#I read his last letter from May we be spared to meet on earth | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

clove-pinks · 3 years ago

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It's still Christmas Eve in my timezone, and I would be remiss if I didn't share some excerpts from one of the most entertaining and heartwarming documents in the Le Vesconte family archives in Newfoundland: a Christmas Eve letter from Henry TD Le Vesconte, aged twenty-three, dated HMS Excellent Portsmouth Harbour Dec 24 1836.

I don't think this will be in the upcoming Franklin expedition letters book, May We Be Spared to Meet on Earth, because it's not from anywhere near the time period of the expedition.

It's addressed to his father, like the majority of correspondence from H.T.D. Le Vesconte in this collection, and features some of his nicest handwriting! (He not only became more jaded with age, his handwriting got messier).

He starts by explaining that he has held off on writing a letter due to the uncertainty of his movements, and he's very glad for the educational opportunities on HMS Excellent:

I am sure no one could value more highly the advantages arising from an acquaintance with all the useful sciences than yourself and you must be well aware how far the Navy are in general behind their neighbours in science and literature then you must allow that the Excellents will acquire a no small advantage over their brethren if this ship is properly conducted, I assure you I think we have here every opportunity of gaining knowledge

It sounds like a very good environment for him! He's not only learning maths, but how to use small arms as well as naval artillery! He outlines his career prospects, which are looking up.

the duty is so arranged as to interfere very little with our other pursuits, the Captain is a gentlemanly, intelligent man and we have a first rate mathematical instructor the common course of education here comprises all the higher branches of mathematics and mechanics, besides the regular gun drill, mortar Field-piece musket cutlass - at these latter we work very hard every day & altho I have been in ships considered smart at their quarters I did not know, or half know how to manage a gun before I came here, we remain here sixteen months and then after passing a short examination, are sent as instructors into all ships of more than Twenty guns, one great advantage is being always sure of a ship for when we are paid off we may come again to the Excellent and and remain until again called on

One of the things that I personally love finding in Henry Le Vesconte's letters are any kind of references to literature, songs, or other clues to the kind of pop culture shaping his world.

it is not the most delightful thing in the world, beating this exercise which savours a good deal of the soldier, to the “Tars of Old England” but I must do something. I have passed the college, so that I am quite ready for the commission but its a thing I hardly dare think of. However I shall keep my eyes about me

(Aaaaand we start to get into cross-writing).

He quotes from William Cowper’s poem “Pairing-Time Anticipated”, in an amusing passage about officers on his ship who can now barely stand each other:

We left Lisbon in the Endymion in October last were paid off at Plymouth the end of Novr in the midst of continued rain I believe we “parted without the least regret” except that we had never met”, the day was cold and wet the pay clerks very slow so that it was not until late in the evening that the officers singly and sulkily went one by one over the side some one way and some another four or five of us indeed dined together and even in so small a party there were three who had only become reconciled to each other for the occasion.

Henry's letters, while technically addressed to his father Commander Henry Le Vesconte, were obviously read by all of his family members who could get ahold of them, and Henry was very much aware of this. He always included lots of gossip in his letters, ostensibly for the benefit of his mother and sisters in Canada. Henry acknowledges it at the end of this letter, too: "My dear Mother and sisters will I am sure give me credit for writing them every thing they can wish for"

Henry hoped to someday join his family in Canada (right up until the Franklin expedition, as more and more family and friends emigrated):

I went to Southampton and saw nearly all our friends [...] Sarah as usual mischievous looking seven years younger than when I saw her last she wants to go to Canada before its too late. Wm Le Feuvre is very well one of his children a little girl was very ill not expected to live poor Jane Le F died not long since at Barbadoes his wife is going to be a neighbour of yours her family are going out & she meets them there.

Henry's not alone for Christmas, however, since his younger brother Philip is with him! Aged 18, Phil had ambitions of becoming a doctor (a goal he successfully achieved, living a long life in Canada).

Philip is down here spending the Christmas week with me I hardly knew him again his trip to France turned out very well, he talks of going over again in the summer.

Philip is mentioned again when Henry talks politics:

Philip says while William has turned Tory - and so quarrelled with all parties - but I am inclined to doubt it since he sent me a few days ago a paper bill of a Totnes reform meeting - the old thing eating on it of course

That's not the end of Philip Le Vesconte—there's a scrawled message from him around the border of the folded letter, and he starts out by roasting his older brother for not letting him have more space:

University of London Jany

My dear Father

As Henry has been kind enough to leave me a small bit of his letter I must take the opportunity of letting you know how I am getting on. With respect to my studies I feel every reason to be satisfied

Poor Henry, he longs for more letters from home to enjoy in the cold winter nights:

I hope you will write to me now as I shall be stationary for some time - I long to get a regular letter from you the only one I have had was from Kingston (or your way also) and said but little. will you make them write me a “round Robin” one of these long winter Evenings the said evenings are rather cold here there is now plenty of [damaged portion of letter from broken seal] the ground and it bids fair to be a severe winter

Although his signature is caught up in the cross-writing, I'll include it here with his closing:

My dear Mother and sisters will I am sure give me credit for writing them every thing they can wish for - with kindest love to them and my dear Brothers believe me ever My dear Father

Your truly affectionate son

HTDLeVesconte

#henry thomas dundas le vesconte #henry le vesconte #henry td le vesconte #franklin expedition #royal navy #1830s #hms excellent #hms endymion #christmas eve #le vesconte family #letters

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arandompostarchive · 4 years ago

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SALEM - Ch. 12

SAVED WORK

Summary: In all the centuries of your existence, you had never been dragged out of hiding by another god, put in a superhero team and forced to save the universe. But it seems your luck has run out.

_____________

***

8 Days Left

Your letter was currently in a glass box with metal plating on Tony’s desk and he was running every code imaginable to break whatever lock you had on it. He heavily suspected it was some sort of magic. Something not yet explained by science. If magic were explainable by Earth’s scientific laws, well. Then it’d just be science.

But whatever this was. It wasn’t something he’d seen before. Something humans haven’t quite figured out yet. But hey, he’s solved a lot by just trying so, what the hell. Why not.

Unfortunately, trying didn’t seem to be working this time, and the box had sparks flying out of it before he even finished the last line of code.

“Shit.” He slumped back in his seat and Bruce sighed from across the lab.

“Tony, maybe you should just give up on that. We might still have to fight Ker, you know.” Tony nodded. He was right, of course. Wherever you were, he still had to prepare like there was a battle coming.

“Give me one more try.” He said, brushing his fingers under his nose.

He picked up a screwdriver and tightened some of the metal plates on the outside of the glass. It was more of a thrown together device. But he didn’t know how long he had to build something. If you thought it would take more than two weeks, you probably would’ve given yourself more time.

After what turned out to be three more tries, he heard stumbling outside his lab’s door. Bruce looked up from where he was working on the other side of Tony’s lab.

From the other side of the room, he heard “Uh, Mr. Stark? Can someone open the door?” Then some sort of metal hit the ground before the door slid open on its own. Peter smiled, “Oh. Thanks, Friday.”

She responded with a “No problem, Peter.” Before Peter took a few steps in, placing the box he was carrying on a nearby table. He went back to pick up a small piece of metal on the floor and Tony went to examine the box.

“What are you doing here, kid? It’s gotta be 2 am, at least.”

“Actually it’s 4 am,” Peter said.

“Well, that’s worse.” He picked up a few spare wires from the box and set them down on the table below.

“Mr. Stark, I was thinking.”

“Always a good thing to do, I suppose,” Tony said, offhand.

“About Y/n.” Peter continued. He took a pause, waiting for Tony’s reaction. The only thing he got was a sigh. Part of Tony wanted to (hypocritically) lecture him about getting some sleep, tell him that Y/n was going to be fine and he and Bruce could handle it. But the other part of Tony knew Peter was an inventor. A young one, but a smart one.

So, after about a minute, he responded, “Okay. Shoot.”

Peter smiled, whispering out a small “Yes!” And Tony smirked a bit.

“Okay, I made a sort of tracker. Kind of. It tracks energy signatures, and I figured we could use some sort of trace of Y/n’s abilities, and track it.”

Tony glanced back at the letter. You had clearly used whatever abilities you had on it. (He was never really keen on calling it “magic”, even though that’s exactly what it was.)

Bruce butted into their conversation, “That might work, but if she’s too far I don’t think we could find her with that. I mean, that’s like looking for a needle in a haystack.”

Tony nodded.

“Maybe we just need to use a magnet,” Peter suggested, with a small, very tired smile.

“And you think you made a magnet?” Tony asked, watching Peter’s nod. He recognized the boy’s attitude. It was one he copied himself whenever he stayed up far too late.

Was this what everyone else saw when he was exhausted? He would’ve made some promise to get more sleep (if he thought he’d ever keep it).

“It tracks energy signals and amplifies them. It’ll find her, as soon as she uses her abilities it’ll amplify the signal and track her, simple.”

“Across the universe?” Bruce walked close to the pair, trying his best to chose his words carefully. “She’s a powerful person, I’m not doubting that. But I don’t think you can track just her across the universe.”

Peter’s smile dropped a bit. As much as Tony wanted to agree with Peter, Bruce had a point.

Peter took a second stumbling over his words as he glanced at the boxed letter on Tony’s desk. “Maybe her and Loki? I’m sure we have something of Loki’s around.” Tony and Bruce glanced at each other. Bruce sort of shrugged, unsure of the answer.

Tony wanted to say no. The answer was probably no. If he couldn’t track Loki last year, why would he be able to now? And tracking you would barely give him any info. He needed to be able to trace an energy signal strong enough that it would show up on radar. Preferably one he already had information on.

Despite all of that, he found himself saying “worth a shot” before he could think it through. He picked up Peter’s makeshift machine. “We’ll have to make a few updates, obviously. But-uh. Not bad. Now go to bed, or I’m taking that suit.” He mumbled, to which Peter nodded, leaving behind the box and a sketch of his design.

It took Tony a few hours to improve Peter’s design. The small, box-sized device was much bigger and had what looked like a satellite dish attached to it. Tony had hooked some of the spare wires up to the glass and metal box containing your letter. Another set of wires was connected to a computer system, tracking your location. He had added one of Loki’s knives that Thor may or may not have stolen from Loki’s room. Something that Loki wouldn’t be happy about later.

He was typing out Peter’s program. He wouldn’t say anything, but Peter was a smart kid.

“You know, Y/n. I think you’d be proud of this one. Well, I’d probably have to explain how tracking works and how this computer functions, but uh. Still.” He said, more to himself than anything else.

He wasn’t sure of the time, but he thought it had to be maybe 8 am? It couldn’t have taken him that long, and he’d probably have to get breakfast with the team soon. He wasn’t excited for Steve’s remarks about how he should get sleep, or stop worrying so much, so he’d decided to get coffee and get out. Once he tried turning the tracker on.

With a few more minutes, Peter’s tracker was up and running. It had taken a sort of scan of the energy you and Loki’s items were giving off and started tracking it… where ever you were.

“Shit. This isn’t working.” Tony whispered under his breath. Not that there was anyone but Friday who could hear him at this point. Bruce finally went to sleep, and he was left in the room alone.

“Friday.” He took a seat and rubbed his hands over his face.

“Yes, Boss. Everything alright?”

Tony shook his head and pick up a screwdriver to fiddle with. “This isn’t a strong enough signal, is there any way to get a better reading?”

“Sorry Boss, there isn’t enough information to do more than tell you which way you should be looking.”

“At least that’s something.”

“It’s a start.”

“Yeah. A start isn’t really what I need right now.”

Tony set down the screwdriver and looked back at his computer.

“Hi, Mr. Stark.” He heard from the doorway. Peter walked in, not looking much different than a few hours ago.

“Kid. Thought I said to get some sleep. It’s been four hours.”

“Uh, I’m pretty sure it’s at least 11,” Peter said, looking confused a bit.

“He’s right Boss. It’s 11:32.” He heard from inside the room.

“Who’s side are you on?” He fired back at the AI who didn’t respond this time.

“How’s the tracker working?” Peter looked fairly anxious and he joined Tony at his desk. He settled at Tony’s left side, examining the computer tony had attached to his machine.

“Well, it’s not bad, kid, but we kind of need a stronger signal. These items aren’t exactly great examples of their abilities, and this is a pretty big universe. I have a general direction, that’s it.”

“What about Ker?” Peter asked as if it were obvious.

“What?”

“It tracks energy signatures.” Tony nodded along, waiting for Peter to continue. “ I mean if you need a stronger one Ker spent like two weeks shaking all of Alaska.”

Tony pulled up Ker’s small file they had created anyway. It contained everything about her, including all records of her first few weeks on Earth. That contained every reading he had of her, so he selected her last one. One strong enough to call the Avengers to look into it. He added it to signals to look for and the computer started recalculating.

“Awesome!” Peter got closer to it, observing how it worked with his machine. “It works.” Tony set his hand on Peter’s shoulder. He didn’t say anything, but then again, he didn’t need to.

Soon, the computer came up with a location. It certainly wasn’t exact. Couldn’t tell which planet it was from either, but it gave him a much more concentrated idea. Sure, it was probably two or three solar systems worth, but he could do a better job tracking you down with that information.

That is until the computer’s screen went red.

“Sorry, Boss,” Friday said, “Ker’s signal just went dark.”

“What? No, how did that happen? We didn’t touch anything. Nothing’s wrong.”

“It’s a problem from their side, the signal attached to Ker isn’t operating anymore.”

“Is she hurt or something?” Peter asked.

“Well, I haven’t exactly called her recently,” Tony said, trying to fix the issue.

“Boss, I don’t think you can repair this without Ker’s signal,” Friday said, speaking a bit slower than usual.

“Shit,” Peter whispered. Tony sent him a small glare but didn’t say anything else.

“What now, Mr. Stark?” Tony stared at the computer, dragging his hands over his face again.

“Just hope Capsicle’s doing better than we are.”

***

The rest of the team was trying to brainstorm. Mostly about where you were, but “What is Loki up to?” was a good question as well. Steve had gathered them in their common area instead of the meeting area. He figured the team could use a slight change of pace.

Natasha was looking over pictures of Ker’s graffiti.

“For the most part, she only says ‘Doom is rising’ but look, there’s another phrase in a few of these.” She pointed to a small string of words in the corner of one of the pictures.

Rhodey looked over from his sitting position.”’We follow Doom?’” He read aloud.

Natasha nodded. “But ‘doom’ is capitalized.” She paused for a second, looking over the room to make sure everyone understood what she was suggesting. “What if she’s being literal? She’s literally talking about doom.”

Rhodey seemed a bit confused. “Like the god of doom?”

She nodded.

Thor stood up from his seat, “Moros. He’s the god of doom. Ker and Y/n’s brother.” The team exchanged glances with each other.

“Okay, so how do we use that to our advantage?” Clint asked frustratedly. There was no way to prove that idea yet, and without any other information that was basically useless. “Y/n’s the only one who knows these people unless you can tell us more than that.” He gestured to Thor, hoping the god had more to say.

Unfortunately, Thor only shook his head slightly, “Nothing you can’t find out for yourselves. There isn’t much written about him, and she’s never gone into detail about any of her siblings.”

So, the team might know who you’re fighting, have a general idea of where you are and have a reasonable guess of what you’re doing. That’s nothing. Nothing Steve can use, at least. Having a ‘general idea’ doesn’t help mathematical equations. He looked over to Bruce, hoping he had any ideas.

“Tony’s been working on something. It’s a kind of tracker, it’ll be able to give us a good idea of where she is.”

As Bruce was finishing speaking, Tony walked into the room and took a seat next to Natasha.

Steve nodded toward Tony as a greeting before speaking. “Bruce was saying you made a tracker?”

“Yeah, I made a tracker.” Tony raised a cup of coffee to his lips, his sip was small and somewhat slow. Steve would’ve been a lot happier if he couldn’t sense Tony’s sarcastic tone. “I got a location using Loki, Y/n, and Ker. Then Ker’s signal went dark and I lost it.”

Steve couldn’t say he was excited, but he’d have to figure something else out.

“It’s okay. We’ll find something else.”

“Will we?” Tony said, “We have no idea where she is. She left us with a letter we can’t read and basically no information. What am I supposed to do with that? All this tech and I can’t even build something to find her.”

Tony’s voice was just as sarcastic as usual, but just about everyone could hear he was serious. In a strange, Tony Stark way.

The echo of Thunder was heard outside of the windows, a sort of low rumble that managed to break the silence that had slipped into the room.

“Hey, Point Break, you minding losing the dramatics?” Tony snapped.

Thor stared at him, a mixture of confusing and a slight hit of offense was it?

“That was not me, Stark.”

The rumble continued, lasting longer than thunder usually would.

“You sure?” Tony asked again, this time with actual curiosity.

Friday’s voice interrupted Thor’s response.

“Um, Boss. It seems there’s Quinjet prototype 2-D heading for just outside the compound. The one Y/n and Loki took.”

Tony immediately stood up and look out the window and up to the best of his ability. He didn’t see much more than a smoking shadow headed downward.

“C’mon.” He signaled to the team, who all went to suit up, prepared to deal with the worst if need be.

They arrived outside quickly. The ship had crashed into the ground as they were all walking out. As Tony approached, helmet down, the door to the ship opened and he heard shuffling.

Loki stepped out, clutching his side. He managed to walk towards the team. There was blood on his tunic. A dried, dark color. Tony hoped it was his.

Thor went up to his brother, wrapping his arm around him to support him. Loki kept his hand pressed tight to his side, making a fighting effort to stand as straight as he could.

Tony waited for you to walk out. But you never did. You never walked out with a triumphant smile or even a frustrated huff. You didn’t ask if he had ‘anything better to do’ than wait around for you. So he didn’t get to answer ‘no, I spent the whole day worrying’. He didn’t hear your small sarcastic laugh. A sign that whatever happened on your mission, you were okay. In fact, he didn’t hear you at all.

“Where is she?” He asked Loki loudly. Loki didn’t need to ask who he meant. He knew automatically.

“Dead.” The god coldly responded.

***

#loki x reader #loki #salem #saved work #fanfic

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matrixaffiliate · 4 years ago

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Quarry

Final Chapter! FFN and AO3

This is the end, my friends... I can't believe this is finished. I wouldn't have guessed this story would total 88K words in my wildest dreams. Nor did I dream that it would create the little following that it did. For all of you who have followed this from start to finish, thank you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you! For all of you who read this now that it's finished posting, thank you! I hope that you've fallen in love with these four as much as I have. :) Until the next story friends. - Matrixaffiliate

Epilogue - Chapter 85

Harry:

Crown Prince Harry looked over at Neville and held back his groan at the smirk his best friend wore. He still didn't understand what had had happened to get the Longbottoms to move to Godric's Hollow from Ottery and swear loyalty to his dad and be given places on the Privy Council, but Harry had grown up with Neville as though he was his twin. It made sense that Neville would be his companion at arms when he was traveling.

"I'm sure you'll be fine," Neville smirked as they looked around at the rooms they'd been put up in by King Arthur.

"Easy for you to say," Harry shot back. "You were able to just fall in love with Hannah and now your parents are arranging everything."

"Yes, but your parents' marriage was arranged and that worked out well for them. They still make members of the Court sick with how they dote on each other, and they're going on twenty years of marriage."

Harry shook his head. His parents had asked him to just come down here and see. Apparently, Arthur had been pestering his dad for the last six or so years to arrange a marriage between Harry and his only daughter. James had finally agreed to send Harry down for a total visit. His mum seemed to think it was a grand idea. She kept going on and on about how cute the princess had been when she was small. And ask this would be fine, except that King Arthur had completely misunderstood the purpose of Harry's visit. He kept introducing him as Crown Prince Harry of Godric's Hollow, betrothed to Princess Ginevra.

"How about we go for a walk." Harry tried to shake the aggravation from his head. "I'm not due to be anywhere until dinner."

"Whatever is going to help ease your mind about meeting your fiancé," Neville shrugged with a laugh and tossed Harry his sword.

