#She's just such a fun addition to the colony

[pushing500]

This is just a hypothetical, and you don't have to answer it if you don't want, but I was playing Rimworld and a thought stuck me due to something that happened. How do you think the Jones Brothers would act if Rimworld pulled a Rimworld and Ivy ended up being seriously hurt, or worse? Do you think they'd go on the warpath against the people responsible? It would be kinda cool to see them building massive mechanoids in order to avenge/protect one of few people they actually care about.

Anyway that's the thought. Love the comic!! I ended up reading it all in one day and now I keep an eye out for new updates, I love this little family you've made out on the Rim. Thank you for posting the stories!!

Oh, no question about it. If anything happens to Ivy, anything at all, Mechi and Kwahu will take out everyone else on the planet and then themselves.

If the Jones boys can't have their sister, they'll just have to dedicate their lives to their adopted niece instead.

Also, I'm glad you like the comic, and I hope you continue to like it!! ❤️❤️

[fantastic-nonsense]

Things Kaz canonically does in the two years between Crooked Kingdom and Rule of Wolves:

(presumably) massively expands the Dregs' territory

buys Pekka's old club (the Emerald Palace) and completely renovates it, turning it into The Silver Six

massively expands the Crow Club to the point where it's "three times the size of every other establishment on the block"

builds an underground tunnel that goes from the Crow Club to the Geldstraat, where the Van Eck Mansion is

takes Jesper out on jobs with him often enough that Wylan has jokingly banned Jesper from answering the door when he knocks

learns about Ketterdam's Suli laborers and picks up additional knowledge of Suli culture

keeps up with Inej's whereabouts and helps her take out slavers

expands his information network to the Kerch colonies

is on friendly enough terms with the King of Ravka that he taught Nikolai how to pick locks and Nikolai feels comfortable personally writing him a letter when he needs to steal the titanium from Kerch

disguises himself just to follow people around on the streets

was planning to steal the titanium from the military base anyway just for fun

And that's just the stuff we see from Nikolai's and Zoya's incredibly limited perspectives during their Ketterdam sidequest

I 100% agree with Zoya when she thinks that "maybe Kaz was like Nikolai, a boy with an unquiet mind, a man in perpetual need of challenge" because ROW makes it so obvious that Kaz is bored and incredibly restless in his success. Someone get our boy a new life's purpose and a subscription to a long-running unsolved mystery podcast stat

[burstfoot]

It mentions in her archive file that she was in her 20's directly, and her race is directly listed as 'Elf' in her operator file as well, so she has nothing to hide regarding her race - so I assume this is the most accurate information on her age? I guess that the DV quote is referring to Elf species slowly dying out as the environment is becoming destroyed rather than Muelsyse specifically living through that? (Sort of a metaphorical heritage thing) The mention of her mother doesn't really make any sense with her being an orphan in Lone Trail, though. Weird!

One thing I'm perplexed on when it comes to Lone Trail, and can only conclude is a retcon or a continuity error, is Muelsyse's age.

Dorothy's Vision:

They have seen too many mountains fall and too many rivers dry up over the centuries. They have seen too many loved ones die.

It's pretty clearly stated that Muelsyse's age is in the centuries as she's trapped inside the power armor, unable to even force herself to cry because of how long she's had to try and stifle her emotions to survive.

But then in Lone Trail, you learn Muelsyse's backstory, with her adoption, and how she went to university with Saria and Kirsten. The tweet with the Rhine Lab timeline and brief in-universe newspaper clippings outright states that Muelsyse was "still underage" when Rhine was founded. So which is it?

Is Muelsyse a centuries old elf who has watched those she cares about die over time as she outlives them all, who has watched as nature is desecrated and destroyed by industrialization and catastrophe over decades? Did she have parents knowledgeable about her abilities, "Mother always said tears were powerful weapons"? Or is Muelsyse even younger than Saria and Kirsten, who didn't know her elf parents and was adopted by other Columbians, and is young to the point of being "underage" when Rhine Lab was founded?

