life. What made him unique was his relentless quest to search for life’s meaning. With his juggling of both art and science, I immediately remembered my own decision for choosing to enter medicine. Art reflects the universe whilst science explains it. Medicine married the two together. Though in modern medicine, science is king – like Paul Kalanithi, I have a strong affection for my first love of literature which I’ve come to realise expresses and sometimes even explains the universe in better ways than science can. Sherwin Nuland’s ground-breaking book How We Die has been mentioned in circles of medical humanities and referenced by Atul Gawande as the quintessential book on the medical viewpoint of death and mortality. It is easy to see why this book, though nearly thirty years old is still as relevant as ever today. The art of medicine has been revolutionised and become more efficient by multiple progressions and innovations in science and technology but at its heart remains the doctor-patient relationship which Sherwin Nuland writes about in a philosophical and humane way. He marries both medical science and the stories of his patients which from a medical point of view was an utter joy to read. Funny how things have changed since 1994 when Sherwin Nuland wrote his book and also how much they remain the same – sobering to know how despite our scientific and technological advances in medicine, our attitude towards death and dying patients is still primitive and myopic. In How We Die, Sherwin Nuland details the most common causes of death in the developed countries: cardiovascular disease, old age, stroke, infection, murder, HIV/AIDS, cancer in individual chapters with case studies based on his own patients or his family members.

The theme of death and mortality explored in these books led me to think a lot about them especially in my early medical career. When I first started this blog, I wrote of great figures in human history that have sadly left us and their medical conditions. From a great fighter to an entrepreneur to a musician, all were unique human beings with different qualities but what united all of them – and also us, is death. Death is something that is often misconstrued in our modern lives, whether we euphemise, sugar-coat or indeed fear it. The old saying of De mortuis nil nisi bonum or ‘Do not speak ill of the dead’ and Requiescat in pace or ‘Rest in Peace’ pervades our lives even today. We feel sadness when great figures die because of the finality of death – there is no return, we will never know what would have come next. We are reminded of our own lives and within our limited time we too are able to achieve something great. Of course, it is foolish to be able to condense every reference and understand them completely, that will take more than a lifetime to study, a Sisyphean task – death and ars moriendi (the art of dying) being perhaps the biggest and most universal theme of human life across all cultures. There are still works by Heidegger, Nietzsche, the Bible, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, I Ching, the Mahabharata, the Vedas, the Quran, countless poets, novelists, philosophers, scientists etc. that I haven't been able to read in this time, this of course is a study over generations upon generations who still are uncertain about the question of death. I cannot answer these questions death poses, there are mountains upon mountains I will need to ascend in order to catch the slightest glimpse of an understanding. I myself cannot even expect to offer the slightest bit of eloquence of my own voice – I elect instead to let great men and women do that for me for may I learn from them and one day pass on this knowledge. After spending the past year contemplating on death and mortality and reading around the topics from great accounts by humanity, I am certain that what this teaches us is the appreciation of life now in the present. None of us knows when we will die, only we know for certain that we will die. In our cycles of time, this is our time on Earth, our time to live. How we come to peace with death and our mortality is focus of these books I have mentioned and the lessons we can all learn from them.

As I child, I had devoured the Roald Dahl books like any other kid in school I loved his dark wit and unpatronizing creativity in his novels where they provided the first forays into my love for books and imagination. One thing always struck me in his books that I never truly understood until my youth, was his motto that preceded each and every one of his novels. I had a much loved, battered double copy of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory & Charlie and the Great Glass Elevator which I had read several times over. The motto that perplexed me well throughout my childhood was:

My candle burns at both ends it will not last the night. But oh my foes and ah my friends, it gives a lovely light!

How apt of Roald Dahl! Even in children's novels he never hid death from them – didn't the twits shrink away into nothingness and didn't James' parents get squashed by a rhinoceros? It's a beautiful motto, the transience and beauty of life condensed into four lines. When I look back over my life, over petty arguments, being let down and hurt by others, showing loved ones my worst side – I am deeply humbled. Life is short, I don't want it to be marred by acrimony and bitterness and regret. Those are the things that don't matter, the bitter pill you stow away at the back of the mind to learn a cruel lesson from and yet cringe at who you could be and hopefully were. There isn't room for such sourness, when you read the accounts of the dying – there is often the bittersweet feeling of regret and missed opportunity as seen in Top Five Regrets of the Dying by Bronnie Ware, a palliative care nurse.

https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2012/feb/01/top-five-regrets-of-the-dying

Here we must focus on the important things – the old sayings of ‘letting the little things go’, and ‘don’t sweat the small stuff’ are true. Do we hold a grudge to everybody who has wronged us? If that’s the case then we’d only hold a grudge to everybody because as Bob Marley said “The truth is everyone is going to hurt you. You just got to find the ones suffering for.” Life is too short for all of the pettiness and trivialities. Forgive and love, it’s the best antidote to bitterness and the best steps to self-love for through only loving ourselves can we love others.

Wherever your life ends, it is all there. The utility of living consists not in the length of days, but in the use of time; a man may have lived long, and yet lived but a little. Make use of time while it is present with you. It depends upon your will, and not upon the number of days, to have a sufficient length of life. Is it possible you can imagine never to arrive at the place towards which you are continually going? and yet there is no journey but hath its end. And, if company will make it more pleasant or more easy to you, does not all the world go the self-same way?

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die - Michel de Montaigne

The Starry Night - Vincent Van Gogh

Medicine and death

The Doctor – Sir Luke Fildes

“To me, the subject will be more pathetic than any, terrible perhaps, but yet more beautiful.”

Being mortal is about the struggle to cope with the constraints of our biology, with the limits set by genes and cells and flesh and bone. Medical science has given us remarkable power to push against these limits, and the potential value of this power was a central reason I became a doctor. But again and again, I have seen the damage we in medicine do when we fail to acknowledge that such power is finite and always will be.

We’ve been wrong about what our job is in medicine. We think our job is to ensure health and survival. But really it is larger than that. It is to enable well-being. And well-being is about the reasons one wishes to be alive. Those reasons matter not just at the end of life, or when debility comes, but all along the way. Whenever serious sickness or injury strikes and your body or mind breaks down, the vital questions are the same: What is your understanding of the situation and its potential outcomes? What are your fears and what are your hopes? What are the trade-offs you are willing to make and not willing to make? And what is the course of action that best serves this understanding?

The field of palliative care emerged over recent decades to bring this kind of thinking to the care of dying patients. And the specialty is advancing, bringing the same approach to other seriously ill patients, whether dying or not. This is cause for encouragement. But it is not cause for celebration. That will be warranted only when all clinicians apply such thinking to every person they touch. No separate specialty required.

If to be human is to be limited, then the role of caring professions and institutions – from surgeons to nursing homes – ought to be aiding people in their struggle with those limits. Sometimes we can offer a cure, sometimes only a salve, sometimes not even that. But whatever we can offer, our interventions, and the risks and sacrifices they entail, are justified only if they serve the larger aims of a person’s life. When we forget that, the suffering we inflict can be barbaric. When we remember it the good we do can be breathtaking.

I never expected that among the most meaningful experiences I’d have as a doctor – and, really, as a human being – would come from helping others deal with what medicine cannot do as well as what it can. But it’s proved true, whether with a patient like Jewel Douglass, a friend like Peg Bachelder, or someone I loved as much as my father.

Being Mortal – Atul Gawande p259-260

Having the medical perspective of death is something strangely inhuman. The first death with everyone is upsetting and everyone reacts in their own way. Yet witnessing death on a daily occurrence begins to offset this shock to the system, becoming a routine to which medical professional need to learn how to cope with death. Doctors and nurses in A&E departments don’t stop with each death, rather they move onto the next pressing case to attempt to succeed where they failed before. Paramedics share dark humour about death and gore in order to deal with what they see every day. Porters transporting the recently deceased to the morgue don’t cry over the tragedy. Pathologists inspecting the corpses of patients to determine a cause of death don’t become overwhelmed with grief. This desensitisation to death is a double-edged sword, it allows us to function when it should overwhelm us with grief yet does it detach us from our common human empathy, forgetting or indeed denying to ourselves what it feels like? Indeed, I remember my first deaths I saw as medical student, I have always been too guarded and perhaps too detached to cry but the spectre of death haunted me where I felt its presence after seeing a failed cardiac arrest or whilst on an ambulance shift seeing an old man surrounded by his family slowly stop breathing until there were no more breaths. Often, I have reminisced and dreamt about these experiences, I still remember them freshly and yet I still do not know my own thoughts and feelings on them.