Harry belted it to his waist and holstered his wand. He walked out of the room and ignored the way Neville whistled happily as Harry took random turns here and there as they wandered the castle. He'd only been to Ottery's capital once before when he was five or six. He didn't remember what had made it so he and his sister had been brought along. Harry now wished that he could have been brought here a few more times. Maybe then he would have actually met Princess Ginevra before her dad had started calling him her fiancé.

One of his turns led them out to the training grounds and Harry caught sight of what looked like flames dancing. Upon closer inspection, he realized it was a woman, her long fiery red hair braided down her back spun behind her as she worked through her exercises. His feet moved of their own accord, and before he knew it, he was standing ten feet from her, watching captivated as she moved.

"Do you often stand and stare at women?" The fiery woman stopped and pinned him with her gaze.

Harry blinked, "Sorry, just, er, you, er, I was impressed, with your, er, your technique."

She smirked, "Impressed enough to spar?"

Harry felt a grin break across his face. He'd been training with Uncle Sirius and Aunt Marlene since he was eleven.

"Definitely."

Harry pulled his dress shirt over his head and handed it to Neville. He grinned at how it took the woman a moment to drag her eyes back up to his.

"I have something I'm supposed to do later this evening, and I need that shirt to be in good shape for it."

She rolled her eyes, "Sure, you do. Have your friend hold your sword and wand as well."

Harry nodded and Neville took the last two things. "Be careful, your parents will kill me if we bring you home broken and bloodied."

The woman laughed, "I won't hurt him too much, at least not his face."

Harry grinned but he felt his cheeks grow hot. He liked this woman; he liked her a lot.

"The first to knock the other off their feet then?" He tried to bring up his voice back to its normal level.

"Yes, and no magic," She smirked at him and then began to circle him.

Harry focused on remembering everything that Sirius and Marlene had taught him as he circled. It turned out that sparing with Marlene was the best thing he could have done to prepare for this woman. She was small, not quite as small as Aunt Marlene, but her height forced her to spar in a similar fashion as Marlene, and Harry was familiar with how she fought.

And by the looks of it, he was the first person she'd encountered who had a grip on what she was doing.

"I think you may be cheating," She panted after he blocked her most recent strike and kept her from knocking his feet out from under him.

"How in Merlin's name could I be cheating?" Harry laughed. "I've never seen you until today."

She blocked his strike and then spun around but he blocked her strike. "I don't know but you're the first person I've fought who hasn't been on their back within five strikes."

"Shame that is," Harry moved them to position himself so that he could try the only move that could knock Aunt Marlene over, and one that Uncle Sirius swore him to secrecy on, along with a promise to never use it with Aunt Marlene.

"You didn't introduce yourself; you know." She followed him directly to where he needed her to be.

Harry nodded, "How rude of me." Then he lunged forward, and to his great satisfaction, it worked! The beautiful woman landed flat on her back, her hand still gripping his wrist where she'd tried to throw him over her with his own momentum.

"My name is Harry," He gripped her wrist back and pulled her to his feet. "And who might you be?"

"I'm Ginny," She looked at him with wide eyes. "And who taught you that?"

Harry shook his head, "The person who taught me has sworn me to secrecy. I'm not allowed to ever divulge their name."

"Pitty, I'd like to send them a letter of admiration." Ginny let go of his wrist and Harry felt a bit put out as the contact between them ended.

"I could deliver a letter to them." Harry shoved his hand in his hair.

"Nah," Ginny shrugged, "But, I was planning on leaving and exploring the world for the next twenty or so years, care to join me?"

Harry felt his whole body cry out as he shook his head no. "Believe me, Ginny, under different circumstances I'd probably follow you to the ends of the earth after a match like this, but I can't. I'm Prince Harry of Godric's Hollow. I'm actually here on business from my father, and then I'll be back home."

Ginny's eyes went wide. "You're Prince Harry?!"

Harry inclined his head, "The very same."

Ginny looked like he'd knocked the ground out from under her again.

"Harry," Neville called out. "We should get going, Arthur is going to want us in our seats before the rest of his court comes in."

"Right," Harry called back and then turned to Ginny. "Thank you, know that in another life, I wouldn't have thought twice about following you around the world." He took her hand and kissed it as he bowed slightly and walked away.

He didn't dare look back as they walked back to the rooms that Arthur had given him for his stay here. He was pretty sure he'd be too tempted to go back and tell Ginny he could probably spare a few months away from the kingdom, as long as no one knew he'd left Ottery...

"This is why you have the better lot," Harry shook his head after toweling off the dust from his torso. "You and Hannah got to have a moment like I just had with Ginny, and you got to do something about it. Ginny asked me to run away with her, and I had to turn her down because I'm tied to the Crown."

"I'm sorry, Harry, but who knows, maybe Princess Ginevra will be special too. You'll never know until you meet her." Neville handed him his shirt.

Harry tried to swallow his bitterness and believe that Neville could be right. His mum thought his dad would be a toe rag and it turned out that she actually really loved his dad. Maybe Harry would get lucky too.

They sat down at the table in the seats that they'd been assigned and Harry waited for Ottery's Royal Family to join them before the rest of their court would be admitted.

He looked up when the door opened and saw King Arthur and Queen Molly enter first, then Crown Prince William and his wife Princess Fleur. But Harry's heart stopped when behind the Crown Prince was Ginny, but not like he'd seen her earlier in the day, no, now she would put the greatest marble sculptures to shame.

She came and sat next to him and Harry barely registered the way Neville tried to hide his laughter behind his hand.

"I thought that if you couldn't join me in traveling the world then maybe I could see what Godric's Hollow was like instead." She smiled brightly at him.

"Brilliant," Harry stared at her and thought that maybe he'd dismissed his mum's reassurance that he would absolutely love Princess Ginevra a bit too quickly.

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pikapeppa · 5 years ago

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Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Moments of Happiness

Chapters 57 & 58 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) are up on AO3! Don’t be fooled, I took one long chapter and chopped it into two. Together they’re about ~10k words.

In which Fenris and the crew pal around at the Winter Palace before the Exalted Council begins. Also known as the calm before the storm. 😭

Read on AO3 here.

*******************

Hawke shook out another pair of trousers and hung them in the finely-carved armoire. “…and that passage made me think of that time when I tried to have you close the mark as though you were closing a rift, but that didn’t work. Which in retrospect was maybe a stupid suggestion since you can’t close a key with a key, if that even makes any sense.” She turned back to the cedar travelling chest containing their clothes. “Honestly though, all these Chantry-sanctioned treatises are worth shit for trying to figure this out. I wonder if it might be worth reaching out to Morrigan to see if she has any interesting ideas. At this point, I’d be willing to try anything to get that fucking mark off of you.”

“Mm,” Fenris said. “That’s a good idea.”

“You think so?” Hawke said. “Perhaps I’ll ask her if a little blood magic might remove it.”

“You could,” he said vaguely.

She laughed. “Fenris! You aren’t even listening to me!” She threw a pair of socks at him, and when they bounced off of his book, he finally looked up.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I… what were you saying?”

“I was trying to talk about the anchor,” she said pointedly.

“Oh. Yes.” He glanced balefully at the mark. The lines of cursed light used to be contained in the main fissures of his palm, but they had started to spread over the last couple of months. Nowadays when the mark flared, its ghastly green light spread down to his wrist and almost all the way to his fingertips.

He closed his hand and looked up at her. “Did you find something in your books?”

“Nothing earth-shattering yet.” She went back to hanging their clothes in the armoire. “I’m still trying to translate that one really old elven tome I found in the little library in Skyhold, but it’s extremely slow-going.” She paused in her unpacking and peered at him. “Are you all right? You’ve been awfully distracted since we left Kirkwall.” Her eyebrows rose with worry. “The mark isn’t hurting more than usual, is it?”

“No. I’m well,” he assured her. “I was just thinking… you should eat more dark green vegetables.”

Her eyebrows jumped up, and she barked out a laugh. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

He tapped the book on his lap. “This book. It says that pregnant women should eat dark green vegetables three times a day.”

Hawke narrowed her eyes at the book, then wandered over to the couch where he was sitting. “Is that Enchanter Jolen’s compilation?”

“Yes,” he said. He showed her the book, which was titled Andraste’s Little Blessing: Rites and Rituals for Welcoming A New Child.

She handed the book back to him with a grin. “Well, that’s not a bad one. Although it does recommend that pregnant people should read the Chant of Light every night in thanks for the blessing of a child, and I’m sure as shit not doing that.”

He looked at her in dismay. “Is this book not a reputable source, then?”

“No no, it’s fine,” she said. “But we should dig up a copy of the Ralaferin clan’s writings if you really want to read up on pregnancy.”

“A Dalish text?” he said in surprise. “Really?”

“Yes, it’s much more down-to-earth,” Hawke said. “Though it doesn’t have the same modern medical suggestions. And it’ll be hard to get your hands on a copy, I studied from one that Merrill had back in the day…” She frowned thoughtfully, then shrugged. “Actually, you can keep reading Andraste’s Little Blessings. It’s preachy and sort of privileged, but it’s fine.”

“All right,” he said warily. He watched her for a moment as she bustled back over to the bed and continued unpacking their clothes.

He leaned forward. “Perhaps you should sit down. This book says that pregnant women–”

“–should spend as much time as possible on their asses doing nothing, right?” she interrupted.

“Er, yes,” he admitted.

She shook her head in amusement, then sashayed over to him and closed the book. “Fenris, don’t fuss at me, all right? I promise I’ll relax when I need to. Besides, pregnancy is the easy bit. All I have to do is eat a lot, not drink too much wine, make sure no one bashes me in the stomach. That’s easy. The hard part is raising the kid when it comes out. You have no idea what sort of chaotic little monster you’re going to get.”

He slung one arm along the back of the couch. “Knowing you, it will chaos personified,” he said dryly.

She chuckled and playfully pinched his chin. “That’s the sweetest compliment I’ve had all day.”

He smirked, but he couldn’t help but study her smile. She sounded jocular, but that didn’t necessarily mean she was joking.

He took her hand. “Since when does chaos disturb you?”

She snorted. “Since I’m responsible for raising it and making sure it doesn’t grow up into an asshole, of course.”

“We will be equally responsible for that,” he said firmly. “You are not doing any part of this alone.”

Her smile softened. “Such a smooth talker,” she said. “That’ll get you everywhere with me.” She slowly straddled his lap and draped her arms around his neck.

He gazed at her seriously. “This is not idle talk. I mean it. If anything scares or worries you about this, I need you to tell me.”

“Okay, okay,” she murmured. “I’ll tell you, I promise.” She placed a small chaste kiss on his lips.

He parted his lips slightly, and Hawke followed his lead and kissed him more deeply. For a long, luxurious minute, Fenris leaned into her kiss, slowly sliding his palms up her thighs and over her hips, and as his thumbs circled her hipbones, she traced his lower lip with her tongue.

A spike of interest stirred between his legs. When Hawke tilted her hips and pressed down against his groin, the interest surged more strongly still.

Then someone knocked on the door.

A palace servant’s voice called out. “Inquisitor? The delegates from Orlais and Ferelden have been asking if you require assistance.”

Fenris dropped his head back on the couch in frustration, and Hawke sighed. “That means they’re wondering what’s taking you so long to come out and mingle,” she said.

He nodded in resignation, then called out to the servant. “No assistance is necessary,” he said. He tilted Hawke’s chin down and kissed her firmly, then lifted her off of his lap. “We will continue this later,” he warned.

She grinned at him as she rose from the couch. “Ooh, I hope that’s a promise.” She peeled off her shirt and winked at him before sauntering over to the armoire to change.

He tore his eyes away from her swaying hips and roughly adjusted himself before changing into a more formal shirt and jacket. A few minutes later, he and Hawke were strolling through the chattering crowds of nobles toward the upper level of the palace.

As soon as they reached the upper level, they spotted Cassandra standing with an older Fereldan man. She was impossible to miss, really, given her obscenely tall hat. The second she laid eyes on them, her face lit up.

Hawke chuckled. “Someone looks in need of rescuing from some very dull company.”

He gave her a chiding look. “Don’t say anything to get her in trouble.”

She widened her eyes. “Me? Get someone in trouble? I would never.” Her eyes were twinkling with mischief, however, and Cassandra also seemed to notice Hawke’s shit-eating grin, as she quickly greeted them before they could say a word.

“Inquisitor. Champion. It is good to see you both.” She gestured to the stern-faced man at her side. “This is Arl Teagan of Redcliffe. He represents Ferelden at the summit.”

“Oh, lovely!” Hawke said. “How is Alistair doing? Still as handsome as ever, I trust?”

Teagan frowned. “I suppose, though that is hardly important.” He nodded to Fenris. “Inquisitor. Good to meet you.”

“You as well,” Fenris said politely. He glanced briefly at Cassandra, who pulled a tiny apologetic face.

Thankfully, Hawke lightened the dour mood. “Forgive me, I have to ask – Arl Teagan, I understand that you’re a fan of the Grand Tourney. You’re a great rider yourself, aren’t you?”

He eyed her suspiciously. “I was, once. I am too busy running the bannorn now, as I’m sure you can understand.”

She blinked innocently. “Oh, but you must have been something to see in your riding days! Would you be so kind as to tell me a tale or two?”

His scowl deepened. Then he harrumphed. “I suppose I could spare a moment for a story.”

“Wonderful!” Hawke simpered. She linked her arm with Teagan’s, then winked at Cassandra and Fenris before pulling him away.

Cassandra shook her head fondly. “She is the same as always,” she said. “Charming almost to a fault. I am happy to see it.”

Fenris nodded; Cassandra’s assessment was accurate, after all. “You look well,” he said. “From what I can see of you, that is.” He glanced in amusement at her outfit.

She made a disgusted noise. “I will never grow accustomed to these trappings, I swear.”

Fenris smirked. “Based on that letter you sent, I understand you’re especially fond of the hat.”

Cassandra shot him a sideways smile. “You got that letter before you left Kirkwall, then? I am glad. I hope Varric enjoyed it.”

Fenris huffed in amusement. “He did, yes.” He declined to tell her that her overused copy of Swords and Shields had been mentioned in the letter.

Cassandra smiled more widely, then sighed. “I suppose we should discuss the Exalted Council. I am supposed to be impartial while speaking for the Chantry, but I confess that neutrality is beyond me. I may be the Divine, but I will always be your friend, and I can hardly ignore the fate of the Inquisition that I began.”

Fenris nodded. When he and Hawke had arrived this morning, Josephine and Leliana had given them the full run-down of the situation, which could be summarized in two sentences: Orlais wanted to acquire the Inquisition as a vassal and thus acquire their power and army, and Ferelden wanted to disband the Inquisition completely.

“The delegates are short-sighted and selfish,” Cassandra said brusquely. “They do not see the full scope of what you have done these past few years. The Inquisition is still needed. They do not yet understand that.”

Fenris shrugged and glanced around at the assembled nobles and politicians. He hadn’t yet told Cassandra that he’d been planning to quit the Inquisition anyway before the Exalted Council had been announced.

“We shall see what happens, I suppose,” he said. Personally, dissolving the Inquisition didn’t seem like a totally undesirable result to him. From the most selfish perspective, it would mean that Fenris would finally be free. From a more logical perspective, however, he truly felt that the Inquisition had served its primary purpose, and the more involved they got in political affairs, the more they would be stepping beyond their bounds. In his more bitter moments, Fenris sometimes felt like the Inquisition was becoming the way Solas described the making of a demon: like it was being twisted away from its original purpose into something else entirely.

And Fenris did not like the idea of the Inquisition becoming so twisted that it was no longer recognizable.

Cassandra peered at him carefully. “Are you all right, my friend? You seem troubled. Not that you have no reason to be. I mean–” She winced. “That was hardly comforting. I apologize, Fenris, I wish only to express my concern.”

“It’s all right,” he assured her. “I’m better than expected given the situation.” He thought of Hawke’s pregnancy, and his belly jumped in a happy – and nervous – way.

She looked at him in surprise. “That’s… that’s good. I’m glad to hear it.” She sighed again. “I must return to mingling with the bureaucrats. But if you need me, I’m ready to assist. Unconditionally.”

Fenris gave her a small half-bow. “Thank you, Your Holiness.”

She snorted at the formal title. “You are welcome, Inquisitor.”

He smiled at her jab, then looked around for Hawke and Teagan. The Arl was embroiled in a discussion with some other Fereldans, so Fenris quickly slipped into the crowd before Teagan could corner him.

A moment later, he saw Hawke standing with – of all people – Dorian.

Fenris raised his eyebrows, equally pleased and surprised. He hadn’t expected Dorian to be here. As he approached them, he realized that Hawke and Dorian were speaking with an Orlesian man, and that Hawke seemed to be flirting with the Orlesian, much to Dorian’s barely suppressed amusement.

Hawke smiled seductively at the Orlesian. “...and I can only imagine that your control over the Chateau is much firmer than your father’s,” she said. She slid her gaze slowly over the length of his body. “Hmm, very firm indeed.”

“That is kind of you to say, Serrah Hawke,” the Orlesian said coolly. “It is only unfortunate that my governance of the Chateau is a result of you killing my father.”

What? Fenris thought in alarm. But Hawke only batted her eyelashes. “Oh no, my lord, that’s not true.”

“I believe the truth is quite clear, Champion,” the Orlesian retorted. “If I recall correctly, I appeared on the scene to find two dozen bloody qunari corpses and my father crushed beneath his pet wyvern at the base of a cliff.”

Fenris stared at him. Now that was a familiar story.

Hawke blinked innocently. “I promise you, my lord, it wasn’t my doing. It was the wyvern. I do believe the poor beast was rabid.” She turned to Fenris with a smile. “Fenris, you’re just in time. This is Duke Cyril de Montfort.”

“All right,” Fenris said warily.

“He’s the Duke of Chateau Haine,” Hawke said sweetly. Too sweetly.

And suddenly Fenris realized who this man was. He was the son of that filthy Duke Prosper – the Duke that Fenris himself had booted off the edge of the cliff for calling Hawke a whore.

“Ah,” he said. “Er…”

“Inquisitor,” Cyril said with a deep bow. “Your lady wife was just reminding me of our shared past. She appears to have forgotten that she was responsible for my father’s untimely demise at our chateau a few years ago. Were you aware of this?”

Fenris hesitated. Cyril clearly didn’t realize that Fenris had also been present at that party. Not surprising, perhaps, since he and Anders had been skulking around in the corners trying ineffectually to sneak into the castle.

“I am aware that there was a situation at Chateau Haine a few years ago,” Fenris said carefully. “It’s fortunate that you were capable of stepping seamlessly into your late father’s shoes.”

“Exactly what I was thinking!” Hawke said brightly. “And what handsome and large shoes they are.”

Cyril cleared his throat and smoothed a hand along the front of his doublet. “You are not wrong,” he said. “The Montforts pride ourselves on being very capable leaders. And very good judges of character.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Fenris said. He turned to Dorian. “A word, Lord Pavus?”

“Certainly, Inquisitor,” Dorian said. As Dorian and Fenris moved away, Hawke continued to shamelessly flirt with Cyril. “My lord, I must ask – did you have those shoes custom-made for your size? You know what they say about men with large shoes…”

Dorian smirked at Fenris, and they chuckled. “She never gives up, does she?” Dorian said quietly.

“Never,” Fenris said, with an affectionate glance at Hawke. He clasped Dorian’s hand in welcome. “It’s good to see you. But what are you even doing here?” In order to be here now, Dorian would only have been back in the Imperium for a few weeks after their trip to the Frostback Basin. Had he been chased out of Tevinter again by a new batch of assassination attempts?

Dorian tutted. “Did Josephine not tell you? Terribly remiss of her. I am the Tevinter ambassador to the Exalted Council, at your service.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows skeptically. “Tevinter ambassador?”

“Yes indeed,” Dorian said cheerfully. “‘A reward for my interest in the south’, if you can believe it.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow. “A convenient excuse to get rid of you because you are making too much noise in Minrathous, then.”

Dorian threw his head back and laughed. “Ah Fenris, how I’ve missed your subtlety. But yes, you’re right. It’s a token appointment, so consider me at your disposal.”