It's possible I guess that those in-universe newspaper articles are incorrect about her age, but I don't see why Muelsyse would lie on an official government application and act as though she was underage at Rhine's founding if she wasn't. It seems like Lone Trail is just saying that she's actually that young.

Frankly, I'm just going to continue to headcanon based off the Dorothy's Vision information that came first. It feels, to me at least, more consistent with her characterization through Mansfield Break and the Manhua, and honestly having her be centuries old makes her desire in Lone Trail for exploring the possibility of Elves finding a safe land outside Terra without Originium's influence much more impactful than if she was only like 36 (16 years between founding of Rhine Lab and the events of Lone Trail, and assuming "underage" means below drinking age in the U.S. and not outright being a minor the most generous possible age assessment under Lone Trail's assertions is 20 years old at the time of Rhine's founding).

[simp-ly-writes]

Gentle-Fellow's

─────── · · A Smosh Fanfic

Pairing: Spencer Agnew x gn!Reader

─ · · SUMMARY: You, Spencer and your fellow cast mates Angela and Shayne all star in yet another Don't Win Mario Party, Gentlemen addition!

─ · · TAGS: gender-neutral pronouns, part social media au, use of dated terms as comedy, swearing, smoking, fluff, attempt at humour, cute.

─ · · MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQUEST | WORDCOUNT: 1,463

─ · · A/N: thank you so much for the ask, anon! sorry it took so long, had to brainstorm some jokes and scenarios but it was a load of fun! 😄

─────── · ·

"Oi! 'ello Chaps, I'm here with my fellow gentle-lads and t'day we'll be playing some good old fashion mario party, just how I like my liquor-" you began to intro to the camera before Spencer was slapping you gently on the shoulder, his body acting out more impact than you actually received but you still fell off the couch for comedic benefit as he put his shoes up on your supposed 'corpse' in good taste.

"Well enough with what that fellow was going on about, I must say we shall play. This game is better suited for a trio rather than a quartet- the same philosophy can also be said for working in the navy. Was much better to night-watch with a trio-"

"Ah yes, I do believe three-and-some is an adequate amount. I have yet to try four but it sounds you would not recommend?" Shayne leans forwards on the couch to fully face Spencer who adjusts his tophat while looking down at you, silently asking if you were okay while laying down off camera. You shot him a smile upwards, rolling over and returning back to the couch.

"Yes, I would not recommend such activities. Too many men with not enough places to go and scope out. Much better to have three, did you not serve to learn this?" Spencer asks with a tilt to his head, his top hat already falling off again as you hold back a chuckle to his playful glare in your direction.

"I in fact did serve! I was a leader, and I good one at that too. Took my whole group to one of the colonies, we had to strip ourselves of layers from how humid the climate was," Shayne clarified, pretending to light his cigar as Spencer lit his own, passing his lighter towards you.

"Thank you, gentleman," you responded, lighting your two cigarettes, wearing them like vampire fangs that had Angela near tears at the end of the couch. "I do remember being down to my undergarments at multiple points with my men, I'll have you know we were all in position within the ama-zone. Quite the discoveries we made there, so uncivilized."

"AYE!" Angela corrected, pointing a finger, her moustache slipping down her face, "I'll have you know my third mistress is from those parts, and she is the best. You mustn't make such hastily claims gentlemen, it is unbecoming of you!"

You nod your head, "yes, yes, very unbecoming. What are we? Boys like our sons? I can't remember the last time I had ashes in my lungs with that child's work," you continue as Angela agrees with a huff, the game seemingly long forgotten as you all carry through conversation, trying your darnedest not to break character.

"Ah yes, I think I have a son or two, I can't quite remember. I think to name them all William, a strong English name," Shanye comments once you all get... gently reminded to play the game you intro-ed over half an hour ago, you hoped that the editors would be able to find something distinguishable in these files.