As Atul Gawande shows in the second chapter aptly named Things Fall Apart – named after the Chinua Achebe novel which consequently was named after a line in the W.B. Yeats poem The Second Coming ‘Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;’ When we look at death as a cross sectional timeline we tend to map it in certain ways.

The first is the classic model of how we perceive our lives and death. The classic timeline of good health until old age – when health begins to deteriorate until death.

Advances in medical practice have allowed for previous fatal chronic diseases to be treated and hence the ebbing and flowing of improvements and exacerbations in health until senescence takes place. As each second becomes a minute, as each minute becomes an hour, as each hour becomes a day, as each day becomes a month, as each month becomes a year, as each year becomes a decade, we are all ageing with time. Senescence is defined as biological ageing – the gradual deterioration of function. If disease does not take us, then old age surely will.

The third graph Atul Gawande shares with us is the graph of old age, so often medicalised given the plethora of diseases that occur in one’s twilight years. Old age and dying is the primary subject matter of his book where our medical fiddling of patching over the punctures of disease becoming a long, slow fade towards death. How then can we prepare for the inevitable? With every new wrinkle and grey hair, we know we are inching towards old age. With the 150,000 people who die on earth each day, two-thirds are due to old age. In essence, it is a miracle that medical progress has taken us this far, as proposed by Abdul Omran an epidemiologist, quoted by Dr Jonathan Reiner in Dick Cheney’s book Heart, there are three progressive stages of population longevity in the USA: age of pestilence and famine, age of receding pandemics, the age of degenerative and man-made diseases. In our modern age, instead of infectious diseases being the predominant source of mortality in developed countries with the dawn of scientific breakthroughs such as vaccinations and nutritional improvements, this modern post-industrial age presents itself with ischaemic heart disease as the number one most common fatal disease – our new sedentary, calorific lives alongside the meddling of tobacco companies have surely contributed to this. Indeed, as Montaigne wrote in the late sixteenth century. “To die of age is a rare, singular, and extraordinary death, and so much less natural than others: it is the last and extremest kind of dying”. During Montaigne’s time the average life expectancy was nothing to the years we clock up in our modern times with the average age of death now in the UK as 81.60 years.

DNAR stands for Do Not Attempt Resuscitation, it is a form filled out that I have seen in hospitals for patients who are approaching the end of their life or if they are about to have a high risk procedure. The number of times I have seen the form filled out is countless and seeing it from the doctor's perspective as a medical necessity but seeing it from the, often, elderly patient's perspective you note a sign of resignation, fear and sadness. For these patients, they are forced to confront with what might be the end. Patients who are dying will often grieve over their borrowed time left.

The desensitisation of the significance of death from being in the medical field is an odd feeling. When something becomes routine, we become normalised to it. Countless times I have seen doctors and nurses, sign away the paperwork and send the patient to the morgue. My first time seeing someone die was indeed difficult – a cardiac arrest but there’s now a commonplace lack of novelty around death I have often wondered if I was losing my humanity.

I had started in this career, in part, to pursue death: to grasp it, unclear it, and see it eye-to-eye, unblinking. Neurosurgery attracted me as much for its intertwining of brain and consciousness as for its intertwining of life and death. I had thought that a life spent in the space between the two would grant me not merely a stage for compassionate action but an elevation of my own being: getting as far away from petty materialism, from self-important trivia, getting right there, to truly life-and-death decisions and struggles… surely a kind of transcendence would be found there?

But in residency, something else was gradually unfolding. In the midst of this barrage of head injuries, I began to suspect that being so close to the fiery light of such moments only blinded me to their nature, like trying to learn astronomy by staring directly at the sun. I was not yet with patients in their pivotal moments, I was merely at those pivotal moments. I observed a lot of suffering; worse, I became inured to it. Drowning, even in blood, one adapts, learns to afloat, to swim, even to enjoy life, bonding with the nurses, doctors, and others who are clinging to the same raft, caught in the same tide.

When Breath Becomes Air P80-2

This level of detachment I see from colleagues is understandable when we realise the alternative is to open ourselves up to our patients’ pain where we share their grief and predicament. The sheer heat of emotions we experience will also cloud our judgement that we may not be able to serve others who need our care in the best possible way. I remember a session on being taught ‘breaking bad news’ to patients where one horror story came from the doctor breaking down in front his patient and was in turn comforted by the very person he was meant to comfort. The abode to be cruel to be kind is commonplace in medicine, administering a vaccination to a young child, inserting needles to take blood from patients, using scalpels to open the flesh in surgery. There’s a lot of pain in medicine and being swamped and desensitised to it, to an outsider looking in, may see us as cold or inhuman. Indeed, I believed that too as a young medical student but now I realise, it’s just the only human response we can have.

But it is so very difficult to tell your patient that there is nothing more that can be done, that there is no hope left, that it is time to die. And then there is always the fear that you might be wrong, that maybe the patient is right to hope against hope, to hope for a miracle, and maybe you should operate one more time. It can become a sort of folie à deux, where both doctor and patient cannot bear reality.

…

I have learned over the years that when ‘breaking bad news’ as it is called, it is probably best to speak as little as possible. These conversations, by their very nature, are slow and painful and I must overcome my urge to talk and talk to fill the sad silence.

…

I drove away in a turmoil of confused emotions. I quickly became stuck in the rush-hour traffic, and furiously cursed the cars and their drivers as though it was their fault that this good and noble man should die and leave his wife a widow and his young children fatherless. I shouted and cried and stupidly hit the steering wheel with my fists. And I felt shame, not at my failure to save his life – his treatment had been as good as it could be – but at my loss of professional detachment and what felt like the vulgarity of my distress compared to his composure and his family’s suffering, to which I could only bear impotent witness.

Do No Harm – Henry Marsh P151-3

It is a horrible feeling, that somebody’s life is ruined and is at its near end, but we still have patients to treat, our own lives to lead and life goes on…That is the burden of our professional detachment. It’s a delicate fine line to balance upon, I do not suspect that doctors signing DNAR forms find it easy – whether they empathise with the patient’s resignation or whether they are starkly reminded of their own mortality. It is never easy, but the only way is to keep moving forward.

In the medical field, we have the enormous privilege of being with our patients in their lives from cradle to grave – at their strongest but also at their weakest, where the fear of their lives are in our hands. We are bound by a sacred confidentiality to protect our patients and our duty upheld by the four pillars of ethics: respect for autonomy, benevolence, non-maleficence and justice.

Sometimes it is forgotten the fear of what patients go through whether it be a simple medication, routine operation, or terminal diagnosis. The Kübler-Ross model is an oversimplified form of the stages of grief that patients will go through when faced with a terminal diagnosis though not necessarily in this order:

Denial

Anger

Bargaining

Depression

Acceptance

Although oversimplified, the stages give an indication and ballpark figure to gauge what emotions patients are feeling during this difficult time. This is a difficult time for all involved, one of the most if not the most testing time in our lives. This is because we are confronted the cruel finality of death. There won’t be another story following this, this is it – the final chapter. Atul Gawande interviews various medical professionals working in the field of palliative care – the specialty of terminal end of life care. Both Atul Gawande and Paul Kalanithi mention how doctors can bombard patients with information in order to provide informed consent – as both authors say “Doctor informative”, yet both realise the limitations of this approach where the anxiety of patients can be exacerbated by flooding of information when they still do not know how to compute the diagnosis just given.

The options overwhelmed her. They all sounded terrifying. She didn’t know what to do. I realized with shame, that I’d reverted back to being Dr Informative – here are the facts and figures; what do you want to do? So I stepped back and asked the questions I’d asked my father: What were her biggest fears and concerns? What goals were most important to her? What trade-offs was she willing to make, and what ones was she not?