Fenris narrowed his eyes. “Hmm,” he said.

“Oh dear, you’re wearing the face that says you’re thinking,” Dorian said. “Don’t hurt yourself, now.”

Fenris gave him a chiding look. “If you really were just causing too much trouble in Minrathous, they would have killed you. Why send you away?”

Dorian’s smile faltered for a split second. Then he laughed. “You know, it’s both endearing and obnoxious that you’re from home. There’s just no hiding anything from you.”

Fenris waited in silence, and finally Dorian sighed. “My father is dead,” he said bluntly.

Fenris raised his eyebrows as Dorian went on. “Assassinated, I believe. I received notice this morning: a perversely cheerful letter congratulating me on assuming his seat in the Magisterium.” He shook his head slightly. “We only met a few times while I was home. He didn’t say anything about keeping me as his heir. This ‘ambassadorship’ was his doing. He must have wanted me away when the trouble began.”

“So you are truly a magister now,” Fenris said slowly.

“I certainly am,” Dorian said pleasantly. “I can’t wait to degrade the Magisterium with my presence! A new outfit is required.”

He wasn’t meeting Fenris’s eye. Fenris studied him shrewdly for a moment before speaking. “How do you feel about this appointment?”

“It’s both a blessing and a curse, pardon the trite cliché,” Dorian said. “But I won’t be entirely without support, as you know. Maevaris and I have been whipping the Lucerni into shape, and now we’ll be an actual faction in the Magisterium. I’ll teach them manners, take them shopping… it will be fun!”

Fenris eyed him appraisingly. “I expect you’ll be busy on your return home, then.”

“Oh yes,” he said. “First item on the agenda will be finding my father’s killers and killing them back. Then I’ll find those giving Tevinter a bad name and kill them. They’re most likely the same people, so that should make the job easier.”

“I see,” Fenris said.

Dorian tsked. “Now Fenris, I know what you’re thinking. The power is going to go to my head and turn me into an abomination and so on.” He delicately arranged a lock of his hair. “I’ll have you know that being an abomination would make me terribly unattractive, so I’ll continue to be my usual principled and heroic self, don’t you worry.”

Dorian’s blasé attitude and his lack of eye contact… Fenris gazed at him with a mixture of fondness and exasperation, then folded his arms and leaned back against the banister. “That’s not what I was thinking. I was thinking that I am sorry for your father’s loss.”

Dorian looked at him with open surprise, and Fenris shrugged. “He didn’t deserve your forgiveness, but you were… fond of him. For that, I am sorry.”

Dorian stared at him for a moment longer, then let out a little laugh. “That was very nearly nice, thank you.” He sighed and twisted one of his rings. “It still doesn’t feel real.”

“You just received the news this morning,” Fenris reasoned. “I suspect it will be some time before it sinks in.”

“Yes, of course. I just…” He trailed off and turned around to face the sprawling palace below, and they were silent for a moment.

Fenris broke the silence. “I am also sorry for the weight of the mantle you are about to assume. It will not be easy. Especially not given… well, everything about the Imperium.”

“I know,” Dorian said softly. He shot Fenris a small smile. “Luckily, I’m not a fan of the easy route. Why else do you think I stay friends with you?”

Fenris snorted. Then Hawke skipped over to them and hugged Dorian from behind. “An overdue hug for my favourite magister!” she chirped.

“He told you his news, then?” Fenris said.

“Yes!” she said brightly. “And I told him we need to have a party tonight to celebrate.”

Fenris frowned. “To celebrate what, exactly?” As far as he was concerned, nothing that Dorian had told them was good news.

Hawke poked his belly. “To celebrate the Tevinter Imperium automatically becoming a better place with Dorian as one of the boys in charge, of course,” she exclaimed. “We’re going to call it a Gird-Your-Loins Party, because Tevinter had better–”

“–gird their loins for Dorian’s rising status,” Fenris said dryly. “I see. Well, I suppose a small party in our suite…” He trailed off; Hawke was smiling sheepishly.

He gave her a stern look. “What did you do?”

Dorian snickered, and Hawke lifted one shoulder in a coy manner. “I might already have sent someone to tell Josie to book that fancy spa area downstairs for the party.”

“What?” Fenris blurted. “No. We can’t have a party there. That’s far too public.”

Dorian lightly smacked his arm. “Ashamed to celebrate with the fresh new magister, are you?”

Fenris frowned at him. “That is not why.” He turned to Hawke and lowered his voice. “I don’t want to… Celebrating with all of these strangers around is not my idea of a good time.”

“I know, I know,” she said soothingly. “But we’ll start the party in the spa area, then move it to our suite when you’re ready to get drunk.”

Fenris wrinkled his nose. “If the party will end up in our suite, why are you insistent on starting it in the public spa?”

“Because it’s public,” Hawke said. “It’s strategic and fun, you see? If we have an enormous lovely Inquisition party and make friends with all the Orlesians and Fereldans, they won’t speak against us because they’ll love us so much!”

Fenris sighed and ran a hand through his hair. This was just like her to assume that making friends was the solution. “Hawke…”

She cut him off. “Sorry, Fenris, I have to go tell Josie more details about the party,” she chirped. She kissed his cheek and started to leave, then stopped and snapped her fingers. “Oh, by the way, I buttered up that Duke Cyril fellow for you. He’s not angry about the whole Chateau Haine thing anymore, but I might have made him climax in his trousers.”

Dorian broke into incredulous coughing, and Fenris gaped at her. “Excuse me?” he demanded.

She held up her hands. “I didn’t touch him, I swear. I think he’s just kinky that way. I’ll tell you more later!” She hurried away through the crowd.

“Please don’t,” Fenris called after her.

Dorian, meanwhile, was laughing fit to burst. “Andraste’s ample bosom, I will miss you marvelous fools. I would say you should visit, but–”

“That will never happen,” Fenris said flatly.

“I wasn’t truly going to ask,” Dorian said. “It would be far too dangerous for you, anyway. But I do think I might have a solution, which I’ll show you later.”

Fenris raised an eyebrow, unsure what he meant by this. “All right. I suppose I’ll look forward to that.”

“Good. You should,” Dorian said cryptically. He stepped away from the banister. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have very busy and important business with Varric.”

Fenris huffed in amusement. “Pray tell.”

Dorian grinned. “A running bet on how long it will take before Cassandra threatens someone during the Council. Do you want in?”

Fenris hesitated, then shrugged. “All right. I’ll bet five royals that she doesn’t threaten anyone and retains her calm.”

Dorian shook his head in mock dismay. “I can’t decide if that’s adorably loyal to Cassandra, or utterly foolish. You’re on.”

Fenris smirked, and they parted ways. Dorian made a beeline for Varric, and Fenris made his way through the lower courtyard to see if he could take refuge with any other familiar faces.

***************

Read the second half of the banter here on AO3!

#fenris #fenris fic #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenris the inquisitor #fenquisition #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenrynne #trespasser dlc #pikapeppa writes

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hispeculiartreasure · 5 years ago

Text

All We’ve Got is Time - Chapter Ten | B. B.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

AU: If They’d Survived/Post-War/Window Washer!Bucky Barnes

Rating: All Ages

Word count: 2,975

Chapter 10/24

Warnings: Just a bad word.

AN: This chapter is. . . not my favorite. Mostly because I’m a stubborn bitch and finished this up in the middle of a migraine; I apologize in advance for my less-than thorough proofreading. It’s very heavy on information, but it’s necessary to set up future chapters and I feel like it shows growth. Don’t worry, I threw in lots of fluff and cute moments for ya. Forever appreciative for those of you reading!

Also, my 1k Followers Celebration is still going on! I’ll start posting the drabbles tomorrow, requests will remain open until Sunday. Y’all are the greatest followers ever! 💕

Chapter Nine

‘All We’ve Got is Time’ Masterlist

Bucky crams two fingers into the collar of his dress shirt, tugging at it for an attempt at relief in the sweltering New York heat. Pushing open the door to the skyscraper housing the VA’s Regional Benefit Office in Manhattan, he steels himself for this meeting. There were few things he hated more than dressing up in a monkey suit.

As soon as this is over I’m burning this tie.

The office is overflowing with men dressed almost exactly the same as him. Every seat in the waiting room is taken, presumed veterans stand elbow to elbow in what available standing room is leftover. There had to be at least 20 of them crammed into the small space. Fighting every instinct to turn tail and run from the room radiating nervous energy, Bucky politely checks in with the secretary before finding the last unoccupied spot by the window. This was a good thing. A step in the right direction. . . right?

He can’t help but inspect the window’s cleanliness, noting that the brushing technique was sloppy, leaving streaks behind. Gazing beyond the glass he imagines you working in your office today completely focused on your work. Wishing he really was watching you while he washed windows he remembers the huge smile on your face when he’d shared the news that he’d finally gotten this job counseling appointment. The thrill that lit up your eyes, the pride when you squeezed his arm. . . that was reason enough to stay put and wait.

After reading a spare newspaper entirely and watching what felt like every other person on earth walk in and out of the office, his name is finally called. He nods and steps forward to indicate that he indeed was James Barnes before following the weary man with the clipboard.

“Carl Baines, nice to meet ya. Alright Sergeant Barnes, how can the Department of Veterans Affairs help you today?”

“I, uh, was told I could get job counseling.” Following the man’s lead, Bucky sits opposite of the man, his desk piled with paperwork between them.

“That is correct. We have a questionnaire you can fill out that will give us a sense of direction on what you have an aptitude for,” the employee was already rifling through files, opening and closing drawers before placing a stack in front of Bucky.

“Sorry - I already have an idea of a job, I just don’t know where to start. Can you help with that?”

“Oh,” he blinks. “Yeah, you’re the first person I’ve talked to in days that’s said that. Uhh. . . what’re you thinking?”

“Working with cars?” “Okay, I can steer you in the right direction. Hold on.” Swiveling his chair to the filing cabinet behind him he mutters to himself as he cards through various files. “Automotive service, here we go.” The file lands on his desk with a plop before he’s flipping through it.

“Alright, looks like there’s lots of options. Best place to start is by picking up service manuals from manufacturers - they crank them out every year for mechanics to stay up-to-date, your local shop may have a few around. Manufacturers also usually have training courses if you agree to work for them. There’s also a lot of training conferences held if you get a job at a garage first. The library might even have a couple film rolls on auto mechanics. Looks like there are a few evening classes the public school system is offering. Another option is a private trade school where you’d stay until your training was complete. Or you could take a correspondence course, work in a shop at the same time, theory and practice together is always a good idea. Thoughts?”

Now it’s Bucky’s turn to blink. “Uhh. . .”

The man smiles apologetically and leans back in his chair. “Sorry. I understand that was a lot. We’ve been so busy, I forget to slow down sometimes. But the VA is offering to cover tuition for college or trade school up to $500 per year. Book, supplies, all of that is covered too. Plus you’ll get a cost-of-living stipend so you can focus on getting through school or training.”

Bucky nods, the idea of a future right in front of him somehow both thrilling and paralyzing. “Wow. Okay. Where’s the nearest trade school?”

“Let me check,” his finger trails down a list. “New Castle School of Trades, Pennsylvania.”

“How long would I be there?”

“Most schools are condensing their programs because of the influx of students. Maybe six months?”

Bucky is already shaking his head. “I don’t think I can be away that long.” He knows he can’t be away from you that long.

“It says here that they have a correspondence course. You’d receive assignments from instructors through the mail. You could finish in the same amount of time and only have to be there for a month of training halfway through the program. And they recommend finding a job a garage in the meantime. I have a friend who’s a mechanic and from what he says it pays to learn as much as you can as fast as you can. It takes constant studying, but you’ll be ahead of the curve if you work at the same time.”

“Okay,” Bucky stares at his hands folded in his lap, trying to think quickly. He didn’t want to be away from you, Steve, or his family for any length of time, but one month was better than six. And the sooner he could start something of his own, the better. “I think that’s the way I wanna go.”

“Let’s make it happen. Here’s an application for their school, get it in the mail as soon as possible so you can get started. Here’s a letter to attach stating that the government is covering all charges. While you’re here, I can get the paperwork started for your cost-of-living stipend.” More paperwork is pushed around the mess of a workspace as Carl pulls out a checklist. “You never enrolled for unemployment benefits, correct?”

“No, I was able to find a job pretty quick.”

He checks a box, “Okay. No dependents?”

“No.”

Another box is checked. “That combined with your service record will be about. . .” Carl slides a finger across a graph before tapping the paper twice, “$75 a month while you’re training plus an additional two months after you’re gainfully employed. Sound okay?” Bucky opens his mouth to answer but Carl didn’t give him the chance to respond. “Also if you’re looking for funds for a business or home, you’re eligible for a guaranteed loan whenever you apply, zero down with low interest. Lots of people are leaving the city and building houses on the outskirts of the city. It’s probably just a phase though. Any questions?”

“Not right now.”

“Well if you do have any, you’re welcome back anytime. We’re here to help.” Carl stands before shoving a pile of paper into his hands, simultaneously herding him toward the door. Next thing he knew Bucky was back in the waiting room that didn’t feel any less crowded. Thinking only of escape, Bucky doesn’t stop moving until he was outside the building.

Looking at the mess of paperwork he held, he sighs.

“One step at a time,” he whispers to himself, hearing your voice in his mind.

----

“How could the class sizes have grown so much since we graduated?” Bucky mumbles in Becca’s ear, pressed together in the masses of families seeking seating for the high school graduation ceremony. Baffled by the sheer number of people, he was quickly realizing the goal of everyone sitting together was futile.

The Barnes family shuffles through the crowd, searching in the chaos of the Brooklyn Stadium. Even being head-and-shoulders above most of the crowd Bucky couldn’t shake nerves ticking away in his chest. When they do find a clear bench in the stands they quickly discover the five of them don’t have a chance to fit together.

Rose gasps in dismay, “Oh, and I promised to save Robert a seat. If it was just us I’d say we could squeeze together but between when John gets here, my belly, and Robert. . .” she lays a self-conscious hand to her ever-growing midsection.

Becca gently grabs her sister’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, y’all take these seats. Bucky and I can find a spot together somewhere else. We’ll meet you afterwards.” George and Winnifred having long ago taken their seats, Rose joins them - sitting strategically to save seats for Evelyn’s beau and her own husband.

The idea of crawling over people to cram into a seat with little-to-no way to exit swiftly made Bucky’s anxiety heighten. Before Becca can move up the bleachers she catches her brother’s eye, catching the subtle tilt of his head toward the bottom of the stairs. Their remaining family being thoroughly distracted by the hubbub of the event, they weren’t noticed as they move down and away from the dull roar of the crowd several yards away from the bleachers.

“You alright?” Becca probes. Not taking his tight nod for a good enough answer she asks quietly, “Too many people?”

“Yeah. Still don’t like loud, crowded places.”

“Makes sense,” she says, more to herself than to Bucky. They stand together and people-watch, making comments about peers they recognize from their old high school days or teachers they couldn’t believe were still working 10 years later.

Before long their brother-in-law joins the family in the stands, sending a wave their way before kissing his wife on the cheek. But then a young, rail-thin young man approaches the Barneses, sheepishly accepting their warm welcome.

“That him Rose is fawning all over?” Bucky nods toward the situation. Becca cranes her neck before nodding affirmatively. “God, he looks 12 years old.”

“Bucky.”

“And he’s older than her?”

Becca narrows her eyes in his direction, “Only by two years. He’s just about finished his teaching training, should be able to start working in the fall.”

“Hmm.”

“Don’t sound so unimpressed, you were the one bent out of shape about him having a good job. Teachers are in demand, you know that.”

Bucky rocks back and forth on his heels “How have I not met the kid when they’ve been dating for almost a year?”

“You only got back around the holidays.”

“But Evelyn only brings him around the house when she knows I’m not going to be there. Why?”

“Could be a coincidence.”

“You’ve turned into a shit liar the last few years, Becs.”

After a good-natured elbow to his ribs, Bucky’s shoulders relax ever-so-slightly.

“Evelyn’s gotten under your skin, huh?”

“I just don’t like it.” A hand makes contact with the back of his head and he jerks to face his sister, her face glowing with stern righteousness. “What was that for!”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I’m lost.” Bucky hold his hands up in surrender, not even sure what he’s surrendering to.

“As much as Evelyn doesn’t act like it, your opinion matters to her. Plus she doesn’t want you scaring him off.”

“If he scares easily he’s not good enough for her.” Bucky shifts his feet, eyes zeroing in on the gangly boy sharing a laugh with his mother.

Becca scoffs at him. “Have you seen yourself when you’re trying to be scary? Let alone when you aren’t trying? He’s a solid guy, Bucky. Give him a chance.”

A sigh escapes Bucky before he makes an admission. “The whole family has gotten to know him. I know y’all like the kid and don’t have a problem with them getting married, but-.”

“You’re hurt that you haven’t been given that chance.” Bucky tries to protest but is quickly shushed by his sister. “I get it. You and Evelyn are too similar for your own good. Show her a little respect in her choice, give her the chance to make a good choice.”

Bucky can’t formulate a reply before the ceremony commences, the long line of graduates marching out onto the football field. The event is efficient for a such a large class - a record-breaking class at that-, even after the family cheers and whistles as Evelyn Barnes receives her diploma early on. The moment the ceremony comes to a conclusion hoards rush to their graduates on the field, whereas the Barneses hold back, waiting for Evelyn to find them.

George, Winnifred, Rose, John, and Robert gravitate to the spot where Bucky and Becca had watched with pride.

“Well, our girl did it,” George gives a rare smile as Evelyn finally pushes through the crowd so the family converges together at the same moment.

“Congratulations, sweetheart!” Winnifred wraps her youngest in a delighted hug.

“Thanks, Mom. Hi, Rob,” Evelyn blushes deeply and accepts a kiss to the top of her capped head from her beau.

“Proud of you, Evie.” Bucky sidles up to give her a hug from the side before facing Robert, Evelyn’s panicked face causing a twinge in his heart. Becca was right. He has been too harsh on her.

“Bucky, right? I’ve heard wonderful things about you,” Robert extends a hand, delivering a surprisingly confident handshake despite the sweat developing on his brow.

“Likewise.” Bucky says with forced optimism. This is why I was a soldier and not a spy, he thinks ruefully.

----

“So you actually approve of Robert?” Even over the phone Bucky can practically see the surprise on your face.

“Can’t believe I’m saying it, but yeah. Becca gave me a whole speech before I met him, made me back off of the protective brother bit slightly.”

“Oh, only slightly?” you tease.

“Yeah. Turns out Becca was right.”

“I have a feeling I’m going to get along with her.”

His heart flutters at the idea of you anticipating, even looking forward to, meeting his family. “Anyway,” he sighs dramatically, adjusting his grip on the phone before observing New York City bustling outside the phone booth. “How was your day, Sassafras?”

The sound of your groan crackling through the receiver triggers Bucky’s grin. “Don’t you even start with me. Between you and Anderson-”

A strange voice laced with an Irish accent abruptly enters the conversation. “Is anybody on the line?”

Bucky holds the mouthpiece away to avoid deafening you with a bark of laughter.

“Yes, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy,” you breathe with exasperation. “We just started talking.”

“Oh. I see. Well I need to call my sister, dear - with the weather getting so warm I’m worried about her and-”

“Okay, okay, we won’t be too long, I promise.” Even in your frustration you remain kind, a quality Bucky was beginning to deeply admire.

He hears a tell-tale click before you sigh. “The joys of party line service. What was I saying?”

“Something about your boss.”

“Oh yeah. He’s been in rare form this week. I’m starting to wonder why he’s the executive and I’m the typist when I’m drafting the original letters myself.”

“You have been pulling a lot of long days this week.”

“Apparently his time is better spent in the file room with the new secretary which sticks me with all the work,” you spit out bitterly. “And he gets to take credit for my flawless products, the pig. He makes my skin crawl.”

“Because he’s a corporate-climbing jerk or for another reason?”

“Well. . .” your hesitant voice hints at something else. “He’s forward and brash while being underhanded at the same time. It’s. . . unsettling.”