─────── · ·

"I do believe it is your turn, gentleman," Spencer comments, casting you a wink. "My, I have seen to misplaced that powered-device. Does anyone see it?" Everyone starts to feel around the dips in the couch, Spencer was the first to stand, walking closer to the cameras from where you rolled to during the introduction bit and comes back with your controller, dipping it towards you with a bow.

"Thank you, my, you must be quite the bachelor, charming a fellow like me, oh my," you add with heated cheeks as Spencer returns to your side, his leg nocking against your own as you shout out in disbelief to obtaining a star you DID NOT want. "This is outrageous, I demand a re-play of my turn! I did not intend-"

"We must play by the rules," Shayne cuts you off, tilting his hat down as you stick out your tongue. Angela is focused on not winning the next mini game as you and Shayne continue your staring contest in the following two rounds before you claim victory. "Haha! I have trained with only the best, you can read a lot about another man through his eyes. Have you been hunting before? I love that wild look." Spencer jumps to respond.

"Yes, I must say, you really can tell a lot..." and in that moment you both look at one another. Shayne and Angela are both screaming over something on the screen but you both sound it out, lost in this little moment before realizing your both won... or well lost.

"It appear we have lost," Spencer says, emitting a sigh. "No, I would say we have won," you tease loving the way his cheeks heat up to his ears before you both return to the game more driven then ever to not win.

─────── · ·

Jokes have you all toppling the couch at some point from your rambunctious laughter, Angela is struggling to breathe through her sentence much similar to you over just how funny Spencer manages to be wearing sweatpants and a cheap half tux.

Spencer immediately went to protect your head with his arm as you all fell backwards with a large crash, the crew all gasped out in shock before your laughter only grew more boisterous. "I think I hear a little man again," Shayne comments, forcing himself upright to look over the couch as stars begun to be distributed.

Like snipers at position you all kneeled, your eyes only visible from the turned over couch. Top hats giving away your cover and you had placed second, falling back to the ground in fake shock and relief. Spencer teased mouth to mouth that had you pressing a hand to his mouth and narrowed your eyes at his large ones filled with glee and adoration.

─────── · ·

Angela had lost in the end in first place. you second place. Shayne in third and Spencer being the ultimate winner in fourth.

"FUCK!" and the video ended abruptly to quickly cute to her wearing a dog cone while trying to light a cigarette, only for them to keep collecting down by her neck.

"Thank you all for viewing our game time today, I have had the most splendid time today with you chaps, as I hope you all have ventured the same?" Shayne asks the now upright couch and cast.

"Yes, I was quite filled with delight," you replied, nodding your head and tipping your hat to everyone on the sofa.

"I do agree with my fellow gentleman, here" Spencer replies, clapping you on the wrist this time, very much close to holding your hand, your fingers interlacing while watching Angelas 'winning' speech.

"I hate you all-"

"Why that id not very gentlemanly of you, do you wish to handle these matters outside in more space for our thoughts?" Shayne rebuttles.

"Yes, I rather have a few thoughts to show you," Angela challenged, brow raised as she begins to roll up her sleeves, Shayne doing the same. Alex closes the video by panning upwards and the screen fades to black.

─────── · ·

🔔 Smosh Games just posted! watch now?

─────── · ·

Gentleman's Rules: Don't Win Mario Party (Again!)