Not everyone is able to answer such questions, but she did. She said she wanted to be without pain, nausea, or vomiting. She wanted to eat. Most of all, she wanted to get back on her feet. Her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be able to live life again and enjoy it – that she wouldn’t be able to return home and be with the people she loved.

As for what trade-offs she was willing to make, what sacrifices she was willing to endure now for the possibility of more time later, “Not a lot,” she said. Her perspective on time was shifting, focusing her on the present and those closest to her. She told me uppermost in her mind was a wedding that weekend that she was desperate not to miss. “Arthur’s brother is marrying my best friend,” she said. She’d set them up on their first date. Now the wedding was just two days away, on Saturday at 1:00 p.m. “It’s the best thing,” she said. Her husband was going to be the ring bearer. She was supposed to be a bridesmaid. She was willing to do anything to be there, she said.

The direction suddenly became clear. Chemotherapy had only a slim chance of improving her current situation and it came at substantial cost to the time she had now. An operation would never let her get to the wedding, either. So we made a plan to see if we could get her there. We’d have her come back afterward to decide on the next steps.

Being Mortal P234-5

In medicine, the aim is to minimise mortality. We aim to stay up to date with research and novel techniques in order to gain a more positive outcome for all of our patients through the use of scientific data. The Kaplan-Meier curve is an estimator of survival from lifetime data. It is used in medical research, it is used to measure the fraction of patients living for a certain amount of time after treatment. In both Being Mortal and When Breath Becomes Air, the Kaplan-Meier curve was referenced citing both its usefulness but also, its limitations. The Kaplan-Meier curve is purely an estimator and the trends it gives are too general for individual cases. For instance, who's to say that our patients will not fall in the unlucky few that the trend ignores? As seen in Paul Kalanithi's account:

The word hope first appeared in English about a thousand years ago, denoting some combination of confidence and desire. But what I desired – life – was not wat I was confident about – death. When I talked about hope, then, did I really mean, “Leave some room for unfounded desire?” No. Medical statistics not only describe numbers such as mean survival, they measure our confidence in our numbers, with tools like confidence levels, confidence intervals, and confidence bounds. So did I mean “Leave some room for a statistically improbably but still plausible outcome – a survival just above the measured 95 percent confidence interval?” Is that what hope was? Could we divide the curve into existential sections, from “defeated” to “pessimistic” to “realistic” to “hopeful” to “delusional”? Weren’t the numbers just the numbers? Had we all just given in to the “hope” that every patient was above average?

When Breath Becomes Air P133-4

Kaplan-Meier Curve example

Patients when faced with their terminal diagnosis usually do not want to discuss statistics and outcome data. The flawed approach of medical practice is often being in a medical echo chamber where we are within a bubble without yet realising there are patients who do not understand with what exactly they are going through. Most patients haven’t gone through medical training and are not well versed in medical jargon, the bombardment of information can flood the senses and alienate them.

Both Being Mortal and When Breath Becomes Air allude to a future of medicine that is more patient value driven. Of time becoming short and death imminent, what are your values? If you had a bucket-list - what would you place in your top 10, and which ones would you resign away and yet be okay if you didn’t get to complete them? Atul Gawande alludes to Daniel Kahneman’s fantastic book Thinking Fast and Slow which I cannot recommend highly enough. Here he refers to what is termed the Peak-End Rule where upon asking patients to recount an event whose memory has become blurred with time, what is remembered follows this rule. The ‘peak’ or the most memorable part of the event – i.e. a incredibly touching moment, a beautiful goal scored, a worst painful moment of a procedure, and the ‘End’ where we remember the concluding moments of the event. For example, during the 2002 World Cup qualifiers – I remember vividly David Beckham scoring the equalising goal against Greece to send England into the finals. The game had its moments but was a poor performance from the England team. Greece were leading England 2-1 into the 93rd minute and it looked like England were out of the World Cup. Then England were awarded a free kick, and what happened next was history. Even as a seven-year-old, my memories of watching that rather drab football match were elevated considerably in literally the dying seconds of David Beckham scoring that free kick. Atul Gawande notes the story we write ourselves – the narrative of our life. For human beings, life is meaningful because it is a story. A story has a sense of a whole, and its arc is determined by the significant moments, the ones where something happens. We distinguish our experiencing self – which is absorbed in the moment with the remembering self – recognising the peaks of joy and valleys of misery but also how the story works out as a whole. As we know from all stories, endings matter. And no more so than the ending of our lives.

In Abraham Maslow’s A Theory of Human Motivation, it is proposed there is a hierarchy of needs with basic needs for physiological survival, and safety at the bottom, above this is the need for love and belonging, and above this is the desire for growth – attaining personal goals, mastering knowledge and skills, recognition and reward for our achievements. At the crest of the pyramid of this hierarchy of needs is what Maslow terms ‘self-actualization’ – self-fulfilment through pursuit of moral ideals and creativity for their own sake. This is all good and well when we believe we are invincible – everybody wants to live forever but once faced with death – what then becomes important to you?

How we seek to spend our time may depend on how much time we perceive ourselves to have. When you are young and healthy, you believe you will live forever. You do not worry about losing any of your capabilities. People tell you “the world is your oyster,” “the sky is the limit,” and so on. And you are willing to delay gratification – to invest years, for example, in gaining skills and resources for a brighter future. You seek to plug into bigger streams of knowledge and information. You widen your networks of friends and connections, instead of hanging out with your mother. When horizons are measured in decades, which might as well be infinity to human beings, you most desire all that stuff at the top of Maslow’s pyramid – achievement, creativity, and other attributes of “self-actualization.” But as your horizons contract – when you see the future ahead of you as finite and uncertain – your focus shifts to the here and now, to everyday pleasures and the people closest to you.

Being Mortal p97

We need to discuss what is important to a patient who is dying with the utmost importance, we know what one wants at twenty will be drastically different to what one wants at sixty. Similarly, what one wants now may be completely different to six months down the line, all of this even more important now that time is running out and its finite sands trickling away.

Arriving at an acceptance of one’s mortality and a clear understanding of the limits and the possibilities of medicine is a process, not an epiphany.

...

“I wish things were different.”

“If time becomes short, what is most important to you?”

Being Mortal P182

We so often deprive the elderly of choice with regimented medication schedules and restriction of even going outside the house for fear of them falling of injuring themselves. Even in this age of patient-centred care, what hasn’t been realised is what the patient wants. It is this failure in health to recognise that the sick and aged have priorities beyond merely being safe and living longer; that the chance to shape one’s story is essential to sustaining meaning in life.

Wants are fickle. And everyone has what philosophers call “second-order desires” – desires about our desires. We may wish, for instance to be less impulsive, more healthy, less controlled by primitive desires like fear or hunger, more faithful to larger goals. Doctors who listen to only the momentary, first-order desires may not be serving their patients’ real wishes, after all. We often appreciate clinicians who push us when we make shortsighted choices, such as skipping our medications or not getting enough exercise. And often adjust to changes we initially fear. At some point, therefore it becomes not only right but also necessary for a doctor to deliberate with people on their larger goals, to even challenge them to rethink ill-considered priorities and beliefs.

Being Mortal p202

It is this independence and autonomy that gives a patient their dignity – their freedom and their choice to do how they wish. I think everyone wishes to be treated with respect and have their own freedom in their end of years, it is only human to do so. All it takes is basic human empathy to realise how we treat our elderly patients and elderly family members and friends and understand the golden rule in religion: Treat others how you want to be treated.

Medicine, now no less than then, is the art of nurturing the sick to a state of health and recognizing when it is impossible to do so. Should that be the case, ways must be found to de-medicalize the final weeks or days, to nurture the dying and those who love them, and by this means to nurture ourselves. The real truth of healing lies in the nurture.

How We Die P288

All we ask is to be allowed to remain the writers of our own story. That story is ever changing. Over the course of our lives, we may encounter unimaginable difficulties. Our concerns and desires may shift. But whatever happens, we want to retain the freedom to shape our lives in ways consistent with our character and loyalties.