As Bucky opens his mouth to question further another click sounds off and the now-familiar lilt echoes back through the handset. “Is the line open now?”

“Still here, Mrs. O’Shaughnessy. I’ll be off in a few minutes.”

“You can’t tie up the phone line all day, young lady.”

“We all pay for the service. Check again soon.” Bucky bites his lip to contain his amusement at your firmness. A car horn goes off for several seconds, drawing the attention of several passers-by.

In confusion you ask, “Where are you calling from?”

“Payphone outside of Steve’s.”

“You’re paying that much for this call, Bucky? Jeeze I would’ve stopped talking ages ago, I’m sorry.”

“S’alright. Worth hearing your voice. I know I sound like a lovesick teenager, but not seeing you for a few days has been hard.”

“I know. But I’ll see you tomorrow. Any news today?”

“Yeah, I got my first assignment and textbooks for my training course.”

Your squeal makes his heart grow two sizes. “How exciting! Have you looked through it?”

“Not yet. Wanted to give it a good look when I had time. Also got my stipend in the mail.”

“That’s gotta feel good. When’re you going to give your window washing team notice?”

“I dunno. Don’t wanna leave them high and dry.”

“That was a horrible pun, Barnes. But I’m sure the boys can handle it.”

“We both know that’s debatable,” he revels in your giggle. “I better go chat with Steve.”

“You still haven’t talked to him?”

Even though he knows you can’t see him, he waves a flippant hand. “Nah, but it’s Steve. It’ll be fine.”

“And you’re sure about all this?”

“Very sure.”

“Okay. Hope it goes well. Tell me all about it tomorrow?”

“See ya tomorrow, sweetheart.” Before Bucky can hang up he hears Mrs. O’Shaughnessy once again, “Well he sounds handsome.”

Your unbridled laugh sends warmth through his chest as he replaces the handset and exits the booth. A block later, Bucky knocks on Steve’s door, army rucksack over his shoulder.

“Hey Buck,” Steve greets, eyes quickly flitting from the bag, to Bucky’s hands, before meeting his gaze.

Bucky gives a smug grin, holding up the envelope with his stipend nestled inside. “Spare room still open?”

“Nope.” Panic grips Bucky, that being the last thing he expected to hear. “Never was a spare room. Been yours from the start.”

Breathing out the fear, the brunet groans. “You’re a real jerk.”

“I know. Come on in.”

Chapter Eleven

Tags:

@moderapoppins @lookwhatyoumademequeue @crazinessgraveyardsandcartoons @thinkwritexpress-official @fearless2tobeme @laneygthememequeen @past-perfect-future-tense @drhughgrection @promarvelfangirl @marvelous-avengers @connorshero @anditwasjustus @lucyyannabel @p3nny4urth0ught5 @usernamemingmei @the-canary @thorfanficwriter @blueskiesbleakeyes @silverwing2522 @satansmushroom @nerd-without-a-cause @barnesrogersvstheworld @firewolf-marvels @reginaphlanageadams @kiliakit @forsaken-letters @bouquet-o-undercaffeinated-roses @part-time-patronus @biavastarr @ellaenchanted91 @ihopeyousteponarosepetal @bloatedandlonly @barnestruck @itsbuckysworld @captainsbuck @writemarvelousthings @havanaangel @animeflower26 @igotkatiepowers @clockworkherondale @mcueveryday @buckybarneshairpullingkink @cassianpeia @ladylizzieofdarbyshire @abovethesmokestacks @ursulaismymiddlename @sarcasm-ing @hiddles-rose @thisismysecrethappyplace @palaiasaurus64 @fanfic-diaries @fangirlfictionmain @majesticavenger @creideamhgradochas

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes reader insert #1940s Bucky Barnes #bucky barnes fluff #bucky barnes fanfiction #beka writes #marvel fanfiction #All We've Got is Time #Chapter Ten

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codzombiesartwork123 · 5 years ago

Text

The Last Letter

(Idea based on the Vocaloid song called “The Last Revolver” by GUMI.)

WARNING: THIS MAY CONTAIN AN MENTION OF SUICIDE AND DEPRESSION, THEN I AM SORRY FOR WRITING AND POSTING THIS HERE. VIEWER DIGRESSION IS ADVISED.

If only....

It was snowing hard for the sergeant, mid-30's man with Russian for his native tongue, walking to find any hopes of transposition. He finally saw a stop of the trolley with someone waiting for the trolley as well, a woman, alone lady with fluffy unkempt hair that has a dark raven shade.

He was tossing in his sleep.

He walked quickly and then stops to wait for the trolley, he seemed uninterested at first but the woman looked over to him with hazel green eyes with fading of a green leaf.

"Hello" she greeted, man was a bit skeptical but said "Hello, ma'am."

He turned...

"Are you waiting for the trolley too?"

"Da" he answered, looking at her now with a little annoyance, she sniffed a little at the man. He could see that she had realized that he was a Sergeant of Russia.

"A-are you...?"

The man feel bad now for scaring her due to his threatening appearance so he said "Da, but I am quite sure that I am very friendly."

That seemed to relaxed her a bit, "where are you going?" She asked out of curiosity towards this sergeant.

"I am heading for a meeting, it was going to be plans about the great war."

The woman looked at him, "I heard about it and... I am worried."

"About what?" He asked, "I am worried about how the war will end, either in victory or something else that we can lose everything we have." She hesitantly said with with fear.

The man looked over to her, "I am sure we will find a way, even it may look bad." He reassured her.

Woman looked at him, still scared yet relieved a little and said "Are you positive about this?"

"I am sure." He looked her and felt face warmed up a little, just when the trolley came up from the snowflakes flying in the wind.

"It's here, it was nice meeting you, Sergeant...?"

"Nikolai Belinski" sergeant had introduced himself to her, the woman smiled and said "My name is Anna." As they entered the trolley together...

"Anna..." he muttered in his sleep.

Later on, it was snowing again but this time tonight, it falling lightly onto the ground that is padded with stone bricks. "At least it is not hard as the month before..." he said softly as he walked to the same station and the same woman is there.

He walked over to her and they catch things up, “How had been the meeting a week ago?” as Nikolai looked at her.

“It was hard, hard yet firm.” he answered with hesitation, “We has made a plan, a better one than the previous one.”

“Oh.”

“I am sure things will work out, Anna.”

“I hope so for our sakes.”

“If only... If only...”

The next ten days were eventful, they kept keeping up on that same station and more with each meet up, more feelings between them grew. For a moment, they were only acquaintances in winter, then spring came and they become friends.

Summer comes and they became lovers after the festival, soon married happily in autumn but when winter came back, it was the season where his whole world had fallen apart and lay on the ground, destroyed.

There was a bombing and it had claimed lives, one of them being Anna’s and the unborn child, they were killed while he was somewhere; safe from all of this.

He was so very broken when he heard the news, his wife, his love, his whole world... had came to a devastating end and he hated himself for it, for not being there when it happened.

“I should’ve...” he muttered in his sleep, tears forming now.

He later tried to kill himself so he could join them after so many weeks after the news had reached him and he had received a letter from her by a relative from her family just days before the bombing but he never opened it. He... He however failed to off himself, he woke up later in the medical unit with a head injury.

His anger and spite grew from there, slowly growing until madness of war finally got to him, in a moment of insanity, he accidentally killed one of his men and was arrested.

There were a talk about the death sentence but his life was later spared after they all agreed to instead exile him from their Motherland. He was threaten that he will die if he ever returned so he ran away. He spent days traveling and writing notes about them and eventually settled in France for some time.

That is when the wheels of fate had suddenly turned on him by the higher ups of Russia, after being tipped about the Germans had discovered the great power that will “help” them win World War 1 but there were risks to his life. Still loyal, he took it but if only he knew what will happen next.

There were things... Undead walking the earth after being unleashed unwritty by the Germans.

He woke up from another nightmare, gasping and breathing. He checked himself first then to his teammates, specifically to the German who was sleeping too while Dempsey was on watch to make sure they weren’t ambush like the last time with zombies.

He looked over to Takeo and seeing he is sleeping on a branch peacefully, he looked around more, double-checking and then looked over to his bag, opened it and then rummaged through it.

“Where is it...? Where the hell is it...?!” he whispered in frustration as he rummaged through it harder to find it and then he felt a paper, he pulled it and there it is in his hand was the letter from his wife still left unopened. He was nervous about it but he had been thinking about what she left behind for him to read but he wanted to know, he wanted to know but not without courage.

He slowly and carefully opened the letter and within it was a note, he recognized her handwriting right away when looking at it.

He read the letter as she wrote it:

If only we could start over.

If only we could go back to the festival last summer as we could do it all over and I hoped it would be just the two of us there.

I know that it is going to be impossible now if something happen to me, because from the beginning of our love, we are too different from each other but it is possible for love to grow.

Love and War.

If you are reading this and knowing that I’m gone, I’m sorry for that but I will wait for you. I am sure that you will meet me again if something happened to you.

I’m sorry that you are hurt but Nikolai,

You made my life happy.

Love, Anna.

He trembled when he read the last sentence, Closure had finally came to him and he fought hard not to cry, he heard the Marine’s voice saying “Hey Nik, are you alright?”

Nikolai said nothing but placed the letter back in his bag, wipes the tears from his eyes and only replied “Nikolai will talk about it later, Dempsey.”

#Call of Duty Zombies #CoDZ #Black Ops #Fanfic #Nikolai Belinski #Nikolai's wife #Edward Richtofen #Tank Dempsey #Takeo Masaki #//Suicide attempt #//Depression #Love #The Last Revolver

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eclecticstarlightconnoisseur · 6 years ago

Text

Edinburgh to Boston - Chapter 5 - The Hotel

Good Evening all, Here is Chapter 5. We finally make it to Boston. Yay! Do you think things go smoothly now? NAW not for these two!

I hope you enjoy reading this. Any comments, thoughts or questions are always welcomed.

My deepest thanks again to @curlsgetdemgurls and @jmoonrise for being my betas.

I give you:

Edinburgh to Boston

Chapter 5

The Hotel

The jet was pelted with ice crystals and blinding snow. The ice made pinging and clunking sounds as it struck the fuselage of the jet. Claire looked out the window trying to see any recognizable landmark as they approached Boston. It was impossible to see anything through the window at this point because of the snow and ice. High winds were buffeting the jet around as if it was a toy in the hands of a malevolent child tossing it around whilst making screeching, whistling, and booming sounds akin to a plane crashing.

Claire thought that if she ever had a child, she would never allow the child to play with a plane after this experience.

Her nerves were on edge. Claire began to chew her bottom lip, a nervous habit she did whenever she was worried. The jet made a sudden lurch and precipitously dropped. One hand grasped onto the armrest tightly making her knuckles turn white whilst the other hand sought out James.

James was doing his best to keep an outward appearance of calm. Claire knew this was strictly for her benefit. However, Claire could see that faint line forming in the space right between his eyebrows. That wrinkle showed up whenever James concentrated or when a situation became too intense. She had become familiar this line from their work together in the operating room. It forms every time they reached a critical point during heart surgery.

James realized Claire was watching him, and had noticed his telltale sign of concern written all over his face. He carefully schooled his features effectively hiding his worry.

"Dinna fash, Beauchamp, it will be alright." he said with a genuine smile as he grasped her hand tightly.

"I'm glad you think so," Claire snarked with a hint of doubt in her voice.

Shudder, shake, vibrate. It felt like the jet was coming apart at the seams.

"James!" Claire exclaimed; her eyes wide with fright.

James saw how frightened Claire was. He continued holding her hand, rubbing his thumb over the back of her hand in small comforting circles. He continued engaging her with story after story trying to focus her attention on something other than the chaos that was happening around them.

"James?" Claire asked looking up into his face earnestly.

"What is it Beauchamp?"

"James," Claire whispered. "In case the plane does, well you know, I ah, I... I just wanted you to know that, that, I love you." The last three words were barely audible. Her golden whisky eyes sparkled with love for him. Claire put her head on his shoulder and said no more.

James heard her soft admission of love. To him, it was loud. It was louder than the racket an entire herd of trumpeting stampeding elephants could make trampling over the earth destroying everything in their wake.

She loves me, she loves me! Weel, better late than never, he reckoned. At least he finally knew after all this time.

"I love ye too, Claire." A broad smile graced his beautiful face. He placed his head on top of hers contented.

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Captain. We are in descent to Logan. I have been told that the ground crew is working diligently to keep to the runway clear of ice, snow, and slush. Stay in your seats, keep your seat belts on and be ready for a bumpy ride. We will be landing shortly."

With her admission of love, the fear Claire felt disappeared leaving behind a feeling of tranquility. The feeling expanded when he confessed his own love for her. She knew everything would be alright, and if not, at least they were together like her parents were.

The landing gear engaged. The jet touched down with a bounce and a wobble. As predicted, the landing was very bumpy even on the longer runway necessary for this type of landing. At times, it almost felt like they were going to crash into the airport itself. Finally, the jet rolled to a halt. The passengers released a collective sigh of relief as the nightmare was finally over.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have arrived at Logan Airport in Boston. We hope you enjoyed your flight. I need a stiff drink and a change of underwear. I am sure you all do too. Let’s all get cleaned up and I'll meet you in the bar. That is all."

The passengers all cheered for their Captain and agreed that a drink was definitely in order.

"Come on, Claire. Let's get out of here before we canna. We need to find a taxi, or we will be stuck in the airport all the night. We can have a drink when we get settled at the hotel," James said lifting his eyebrows at her. Claire nodded in agreement.

As they stood, each craned their necks looking for Harry and Maizie, concern for the elderly couple etched on their faces. Harry, now with his hat askew and Maizie with her hair jutting out much like a porcupine were otherwise none the worse for wear. Both James and Claire, in turn, surreptitiously waved good-bye to the older couple relieved that they appeared to be alright.

James and Claire collected their belongings as quickly as possible and deplaned without a moment's hesitation.

****************

A genial gentleman dressed in chauffeur attire was waiting at the arrival gate for them. He was carrying a portfolio of some type to which he was frequently referring.

He stepped forward asking in a polished Bostonian accent, "Dr. Beauchamp, Dr. Fraser?"

"Aye, we are Doctors Beauchamp and Fraser. Might I ask who ye are?"

"I am Padrick Donoghue, your chauffeur from the Georges X hotel. I was concerned that your flight might have been diverted due to the storm. I am relieved that was not the case. May I assist you with your luggage doctors? If you will follow me your car awaits."

James and Claire looked at each other. This was not normal. Not at all. Georges X is a five-star hotel known for its, ahem, discretion. And very expensive. Not the usual accommodations for physicians on a conference. Who made these reservations and was it really for them? But tonight, well tonight any port in a storm would do.

A luxury Lexus SUV was awaiting James and Claire.

Padrick entertained them with stories of Boston and what they could do with any spare time.

"Padrick, I am very familiar with the area. I went to Harvard Medical School and did my residency here. Unfortunately, Dr. Fraser and I need to return to Scotland as soon as the conference is over. It is lovely to remember all the places I enjoyed going to whilst living here."

"Well, it's a home coming for you then Dr. Beauchamp."

"You could say so."

Claire’s mind drifted away from Padrick's idle chatter. All she could think about was a hot bath and sleep. It had been a long, strange day.

*************

The drive to the hotel was a short distance from the airport and upon arrival Claire and James entered the grand lobby. The lobby was tastefully done in contemporary furnishings of black, grey, camel, and white. A welcoming fire was blazing in the lobby fireplace. A beautiful ornate glass elevator, the centerpiece of the lobby, would whisk guests away to their rooms.

"I'll check us in Beauchamp. Why don't ye make yerself comfortable while I take care of it?"

Claire walked over to examine the violet phalaenopsis orchids that decorated the lobby, when she suddenly heard James' voice raised in agitation. He was leaning over the desk, coming eye-to-eye with the clerk. This was not good. Claire came over to see what was wrong. What she found was her normally good-natured partner turning a brilliant shade of red. He was speaking through clenched teeth with his eyes narrowed menacingly.

"Fraser, what's happened?" Claire queried.

James grabbed Claire by the upper arm and pulled her away from the desk.

"Beauchamp, there has been a mix-up. We are listed as doctors Beauchamp and Fraser, a husband and wife surgical team. There is only one room for us to share. And because of the storm, there isna another room available here or anywhere."

He was quite distressed at this. Truthfully, so was Claire. The prospect of sharing a room with James, while not an unpleasant idea, was not in her plans. Right now all Claire wanted to do was get some sleep.

“Beauchamp, there is only one bed. There are nay cots available. There is nay couch in the room. This is different situation altogether and ye ken it. This is no’ going to work,” he replied angrily.

“Fraser, it will be alright. We have shared the on-call room many nights while we were working. We can share a room tonight. Tomorrow we can see about making other arrangements.”

“Are ye daft woman?! What if one of your colleagues or friends from Boston sees ye here going into a room with a man that is no’ yer husband? What will they think?” James’ eyes narrowed to blue slits. He slowly turned his head, surveying the lobby for any possibility of a threat, real or imagined, to Claire’s virtue. Satisfied that no one was going to jump out and spray paint a scarlet letter A on Claire’s bosom, James returned his gaze to Claire.

James began to ruffle his fingers through his hair making it stand up on end, “Christ, Beauchamp, think of yer reputation woman! I’ll not have people thinking ye a wanton. I’ll nae risk it!” James was visibly distressed and hellbent on protecting Claire’s reputation and honor. He continued mumbling in Gàidhlig about tainting her reputation as a woman.

Claire gaped at him in shock.

“James,” she said very quietly through her teeth, “first of all, how would anyone know you are not my husband, hmm? Secondly, this is not the 18th century, for god’s sake; it’s the 21st century! No one will think anything of it. Besides, look,” she pointed to the desk where there was a sign that said, The Essence of Discretion. Perhaps the hotel was a trysting place for the rich and famous.

“I wouldn’t worry.”

“Aye, weel I dinna like it anyway. I’ll sleep down here, if ye dinna mind.”

“James,” Claire’s yellow tiger’s eyes narrowed glinting dangerously, “I am tired. In fact, I am exhausted. We had a horrible flight. We almost died. I want to take a bath, perhaps have a drink, and go to sleep, in that order. And I am not leaving you down here. Get your bag and get a move on. NOW.”

Claire turned on her heel, grabbed her suitcase, took the card key from the clerk, and marched toward the elevator.

“MOVE IT, Fraser,” she said without so much as a glance over her shoulder to see if he was following her.

James knew she was not to be trifled with. He had seen her in this type of mood before when a cardiac surgery fellow made a mistake whilst taking care of one of her patients. Claire had swallowed the fellow whole, spit out his bones, and used them to pick her teeth. Claire could be formidable when necessary. She was a true force of nature like a hurricane or an earthquake. James loved her like that. This was not a meek and obedient woman. Claire was a true match for him; if she would let him get a word in edgewise.

He quickly grabbed his bag and followed behind her. He had another bit of bad news still to deliver.

While standing in the elevator, James cleared his throat and place his hands protectively over his bollocks.

“UMM, Beauchamp?”

“Yes, Fraser, what is it?” Claire asked tiredly.

“I have another thing to tell ye.”

“Yes?”

“Theycancelledtheconference.” James told her all in one breath. “The speakers couldna make it in from Texas because of the storm.” He stood there waiting for the fallout.

Claire looked at him her lips twitching somewhere between exasperation and hysterics. Her eyes glazed over and she began to laugh hysterically.

“Could this trip get any worse?”

James was relieved that Claire was not going to have a melt down on the elevator.

“Weel, Beauchamp, let’s look at this way. We could do with a bit a vacation, do ye no think? The clerk said that everything is all paid for. So maybe we should just try to enjoy it. Maybe ye could show me around Boston, hmm? My own personal tour guide” he said trying to wink at Claire. Instead, he looked like a large red sleepy owl blinking its eyes.

“We’ll see Fraser, we’ll see.”