Smosh Games ✓ [Subscribed] 👍 67k | 👎 7.78M subscribers 300k views 1 week ago only the politest of games... click to read more

1,110 Comments

username01 (name) and Spencer out here being the cutest even while cosplaying as colonizers, iconic behaviour you two!

username88 09:45 "Ah yes, I do believe three-and-some is an adequate amount" - Shayne Topp 2024

↳ username70 OMG why did I not catch this earlier LMAO 🤣 ↳ username91 or what about 20:01 " What are we? Boys like our sons? I can't remember the last time I had ashes in my lungs with that child's work..." - (name) was UNREAL for sayin' this XD ↳ username70 OMG YES! 🙌😂

username22 I don't know about you but I'm feeling like I'm ready for a whole series of just this cast and just this game. I have had this video and repeat since it's come out! Please. Make. More. 🙏

username14 Literally so in love with how gentle Spencer was being with (name), dropping the persona to held them find their controller and even making sure they didn't fall hard?? 😭

↳ username91 and did anyone notice those little winks? UGH 😩

username40 this is not good material to be eating to, almost choked from laughing so hard, would not recommend.

userame66 That little exchange about seeing into one another's eyes was so poetic, like that bit did not need to go that hard 💗

─────── · ·

─ · · SPENCER AGNEW TAGLIST: @lisiliely @missflufffanfics @little-stitious-studios @thejourneyneverendsx @sibsteria @lizzylynch1 @babble2 @delaneyburghardt @thevintagefangirl @uniquely-haunting @maricarorp

[into-the-feniverse]

Finished reading Trigun/TriMax a couple days ago and have been feverishly trying to piece together a timeline, so here’s the result of that ✨

EDIT: as of 3/13/24 this has been UPDATED

For a more detailed timeline (with vol/ch marks): google sheet

Full res of the graphic (& other resources): bit.l/trigunresources

Notes & rest of the timeline under the cut!

Edits as of 3/13/24

The detailed spreadsheet is organized and color coded! If you'd like a more concise breakdown of events/see some of my reasoning behind certain time stamps feel free to skim through that

Changed where in the timeline the Maylene and Wolfwood events happened (originally where I had placed them would have made Maylene like 6 when she and Wolfwood reunited which is NOT correct)

moved where in the timeline Knives started collecting the GungHo Guns (at latest he started in 0090 (20 years before 0110) since it's noted that Monev has been training in a cellar for the past 20 years

Moved where Knives initially tracked down Conrad (felt like it needed to happen at least a decade before July)

Changed up some of the months (personally, I don't think the Ark launched in December, since that'd put Milly and Meryl's arrival to the colony in July, which wouldn't make sense. So I placed the ark launch in October which of course offset some of the other month stand ins)

Added an earth year for when Knives and Vash are born. The explanation is I think at minimum there was at least a 2 year period between them and Tesla (since Rem was around for that whole process). I do think it was more than that, but that’s the earliest possible year I think it could have happened. Personally I’m more in the camp of 5-10 years, but def not 50 like in tristamp

Old Notes:

If you see any typos or phrase inconsistencies: no you don’t 💕 (😭)

Blue text can be completely ignored, that’s just kinda my personal preference/wild guesstimating of when “exactly” those events happened

Blue lines can also be ignored, they’re also just rough guesstimates on where exactly in the timeline these could have happened

The distance of the lines from one another doesn’t really mean anything, I started trying to follow a system to notate when things happened really close together but it was//// not consistently done ngl

Fun fact: by the time Wolfwood leaves the orphanage Meryl is 18! And she was 14 at the time of July’s destruction

Additional fun fact: Brad is 17 when he and sensei meet up with Vash in the Factioned city (which I think is absolutely RIDICULOUS), and we know this because he was 4 the one/last time he had met Vash and it’s been 13 years since

It was noted by Karen, one of Meryl’s coworkers, that she and Milly had been on assignment with Vash for about 4 months. (Might be that they were out searching for him during that time as well, but I’m choosing to interpret it as they were actually with him for that amount of time)

I’m also working on a 98 timeline for comparison (but more like just sequence of events cause I don’t think I have the patience to sift through the lore quite as much… mainly making it just to clarify how the anime delineates from the manga)

I am//::: feeling v unhinged after this and feel like it could be improved/i need to do a more thorough read, but I’m calling it quits for now before I actually go insane (but hopefully some people will find it somewhat helpful!)