This is why the betrayals of body and mind that threaten to erase our character and memory remain among our most awful tortures. The battle of being mortal is the battle to maintain the integrity of one’s life – to avoid becoming so diminished or dissipated or subjugated that who you are becomes disconnected from who you were or who you want to be. Sickness and old age make the struggle hard enough. The professionals and institutions we turn to should not make it worse. But we have last entered an era in which an increasing number of them believe their job is not to confine people’s choices, in the name of safety, but to expand them, in the name of living a worthwhile life.

Being Mortal p140-141

The Dance of Death

Unity of death

Michel de Montaigne, a figure so renowned he earned his place in history as one of Ralph Waldo Emerson’s Reputable Men thought deeply about death and mortality amongst other topics and emphasises this point with profound eloquence. His Essay “That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die” is a serene meditation of death and life that expresses the contemplation of death far more eloquently than I could ever do it justice.

—let us learn bravely to stand our ground, and fight him. And to begin to deprive him of the greatest advantage he has over us, let us take a way quite contrary to the common course. Let us disarm him of his novelty and strangeness, let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing so frequent in our thoughts as death.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

Each of us is facing the same fate; all of us united in the face of death. To death, none of us knows how to react really. Yet we know it's there hanging before us, like Cicero's account of the Sword of Damocles. Nothing in life is ever guaranteed. Our memories of the past and our hope for the future. To our love to long ago and our love for days to come.

I began to realise that coming in such close contact with my own mortality had changed both nothing and everything. Before my cancer was diagnosed, I knew that someday I would die, but I didn’t know when. After the diagnosis, I knew that someday I would die, but I didn’t know when. But now I knew it acutely. The problem wasn’t really a scientific one. The fact of death is unsettling. Yet there is no other way to live.

When Breath Becomes Air P132

Across all cultures from the Mexican tradition of Dia de Muertos (All Souls Day) and Hallowe’en – a contraction of All Hallows’ Evening, Chinese tradition of the Ghost Festival (盂蘭節), Pitri Paksha (पितृ पक्ष) or fortnight of the ancestors, the Japanese term mono no aware (物の哀れ) or the pathos of things. The veneration of the dead where descendants pay their respects to their ancestors is shared across all cultures, no matter the difference in our tongues.

We all strive to understand the mystery of death, where do we go after we die? Will this love survive of us? Was my life a life well spent? These questions are universal and unanswerable. The only thing we know for certain is the only time we have is in the present.

The fear in life is to live a life unspent. Regret is the cruellest wound, like in T.S. Eliot’s narrator in The Love Song of J.Alfred Prufrock, the stings of missed opportunities and paralysing neuroticism tinges the poem with the bitterness of living a life like his.

“We bones, lying here bare, await yours.” in Capela dos Ossos

Vita brevis breviter in brevi finietur,

mors venit velociter quae neminem veretur,

omnia mors perimit et nulli miseretur.

Ad mortem festinamus peccare desistamus.

Life is short, it will end; Death comes quickly and respects no one, It destroys everything and has no mercy. To death we are hastening let us refrain from sinning.

Ad Mortem Festinamus from the Llibre Vermell de Montserrat

There is our fear and loathing against death – like Beethoven shaking his fist at the thunderstorm on his deathbed, or Dylan Thomas’ plea to his dying father. How many of us have been deprived of our future and dreams by lives cut short. Life is never fair when the good may suffer and the evil may revel. We’re all victim to death’s blind snatching of us.

Do not go gentle into that good night,

Old age should burn and rave at close of day;

Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Do not go gentle into that good night

- Dylan Thomas

The final monologue of Pozzo in Waiting for Godot notes the cruelty of ephemeral life and a resounding cry against death and old age in his final lines in the play:

POZZO:

(suddenly furious.) Have you not done tormenting me with your accursed time! It's abominable! When! When! One day, is that not enough for you, one day he went dumb, one day I went blind, one day we'll go deaf, one day we were born, one day we shall die, the same day, the same second, is that not enough for you? (Calmer.) They give birth astride of a grave, the light gleams an instant, then it's night once more. (He jerks the rope.) On! Exeunt Pozzo and Lucky. Vladimir follows them to the edge of the stage, looks after them. The noise of falling, reinforced by mimic of Vladimir, announces that they are down again. Silence. Vladimir goes towards Estragon, contemplates him a moment, then shakes him awake.

Waiting For Godot – Act 2 – Samuel Beckett

Such in life, what we make of it is how we live. We cannot be overwhelmed by life's brevity, from the Buddhist concept of anicca (impermanence) there is still meaning to be found in life with our families and friends and our fellow human beings. Do resign ourselves to the disillusionment with the disregard of the cosmos like Meursault in Albert Camus’ L’Etranger? We can be all too paralysed with a myopic view upon death where we creep ever deeper into the rabbit-hole of existential crisis, unable to see the wood for the trees. Being inevitable, countless philosophers and wise thinkers have argued our fear of death is pointless. There is a fine line one treads between accepting death resignedly and passively overwhelmed by the indifference of the universe or fearing death.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KXxw-zXRqOs

And which of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life’s span?

Luke 12:25

Yet death is scary, it’s terrifying in fact. It’s the finality of death that makes it so powerful and why it has been feared by our ancestors generations and generations before us. Being aware of our death makes us fearful of how we wish to live, what we wish to achieve, the opportunities we see hanging before us – the most powerful impulse in our life. We cannot escape it through fear because death is the one thing we cannot run away from. Though fear remains, it isn’t the fear of the mystery of death rather the fear of what we may not be able to do, achieve, live in our limited time on Earth.

Such is the importance of the philosophy of how we decide to live our lives, whether it is through religion, philosophy, family, community etc. we need to find meaning in our lives because our days are numbered and we need to make them count.

As Matt Haig argues in his beautiful book Reasons Not To Die “We can just use it in life. For instance, I find that being grimly aware of mortality can make me steadfastly determined to enjoy life where life can be enjoyed. It makes me value precious moments with my children, and with the woman I love. It adds intensity in bad ways, but also good ways.”

Reasons Not To Die – Matt Haig

No matter how brief our lives are, we can still find beauty in its brevity like mayflies rising and falling where we can choose to make it a life well spent. I think all of us face this existential question at some point in our lives where we feel the sands of time trickling away or facing abject boredom as Heidegger describes facing anxiety over your life’s meaning: “Profound boredom, drifting here and there in the abysses of our existence like a muffling fog, removes all things and men and oneself along with it into a remarkable indifference.” It is this boredom when we feel the fear of a conditional life never spent. Boredom I feel is the directionless passivity of allowing yourself to be swept up by the tides and waves of time. That’s why it’s so important to have a purpose, values in life that can steer yourself to a destination where you want to reach. Carpe Diem as the old saying goes, “I am not throwing away my shot!,”

So teach us to number our days, that we may present to You a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12

“The universe is not pregnant with life nor the biosphere with man…Man at last knows that he is alone in the unfeeling immensity of the universe, out of which he emerged only by chance. His destiny is nowhere spelled out, nor is his duty. The kingdom above or the darkness below; it is for him to choose”

Jacques Monod

Ageing and growing old

People want to share memories, pass on wisdoms and keepsakes, settle relationships, establish their legacies, make peace with God, and ensure that those who are left behind will be okay. They want to end their stories on their own terms.