#edinburgh to boston #chapter 5 #finally made it to boston #they said they love each other #it's about time #only one bed #protective jamie #tired claire #how did they end up in such a exclusive hotel #what will they do now #curlsgetdemgurls #jmoonrise #takemeawaytocamelot #laythornmuse #ladyviolethummingbird #soinspiredbyyou #here goes nothing

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princess-of-luxure · 5 years ago

Text

Half Hearted

A mysterious stranger rescues you from an untimely demise at the hand of some Qliphoth roots. Over the course of the ensuing month, a whirlwind romance quickly develops—only to be snatched away just as quickly.

Some things aren't meant to last.

Fandom: Devil May Cry Rating: Teen and Up Audiences Relationships: V (Devil May Cry)/Reader Characters: V (Devil May Cry), Griffon (Devil May Cry) Content Warnings: Blood, Background Character Death, Near-Death Experiences

Written for day two of whumptober as the tags say, prompt was 'Explosion.' I, uh... I'll admit the prompt only looses relates to what actually ended up being the whump in this fic, but uh, technically it was inspired by the prompt, so good enough.

Fic under read more.

When the infernal tree had first invaded Redgrave City, many of your family members and friends had fled. That was probably the wise thing to do, you mused as you picked your way through rubble and debris, the best way to keep safe. You had seen what the demonic roots did to their victims, and it was far from a pretty sight; a nightmarish vision that you were sure would be burned into your memory for the rest of your life.

Still, you found you couldn’t leave with the others, a soul far too kind and compassionate for its own good tying you to the ruined city. You may have had a chance to run, but others were not so fortunate. Your heart bled to think of those who were alive but trapped, who, without outside assistance, had no hope of escape. True, death by the tree’s roots was an unpleasant way to go, but at least it was over quickly. Death by starvation, dehydration, infection and who knows what else… such a fate was not so kind.

Today saw you combing through the ruins of what you believed might have once been a church. You had never spared much of a thought to religion, but you wondered how many people were praying desperately even now to a God that seemed deaf to their pleads. You couldn’t imagine putting so much faith into a belief that was anything but concrete, but whatever gave people their hope; it was scarce these days.

You were violently snapped out of your thoughts when you saw a small pool of blood trickling from out behind a pillar. It looked fresh, and with a gasp, you ran to check the source. Sure enough, a middle-aged woman was collapsed against it, her life draining from her through an uncountable amount of gouges in her skin, chunks of flesh completely torn away.

Hands trembling, you fell to your knees besides the woman, blood soaking your pants as you reached into your bag for your first-aid kit. You knew it was a futile attempt right from the start, that she was practically already dead, but you’d be damned if you didn’t try. “What happened to you?” you whispered as you worked at bandaging up her stomach, which seemed to be where most of the blood was coming from.

“Demons…” the woman rasped, the action causing even more red from dribble from the corner of her mouth. “You… should…” You didn’t hear the end of her sentence as her head lolled forth onto her chest. Cursing under your breath, you placed two fingers against the pulse point in her neck—nothing, as expected.

You drew back from the body, shaking your head. “I’m sorry I couldn’t save you,” you whispered. “Rest in peace.”

You stood in silence for a moment as you debated what to do now. It didn’t take long for you to decide that you couldn’t just leave the corpse lying around to become a demon’s next meal, so with great effort, you dragged it up and slung one of its arms around your shoulders, beginning to drag it towards the exit to the church. You were well aware that this literal dead weight made you a sitting duck if any devils decided you looked like a tasty snack, but what else could you do?

As it turned out, demons should’ve been the least of your worries. Before you could make it more than a few steps, the ground heaved underfoot, and the architecture around you, which was barely standing in the first place, shuddered and collapsed, the dust and debris settling with a note of finality. You were trapped.

The nightmare hardly ended there. From underneath the rubble, a writhing mass of the infernal roots emerged, their razor sharp tips glinting as they sought out new prey, fresh blood. Sought out you.

You couldn’t stop the scream that was torn from your throat as you dropped the body you were carrying, backing up frantically only to slip on a slick patch of blood. You slammed your eyes shut as you crashed to the ground, throwing your arms up to shield your head and curling into fetal position as if that could save you from your imminent death.

A primal growl filled your ears, followed by a wet squelch. You didn’t know what was happening and you didn’t dare to look, but after a few seconds, it finally registered with you that you were alive. There was no burning pain, at least, so—so you had to be alive, unless the screaming of the tree’s other victims had misled you. Somehow, you didn’t think that was it.

“Ey Shakespeare, this one’s alive!” a strange voice cawed from above. Cawed? You cracked your eyes open to see the weirdest bird you’d ever seen in your life fluttering in front of you. You were not sure how it made human sounds with its three be—oh shit, this was a demon.

“Do not fear.” You turned your head to see a man perhaps equally as strange as the demonic bird approach you, hair as black as the ink that swirled across his body, green eyes bright as he took you in. Behind him, you could see the roots turning to ash and crumbling. “We mean you no harm.”

We? He must’ve have been referring to himself and the bird. And… the cat, apparently, noticing what appeared to be a panther stalking into your peripheral view. You got the idea that, just like the bird, it was far from an ordinary animal.

The mysterious stranger followed your gaze and chuckled. “Cat got your tongue, it seems,” he remarked, before extending a tattooed hand to you. Still partially in shock, you took it, allowing him to help you to your feet. “Are you quite alright?”

A million questions swirled around in your mind instead of any sort of coherent answer. A human that kept company in the form of demons… Without permission, you found yourself blurting out, “Who are you?”

Your savior blinked in surprise, then a slow smile spread across his features, containing trace hints of a smirk. It made him look devastatingly handsome, and despite your situation, you felt your breath catch and your heart skip a beat. Surely no man on Earth could look this pretty, and yet here this stranger stood before you, looking like some kind of fallen angel. You almost didn’t catch his response. “You can call me V.”

V. Just one singular letter, and it only served to add to his entrancing mystery. Now that the shock of your near-death experience was starting to wear off, you could—

“Hey, get it together, lovebirds!” the devil bird interjected, cackling as it received an irritated glare from V. “I dunno if you’ve noticed, but this is no place for chitchat!”

V sighed, extending an arm for his… pet? Companion? Friend? to perch on. “Griffon is unfortunately correct—”

“Hey, what do you mean, unfortunately?!”

V continued as though he hadn’t heard the outburst. “We must leave this place, post-haste.”

“How?” You glanced around once more to confirm what you already knew. The exits were all blocked, clogged by the initial destruction caused by the roots emerging. “There’s no way out.”

V gave you a cryptic smile. Like every other expression he made, it caused the wings of a thousand butterflies to beat frantically in your stomach. “If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, Infinite.” Before you could question what the hell that meant, V snapped his fingers. You could only watch in fascination as the color seemed to drain from his hair, leaving mystical white locks in its wake.

You nearly leapt out of your skin as there was a booming crash behind you. Turning, you found a hulking monstrosity of the slime variety had just broken through one of the clogged exits, clearing a path.

Looking back to V, you found he was smirking again. Goddammit, that smirk was going to be the death of you, the curve of those pretty lips… Once again, you almost missed his next words. “Shall we?” His hand was extended to you again, this time not a necessary help but an invitation. A choice.

An invitation you would be a fool not to accept, a choice that was easily made. You carefully slipped your fingers through his. “We shall.”

The look he gave you, full of wonder and intrigue, would have been reward enough. If V had departed after rescuing you here, it would have been disappointing, but it would have been enough.

He didn’t. He didn’t leave, vanishing into the night as with so many romantic stories of handsome saviors. V stayed.

And that was more than enough.

Until it wasn’t.

~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~*~*~* ~*~*~

“There is a smile of love, And there is a smile of deceit, And there is a smile of smiles In which these two smiles meet.”

A month had passed since V had rescued you from the Qliphoth’s bloodthirsty roots. After introducing you to his friends, the devil hunter Nero and the mechanic Nico, you had quickly fallen into a routine, and these days when you scoured the city for survivors, you had a rude bird, silent cat and a beloved emo poet to watch your back. Not that you’d ever called V an emo poet to his face, of course—it was an inside joke between you and Griffon.

With each day that passed, the bond between you and V only grew deeper and stronger. It started off innocently enough, furtive glances and secretive smiles that were laden with meaning. As time flew by, it became open, longing looks, touches that lingered a second too long, earnest conversation throughout the night, and Griffon shrieking for the two of you to leave room for Jesus, until it culminated in falling onto the couch together with a trembling, hesitant meeting of lips.

It was bliss. In the weeks that followed you were both subjected to endless snark from your companions, but it hardly bothered you. Why should it, when you were lucky enough to be able to call the embodiment of perfection yours?

Today found you laying with your head in V’s lap, his slender fingers carding through your hair as he read aloud to you from his book of poetry. His dulcet tones filled your mind like a pleasant fuzz, leaving you dazed and floating in the realm between dreams and wakefulness.

You didn’t notice he had stopped reading until he spoke, gently brushing a thumb over your cheek. “Are you awake, my love?” There was a hint of teasing in his voice.

“Mm.” You fluttered your eyes open, greeted by the ever wonderful sight of your partner’s breathtaking smile, laced with hints of a smirk as it had been on the day you met. You had grown to love that smile, that almost-smirk. “Depends on if you’re going to go back to reading.”

V chuckled, a low sound that was more melodious than any bird song to you. His hand slipped to cradle the back of your head as he drew you in for a sweet kiss, a heavenly thing that left your lips tingling and bliss permeating your every sense of being. Kissing V was and would always be your favorite pleasure, always leaving you chasing more of that heady feeling. His kisses were more intoxicating than any alcohol, and if the last thing you ever felt was V’s warm lips upon yours, well, that would be just fine.

“Though nothing would bring me greater pleasure…” He was speaking again. Damn, you really needed to stop with the zoning out over him. “...I’m afraid I have a mission to see through.”

That caught your attention. Blinking, you sat up, studying his expression. “I’ll come with you,” you began to say, but V was already shaking his head.

“As much as I enjoy your company, this mission would be too dangerous for you, I’m afraid. I must go after Urizen.” Urizen. The demon responsible for ruining Redgrave City. The demon responsible for you meeting V. “He has been left unattended for far too long, and time is a luxury we can no longer afford.”

V stood and you did the same, chewing on your inner lip as your partner retrieved his cane. “Be safe, V,” you murmured, an almost pleading quality to your tone. “You’ll come home, won’t you?”

There’s a melancholy look in emerald eyes, and only you would notice the way his grip subtly tightened on his cane. “Of course, my love,” he replies softly, and as he steps out into the daylight and out of your sight, leaving you alone with nothing but the anxiety that gnaws at your gut, you think he might be lying.

(He does return, months later, but his features and expressions are unfamiliar to you and the name he calls himself—Vergil—is a stranger’s.)

#whumptober2019 #no.2 #explosion #dmc #devil may cry #v devil may cry #v dmc5 #v x reader #dmc fanfic #dmc fanfiction #devil may cry fanfic #devil may cry fanfiction #mal writes #half hearted

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tsukiyaki · 5 years ago

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2020 LC: Prologue

Sometimes, dreams come in whispers, and those whispers don’t stem from selfish desires, but rather God’s promises. When that happens, God can answer even the prayers that you didn’t have the guts to put words to or wrote off as impossible or wishful thinking. His timing is perfect, so trust Him in the waiting. The days, months, or years it takes Him to set up the dominoes in your life are so worth it. When the time is right, everything falls into place in a way that will leave you in awe and unable to do anything but worship Him.

Tomorrow, I set out on a journey that He has been preparing me for over the last 3 years. It’s hard to surprise me, but God gets me every time--I was clueless to what He was up to until I found myself in front of an open door I never had to fight for.

Pray for me, that I would take all that I learn from this leadership cohort and be fruitful, gladly yielding to His pruning throughout. Celebrate with me, for God has been good beyond measure. Read on if you want to know the full story!

November 11, 2016, I met A. Until the last year or so, I called him “Pastor A” (and sometimes referred to him half-jokingly as “Father A”), as most contexts in which I encountered him were within the church, with him at the pulpit.

In 2016, he spoke at a youth leadership retreat. The way he taught and spoke blew my mind--it was his understanding of how humans work, his uncanny ability to read all kinds of people and really get through to them, the way he ended every message with practical application exercises that grew all of us, students to young adults alike. Away from the pulpit, he was incredibly down to earth. I will never forget wondering, should I be concerned that the same man who left me awestruck moments ago with his preaching seems to have a lot of creative ideas about how to break into a car? Nah, this is way too entertaining. (Context: A was helping an uncle try to get into his locked car after said uncle lost his car keys.)

April 28-29, 2017, I couldn’t contain my excitement being under A’s tutelage again at counselors’ retreat. It was during this retreat that I learned about the company he works for, and the tools and models he uses to build leadership pipelines and empower people across all kinds of institutions, not just in the church. I was deeply unsatisfied by my career at the time. I felt lost and aimless in life. A shined like a beacon of hope, living proof that there could be something professionally worth doing in this world that actually connected to my passions. And then was born my unspoken prayer: How I would love to learn from him and do what he does one day.

But you see, A doesn’t live in California, and I wasn’t planning on leaving. The competency gap between us was daunting. I had no reason to believe that out of all the people he met, he would take notice of little old me. Even if he did, why would he choose to invest in me? I decided to know my place and be grateful for the fact that he even remembered me and was willing to spare a few minutes of his precious time to check in on me over the upcoming years.

At one point, he made me cry in public, and I thought it might be nice to not have that experience again--all the more reason to move on with life. (Context: He rebuked me for undermining my influence out of false humility as a group of friends standing to the side couldn’t help but listen in because what he was saying was that convicting, and it was the most loving correction I’ve ever received from a human being, but also embarrassing and really hard because criticism of any kind makes me initially feel like a failure.)

May 4, 2018, after a grueling 6 month interview process that in and of itself was a miraculous work of God, I signed the offer letter to my current company. Finally, I was a full time employee who would soon experience the full force of imposter syndrome and fear of selling out. But I also had the most clarity at this point in time that I was excited for this opportunity because I knew my purpose was to proclaim the gospel and establish His kingdom at work.

January 24, 2019, A somehow found my number (probably through my work profile) and texted me about coming to my company to start a leadership pipeline. He invited me to come to the introductory workshop on the 30th. I went. Even though it was material I’d already seen multiple times before, it still deeply impacted me. However, I decided not to join the 2019 cohort, and fell out of contact with A after February.

February 22-24, 2019, Ignite retreat. Pastor D, whom I also deeply respect and adore, returned for a second year as our speaker. I left retreat with 2 major takeaways: I need to journal, and I need mentors (plural). Pastor D taught me that mentorship comes in different forms, and paying to be part of a cohort or to take a leadership class is an option that I ought to be open to. The first thing I thought of was A’s leadership cohort, and I wondered if I had missed out. But I knew I hadn’t made a mistake, because I had no motivation to join that cohort, given that it was aimed at the specific context of developing me as a leader at my job, which was the last thing I wanted to invest more time into. Nonetheless, the importance of self awareness and guidance sat at the forefront of my mind for the rest of the year.

June 11, 2019, I won’t explain in detail how serendipitous it felt on this day when God once again by no accident brought about a major turning point in my career. But this was the day that hope broke through. My manager started the process of helping me switch to a product I love. The transition happened officially on September 3rd. For the first time in 5 years, I actually found my job life-giving. I started to see a future here that I wanted to invest in.

October 7, 2019, I don’t remember exactly how this happened, but I suddenly realized I really missed A. I texted him to check in, half expecting to be ignored because of how long it had been (clearly, I still had issues believing that he cared about me, which now that I think about it, was probably because I hadn’t been useful to him for months, and my core Enneagram fear is that nobody would want me around if I’m not useful). I happened to check in right after he had completed his 2019 cohort, just in time to be invited to another kickoff meeting. The thought of mentorship was swirling through my mind again, and I realized I was in a place of genuine interest in joining the 2020 cohort. However, the financial barrier was holding me back. I was planning on buying a new car, I’m still paying for my Invisalign, and I just didn’t know if I was willing to take another hefty sum out of my budget.

November 13, 2019, I missed the entire kickoff meeting due to work, but I dropped by at the end to say hi anyway. All my fears and anxieties about being forgotten or unwanted melted away, and I realized on this day how much of a mentor figure A already is in my life. I told him afterwards that ever since I met him, he has shown up consistently at key moments/turning points in my life and given me the push I need to move forward. His existence reminds me that God sees me and takes care of me. He told me he’d be around again in December and actually have time to catch up, which is rare, given how packed his schedule usually is. He also encouraged me to consider joining the cohort this time. I promised to think about it.

December 10, 2019, we caught up over a casual dinner, during which A learned just how ridiculous my work life balance has historically been, how I believe that my experience has been unique because God has graciously given me all the time I need to fulfill His missional purpose for me at work, and how my passion lies in championing the people around me. Having heard my story, he went full big picture mode and basically told me to not only join the 2020 cohort, but to do so as his apprentice, that he may raise me up to one day be able to do what he does. He addressed every barrier I once had, and they were no longer an issue. The dominoes fell.

My mind short-circuited as it took some quantum leaps down memory lane (imagine all the details in this blog post and more crashing into my brain at the same time). A stared at me expectantly, slightly amused but mostly confused as to why I was not visibly excited, but rather either at a loss for words or spewing nonsensical protest coming from a place of not feeling worthy of this offer. Honestly, I was in extreme shock that God would not only do the bare minimum of turning my unspoken prayer from years ago into a possibility, but that He went the extra mile to meet every condition that I added on top of that prayer before making it a reality.

I helplessly looked to my friend sitting next to me to help me make sense of what just happened. He said something along the lines of, “Why are you looking at me? I think this is a great idea!” I still hit the brakes as gently as I could and told A I needed time to process, and I would officially confirm my participation with him only after I talked to my manager.

I got manager approval the next day.

Tomorrow, January 29th, will be our first cohort meeting. I hope to document this journey, my lessons and takeaways, so I don’t forget them, and so that I have a record of God placing down the next set of dominoes in my life.

#dominoes

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scotianostra · 6 years ago

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On February 8th 1587 Mary Queen of Scots was beheaded at Fotheringay Castle.

Pierre de Bourdeille, seigneur de Brantome was a member of the French nobility who accompanied Mary during her internment. He provides us with a sympathetic account of Mary's execution that begins with the arrival of a delegation from Queen Elizabeth announcing that the former Queen of the Scots is to be executed the next day:

"On February 7, 1587, the representatives of the English Queen, reached the Castle of Fotheringay, where the Queen of Scotland was confined at that time, between two and three o'clock in the afternoon. In the presence of her jailer, Paulet, they read their commission regarding the execution of the prisoner, and said that they would proceed with their task the next morning between seven and eight o'clock. The jailer was then ordered to have everything in readiness.

Without betraying any astonishment, the Queen thanked them for their good news, saying that nothing could be more welcome to her, since she longed for an end to her miseries, and had been prepared for death ever since she had been sent as a prisoner to England. However, she begged the envoys to give her a little time in which to make herself ready, make her will, and place her affairs in order. It was within their power and discretion to grant these requests. The Count of Shrewsbury replied rudely:

'No, no, Madam you must die, you must die! Be ready between seven and eight in the morning. It cannot be delayed a moment beyond that time.' " It was that sudden, very little time for Mary to prepare, a brutal way to spend the last few hours on this earth........Mary spent the rest of the day and the early hours of the next morning writing farewell letters to friends and relatives, saying goodbye to her ladies-in-waiting, and praying.

At 2 am on Wednesday 8 February 1587, Mary Queen of Scots picked up her pen for the last time. Her execution on the block at Fotheringhay Castle was a mere six hours away when she wrote this letter. It is addressed to Henri III of France, brother of her first husband. The letter was written in French, the following is a translation and is a fascinating insight into the mind of our Queen hours before her murder. Mary had only learnt her fate a few hours earlier.

Note, even though she had been forced to abdicate, and had been a prisoner of her cousin for 19 years, she still called herself, Queen of Scotland.