Also: if anybody has any notes to add or clarifications/corrections I would be more than happy to hear them 👂

[hotvintagepoll]

Harpo Marx (Night at the Opera, Night in Casablanca, Duck Soup)—While Groucho is better-known, Harpo's physical comedy is SECOND-TO-NONE. The man is a strange mime trapped in the paradigm of early 20th century movies. Every move is a symphony and simultaneously a colony of rats in a human skin suit. LISTEN. You MUST see this man in motion. Every still photo of him looks like a combination of a sad clown and a different, sadder clown, but it's only because he put so much joy in every motion.

Katharine Hepburn (Sylvia Scarlett)— Look, I get that thee Katharine Hepburn might not be the first pick for scrungly little guy, but I deeply believe that she was a scrungly little guy trapped in the body of an astonishingly beautiful woman and that she was clearly having the most fun when she got to show her scrungly side. Additional propaganda: This post [link]

This is round 2 of the contest. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. If you’re confused on what a scrungle is, or any of the rules of the contest, click here.

[additional submitted propaganda + scrungly videos under the cut]

Harpo Marx:

He's like if a clown was a hobo was also somehow a classically trained harpist, his face is always in some kind of contorted silly shape, feral curly haired ninnymuggins always doing weird things to people  

Harpo is mute in all of the Marx Bros movies and so his body language and facial expressions are SO over the top but he's also got fewer braincells than a goldfish while often being the emotional heart of the Marx Bros and he's just A Guy!!

Every scene with Harpo Marx is a treat! Just like watching a seagull steal a stranger's hotdog at the beach, it is a joy to watch him frustrate the hell out of all the other films' characters! Harpo Marx is the zenith of unhinged in all of his appearances, making any other funny man a straight man by comparison. (A fantastic feat considering he starred in films with his brothers Grouch and Harpo, who sported a shoe polish mustache and questionable Italian accent, respectively). The scrungliness of the little guys he plays come from his guileless, wide-eyed expression, curly blond wig, and the extreme ability to annoy others, despite never saying a word. Is he malicious? Most definitely, but hard to tell because he has a dopey grin on his face most of the time. Communicating through other sounds like honking horns and whistling, he is a force of chaos in every Marx brothers film! Also an accomplished harp player, the beautiful calm moments where Harpo plays juxtapose the zany, making him all the more scrungly. His visual style of comedy is timeless; Duck Soup had me rolling with laughter as a six year old and is still just as funny today.

In my opinion Harpo is the funniest of the Marx brothers because he is so good at slapstick comedy. Since he never speaks in his film appearances his performances are very physical, which contributes a lot to his scrungliness. He was fully committed to being wacky at all times. All of his hilarity is based on him being weird.

He's just a weird little guy who causes chaos everywhere he goes, and then sits down and plays a beautiful harp solo! He steals the show from his very chatty brothers without saying a word, and was surprisingly ripped under that old raincoat

All of the Marx Brothers are Scrungly to a degree, but Harpo is the scrungliest! His outfits are so big he gets lost in them, his pockets are full of everything, and because he never speaks, he always uses physical comedy. Also he's an incredible musician.

Katharine Hepburn:

[sonknuxadow]

What do you think Knuckles Generations would look like

feels like a good time to bring back this image i made when sonic x shadow generations was first announced. we can make this real if we bother sega about it enough (joking)

i feel like a knuckles story set during generations might be hard to pull off considering knuckles was in sonics whitespace but then again so was rouge and she still played an important role in shadows story so i guess its not impossible . anyway i think the rest of this post got way too long so im gonna put it under a readmore actually

idk if this is a good idea at all but like. sonic and shadow each have their own sort of gimmick right . for sonic its the classic and modern thing and for shadow its the doom powers. and classic knuckles isnt in this game. so maybe his whole thing can be switching between more typical sonic gameplay and the treasure hunting gameplay from the adventure games..... idk ....

for stages. my personal picks would be angel island* for sonic 3&knuckles, red mountain for sonic adventure, aquatic mine or pumpkin hill for sonic adventure 2.. i dont really have a preference for which one but there should probably be a sonic heroes stage. and obviously ares island for sonic frontiers. and i feel like there should be a level from knuckles chaotix as well but idk what it should be because i dont really know anything about that game. sorry.