Being Mortal p249

I’ve spoken to elderly patients in the hospital who are simply waiting, waiting to be seen, waiting for treatment, hopefully waiting for the family and friends that never visit. I’ve found myself guiltily detaching myself from the history taking after an hour and a half which I’ve allowed to go on for so long (the history is expected to be taken in less than 10 minutes) because I simply know that they have no one else to speak to, and I may be the only comfort they have in a place that’s too busy for them. It’s a pitiable state and I tried not to realise myself in their situation too much because I very much fear that – the loneliness of existence, your children not even bothering to pay a visit and the doctors and nurses too busy for you, may be me one day. I remember when I was volunteering at an elderly care home on every Sunday afternoon during my teenage years, this being the same care home my Grandmother went to during her twilight years, I always remembered the staff being especially friendly whenever we visited Granny and in volunteering there I hoped I could give something back to their support they gave her. Stepping into the care home, after a few months of volunteering a strange realisation dawned on me. I had never seen any of the residents’ relatives. Of course, this might be down to chance on a Sunday afternoon window where I may have missed them but the look on the residents’ faces betrayed that. They were always ecstatic (which admittedly unnerved me a little initially) whenever I came always eager to share their stories with me. Some weeks they would forget who I was briefly then the slow recognition of who I was as I handed over their tea. I saw the cruelty of dementia threatening to deprive them of their memories and realised then why they wanted to pass on their stories so eagerly so that they may never be forgotten. I met wonderful people there including one Joan Regan who struck me as a woman who was very beautiful in her prime. Joan recounted stories of her youth and her singing career with joy as I listened eagerly. Then one day after locking my bike and getting ready to serve the tea and biscuits, I realised that there was one person missing from the round. Joan wasn’t there. I heard from one of the nurses that she had passed away earlier in the week. The surprising snatching of life at death’s hands came once again, the void Joan left in that room was never filled again.

The specialty of geriatrics is the care for elderly patients i.e. all patients over the age of 65 and gerontology which is the study of the ageing process itself. The care for the elderly is in itself its own specialty given the increased complexity of the decreased physiological reserve the elderly have which in turn presents with increased complications with problems and disease. Many of these elderly patients are on polypharmacy – on a number of different drugs, many of which are to treat the side effects of a certain toxic effect of another, as Paracelsus said: Alle Dinge sind Gift, und nichts ist ohne Gift, allein die Dosis macht dass ein Ding kein Gift ist. All things are poison, and nothing is without poison, the dosage alone makes it so a thing is not a poison. The drugs which treat are also poisonous and hence strict monitoring of the medication is needed for fear of pushing a patient’s condition into a worse state by iatrogenic problems – problems caused by medical interference.

How we monitor the care for the elderly is measuring their activities of daily living (ADLs), a group of eight markers of basic physical independence: toileting, eating, bathing, grooming, get out of bed, get out of a chair, walking. After often a prolonged stay in hospital, the worst thing to do would be to discharge a patient unable to perform these ADLs independently and hence cause themselves further harm. A study by the University of Minnesota found elderly patients under the care of a geriatrics team were a quarter less likely to become disabled and half as likely to develop depression. This is remarkable, and it is clear why, geriatric teams have set out especially to treat the needs of the elderly and the problems of ageing which other specialties overrun with political and economic burdens on their health systems may overlook.

…In almost none does anyone sit down with you and try to figure out what living a life really means to you under the circumstances, let alone help you make a home where that life becomes possible.

This is the consequence of society that faces the final phase of the human life cycle by trying not to think about it. We end up with institutions that address any number of societal goals – from freeing up hospital beds to taking burdens off families’ hands to coping with poverty among the elderly – but never the goal that matters to the people who reside in them: how to make life worth living when we’re weak and frail and can’t fend for ourselves anymore.

Being Mortal p76-77

The values we see in young children and values which have been handed down over the years: filial piety, mutual respect, treating your neighbour as if you wish to be treated yourself, kindness, gratitude etc. These values are old and they count for something important for they teach us how to live meaningfully. The Japanese have the terms Hanami (flower viewing) where the cherry blossoms start to bloom and Momijigari (leaf peeping) in which the flowers of summer turn into a deep autumnal maple red. There’s a dignity and great beauty in entering the autumn of our years. Such are the seasons of time, we rise, and we fall for the new generation to take its place.

In our ageing population, where in the UK over 10 million are aged 65 or over, these values have never been more important. The elderly population face the trials and tribulations of old age which is a slow frustrating taunt where you slowly become more and more aware of your limitations of your failing body. The circle of life where you are dependent as a child, growing into an independent adult at our zenith, only to become reluctantly dependent in old age. As our grandparents and parents enter their autumnal years, it is key that we are always there for them. Though they may walk a little slower, stoop in their posture, their hearing and eyesight slowly diminish, they are still our heads of our family – the wise voices from the past who have learnt from experience and mistakes as they learnt from their forefathers passing on valuable advice for us in our generation now so that we may pass it on to our future generations.

youtube

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VkoDUFNRqpw&feature=youtu.be&app=desktop

The fear is being in the predicament of those poor, elderly patients I have seen in hospital all alone. I cannot help but feel an indignant anger towards their children, how they have failed in their duties as children. And how we have failed as a society that we allow the old to die scared and lonely? Have we become a less compassionate world? I see the arrogance of the young, a contempt for the old and sick by princelings and little princesses spoiled into becoming narcissists who only care for their own needs? When we evaluate how we treat our elders in society and family, our lack of empathy and the lack of dignity we give them is appalling in many cases. The medicalisation of ageing where we sedate them with drugs and try to quiet down their ‘delirium’ whilst worst of abandoning them to isolation whereby we blame their limitations on them.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ww8CH62FZB0

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RFc19I3flJM

The elderly still have a lot to offer us, they are not castaways who no longer have any use in society – that is false. We are entering tumultuous, fearful times ahead in our world, we need their patient guiding hands to show us the way who have gone through difficult times themselves. In our age of nuclear families, we have slowly cut off from our parents and grandparents in the extended family model. This deprives us of an extended kinship that grandparents, uncles, aunts, cousins, family friends that can provide vital support to the family. No man is an island after all. Young men and women will speak with their grandparents and know that one day the same fate of ageing awaits them, a humbleness to forces greater than all of us and that we all want the same thing – a meaningful life well spent.

When we take photos, record in a diary, compile an album, we are trying to save the moment, whether it be a child’s first steps, a wedding, a graduation, these are the accumulation of memories that may fondly remembered for future days. Nostalgia and poignancy colour our past days so that we can affirm to ourselves that our days were not in vain.

No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main. If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bells tolls; it tolls for thee.

Meditation XVII – Now, this bell tolling softly for another, says to me: Thou must die - John Donne

Time and Life

What a ridiculous thing it is to trouble ourselves about taking the only step that is to deliver us from all trouble! As our birth brought us the birth of all things, so in our death is the death of all things included. And therefore to lament that we shall not be alive a hundred years hence, is the same folly as to be sorry we were not alive a hundred years ago. Death is the beginning of another life. So did we weep, and so much it cost us to enter into this, and so did we put off our former veil in entering into it. Nothing can be a grievance that is but once. Is it reasonable so long to fear a thing that will so soon be despatched? Long life, and short, are by death made all one; for there is no long, nor short, to things that are no more.

That to Study Philosophy is to Learn to Die – Michel de Montaigne

Did we lament the fact we weren’t alive during the Hanging Gardens of Babylon, the Enlightenment, or Woodstock? Do we lament that will not be alive when the futuristic flying automobiles and hoverboards of Back to the Future II will finally be available? It is a fool’s errand to do so. How lucky we are to be living in our times, over the course of history this is our time to live and breathe – how wonderful it is to feel this gratitude of being alive now? As in Lin Manuel Miranda’s smash hit Hamilton, in the song The Schuyler Sisters – there are words that leave their mark on this gratitude of the present tense. “Look around. Look around. At how lucky we are to be alive right now!”

You were dead for billions of years before you were born, and it didn't bother you one bit. You will be dead for billions more. Your life is an aberration. Enjoy it.

- Mark Twain

“The race of men is like the race of leaves. As one generation flourishes, another decays.”

- Homer

“There is a ripeness of time for death, regarding others as well as ourselves, when it is reasonable we should drop off, and make room for another growth. When we have lived our generation out, we should not wish to encroach on another.”

-Thomas Jefferson

Old men must die; or the world would grow moldy, would only breed the past again.

- Tennyson

It is through the eyes of youth that everything is constantly being seen anew and rediscovered with the advantage of knowing what has gone before; it is youth that is not mired in the old ways of approaching the challenges of this imperfect world. Each new generation yearns to prove itself – and, in proving itself, to accomplish great things for humanity. Among living creatures, to die and leave the stage is the way of nature – old age is the preparation for departure, the gradual easing out of life that makes its ending more palatable not only for the elderly but for those also they leave the world in trust.