Queen of Scotland 8 Feb. 1587

Sire, my brother-in-law, having by God's will, for my sins I think, thrown myself into the power of the Queen my cousin, at whose hands I have suffered much for almost twenty years, I have finally been condemned to death by her and her Estates. I have asked for my papers, which they have taken away, in order that I might make my will, but I have been unable to recover anything of use to me, or even get leave either to make my will freely or to have my body conveyed after my death, as I would wish, to your kingdom where I had the honour to be queen, your sister and old ally.

Tonight, after dinner, I have been advised of my sentence: I am to be executed like a criminal at eight in the morning. I have not had time to give you a full account of everything that has happened, but if you will listen to my doctor and my other unfortunate servants, you will learn the truth, and how, thanks be to God, I scorn death and vow that I meet it innocent of any crime, even if I were their subject. The Catholic faith and the assertion of my God-given right to the English crown are the two issues on which I am condemned, and yet I am not allowed to say that it is for the Catholic religion that I die, but for fear of interference with theirs. The proof of this is that they have taken away my chaplain, and although he is in the building, I have not been able to get permission for him to come and hear my confession and give me the Last Sacrament, while they have been most insistent that I receive the consolation and instruction of their minister, brought here for that purpose. The bearer of this letter and his companions, most of them your subjects, will testify to my conduct at my last hour. It remains for me to beg Your Most Christian Majesty, my brother-in-law and old ally, who have always protested your love for me, to give proof now of your goodness on all these points: firstly by charity, in paying my unfortunate servants the wages due them - this is a burden on my conscience that only you can relieve further, by having prayers offered to God for a queen who has borne the title Most Christian, and who dies a Catholic, stripped of all her possessions. As for my son, I commend him to you in so far as he deserves, for I cannot answer for him. I have taken the liberty of sending you two precious stones, talismans against illness, trusting that you will enjoy good health and a long and happy life. Accept them from your loving sister-in-law, who, as she dies, bears witness of her warm feeling for you. Again I commend my servants to you. Give instructions, if it please you, that for my soul's sake part of what you owe me should be paid, and that for the sake of Jesus Christ, to whom I shall pray for you tomorrow as I die, I be left enough to found a memorial mass and give the customary alms.

This Wednesday, two hours after midnight. Your very loving and most true sister, Mary R

To the most Christian king, my brother-in-law and old ally.

We rejoin de Bourdeille's account as Mary enters the room designated for her execution and is denied access to her priest:

"The scaffold had been erected in the middle of a large room. It measured twelve feet along each side and two feet in height, and was covered by a coarse cloth of linen.

The Queen entered the room full of grace and majesty, just as if she were coming to a ball. There was no change on her features as she entered.

Drawing up before the scaffold, she summoned her major-domo (steward) and said to him:

'Please help me mount this. This is the last request I shall make of you.'

Then she repeated to him all that she had said to him in her room about what he should tell her son. Standing on the scaffold, she asked for her almoner, (chaplain) begging the officers present to allow him to come. But this was refused point-blank. The Count of Kent told her that he pitied her greatly to see her thus the victim of the superstition of past ages, advising her to carry the cross of Christ in her heart rather than in her hand. To this she replied that it would be difficult to hold a thing so lovely in her hand and not feel it thrill the heart, and that what became every Christian in the hour of death was to bear with him the true Symbol of Redemption."

Standing on the scaffold, Mary angrily rejects her captors' offer of a Protestant minister to give her comfort. She kneels while she begs that Queen Elizabeth spare her ladies-in-waiting and prays for the conversion of the Isle of Britain and Scotland to the Catholic Church:

"When this was over, she summoned her women to help her remove her black veil, her head-dress, and other ornaments. When the executioner attempted to do this, she cried out:

'Nay, my good man, touch me not!'

But she could not prevent him from touching her, for when her dress was lowered as far as her waist; the scoundrel caught her roughly by the arm and pulled off her doublet. Her skirt was cut so low that her neck and throat, whiter than alabaster, were revealed. She concealed these as well as she could, saying that she was not used to disrobing in public, especially before so large an assemblage. There were about four or five hundred people present.

The executioner fell to his knees before her and implored her forgiveness. The Queen told him that she willingly forgave him and alI who were responsible for her death, as freely as she hoped her sins would be forgiven by God. Turning to the woman to whom she, had given her handkerchief, she asked for it.

She wore a golden crucifix, made out of the wood of the true cross, with a picture of Our Lord on it. She was about to give this to one of her women, but the executioner forbade it, even though Her Majesty had promised that the woman would give him thrice its value in money.

After kissing her women once more, she bade them go, with her blessing, as she made the sign of the cross over them. One of them was unable to keep from crying, so that the Queen had to impose silence upon her by saying she had promised that nothing of the kind would interfere with the business in hand. They were to stand back quietly, pray to God for her soul, and bear truthful testimony that she had died in the bosom of the Holy Catholic religion.

One of the women then tied the handkerchief over her eyes. The Queen quickly, and with great courage, knelt dawn, showing no signs of faltering. So great was her bravery that all present were moved, and there were few among them that could refrain from tears. In their hearts they condemned themselves far the injustice that was being done.

The executioner, or rather the minister of Satan, strove to kill not only her body but also her soul, and kept interrupting her prayers. The Queen repeated in Latin the Psalm beginning In te, Damine, speravi; nan canfundar in aeternum. When she was through she laid her head on the block, and as she repeated the prayer, the executioner struck her a great blow upon the neck, which was not, however, entirely severed. Then he struck twice more, since it was obvious that he wished to make the victim's martyrdom all the more severe. It was not so much the suffering, but the cause, that made the martyr.

The executioner then picked up the severed head and, showing it to those present, cried out: 'God save Queen Elizabeth! May all the enemies of the true Evangel thus perish!'

Saying this, he stripped off the dead Queen's head-dress, in order to show her hair, which was now white, and which she had been afraid to show to everyone when she was still alive, or to have properly dressed, as she did when her hair was fair and light.

It was not old age that had turned it white, for she was only thirty-five when this took place, and scarcely forty when she met her death, but the troubles, misfortunes, and sorrows which she had suffered, especially in her prison."

The account of Pierre de Bourdeille was originally published in 1665 and republished many times thereafter.

#Scotland #Scottish #Queen of Scots #Mary Stuart #History

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rotzaprachim · 6 years ago

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марсианка (KOS The Martian AU)

This started with me thinking SPACE PIRATE NIKOLAI, and then not wanting to have to google a bunch of Star Wars shit to write that AU, and then remembering Mark Watney Space Pirate, and then writing that convo out, and then this whole mess grew from that one scene, and it’s almost 2000 words. So: Space Pirate Zoya.

I know nothing about space or space agencies. I apologise so much.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/17714387 - AO3 link

----

He talks to her in Russian, over the coms. English is the main language of communication with Earth; it’s what she leaves her logs in, it’s what she got her climatology doctorate in even if, for the most elemental things, she looks out at the night sky and thinks, כוכב, kochav, before she hears the English. نجم, звезда, those come easily, too. And তারকা, she reminds herself. Najim, zvezda, tārakā. You play such games with your mind to keep from losing your grasp on earth, all the way up here.

Russian, though, it’s what her aunt spoke to her in, after she saved her life, in a tiny flat in a smoggy bloc of Petah Tikvah. The current pulls her home.

“Nazyalenskaya,” he drawls over the fritzy connection system, “I want to kill Rietveld.”

She quirks a smile at that; everyone has wanted to kill Rietveld. She would give a lot to want to kill Rietveld right now.

“I think you can spare him another day. If only for all the Van Halen tapes he left behind. And the ridiculous quantity of Indonesian rap.”

“I’m never going to forget about that.”

“Hmmmm, I’d be careful about talking, considering the number of romance novels I’ve found on the system, downloaded by one N. Lantsov.”

“In the face of oblivion,” she tells the crew of the Терешко́ва, “the only course of action left is to science the shit out of this.”

How does it feel to be the dying goddess of your own planet?

Sometimes, that’s what she feels like, when she pulls water from Rocket fuel. No one around to hear her swear.

It may be on Mars, but growing potatoes in a literal field of shit pulls her from that revery, into some kind of ancestral, rain-soaked Russian field.

She wonders, absentmindedly and only half-jokingly, if she’s gonna be here long enough that attempting to distil some vodka for the pain would be worth it.

No. She’ll pull herself out of this on pure spite alone, if she has to. It’s gotten her out of other tough places. She’ll pull herself out of this mess, and above a dust clogged atmosphere to the sky above, and all the way home. She’ll buy a cheap- no, an expensive one, it’s what Earth owes her- an expensive bottle of wine from a corner store and uncork it with her eyes out to the sea and she’ll drink life down to the dregs.

I am not going to die here.

Look at the stars she tells herself, and try not to feel the fear.

The first English poem she memorised through to the end. Sarah Williams, the full version, not the one chopped to a fridge-magnet length quote. Reach me down my Tycho Brahe, -- I would know him when we meet. Considering that in its entirety it’s about a scientist comprehending his own imminent mortality, it is perhaps not the best choice of reading material. You may tell the German college that their honour comes too./But they must not waste repentance on the grizzled savant’s fate; Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”

She was a girl, once, and she wanted to get away and leave her old life in flames behind her, and she did. She ran and ran and ran, past national borders and past agencies with long acronyms and past the fiery bounds of earth herself. She ran until, quite literally, she could go no further, until she was a woman in a duct-taped house in a place no thing can live, like some kind of mid 21st century Slavic witch.

“Not only am I the best meterologist on earth, I’m the best fucking botanist on this planet. Best surgeon, best cook, best-” she isn’t one to lighten the mood, usually, but what else is there- “best lover.”

She points up, through the palm branches of the sukkah’s roof and to the night sky above.

“You can see Mars, right there? See, you can see me. It’s not that far away.”

Lada doesn’t seem convinced.

“You might not come back-”

“You think a few million kilometers is gonna stop me from getting back to my best research partner? Huh. Thought you knew me better than that.”

“A few million?”

“Closer than the nearest bus stop.”

“It’s gonna be years.”

“And so? I’ll expect you to be a proper scientist, when I get back. Or a proper poet, or painter, or chicken farmer.”

“But you’ll come back?”

“There’s nothing that can stop me.”

“Nazyalenskaya,” he asks, and in her name is the universe. “How are you?” is not the question to ask a lone crew member stranded literally on Mars. “We got a letter from your family. Gonna patch it through to you.”

“What do you suppose the requirements for building a sukkah on Mars are?”

Not that there’s much of a rule book for this kind of thing, but it’s something she thinks about. Humans, they look at the void and the unlivable planet, and they make it theirs. Genya’s calculations for the direction to face Mecca. The whole crew’s World Cup fervor. The solid week she and Rietveld spent in a subtle face off with the rest of the crew about using the big screen to keep up with Eurovision. The constant, unending, awkwardness of Ghafa and Rietveld, though both were far too professional to act on it.

“Red wire to the green and-”

“Lotta fucking duct tape, I know.”

Repairing the rover- that’s a lot of fun. She never really learned how to fix cars, back home. But it gives her something to do, something active, besides staring at potato plants.

She opens another one of her precious rovers for the parts. A weather probe. Says a silent prayer for the death of science.

It’s a long way to Schiaparelli crater. Zoya’s hated road trips for as long as she can remember, both in the environmentalist, fume-hating way, and also in the traffic-hating kind of way. So, she tells herself. Channel that spite into doing what scares you.

“Nazyalenskaya,” he says, “I’ve been thinking about the international implications of what you’re trying to do.”

“Mhmm” she says

“First off, I’d like to thank you for being possibly the most diplomatically complicated climatologist alive. Got Roscosmos, ISRO, and the ISA all breathing down my necks.”

“Good. Use it. Play ‘em against each other. This is either the biggest propaganda win or worst failure of their fucking lives.”

“The other thing is law on Mars. There’s an international treaty saying no country can claim anything that’s not on earth. By another treaty, if you’re not in any country’s territory, maritime law applies. So, Mars is international waters.”

Treaties, red tape, diplomatic stuff- that was never her job. Her job was making sure that six other people could breathe in space. Maintaining, linking the systems of the Hab to be survivable.

The storms, though, that was why she was really there. Or at least, that’s what pulled her from earth. The kinds of weather this galaxy had, beyond the limits of earth.

(Once upon a time, Mars had a viable atmosphere. Once upon a time. She looks out at the orange hellscape and wonders: will this be us?)

And then a storm had been her death. She was just biding her time until it happened.

Pessimism. What else was left?

“So?”

“So, Nazyalenskaya, the Hab’s a tripartite effort. ESA, Roscosmos, CNSA. Non-military, but you know as well as I do there’s enough earth-based bitching about who owns it. The second you walk outside, though, you’re in international waters. Soon-”

“No-”

“Soon you’re gonna leave it for the Schiaparelli crater, and you’re gonna commandeer the Ares lV lander. No one on earth gave you explicit permission to do this, and they can’t until you’re back with us on Терешко́ва .”

She realises where this is going. “Fucking hell, Lantsov, not more with the-”

“So you’re going to be taking a craft into international waters without permission, which by definition makes you a pirate. “

Even she cracks a smile.

“DOCTOR ZOYA NAZYALENSKAYA, SPACE PIRATE!”

She can feel the excitement down the line.

“I better get an eye patch at the end of all this.”

“Nothing less for the best meteorologist on the planet.”

“A ship. Commandeered Spanish galleon.”

“Of course.”

“Crate full of gold bullion.”

“I promise you. I think the rest of the crew’s been planning their first meal back on earth for the last year.”

“Shut the fuck up. You’re not the ones living off potatoes and protein bars.” She’d found a few secreted-away bottles of kecap manis and a jar of sambal oelek in Rietveld’s luggage, which- completely against regulations for cargo by weight, but it’s inadvertently the best thing he’s ever done for her. At least when she eats her dwindling space rations, she can burn her fucking tongue off, due to Rietveld’s stubborn Dutch insistance to never listen to any rules, ever.

“Yes, but. We’ve heard all the drafts of the epic-length poem Yul-Bataar’s written to herald you with on your return.”

“Almost makes me want to die alone on Mars.”

“Hush up. We’ve already had to watch your funeral once. I even wrote a speech.”

“I better get a recording of that when I get back,” she says. “You better have cried. You better have wept over the untimely demise of Earth’s best meteorologist.”

“You better believe it was a speech for the ages. Wait, i can find a draft and read it-”

“Save it. I want to savour my death, after I know I’m gonna live.”

“This is next level Slav gallows humour. How many people get to watch their own funerals?”

Zoya Nazyalenskaya does not giggle, but the thought of all those puffed-up world leaders saying things about her importance, her intelligence, her beauty. (Will men see anything else?) Shedding a few tears about a brown, Jewish, Russo-Bengali meteorologist who’d they’d barely cared to listen to in her life, but here, dead, she’s the ultimate pawn in their games. . . .

It might make her laugh. Slightly.

And then she thinks about Aunt Liliyana and Lada sitting shiva for her in that flat in Haifa. The first thing she’d bought with her earnings after the ESA had taken her on was a nicer flat for the two of them, in walking distance to the sea.

“Lantsov,” she says, although it feels like exposing some part of herself she doesn’t want to recognise. “Lantsov, keep talking. Please.”

“Of course. What about?” “The crew’s first meal. Back on earth. What is it?”

“Zenik said red-velvet waffles with, quote, “a fuckton of whipped cream. An entire can of whipped cream.” Andreyev like a good Moldovan says it’s gotta be sarmale, and I swore Rietveld lives off coffee and the destruction of his enemies but I know he’s got a thing for nasi goreng and. . ..”

This is a dumbass long-shot solution that will probably get them all killed.

It takes a certain kind of long-shot nihilistic self-destruction to enter the airless murder void in the first place, but this is. ..

“The only thing that might work.”

Bo nods and then glares at him to shut up.

The ship’s got a big whiteboard, and Bo’s hands move almost as fast as his mouth does as he sketches, scribbles, draws, talks. They’ve got a direct, illegal, verboten, unknown, lifesaving link through to the CNSA, and as Kuwei’s the only native Mandarin speaker aboard, he’s the main one doing the talking. He’s a chemist, though, - Ghafa’s the pilot, Zhabin’s the chief navigator, and it’s a controlled frenzy of different langauges and disciplines as the crew hashes out the most wild rescue plan in human history.

“How do we know-”

“He’s the best astrodynamacist alive. Also, my dad, but-”

He, Zhabin, Ghafa and Rietveld all independently run the calculations.

Да, Да, हाँ, Ja.

“Who’s ready to go against the explicit instructions of five space agencies to bring the best space pirate alive back home?”

It was never even a choice.

“Zoya,” he says, over the link. “We’ll get you home.”

#zoya nazyalensky #nikolai lantsov #zoyalai #grishaverse #grishaverse modern au #the martian au #the martian #zoyalai fic #my writings #grishaverse fics #gen

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wastemybreath · 4 years ago

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Eloisa to Abelard - Alexander Pope