(*could be based specifically on angel island zone from sonic 3 or just be a general angel island based stage like how they did a space colony ark stage for shadow gens. also i tried to not repeat any stages from sxsg but i think re-using sky sanctuary could work here. like i dont have many story-related ideas for this but knuckles' story would have to start after sonic frees him so maybe it begins with him going into sky sanctuary which leads to him finding the knuckles specific whitespace)

as for other characters that would feature in the story . i know its not a strict rule that there cant be repeat characters but i also wouldnt want for there to be too many repeat characters anyway which kinda limits our options ……. i think tikal should be a white space character for sure. maybe pachacamac too i think he would be an interesting addition. sega would never do it but mighty would be a good choice too. actually maybe they wouldnt be too opposed to it in this context considering gens is a game where classic and modern characters interact. idk. im struggling to think of boss battles right now but i think rouge would be a fun rival battle since we already know she leaves her spot in sonics white space at some point. maybe she could try to see if the master emerald is still intact and if she can steal it while nobodys paying attention to it. i also would want a sonic rival battle soooo bad but idk how they'd work that in

[theotterpenguin]

what’s your take on zutara being “you’re the wind, i’m in the water”. i’ve heard k@t@@ngs saying it’s clearly about their ship bc their elements are air and water but isn’t that a very surface level of understanding of the lyrics?

anon, i adore you for this ask because i love chemtrails over the country club (and lana's music in general).

i'm not surprised that people would try to apply this song to katara and aang because yes, at a surface level it's relevant to them for obvious reasons (water vs. wind), but i agree that the lyrics have far more depth than this.

first, we have to look at the context of the lyrics within the song. "you're in the wind, i'm in the water" presents a romanticized view of the separation of two lovers, just as the two elements brush past each other but never become one. this theme of separation is seen throughout the rest of the song as lana contrasts the privileged bubble of suburbia with the harsh reality of society, the darkness lurking behind a beautiful front.

likewise, zuko and katara have similar character arcs that revolve around an awakening to the harsh truths of society. zuko learns that the beauty and the power of the fire nation is just a facade, hiding the extreme cruelty of its colonialism and imperalism that has hurt all people (which goes hand-in-hand with zuko unlearning the abuse from his father, the personification of the fire nation itself). katara's arc involves a similar type of awakening, as she unlearns some of the dichotomous thinking she's held around the fire nation. her experiences with jet, hama, the sexism of the northern water tribe, the fire nation village in the painted lady, and even zuko show her the complexities of the war and teach her that people aren't always as simple as "good" or "evil." essentially, both zuko and katara undergo parallel character arcs that fundamentally change their worldview, reflective of the theme of chemtrails over the country club.

additionally, the "wind" and "water" that symbolize the separation of the two lovers in the song is also reminiscent of zuko and katara's journey - the two characters that have been pitted against each other from the beginning of the show, their opposing goals of protecting the avatar vs. capturing the avatar, daughter of the chieftain of the southern water tribe vs. prince of the fire nation, and the two characters that end every season finale in an climactic fight scene (first on opposing sides, then on the same side). and if you want an even more bittersweet perspective, there's also the fact that they are doomed by the narrative, two lovers who never end up together in this lifetime, fated to be separated.

if we want to look further into the song, i've also seen the lyric "nobody's son, nobody's daughter" being superficially applied to aang and katara as they have both experienced loss, but again, in the context of the actual show, it's katara and zuko who are repeatedly paralleled with this connection of losing their mothers and being separated from their fathers. katara discusses her grief over losing kya with haru, jet, and aang, but it's only her and zuko's connection over this that carries actual narrative weight in the story. and katara is the only person that zuko discusses the loss of his mother with. so it only makes sense that all of these narrative parallels culminate in the southern raiders, an episode vital to katara's character arc in which zuko is a crucial supporting character. you could also argue this ties in with the overall theme of separation in the song - being separated from your parentage and having to forge your own path.