How We Die P87

“Give place to others, as others have given place to you.”

- Michel de Montaigne

https://www.youtube.com/watch?time_continue=4&v=yRJBuNwQwzc

How lucky we are to be alive, and what a privilege it is to pass it on. No one can live forever, we should not lament that fact but rather seize life and live it – carpe diem before our time ends.

Everyone hopes to die peacefully and painlessly – I remember even as children we asked each other the question what would be the best type of death? And as morbid eight-year olds that we were, we all agreed to die in one’s sleep would be the ideal departure from this earth. So then with the increasing life expectancy and improved medical care from the dawn of the miracle of modern day medicine, our lives have become more stable as a result and the chance infection or illness to snatch away our lives is now much less common. This presents with a new set of challenges that Atul Gawande talks about namely the notion of how we die. This view has been romanticised and dramatized that our own expectations of the nature of our deaths has become something of a myth. Death presents itself as one of the factors beyond our otherwise controllable lives and this places a much larger emphasis on ars moriendi – the art of dying.

Sherwin Nuland suggests:

“Death with dignity” is our society’s expression of the universal yearning to achieve a graceful triumph over the stark and often finality of life’s last splutterings.

But the fact is, death is not a confrontation. It is simply an event in the sequence of nature’s ongoing rhythms. Not death but disease is the real enemy, disease the malign force that requires confrontation. Death is the surcease that comes when the exhausting battle has been lost. Even the confrontation with disease should be approached with the realization that many of the sicknesses of our species are simply conveyances for the inexorable journey by which each of us is returned to the same state of physical, and perhaps, spiritual, nonexistence from which we emerged at conception. Every triumph over some major pathology, no matter how ringing the victory, is only a reprieve from the inevitable end.

How We Die P10

The patient dies alone among strangers: well-meaning, empathetic, determinedly committed to sustaining his life – but strangers nonetheless. There is no dignity here. By the time these medical Samaritans have ceased their strenuous struggles, the room is strewn with the debris of the lost campaign, more so even than was McCarty’s on that long-ago evening of his death. In the center of the devastation lies a corpse, and it has lost all interest for those, who moments earlier, were straining to be the deliverers of the man whose spirit occupied it.

How We Die P41

When we begin to focus on death, there is an ethical slippery slope of the myth of the good death. In certain societies such as in Holland and Switzerland who have legalised assisted dying there is the worry is that this normalise euthanasia and medicalises old age – where we’re left with a dystopian Logan’s Run scenario. There is no clear answer like any other ethical question, Sir Stephen Hawking himself who said “Where there is life, there is hope” has also said “To keep someone alive against their wishes is the ultimate indignity,” and has spoken out in support of assisted dying. There is no clear answer. In the UK, euthanasia is illegal – but there are so many levels of this question it is impossible to have a complete blanket law for everyone because all cases are not the same.

Our ultimate goal, after all, is not a good death but a good life to the very end.

Being Mortal p245

Assisted living is far harder than assisted death, but its possibilities are far greater, as well

Being Mortal p245

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dV6fDJi_6ns

When afflicted by disease and ageing, dying becomes less in line with dignity. We lose control and may forget who we are, we become incontinent, forgetful, weak, short of breath and in pain. Sherwin Nuland argues dignity in death is very rare, there’s the view we’ll be stoic and transcend our circumstances but within the destructive effects of disease this becomes near impossible.

Though the hour of death itself is commonly tranquil and often preceded by blissful unawareness, the serenity is usually bought at a fearful price – and the price is the process by which we reach that point. There are some who manage to achieve moment of nobility in which they somehow transcend the indignities being visited on them, and these moments are to be cherished. But such intervals do not lessen the distress over which they briefly triumph. Life is dappled with period of pain, and for some of us is suffused with it. In the course of ordinary living, the pain is mitigated by periods of peace and times of joy. In dying, however, there is only the affliction. Its brief respites and ebbs are known always to be fleeting and soon succeeded by a recurrence of the travail. The peace, and sometimes the joy, that may come occurs with the release. In this sense, there is often a serenity – sometimes even a dignity – in the act of death, but rarely in the process of dying.

And so, if the classic image of dying with dignity must be modified or even discarded, what is to be salvaged of our hope for the final memories we leave to those who love us? The dignity that we seek in dying must be found in the dignity with which we have lived our lives. Ars moriendi is ars vivendi: The art of dying is the art of living. The honesty and grace of the years of life that are ending is the real measure of how we die. It is not in the last weeks or days that we compose the message that will be remembered, but in all the decades that preceded them. Who has lived in dignity, dies in dignity.

How We Die P268

Themes of death and mortality place life in perspective. Everything that is good is appreciated anew and all the bad and negativities don’t leave their impact that they used to. Not sweating the small stuff and letting the little things go comes from seeing the big picture. When we’re confronted with our mortality, we realise time is limited and that comes with getting the house in order, making sure what we leave behind will be better than before and our loved ones will be okay when we’re gone.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XTvTLGkWYMU

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xuGwJs6NLw4

It’s the lesson of life to always be humble. The measure of a person is not how much they know but their confession of how much they do not know. Being humble is the key to constantly improving and striving to make things better for the future. Arrogance and pride can lead to a wave of egocentric complacency which blinds them to the crash that awaits them. By admitting our limitations to greater forces, admitting our own positions as mere mortals can we then realise the folly of playing god. Like the woman in Bob Dylan’s Like a Rolling Stone, karma is a cruel punishment for the proud.

`My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings: Look on my works, ye mighty, and despair!'

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare, The lone and level sands stretch far away".

Percy Bysshe Shelley

No one knows when their time will be cut short. In When Breath Becomes Air and Mortality by Christopher Hitchens. Both men were afflicted with the emperor of all maladies: cancer. The age-old question of why death comes prematurely denying one of a peaceful death – Why me? The answer: Why not?

In Jean-Dominique Bauby’s poetic and moving account The Diving Bell & The Butterfly, where he is afflicted with locked-in-syndrome – due to a brainstem lesion leaving him unable to move or talk, imprisoning him in his own body. It is something that I can imagine that would be like a living hell. He communicated through blinks to write his memoir and not a word was wasted. It is a beautiful book filled with pastime memories, regret and the daily routine of his new life. Life isn’t fair especially for these men, but their message they leave, is never to take anything for granted for human life is fragile and nothing is guaranteed, and your fortunes may change in an instant.

This examination of mortality has been since the times of Thomas Browne’s Religio Medici (The Religion of a Doctor) a hugely influential book that showcased his own thoughts and philosophy of medicine that elevated the profession to an art.

…this is indeed not to feare death, but yet to bee afraid of life. It is a brave act ofvalour to contemne death, but where life is more terrible than death, it is then the truest valour to dare to live, and herein Religion hath taught us a noble example: For all the valiant acts of Curtius, Scevola or Codrus, do not parallel or match that one of Job; and sure there is no torture to the rack of a disease, nor any Poynyards in death it selfe like those in the way or prologue unto it. Emori nolo, sed me esse mortuum nihil curo, I would not die, but care not to be dead. Were I of Cæsars Religion I should be of his desires, and wish rather to goe off at one blow, then to be sawed in peeces by the grating torture of a disease. Men that looke no further than their outsides thinke health an appertinance unto life, and quarrell with their constitutions for being sick; but I that have examined the parts of man, and know upon what tender filaments that Fabrick hangs, doe wonder that we are not alwayes so; and considering the thousand dores that lead to death doe thanke my God that we can die but once…

Religio Medici Section 43– Thomas Browne

In modern medicine, we have lost the fundamentals of what it is to treat the sick. We have forgotten what it means to have the privilege to speak with and treat our patients. Sometimes have to look back to remember how to realise the future. The age-old duty-bound Hippocratic oath of medicine and its interpolation of Primum non nocere – first do no harm, embedded in a sacred duty for our patients which is at the very centre of medical practice.

http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/body/hippocratic-oath-today.html

In modern malpractice, the fellow humanity of our patients is often forgotten and eroded away to meet the target of cold political drives. The NHS (National Health Service) remains a remnant of the post-WWII desire by Aneurin Bevan to establish a brave new world – a better future for all of humanity to never face the horrors inflicted again. Free healthcare to the point of care where healthcare is a right not just a privilege for the few. I am proud of being part of the NHS and yet fearful for its future. What foundation of this wonderful system laid out in The Citadel by AJ Cronin and the fight against corruption before the NHS. I was gifted this wonderful novel by my Argentine school tutor who always was there to support me through quite a tumultuous time during my schooldays. I am very grateful for all his support and how teachers like himself are so rare nowadays, it is fitting he left me such an inspirational book to carry me forward. Seeing the NHS in crisis by political machinations makes us all realise what a special thing we have and something we should all fight for.