In these deep solitudes and awful cells, Where heav'nly-pensive contemplation dwells, And ever-musing melancholy reigns; What means this tumult in a vestal's veins? Why rove my thoughts beyond this last retreat? Why feels my heart its long-forgotten heat? Yet, yet I love! — From Abelard it came, And Eloisa yet must kiss the name. Dear fatal name! rest ever unreveal'd, Nor pass these lips in holy silence seal'd. Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise, Where mix'd with God's, his lov'd idea lies: O write it not, my hand — the name appears Already written — wash it out, my tears! In vain lost Eloisa weeps and prays, Her heart still dictates, and her hand obeys. Relentless walls! whose darksome round contains Repentant sighs, and voluntary pains: Ye rugged rocks! which holy knees have worn; Ye grots and caverns shagg'd with horrid thorn! Shrines! where their vigils pale-ey'd virgins keep, And pitying saints, whose statues learn to weep! Though cold like you, unmov'd, and silent grown, I have not yet forgot myself to stone. All is not Heav'n's while Abelard has part, Still rebel nature holds out half my heart; Nor pray'rs nor fasts its stubborn pulse restrain, Nor tears, for ages, taught to flow in vain. Soon as thy letters trembling I unclose, That well-known name awakens all my woes. Oh name for ever sad! for ever dear! Still breath'd in sighs, still usher'd with a tear. I tremble too, where'er my own I find, Some dire misfortune follows close behind. Line after line my gushing eyes o'erflow, Led through a sad variety of woe: Now warm in love, now with'ring in thy bloom, Lost in a convent's solitary gloom! There stern religion quench'd th' unwilling flame, There died the best of passions, love and fame. Yet write, oh write me all, that I may join Griefs to thy griefs, and echo sighs to thine. Nor foes nor fortune take this pow'r away; And is my Abelard less kind than they? Tears still are mine, and those I need not spare, Love but demands what else were shed in pray'r; No happier task these faded eyes pursue; To read and weep is all they now can do. Then share thy pain, allow that sad relief; Ah, more than share it! give me all thy grief. Heav'n first taught letters for some wretch's aid, Some banish'd lover, or some captive maid; They live, they speak, they breathe what love inspires, Warm from the soul, and faithful to its fires, The virgin's wish without her fears impart, Excuse the blush, and pour out all the heart, Speed the soft intercourse from soul to soul, And waft a sigh from Indus to the Pole. Thou know'st how guiltless first I met thy flame, When Love approach'd me under Friendship's name; My fancy form'd thee of angelic kind, Some emanation of th' all-beauteous Mind. Those smiling eyes, attemp'ring ev'ry day, Shone sweetly lambent with celestial day. Guiltless I gaz'd; heav'n listen'd while you sung; And truths divine came mended from that tongue. From lips like those what precept fail'd to move? Too soon they taught me 'twas no sin to love. Back through the paths of pleasing sense I ran, Nor wish'd an Angel whom I lov'd a Man. Dim and remote the joys of saints I see; Nor envy them, that heav'n I lose for thee. How oft, when press'd to marriage, have I said, Curse on all laws but those which love has made! Love, free as air, at sight of human ties, Spreads his light wings, and in a moment flies, Let wealth, let honour, wait the wedded dame, August her deed, and sacred be her fame; Before true passion all those views remove, Fame, wealth, and honour! what are you to Love? The jealous God, when we profane his fires, Those restless passions in revenge inspires; And bids them make mistaken mortals groan, Who seek in love for aught but love alone. Should at my feet the world's great master fall, Himself, his throne, his world, I'd scorn 'em all: Not Caesar's empress would I deign to prove; No, make me mistress to the man I love; If there be yet another name more free, More fond than mistress, make me that to thee! Oh happy state! when souls each other draw, When love is liberty, and nature, law: All then is full, possessing, and possess'd, No craving void left aching in the breast: Ev'n thought meets thought, ere from the lips it part, And each warm wish springs mutual from the heart. This sure is bliss (if bliss on earth there be) And once the lot of Abelard and me. Alas, how chang'd! what sudden horrors rise! A naked lover bound and bleeding lies! Where, where was Eloise? her voice, her hand, Her poniard, had oppos'd the dire command. Barbarian, stay! that bloody stroke restrain; The crime was common, common be the pain. I can no more; by shame, by rage suppress'd, Let tears, and burning blushes speak the rest. Canst thou forget that sad, that solemn day, When victims at yon altar's foot we lay? Canst thou forget what tears that moment fell, When, warm in youth, I bade the world farewell? As with cold lips I kiss'd the sacred veil, The shrines all trembl'd, and the lamps grew pale: Heav'n scarce believ'd the conquest it survey'd, And saints with wonder heard the vows I made. Yet then, to those dread altars as I drew, Not on the Cross my eyes were fix'd, but you: Not grace, or zeal, love only was my call, And if I lose thy love, I lose my all. Come! with thy looks, thy words, relieve my woe; Those still at least are left thee to bestow. Still on that breast enamour'd let me lie, Still drink delicious poison from thy eye, Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be press'd; Give all thou canst — and let me dream the rest. Ah no! instruct me other joys to prize, With other beauties charm my partial eyes, Full in my view set all the bright abode, And make my soul quit Abelard for God. Ah, think at least thy flock deserves thy care, Plants of thy hand, and children of thy pray'r. From the false world in early youth they fled, By thee to mountains, wilds, and deserts led. You rais'd these hallow'd walls; the desert smil'd, And Paradise was open'd in the wild. No weeping orphan saw his father's stores Our shrines irradiate, or emblaze the floors; No silver saints, by dying misers giv'n, Here brib'd the rage of ill-requited heav'n: But such plain roofs as piety could raise, And only vocal with the Maker's praise. In these lone walls (their days eternal bound) These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crown'd, Where awful arches make a noonday night, And the dim windows shed a solemn light; Thy eyes diffus'd a reconciling ray, And gleams of glory brighten'd all the day. But now no face divine contentment wears, 'Tis all blank sadness, or continual tears. See how the force of others' pray'rs I try, (O pious fraud of am'rous charity!) But why should I on others' pray'rs depend? Come thou, my father, brother, husband, friend! Ah let thy handmaid, sister, daughter move, And all those tender names in one, thy love! The darksome pines that o'er yon rocks reclin'd Wave high, and murmur to the hollow wind, The wand'ring streams that shine between the hills, The grots that echo to the tinkling rills, The dying gales that pant upon the trees, The lakes that quiver to the curling breeze; No more these scenes my meditation aid, Or lull to rest the visionary maid. But o'er the twilight groves and dusky caves, Long-sounding aisles, and intermingled graves, Black Melancholy sits, and round her throws A death-like silence, and a dread repose: Her gloomy presence saddens all the scene, Shades ev'ry flow'r, and darkens ev'ry green, Deepens the murmur of the falling floods, And breathes a browner horror on the woods. Yet here for ever, ever must I stay; Sad proof how well a lover can obey! Death, only death, can break the lasting chain; And here, ev'n then, shall my cold dust remain, Here all its frailties, all its flames resign, And wait till 'tis no sin to mix with thine. Ah wretch! believ'd the spouse of God in vain, Confess'd within the slave of love and man. Assist me, Heav'n! but whence arose that pray'r? Sprung it from piety, or from despair? Ev'n here, where frozen chastity retires, Love finds an altar for forbidden fires. I ought to grieve, but cannot what I ought; I mourn the lover, not lament the fault; I view my crime, but kindle at the view, Repent old pleasures, and solicit new; Now turn'd to Heav'n, I weep my past offence, Now think of thee, and curse my innocence. Of all affliction taught a lover yet, 'Tis sure the hardest science to forget! How shall I lose the sin, yet keep the sense, And love th' offender, yet detest th' offence? How the dear object from the crime remove, Or how distinguish penitence from love? Unequal task! a passion to resign, For hearts so touch'd, so pierc'd, so lost as mine. Ere such a soul regains its peaceful state, How often must it love, how often hate! How often hope, despair, resent, regret, Conceal, disdain — do all things but forget. But let Heav'n seize it, all at once 'tis fir'd; Not touch'd, but rapt; not waken'd, but inspir'd! Oh come! oh teach me nature to subdue, Renounce my love, my life, myself — and you. Fill my fond heart with God alone, for he Alone can rival, can succeed to thee. How happy is the blameless vestal's lot! The world forgetting, by the world forgot. Eternal sunshine of the spotless mind! Each pray'r accepted, and each wish resign'd; Labour and rest, that equal periods keep; "Obedient slumbers that can wake and weep;" Desires compos'd, affections ever ev'n, Tears that delight, and sighs that waft to Heav'n. Grace shines around her with serenest beams, And whisp'ring angels prompt her golden dreams. For her th' unfading rose of Eden blooms, And wings of seraphs shed divine perfumes, For her the Spouse prepares the bridal ring, For her white virgins hymeneals sing, To sounds of heav'nly harps she dies away, And melts in visions of eternal day. Far other dreams my erring soul employ, Far other raptures, of unholy joy: When at the close of each sad, sorrowing day, Fancy restores what vengeance snatch'd away, Then conscience sleeps, and leaving nature free, All my loose soul unbounded springs to thee. Oh curs'd, dear horrors of all-conscious night! How glowing guilt exalts the keen delight! Provoking Daemons all restraint remove, And stir within me every source of love. I hear thee, view thee, gaze o'er all thy charms, And round thy phantom glue my clasping arms. I wake — no more I hear, no more I view, The phantom flies me, as unkind as you. I call aloud; it hears not what I say; I stretch my empty arms; it glides away. To dream once more I close my willing eyes; Ye soft illusions, dear deceits, arise! Alas, no more — methinks we wand'ring go Through dreary wastes, and weep each other's woe, Where round some mould'ring tower pale ivy creeps, And low-brow'd rocks hang nodding o'er the deeps. Sudden you mount, you beckon from the skies; Clouds interpose, waves roar, and winds arise. I shriek, start up, the same sad prospect find, And wake to all the griefs I left behind. For thee the fates, severely kind, ordain A cool suspense from pleasure and from pain; Thy life a long, dead calm of fix'd repose; No pulse that riots, and no blood that glows. Still as the sea, ere winds were taught to blow, Or moving spirit bade the waters flow; Soft as the slumbers of a saint forgiv'n, And mild as opening gleams of promis'd heav'n. Come, Abelard! for what hast thou to dread? The torch of Venus burns not for the dead. Nature stands check'd; Religion disapproves; Ev'n thou art cold — yet Eloisa loves. Ah hopeless, lasting flames! like those that burn To light the dead, and warm th' unfruitful urn. What scenes appear where'er I turn my view? The dear ideas, where I fly, pursue, Rise in the grove, before the altar rise, Stain all my soul, and wanton in my eyes. I waste the matin lamp in sighs for thee, Thy image steals between my God and me, Thy voice I seem in ev'ry hymn to hear, With ev'ry bead I drop too soft a tear. When from the censer clouds of fragrance roll, And swelling organs lift the rising soul, One thought of thee puts all the pomp to flight, Priests, tapers, temples, swim before my sight: In seas of flame my plunging soul is drown'd, While altars blaze, and angels tremble round. While prostrate here in humble grief I lie, Kind, virtuous drops just gath'ring in my eye, While praying, trembling, in the dust I roll, And dawning grace is op'ning on my soul: Come, if thou dar'st, all charming as thou art! Oppose thyself to Heav'n; dispute my heart; Come, with one glance of those deluding eyes Blot out each bright idea of the skies; Take back that grace, those sorrows, and those tears; Take back my fruitless penitence and pray'rs; Snatch me, just mounting, from the blest abode; Assist the fiends, and tear me from my God! No, fly me, fly me, far as pole from pole; Rise Alps between us! and whole oceans roll! Ah, come not, write not, think not once of me, Nor share one pang of all I felt for thee. Thy oaths I quit, thy memory resign; Forget, renounce me, hate whate'er was mine. Fair eyes, and tempting looks (which yet I view!) Long lov'd, ador'd ideas, all adieu! Oh Grace serene! oh virtue heav'nly fair! Divine oblivion of low-thoughted care! Fresh blooming hope, gay daughter of the sky! And faith, our early immortality! Enter, each mild, each amicable guest; Receive, and wrap me in eternal rest! See in her cell sad Eloisa spread, Propp'd on some tomb, a neighbour of the dead. In each low wind methinks a spirit calls, And more than echoes talk along the walls. Here, as I watch'd the dying lamps around, From yonder shrine I heard a hollow sound. "Come, sister, come!" (it said, or seem'd to say) "Thy place is here, sad sister, come away! Once like thyself, I trembled, wept, and pray'd, Love's victim then, though now a sainted maid: But all is calm in this eternal sleep; Here grief forgets to groan, and love to weep, Ev'n superstition loses ev'ry fear: For God, not man, absolves our frailties here." I come, I come! prepare your roseate bow'rs, Celestial palms, and ever-blooming flow'rs. Thither, where sinners may have rest, I go, Where flames refin'd in breasts seraphic glow: Thou, Abelard! the last sad office pay, And smooth my passage to the realms of day; See my lips tremble, and my eye-balls roll, Suck my last breath, and catch my flying soul! Ah no — in sacred vestments may'st thou stand, The hallow'd taper trembling in thy hand, Present the cross before my lifted eye, Teach me at once, and learn of me to die. Ah then, thy once-lov'd Eloisa see! It will be then no crime to gaze on me. See from my cheek the transient roses fly! See the last sparkle languish in my eye! Till ev'ry motion, pulse, and breath be o'er; And ev'n my Abelard be lov'd no more. O Death all-eloquent! you only prove What dust we dote on, when 'tis man we love. Then too, when fate shall thy fair frame destroy, (That cause of all my guilt, and all my joy) In trance ecstatic may thy pangs be drown'd, Bright clouds descend, and angels watch thee round, From op'ning skies may streaming glories shine, And saints embrace thee with a love like mine. May one kind grave unite each hapless name, And graft my love immortal on thy fame! Then, ages hence, when all my woes are o'er, When this rebellious heart shall beat no more; If ever chance two wand'ring lovers brings To Paraclete's white walls and silver springs, O'er the pale marble shall they join their heads, And drink the falling tears each other sheds; Then sadly say, with mutual pity mov'd, "Oh may we never love as these have lov'd!" From the full choir when loud Hosannas rise, And swell the pomp of dreadful sacrifice, Amid that scene if some relenting eye Glance on the stone where our cold relics lie, Devotion's self shall steal a thought from Heav'n, One human tear shall drop and be forgiv'n. And sure, if fate some future bard shall join In sad similitude of griefs to mine, Condemn'd whole years in absence to deplore, And image charms he must behold no more; Such if there be, who loves so long, so well; Let him our sad, our tender story tell; The well-sung woes will soothe my pensive ghost; He best can paint 'em, who shall feel 'em most.

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laurelsofhighever · 7 years ago

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The Falcon and the Rose Ch. 11 - A Struggle Just Beginning

The winter of 9:31 Dragon draws to a bitter close. Teyrn Loghain Mac Tir, hero of the people, has revealed a string of secret letters between King Cailan and Empress Celene of Orlais. The specifics are unclear, but suspicion of Orlesians run deep, and there are always those willing to take advantage of political scandal. Declaring the king unfit to rule, Loghain has retreated to his southern stronghold in Gwaren, with Queen Anora by his side. Fear and greed threaten to tear Ferelden apart. In Denerim, Cailan busies himself with maps and battle plans, hoping to stem the tide of blood before it can start. In the Arling of Edgehall, King Maric’s bastard son fights against the rebels flocking to the traitor’s banner, determined to free himself from the shadow of his royal blood. And in Highever, Rosslyn Cousland, bitter at being left behind, watches as her father and brother ride to war, unaware of the betrayal lurking in the smile of their closest friend.

Words: 2696 Chapter summary: In the aftermath of Highever’s defeat, the mood is grim.

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here

Twelfth Day of Guardian, 9:31 Dragon

Darkness fell slowly over the redoubt at Deerswall. A grey day into a formless dusk into a black night lit only by greasy torches that spat at the drizzle. It made things easier in a way; soldiers huddled out of the cold, unwilling to disturb the Canticles sung for the dead, even if there were few with enough heart to listen to the Maker’s words. Instead, they sat in closed-off circles around their campfires, trying to ignore the stench of smoke from the pyres clinging to their hair. They drank from shared flasks as they played Gammon, with their cloaks tucked in at the corners to prevent draughts, and with their weapons within easy reach, waiting for orders that some grumbled would not come.

After all, few had seen the Lady of Highever since she had marched out of the funeral in the middle of the revered mother’s litany, teeth gritted and knuckles white on the hilt of her father’s sword. Since then, she had been seen walking beyond the encampment into the murk of the forest with only her mabari at her heels. The guardsmen sent in after her had yet to return.

Some said she had gone to find a place where water and earth ran together, in the old Alamarri way, to find wisdom among stones and trees that came from an older source than that approved by the Chantry – to find gods who kept faith with those who gave it. As her absence lengthened, however, the rumours grew darker. Perhaps she had simply abandoned them, using the weather and the thickness of the forest as a cover to escape the weight of duty. Those with least faith muttered that she had gone to make peace with Howe, and had betrayed them all.

Such uneasiness penetrated even into the ring off officers’ tents, pitched on raised ground in the middle of the camp. Before the end of the Orlesian occupation it had been designed as the foundations to a grand castle that never saw completion, but now Teagan’s quarters spilled light and warmth over the stones, the mood inside deliberately easy and filled with the comfort of crackling braziers and snoring dogs. He hosted two of his captains, the only members of his senior staff who had so far returned from the tasks assigned at the war meeting that morning. At his elbow was a decanter of brandy, and across the table, maps were spread with annotations and potential actions that had yet to be finalised, but the conversation had long since moved on from official matters.

“She blames herself, poor girl,” sighed Captain Astillo, who had inherited his dark eyes and good humour from his Antivan mother.

Next to him, the short, broad-shouldered Captain Rothby harrumphed. “We can’t afford that. She’s the only thread holding Highever together. Without her, we might as well rename the place ‘North Gwaren’ and have done.” She tipped her head back and drained her glass, exposing the knife scar that cut a diagonal line down her throat.

“No doubt that was Loghain’s plan,” Teagan replied quietly. When he tilted his glass, the amber liquid in it shimmered and caught the firelight. “He chose an effective pawn in Howe – I remember his ambition, but this… nobody could have seen this.”

They fell silent. The march from Highever had consumed any spare thoughts about what happened, but now, a safe distance away from their enemies and with nothing left but time for reflection, the brutality of the Couslands’ fate could finally settle, which was the point. Teagan had known Bryce and Eleanor personally from time at court, had found Fergus to be level-headed and his wife charming, and had no doubts about their son, though he had never met the boy. They had not deserved such deaths.

“Never a bad word came out of the North,” Rothby said, as if she had read his thoughts. “Nought was said about Bryce Cousland that wasn’t that he kept his people fed and his lands prosperous.”

Astillo nodded. “I saw them at Denerim, at the siege, you know? I was just a sergeant at the time. We’d cleared the walls of Feathers, and all that was left was the battle in the harbour – and the Mistral came about from behind a tower, cutting the water like summer swift, and you’d never seen anything so fine.” He smiled and reached for the decanter so he could refill the empty glasses, then raised his own. “To the Soldier and the Seawolf,” he declared. “Maker rest them.”

In the corner, Alistair lifted his head from the disciplinary report he had been reading. He was content to stay out of the way and unnoticed by Teagan’s officers, but hearing them talk about the Couslands only brought back how fragile Rosslyn had looked when he had last seen her, forehead crumpled, lip chewed to bleeding, with her knuckles white on the pommel of her sword. She had thanked him for bringing her the maps and supply list she had asked for that morning, and her frown had softened at his offer to get her anything else she needed.

“Still taking care of me?” she had asked.

“Well, it gets me out of the barracks.”

He regretted such a joking tone now, but at the time, he had been at a loss to better express his desire to help. He remembered the crack in her voice when she had revealed her father’s fate to her soldiers, and how she had sat tall in her saddle regardless, and kept her gaze on the horizon ahead.

He blinked away the image and forced himself back into the present.

“…her inexperience will make people uncertain what to expect. The mood among the men isn’t good,” Teagan was saying.

“She’ll show us her mettle, sure as snow in winter,” Astillo countered.

��As long as she shows it soon, or there’ll be nobody left to see it.” Rothby shook her head so that wisps of ash-blonde hair fell in her eyes. “Highever’s put a shock through everything. To destroy it so completely… It reeks of the Game to me, more than anything His Majesty may or may not have done with their empress – I’m no politician trading words across borders so I can’t speak for that. But without Couslands to stand against him, Loghain would have no uniting force to take him on if King Cailan died, not without another heir to the throne.”

Alistair shifted in his seat, ducking his head to avoid the look Teagan sent his way.

“Bah! Politics!” Astillo scratched at the silver edge of his neatly trimmed beard. “It does nothing but make cowards of honest soldiers.”

He reached out for the decanter again, but before he could offer more brandy around the table, his hand was stalled by a growing commotion from beyond the tent, out of place for the time of night. Voices welled in anger, then seemed to find a rhythm in the way random applause finds a pulse. With a worried glance at Teagan, Alistair rose from his chair and went to investigate, slinging a fleece-lined cloak around his shoulders as he traded the warmth of the tent for the damp Guardian night.

He didn’t have to go far into the common ranks to find the source of the disturbance. At the edge of the parade ground a clump of soldiers heaved against the dim torches in a single mass of shouting, cursing shadows. Surrounding them were stragglers who, like him, had emerged from shelter to find out what was going on, calling to one another over the din in obvious confusion as they were drawn towards the fight. Alistair grabbed the closest by the arm.

“Go find Ser Gideon,” he ordered.

The young soldier blinked, surprised at being addressed directly, but when she recognised Alistair she shot him a crisp salute and dashed away to find the commander of Rosslyn’s house guard. Some of her officers were already in the fray, and as he approached Alistair could see that they were beginning to get people under control. The chanting was dying away into a ring of silent spectators, and all that was left of the actual brawl was a small group of men locked together despite best efforts to separate them.

Eventually the last two combatants were ripped apart and stood panting, one with a split lip and the other sporting a bloody nose, while the officers holding them kept wary holds on the soldiers’ tunics.

Rosslyn’s cavalry captain stepped between them, her arms outstretched in a warning that belied her slight figure.

“That’s enough,” Morrence snapped, rounding on the younger of the two, who wore a cavalry uniform - the soldier who had been tied to Rosslyn’s backafter the escape from Glenlough. “I expected better from you, trooper. You’ll go on a charge for this.”

“But Captain, he called Lady Cousland a coward!”

“No more’n what’s true!” his opposite spat. “Bitch might’ve taken you up in Wythenwood, but she left my brother to die on the road like a dog. She abandoned her place and now she’d have us sit here like old biddies – or maybe we’ll all just run away again, and again, until there’s nothing left of the North!”

“Sergeant, take that man’s name,” Morrence growled.

But the comment had roused the crowd again. They pressed forward, jeering at the reprimanded soldier, and Alistair was pushed out by the sheer weight of people in front of him.

“Fuckin’ sot!” someone called. “Diven’ ye have enough brains to realise the lady saved your life too?”

“We’re Cousland’s men!”