This anxiety and disillusionment I can see with my own eyes the day to day dismantling of what was a sacred institution and to witness the very best of humanity. In medicine, the litigation and blame culture has demanded nothing less than perfect in a beautifully imperfect human service during this consumerist age where the customer is always right because they are ‘entitled’ to the service and profit is always prioritised over people. Atul Gawande and Sherwin Nuland note this in America where Medical professionals concentrate on repair of health, not sustenance of the soul and an experiment in social engineering, putting our fates in the hands of people valued more for their technical prowess than for their understanding of human needs. When I first enrolled in medical school, I was full of giddy excitement which was soon replaced with shock then anger then disillusionment. Many of the medical students I have encountered have been difficult to say the least, of course there are countless that are lovely, beautiful, amazing human beings, yet I cannot help but feel the new age of medicine is recruiting technocrats and vastly intelligent, bright individuals yet lack basic human empathy and humility. Some of the arrogance I have witnessed has been disgusting, the blatant disrespect to others, the objectification of a patient as a mere lump of flesh by others has left me seething and wondering how and indeed why these people choose to become doctors? Unfortunately, this is something I think will only continue, the admission process can only be measured in certain ways – examination scores, grades, yet what is not and cannot be measured is the human behind the paper. The very same predicament is happening with the health system, overrun with middle men and managers who clock and measure every shred of data in order to assess performance. As Sherwin Nuland wrote in his coda to How We Die in 2010 shortly before he died:

Much of the reconfiguration of health care has been hijacked by economic needs.

…

In this New medicine, everything must be measurable. It must come in the form of a datum, to be commingled with other data in order to make the entire group of facts susceptible to quantification and analysis. Empathy, autonomy, caring, and simple unhurried kindness are not measurable and so become swept away as encumbrances to quantifiable efficiency. The individual patient, along with the complexities of his medical and human problems, is rendered invisible and inaudible by being hidden under the collective weight of some researcher’s or bureaucrat ’s protocol. Nowhere is this suffocation more effective than in stifling the care, counsel, and decision-making of those who are dying.

How We Die P279

I see some of my peers and the immense pressure they’re under – whether it be familial or institutional and often give them the ‘benefit of the doubt’ but finding myself under the same pressures I, in a lapse of my own better judgement when I forget who I’m speaking to could be my family member or a close friend, a fellow human being, and instead as mere tools to fulfil checkbox ticks proving my ‘competencies’. Whenever patients wanted to talk more about something but finding myself more preoccupied with looming examinations and hence not giving them the time I should have, or being frustrated a patient executing their right to not be seen and examined after having countless other medical students and doctors looking at their pathology. I am deeply ashamed of myself that I myself have fallen into this trap of forgetting the humanity of medicine – becoming Tolstoy’s stereotype of a doctor.

At the end, we and those who surround us cannot allow ourselves to fall victim to the imposed conditions of regimented men and women who would have us die under the unnatural conditions of a medical, economic, and bureaucratic order in which humanity and love have no place.

How We Die P282

There was no likelihood of guidance, or even understanding, from Harvey’s doctors, who had by then shown themselves to be untouchably aloof and self-absorbed. They seemed too distanced from the truth of their own emotions to have any sense of ours. As I watched them strutting importantly from room to room on their cursory rounds, I would find myself feeling almost grateful for the tragedies in my life that had helped me be unlike them.

How We Die P226

The doctor said that so-and-so indicated that there was so-and-so inside the patient, but if the investigation of so and-so did not confirm this, then he must assume that and that. If he assumed that and that, then…and so on. To Ivan Ilych only one question was important: was his case serious or not? But the doctor ignored that inappropriate question. From his point of view it was not the one under consideration, the real question was to decide between a floating kidney, chronic catarrh, or appendicitis… From the doctor’s summing up Ivan Ilych concluded that things were bad, but that for the doctor, and perhaps for everybody else, it was a matter of indifference, though for him it was bad. And this conclusion struck him painfully, arousing in him a great feeling of pity for himself and of bitterness towards the doctor’s indifference to a matter of such importance…He said nothing of this, but rose, placed the doctor’s fee on the table, and remarked with a sigh: “We sick people probably often put inappropriate questions. But tell me, in general, is this complaint dangerous, or not?…” The doctor looked at him sternly over his spectacles with one eye, as if to say: “Prisoner, if you will not keep to the questions put to you, I shall be obliged to have you removed from the court.” “I have already told you what I consider necessary and proper. The analysis may show something more.”

The Death of Ivan Ilyich - Chapter 4

We offer patients hope in medicine, whenever they are anxious, scared or pessimistic. There is always the possibility things can improve and get better. “Hope is itself a species of happiness, and perhaps the chief happiness which this world affords,” - Samuel Johnson. We must never allow our patients and loved ones lose hope – that we learn early on especially when dealing with patients who are dying. However, when we talk about death with a loved one or a close friend or a patient, and when knowing the condition is terminal, by offering white lies and false hope – we are doing them a disservice. But when there is nothing else to be done, instead of another investigation or procedure that will certainly prove to have the same result – the preparation and openness to talk about death is needed. Death after all is an event, we all must experience it at some point sooner or later. By not being open with our patients and loved ones, we are doing them a disservice – depriving them of their last wishes, their legacies they want to leave behind and the comfort of their loved ones when they go. It is this abandonment that Ivan Ilyich so feels when he is lied to from his doctor and his family about his fatal condition, being kept in the dark and helpless with no one to understand or help. Sherwin Nuland talks about one of his patients who is dying and the preparation of one last Christmas that meant everything to him. The last time to see family and close friends and tie off loose ends, and share that last moment of joy. Medicine with its goals, is not just to prolong life but also about so much more. Doesn’t everyone deserve this frank and open discussion, our preparations for death allow us to live a more fulfilling life to get everything we wanted done, complete our bucket-lists and set our priorities straight.

What tormented Ivan Ilych most was the deception, the lie, which for some reason they all accepted, that he was not dying but was simply ill, and the only need keep quiet and undergo a treatment and then something very good would result. He however knew that do what they would nothing would come of it, only still more agonizing suffering and death. This deception tortured him — their not wishing to admit what they all knew and what he knew, but wanting to lie to him concerning his terrible condition, and wishing and forcing him to participate in that lie.

The Death of Ivan Ilyich – Chapter 7

Death comes for all of us. For us, for our patients: it is our fate as living, breathing, metabolizing organisms. Most lives are lived with passivity toward death – it’s something that happens to you and those around you. But Jeff and I had trained for years to actively engage in death, to grapple with it, like Jacob with the angel, and, in so doing, to confront the meaning of a life. We had assumed an onerous yoke, that of mortal responsibility. Our patients’ lives and identities may be in our hands, yet death always wins. Even if you are perfect, the world isn’t. The secret is to know the deck is stacked, that you will lose, that your hands or judgment will slip, and yet still struggle to win for your patient. You can’t ever reach perfection, but you can believe an asymptote toward which you are ceaselessly striving.

When Breath Becomes Air P114-5

Death is in an old man’s door, he appears and tells him so, and death is at a young man’s back, and says nothing; age is a sickness, and youth is an ambush;

Meditation VII - The physician desires to have others joined with him – John Donne

You return man to dust and say, “Return, O children of man!”