“Being a Cousland doesn’t give a lass the balls for knifework,” another voice retorted. “Couldn’t even stick a lot of traitors, and now we’re stuck with ‘em! And we’re not listenin’ to any mongrel knife-ear, neither!”

The words sparked an angry hiss around the circle, loyalists searching for the source of the treacherous comment while others murmured their uncertainty. Morrence’s cheeks darkened but she held firm as three of her lieutenants dived cursing into the throng to drag the offender out into the open. At the other side of the circle, Alistair finally broke through the line.

“The next soldier to throw a punch gets twenty lashes!” he barked. “The one after that – thirty!”

Recognising him, the soldiers quieted, but the threat did nothing to dispel the tension, and the realisation that all of that hostile energy was now directed at him made his palms sweat. He glanced at Morrence, who waited with luminous eyes to see what he would do.

Right then.

He cleared his throat, tried his best to glare. “You all know the rules. Brawling in camp will not be tolerated, and neither will dissent. You are to follow your orders and save your strength for the battlefield.”

The soldier who had started the fight spat on the ground again, muttering. “If we ever get to see one.”

Both Morrence and Alistair turned to confront him, but before they could do anything but open their mouths, a sharp voice rang out over the assembled company.

“What’s going on here?”

The crowd scurried apart with a startled murmur. Rosslyn’s tall figure loomed out of the night, wrapped in shadows, with the torchlight glinting on the rain-matted strands of her hair. As she prowled forward, the ragged edges of her appearance became easier to spot – the aurum greaves stained from kneeling in the mud, the streaks of grime on her face cut across by tear-tracks. Her poise, however, remained absolute, that of a basalt cliff determined to stand in spite of the sea. Alistair felt something unpleasant snake in his gut, remembering the bright young woman who had shared her breakfast with him only a few days before.

Her glare was focussed on the soldier who had started the fight, her brows drawn into a fierce scowl that shadowed her eyes. “Do you have something to say to me?” she asked him. “Well?”

The soldier glanced to the mabari at her side, then to her sword, and then as high as her chin before his nerve failed and he fixed his sight on her boots instead. “No, my lady.”

“No,” she repeated slowly. “Hm. And what about the rest of you?” Her eyes slashed through the crowd, sharp as flint. “Do any of you have the courage to say to my face what you were shouting behind my back?”

Some shuffled their feet or stole looks at those next to them, but none spoke, and none would meet her gaze. Rosslyn waited, but when nobody stepped forward she shook her head, an ugly sneer twisting her mouth.

“To think my father used to speak of his army with such pride.” She swallowed. “And now look. Does none of you realise this infighting is exactly what Howe wants? Why do you think Highever was razed, if not to make us doubt, to break our courage so that he can destroy us without having to face us in a fair fight?” She laughed, the sound brittle in the dark. “To see it working so well is a disgrace.”

“And what else are we supposed to do?” someone called.

“We supposed to just sit here?”

Rosslyn cocked her head in the direction of the shouts, but otherwise did not move. Her eyes passed over Alistair, lingered on him for the briefest instant before she steeled herself to reply.

“Soldiers who cannot follow orders are of no use to me,” she growled. “Hotheads who start brawls in camp are only a danger to themselves on the battlefield. So you can go. Home’s that way. Have fun storming the castle.”

The soldiers glanced at each other. Dressing-downs they could handle. Sergeants who shouted orders and commanders who sent them into battle stone-faced were to be expected, but this speech was too raw, too full of hurt and anger and hollow grief for them to know how to respond.

“And look at that,” she hummed, glancing around at the circle of waiting men. “Not one of you has moved. Does this mean there’s still some courage left in the North?”

Breaths held, no one answered. The only sound was the crackle of the torches.

“We start in the morning,” she told them, turning away. “And you can find out first hand whether a lass has the balls for knifework. Dismissed.”

And that was the end of it. Mud sucked at Rosslyn’s boots as she stalked across the open ground, pausing only to order latrine duty for the instigators of the fight, and whatever punishment Morrence willed for the one who had insulted her. Lacking the will to stay out in the cold without orders, the crowd melted away to their tents, and within moments the parade ground was all but deserted. Relieved, Alistair ran a hand through his hair, a low breath puffing out his cheeks.

“You showed up just in time, my lady,” he joked when she stopped next to him. “I was afraid they were going to eat me.”

“Surely our stores aren’t quite that low?” she asked dryly. Now that nobody was watching, the careful façade slipped, and grey fatigue pinched the corners of her eyes. “I’m glad to be of service. Since you’re here, would you mind coming with me? I need to talk to Teagan.”

Despite himself, Alistair grinned at the familiarity of the words the lack of pretention in the request. “Of course – lead on.”

Together they wended through the camp, his stride shortened to keep time with her limping pace, until they were among the officers’ tents and he finally plucked up the courage to ask, despite the impropriety, if she was alright. She halted mid-step, turning to regard him with furrowed brows. For an instant she struggled to find the right words, her lips framing concepts that stalled on the tip of her tongue. He regretted asking, tried to stammer out an apology, but before he could manage more than a few stumbling words she swallowed and shook her head, trying for a smile.

The effort faded quickly.

“There’s work to do,” she said instead, and headed for the light spilling from Teagan’s tent.

#dragon age #dragon age: origins #alistair theirin #alistair x warden #alistair x cousland #cousland #king alistair #teagan guerrin #ferelden #king of ferelden #fereldan civil war

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dfroza · 4 years ago

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A time of the end

yet, it is a cleansing of evil from beautiful earth that will take place to restore purity.

this is written of in Paul’s ancient Letter of 2nd Thessalonians with Today’s reading for the start of Winter (2020)

Chapter #2:

Since, brothers and sisters, we are on the topic of the coming of our Lord Jesus the Anointed and how we will all gather together to meet Him, we ask that you don’t let your minds get quickly rattled or become anxious because of someone else’s so-called “spiritual revelation” or because someone gave you a message or claimed to know of a letter allegedly from us reporting that the day of the Lord has already come! Don’t be deceived by anyone! That day, that amazing day, won’t come until after the great rebellion and the unveiling of the rebellious one. As the spawn of death, he delights in destruction. He sets himself up as the great adversary of God and vies for a place above all other so-called gods or objects of worship. If it were possible, he would even take a seat—yes, exalt himself—in the temple of the one true God, declaring that he himself is God! 5 Don’t you remember me telling you all this the last time we were together? You know what restrains him now and what will hold him until the exact time when he will be revealed. For the mystery of sin is already working its way through the world; He who holds him back now will continue to suppress him only until He is pulled out of the way. It is then that this rebellious one will be finally unleashed. But the Lord will slay him with the breath of His mouth; and with the splendor of His coming, He will bring him to his predetermined end. Still the rebellious one arrives with all sorts of power, performing signs and fake miracles sanctioned by Satan; he employs every manner of wicked deception to wile away those who are destined for eternal death because they reject the love of the truth that leads to salvation. Because of this, God sends a deceptive influence over them so they will wander from the truth and believe the lie. As a result, God will judge all of those who did not entrust themselves to the truth when it faced them but instead reveled in wickedness.

But this is not you, dearly beloved brothers and sisters of the Lord. We cannot help but thank God for you at all times, because from the beginning He handpicked you for salvation through the Spirit’s sanctifying work and your belief in the truth. He called you to this when we shared our good news with you. Now you can take part in the glory of our Lord Jesus the Anointed, our Liberating King. So, brothers and sisters, all you need to do now is stand firm and hold tight to the line of teachings we have passed on to you, whether in person or in a letter. Now may our Lord Jesus (the Anointed One Himself) and God our Father (who has loved us, comforted us eternally, and given us a good hope by His grace) bring comfort to your hearts and strengthen your wills to accomplish every good work and word.

The Letter of 2nd Thessalonians, Chapter 2 (The Voice)

Today’s paired chapter of the Testaments is the 16th chapter of 2nd Kings that documents the idolatry of a king who turned away from the True God our Creator:

[Ahaz of Judah]

In the seventeenth year of Pekah son of Remaliah, Ahaz son of Jotham became king of Judah. Ahaz was twenty years old when he became king and he ruled for sixteen years in Jerusalem. He didn’t behave in the eyes of his God; he wasn’t at all like his ancestor David. Instead he followed in the track of the kings of Israel. He even indulged in the outrageous practice of “passing his son through the fire”—a truly abominable act he picked up from the pagans God had earlier thrown out of the country. He also participated in the activities of the neighborhood sex-and-religion shrines that flourished all over the place.

Then Rezin king of Aram and Pekah son of Remaliah king of Israel ganged up against Jerusalem, throwing a siege around the city, but they couldn’t make further headway against Ahaz.

At about this same time and on another front, the king of Edom recovered the port of Elath and expelled the men of Judah. The Edomites occupied Elath and have been there ever since.

Ahaz sent envoys to Tiglath-Pileser king of Assyria with this message: “I’m your servant and your son. Come and save me from the heavy-handed invasion of the king of Aram and the king of Israel. They’re attacking me right now.” Then Ahaz robbed the treasuries of the palace and The Temple of God of their gold and silver and sent them to the king of Assyria as a bribe.

The king of Assyria responded to him. He attacked and captured Damascus. He deported the people to Nineveh as exiles. Rezin he killed.

King Ahaz went to meet Tiglath-Pileser king of Assyria in Damascus. The altar in Damascus made a great impression on him. He sent back to Uriah the priest a drawing and set of blueprints of the altar. Uriah the priest built the altar to the specifications that King Ahaz had sent from Damascus. By the time the king returned from Damascus, Uriah had completed the altar.

The minute the king saw the altar he approached it with reverence and arranged a service of worship with a full course of offerings: Whole-Burnt-Offerings with billows of smoke, Grain-Offerings, libations of Drink-Offerings, the sprinkling of blood from the Peace-Offerings—the works. But the old bronze Altar that signaled the presence of God he displaced from its central place and pushed it off to the side of his new altar.

Then King Ahaz ordered Uriah the priest: “From now on offer all the sacrifices on the new altar, the great altar: morning Whole-Burnt-Offerings, evening Grain-Offerings, the king’s Whole-Burnt-Offerings and Grain-Offerings, the people’s Whole-Burnt-Offerings and Grain-Offerings, and also their Drink-Offerings. Splash all the blood from the burnt offerings and sacrifices against this altar. The old bronze Altar will be for my personal use.

The priest Uriah followed King Ahaz’s orders to the letter.

Then King Ahaz proceeded to plunder The Temple furniture of all its bronze. He stripped the bronze from The Temple furnishings, even salvaged the four bronze oxen that supported the huge basin, The Sea, and set The Sea unceremoniously on the stone pavement. Finally, he removed any distinctive features from within The Temple that were offensive to the king of Assyria.

The rest of the life and times of Ahaz is written in The Chronicles of the Kings of Judah. Ahaz died and was buried with his ancestors in the City of David. His son Hezekiah became the next king.

The Book of 2nd Kings, Chapter 16 (The Message)

my personal reading of the Scriptures for monday, december 21 of 2020 with a paired chapter from each Testament of the Bible, along with Today’s Psalms and Proverbs

A post by John Parsons about this week’s Torah reading by Jews around the world:

Shavuah Tov, friends, and happy holidays (despite the inanity of this world). In our Torah reading for this week (Vayigash, i.e., Gen. 44:18-47:27) we read about Joseph’s dramatic revelation of his identity to his long lost brothers. Recall that Benjamin had been falsely accused of stealing the Viceroy’s chalice and was arrested and brought before Joseph for immediate judgment. Judah then “drew near” (vayigash) and offered to bear the penalty for his brother, pleading with Joseph to spare his aged father the loss of yet another son. Joseph was so moved by Judah’s act of mesirat nefesh (self-sacrifice) that he decided the time had finally come for him to reveal his identity to his brothers. After clearing the room, he began speaking in Hebrew and said, אֲנִי יוֹסֵף הַעוֹד אָבִי חָי / ani Yosef, ha’od avi chai / “I am Joseph; is my father alive?” When the brothers drew back in dismay, Joseph said, “Draw near to me, please” (from the same verb nagash) and explained how God providentially brought him to Egypt to save the family’s life....

The revelation of Joseph and his reconciliation with his brothers is a prophetic picture of the acharit hayamim (end of days) when the Jewish people will come to understand that Yeshua is indeed the One seated at the right hand of the majesty on high as Israel’s Deliverer. At that time Yeshua will speak comforting words to His long lost brothers and restore their place of blessing upon the earth. Indeed, the entire story of Joseph is rich in prophetic insight regarding our Lord and Savior. Vayigash (וַיִּגַּשׁ) means “and he drew near,” referring first to Judah’s intercession for the sins of his brothers, and then to Joseph’s reciprocal desire for the brothers to draw near to him (Gen. 44:18, 45:4). Joseph initiated the reconciliation by saying, גְּשׁוּ־נָא אֵלַי / ge’shu na elai - “Please draw near to me,” and indeed there is a play on the verb nagash (נָגַשׁ), “draw near,” throughout this story. Yeshua is depicted both in Judah’s intercession (as the greater Son of Judah who interceded on behalf of the sins of Israel) and in Joseph’s role as the exalted Savior of the Jewish people in time of tribulation. When Joseph disclosed himself and asked, “Is my father alive,” we hear Yeshua evoking the confession of faith from the Jewish people: “I am Yeshua: do you now understand that My Father is alive?” Upon His coming revelation, all Israel will confess that indeed God the Father is “alive” and has vindicated the glory of His Son. [Hebrew for Christians]

12.20.20 • Facebook

and another post that points to the significance of Hebraic History and the revelation of the Son:

At Sinai we heard the voice of God (קוֹל אֱלהִים) speaking from the midst of the Fire (Deut. 4:33), an event that foreshadowed the great advent of the King and Lawgiver Himself, when the Eternal Word (דְבַר־יְהוָה) became flesh and dwelt with us (Phil. 2:6-7; John 1:1,14). Any theology that regards God as entirely transcendent (i.e., God is beyond any analogy with the finite) will have a problem with divine immanence (i.e., God is inherent and involved within the finite), since the highness, holiness, and perfection of God will make Him seem distant, outside of us, far away, and unknown... Incarnational theology, on the other hand, manifests the nearness of God to disclose the divine empathy. Indeed, the LORD became Immanuel (עִמָּנוּ אֵל), "God with us," to share our mortal condition, to know our pain, and to experience what it means to be wounded by sin, to be abandoned, alienated, forsaken. It is God’s own bittul hayesh (בִּטּוּל הַיֵּשׁ) - his self-nullification for the sake of love and truth. The “Eternal made flesh” bridges the gap between the realm of Ein Sof (אין סוף), the infinitely transcendent One, and the finite world of people lost within their sinful frailty. Of course we believe Adonai Echad (יְהוָה אֶחָד) - that the "LORD is One" - both in the sense of being exalted over all things but also in the sense of being compassionately involved in all things (Rom. 11:36). We therefore celebrate the giving of the Torah both at Sinai and especially at Bethlehem with the birth of Messiah. We celebrate that God is indeed the King and Ruler over all, but we further affirm that God's authority and rule extends to all worlds - including the realm of our finitude and need...

As I’ve mentioned elsewhere, the climax of Sinai was the revelation of the Sanctuary. The two tablets of the law, summarizing the Ten Commandments, were stored inside the famous Ark of the Covenant (אֲרוֹן בְּרִית־יְהוָה), a sacred "three-in-one" box placed in the innermost chamber of the Tabernacle called the Holy of Holies (קדֶשׁ הַקֳּדָשִׁים). As such, the Ark served as kisei ha-kavod (כִּסֵּא הַכָּבוֹד), the Throne of Glory itself. Upon the cover (or crown) of the Ark (i.e., the kapporet) were fashioned two cherubim (i.e., angel-like figures) that faced one another (Exod. 25:17-18). According to the Talmud (Succah 5b), each cherub had the face of a child - one boy and one girl - and their wings spread heavenward as their eyes gazed upon the cover (Exod. 25:20). It was here that God's Voice would be heard during the Yom Kippur service, when sacrificial blood was sprinkled upon the crown to symbolize the atonement of sin secured through Messiah, the Word that became flesh for us... In the very heart of the Sanctuary, then, we see the Word of God and the sacrficial blood.

The LORD God Almighty was clothed with human skin: our flesh, our bones... The miracle of the incarnation is the Absolute Paradox, as Kierkegaard said, wherein the infinite and the finite meet in mystery of the Divine Presence. Here God "touches a leper," eats with sinners and prostitutes, sheds human tears, and suffers heartache like all other men... The gloriously great God, the very Creator of the cosmos, has "emptied Himself" to come in the form of a lowly servant (δοῦλος) - disguised to the eyes of the proud and hardhearted, but is revealed as High Priest to those who are genuinely broken and in profound need. The LORD God is God over all possible worlds, and that includes both the celestial realms of the heavens but also the world of the fallen, the ashamed, the alienated, and the lost... God's infinite condescension reveals and augments the majesty of His infinite transcendence. There is no world - nor ever shall there be such - where the LORD God Almighty does not reign and have preeminence.

Do not suppose that the Torah of Moses does not teach “incarnational” theology. Since God created human beings in his image and likeness, the “anthropomorphic language” of Scripture is meaningful. The LORD reveals himself in human terms - using human language, expressing human emotions, and so on, as it says: Moses spoke to God panim el panim - “face to face” (Deut. 34:10). The Torah always has to take on human form - the Word made flesh - for the sake of human beings who live in flesh and blood reality...

The greatest expression of God’s word is found in the Presence of Yeshua. This is the Word of God that “tabernacles” with us, full of grace and truth (John 1:14). Yeshua is the “Living Torah,” Immanuel (עִמָּנוּ אֵל), “God with us,” who enters our world to rescue us from death. Our Scriptures state that "in these last days God has spoken to us by his Son, whom He appointed the Heir of all things, through whom also He created the worlds" (Heb 1:2). Note that the Greek construction for the phrase translated, "by his son" is ἐλάλησεν ἡμῖν ἐν υἱῷ, which literally means "he spoke to us in Son" -- that is, in the language or voice of the Son of God Himself... God speaks the language "of Son" from the midst of the fire revealed at Zion. "Therefore, since we are receiving a kingdom that cannot be shaken, let us be thankful, and so worship God acceptably with reverence and awe (μετὰ αἰδοῦς καὶ εὐλαβείας) - for our God is "Esh Okhelah" - a Consuming Fire" (Heb. 12:28-29). [Hebrew for Christians]

https://hebrew4christians.com/

12.20.20 • Facebook

Today’s message from the Institute for Creation Research

December 21, 2020

Origin of the Races

“These are the families of the sons of Noah, after their generations, in their nations: and by these were the nations divided in the earth after the flood.” (Genesis 10:32)

This is the concluding verse of the tenth chapter of Genesis, known as “The Table of Nations.” It tells us that all the original nations of the world were formed from the descendants of Noah. The basis of this worldwide division was their dispersion at Babel (Genesis 11:9), “every one after his tongue, after their families, in their nations” (Genesis 10:5; see also 10:20 and 10:31). Lest anyone think this list of original nations is simply folklore, he should remember that William F. Albright, probably the greatest archaeologist of the 20th century, called it “an astonishingly accurate document.” Many ethnologists still speak of Japhetic, Hamitic, and Semitic peoples and languages.

But what about the origin of races? One searches the Bible in vain for this information, for neither the word nor the concept of “race” appears in the Bible at all! There is no such thing as a race—except the human race! Skin color and other supposed racial characteristics are mere recombinations of innate genetic factors, originally created in Adam and Eve to permit development of different family characteristics as the human race was commanded to multiply and fill the earth (Genesis 1:28; 9:1).

“Race” is strictly an evolutionary concept used by Darwin, Huxley, Haeckel, and the other 19th-century evolutionists to rationalize their white racism. But from the beginning it was not so! “God that made the world and all things therein;... hath made of one blood all nations of men for to dwell on all the face of the earth” (Acts 17:24, 26). “Have we not all one father? hath not one God created us? why do we deal treacherously every man against his brother?” (Malachi 2:10). HMM

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