Psalm 90:3

Josiah Royce, a Harvard philosopher wrote a book The Philosophy of Loyalty which tries to answer what is it that we need in order to feel that life is worthwhile? Simply existing and eating, sleeping and in comfort seems to be empty and meaningless. Royce believed that we all seek a cause beyond ourselves – to him, an intrinsic human need.

The only way death is not meaningless is to see yourself as part of something greater: a family, a community, a society. If you don’t mortality is a horror. But if you do, it is not. Loyalty, said Royce, “solves the paradox of our ordinary existence by showing us outside of ourselves the cause which is to be served, and inside of ourselves the will which delights to do this service, and which is not thwarted but enriched and expressed in such service.” In more recent times, psychologists have used the term “transcendence” for a version of this idea. Above the level of self-actualization in Maslow’s hierarchy of needs, they suggest the existence in people of a transcendent desire to see and help other beings achieve their potential.

Being Mortal p127

To find meaning and a cause in your life is the question that countless philosophers and wise sages have asked since the dawn of time. What is the meaning of life?

To die takes courage. Ernest Hemingway described courage as grace under pressure and I think that’s not too far off. Atul Gawande mentions Plato’s Laches where Socrates asks ‘What is courage?’ Atul Gawande then writes how he derived the definition: courage is strength in the face of knowledge of what is to be feared or hoped. Wisdom is prudent strength. He goes further where he mentions two types of courage required in aging and sickness. 1) the courage to confront the reality of mortality – the courage to seek out the truth of what is to be feared and what is to be hoped. 2) the courage to act on the truth we find. He ends by posing One has to decide whether one’s fears or one’s hopes are what should matter most – A truth to live a good life itself. Such with my own experience, much of life is a choice. During the 2 weeks of the London 2012 Olympic Games, I remember my time during the Olympics could either be spent indoors or outside visiting the various events organised during that fortnight during a rather uncertain time for me personally. It was my choice to either experience the atmosphere of the games or rather mope inside. This is a truth that is shared with much of life, life is what you make of it – and no one can take that away from you.

Conclusion

Tempus fugit – time flies

Ultima forsan – perhaps the last [hour]

When I remember my first encounters with death, I was only a young child, but their impact left a clear mark on me. There are always things I wish I did more of and said, I am regretful that I was too immature to understand how precious time was then and took things for granted as a result especially if it was someone who loved me as much as my Granny. She was a truly remarkable woman who the more I learn about the more I am humbled of her ability to overcome hardships and struggle. Her story is for my Dad to tell, to whom she passed on her best qualities and is the best person to pass on her story. The family friends we lost too soon who were amongst the kindest and best people we ever knew. Their stories are also for my Dad to tell who knew them through loyal friendships and unselfish kindness.

The lessons learnt from all of this is to never be complacent with time and death, love each other and appreciate the goodness and kindness in life, all the other negativities are just minor trivialities that have no impact in the bigger picture. To always be humble, to always be kind to each other and to yourself and to be patient with others. To count your blessings and have the courage to deal with life’s trials and the striving to make your life and the lives around you better and to be the master of your own destiny to fulfil God’s work. To be thankful of our opportunities we have been given and to make the most of them. All of this sounds like a cliche but in the face of death, this means everything. And one thing we can be certain of, is that we will die. What we make of life is how we live it. These final extracts voice the beauty of life and the pathos of farewell in the most beautiful and touching ways. I hope these words will resonate with you as they have done with me and hope that they will inspire you all to live your lives to the fullest and most meaningful so that by the time we are at death’s door we will share the same serene gratitude for our lives and hope for the future.

Yet I was still intensely moved and grateful to have gotten to do my part. For one, my father would had wanted, and my mother and my sister did, too. Moreover, although I didn’t feel my dad was anywhere in that cup and a half of gray, powdery ash, I felt that we’d connected him to something far bigger than ourselves, in this place where people had been performing these rituals for so long.

When I was a child, the lessons my father taught me had been about perseverance: never to accept limitation that stood in my way. As an adult watching him in his final years, I also saw how to come to terms with limits that couldn’t simply be wished away. When to shift from pushing against limits to making the best of them is not often readily apparent. But it is clear that there are times when the cost of pushing exceeds its value. Helping my father through the struggle to define that moment was simultaneously among the most painful and privileged experiences of my life.

Part of the way my father handled the limits he faced was by looking at them without illusion. Though his circumstances sometimes got him down, he never pretended they were better than they were. He always understood that life is short and one’s place in the world is small. But he also saw himself as a link in the chain of history. Floating on that swollen river, I could not help sensing the hands of the many generations connected across time. In bringing us there, my father had helped us see that he was part of a story going back thousands of years – and so were we.

We were lucky to get to hear him tell us his wishes and say his good-byes. In having a chance to do so, he let us know he was at peace. That let us be at peace, too.

After spreading my father’s ashes, we floated silently for a while, letting the current take us. As the sun burned away the mist, it began warming our bones. Then we gave a signal to the boatman, and he picked up his oars. We headed back to the shore.

Being Mortal P262-3

Everybody succumbs to finitude. I suspect I am not the only one who reaches this pluperfect state. Most ambitions are either achieved or abandoned; either way, they belong to the past. The future, instead of the ladder toward the goals of life, flattens out into a perpetual present. Money, status, all the vanities the preacher of Ecclesiastes described hold so little interest: a chasing after wind, indeed.

Yet one thing cannot be robbed of her futurity: our daughter, Cady. I hope I’ll live long enough that she has some memory of me. Words have a longevity I do not. I had thought I could leave her a series of letters – but what would they say? I don’t even know if she’ll take to the nickname we’ve given her. There is perhaps only one thing to say to this infant, who is all future, overlapping briefly with me, whose life, barring the improbable, is all past.

That message is simple:

When you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you filled a dying man’s day with sated joy, a joy unknown to me in all my prior days, a joy that does not hunger for more and more but rests, satisfied. In this time, right now, that is an enormous thing.

When Breath Becomes Air P198-199

I feel grateful that I have been granted nine years of good health and productivity since the original diagnosis, but now I am face to face with dying. The cancer occupies a third of my liver, and though its advance may be slowed, this particular sort of cancer cannot be halted.

It is up to me now to choose how to live our the months that remain to me. I have to live in the richest, deepest, most productive way I can. In this I am encouraged by the words of one of my favourite philosophers, David Hume, who, upon learning he was mortally ill at age sixty-five, wrote a short autobiography in a single day in April of 1776. He titled it “My Own Life.”

…

Over the last few days, I have been able to see my life as from a great altitude, as a sort of landscape, and with a deepening sense of the connection of all its parts. This does not mean I am finished with life. On the contrary, I feel intensely alive, and I want and hope in the time that remains to deepen my friendships, to say farewell to those I love, to write more, to travel if I have the strength, to achieve new levels of understanding and insight.

This will involve audacity, clarity, and plain speaking; trying to straighten my accounts with the world. But there will be time, too for some fun (and even some silliness as well).

I feel a sudden clear focus and perspective. There is no time for anything inessential. I must focus on myself, my work, and my friends. I shall no longer look at NewsHour every night. I shall no longer pay any attention to politics or arguments about global warming.

This is not indifference but detachment – I still care deeply about the Middle East, about global warming, about growing inequality, but these are no longer my business; they belong to the future. I rejoice when I meet gifted young people – even the one who biopsied and diagnosed my metastases. I feel the future is in good hands.

I have been increasingly conscious, for the last ten years or so, of deaths among my contemporaries. My generation is on the way out, and each death I have felt as an abruption, a tearing away of part of myself. There will be no one like us when we are gone, but then there is no one like anyone else, ever. When people die, they cannot be replaced. They leave holes that cannot be filled, for it is the fate – the genetic and neural fate – of every human being to be a unique individual, to find his own path, to live his own life, to die his own death.

I cannot pretend I am without fear. But my predominant feeling is one of gratitude. I have love and been loved; I have been given much and I have given something in return; I have read and travelled and thought and written. I have had an intercourse with the world, the special intercourse of writers and readers.

Above all, I have been a sentient being, a thinking animal, on this beautiful planet, and that in itself has been an enormous privilege and adventure.

My Own Life – Oliver Sacks