finally, as a fun little addition, one of the other lyrics in the song is "my moon's in leo, my cancer is sun." and hmm, who are the two characters we typically associate with the moon and sun? (hint: "you rise with the moon, i rise with the sun"). but wait - it goes even deeper than that. i am most definitely not an expert on zodiac signs, but according to some basic googling, leo (a fire element) is typically ruled by the sun, while cancer (a water element) is typically ruled by the moon. by switching up what elements we typically associate with the signs, lana is reflecting on the duality and the unpredictability of herself like how she reflects on the duality of society earlier in the song. and similarly, zuko and katara undergo dual character arcs bound by elemental symbolism. despite being a waterbender, katara also personifies the element of fire - the element of passion, power, and will - as she stands up against injustice and refuses to back down from a fight. and despite being a firebender, zuko's arc also personifies the element of water - the element of change and adaptability - as zuko's perception of himself, his father, and the fire nation changes over time. they are both water and fire, both moon and sun, both yin and yang.

[swolesome]

What if I told you that the antidote to Islamophobia isn't Antisemitism?

CW for this post (you have seen the title.) I feel like this shouldn't need explaining, but merciful Brigid, some of the shit I have seen. It's time for Led Tasso to come out. I'm not Jewish, let's just get that out of the way first, but my position on Palestine is largely informed by Jewish people who have been protesting for decades about the horrific treatment of Palestinians being done by a settler colonial state appropriating their religion, culture, language, and trauma. Fascist governments weaponizing fear and hiding behind religion is a well known tactic, and the fact that so many people have put this readily available information from their minds, specifically in this conversation, speaks to how incredibly pernicious antisemitism really is. I'm treading lightly here because as someone who's not Jewish, it really isn't my place to explain the cultural complexities, trauma, or general experiences of Jewish people. But if you haven't seen those discussions crossing your feed, you should be looking inward and asking why. Because if you're not invested in Jewish voices right now (or in general), that's a red flag for the kind of rhetoric you've internalized and the struggles you take seriously. The position I can speak from, however, is one of being committed to challenging all forms of systemic violence and oppression. So from that stance, and I cannot stress this enough: If you are fighting for some at cost to others, you are reinforcing oppression. It is wild to me that "Nazi" has come to mean "The worst thing a person can be" without recognition of the fact that the ideology is inherently antisemitic, that this is its centrepiece, that Jews are the number one target. This separation is, once again, an example of how insidious this brand of hatred really is--blatant erasure of the way Jewish people are uniquely targeted. I know a lot of trans people follow me, so here's a fun fact: You know the "Doctors are transing our kids to damage fertility rates!" conspiracy? You can thank antisemitism for that, too! It's literally just a rebrand of the Great Replacement conspiracy, which is modernized "protection of Aryan bloodlines." The most recent chapter of "My Life as A Bigot" by Joanne Klan Rowling isn't just another gleeful display of her hatred of trans people, it's another addition to the laundry list of antisemitic beliefs and talking points she's been peddling for years. The Charlottesville "unite the right" Nazi rally was spurred on by the removal of confederate statues and anti-Black racism. What is it they were chanting, again? Anyone remember? Any of this ringing a bell? OH RIGHT. "Jews will not replace us." So many other forms of systemic violence are steeped in the poisonous rhetoric of antisemitism. Acting like this isn't the case damns our Jewish siblings who need us while weakening our understanding of the oppressive forces we're fighting. "One struggle" includes all of us. The fact that the Likud government uses accusations of antisemitism as a cover for their violence should make you more diligent about condemning antisemitism, not less. Because letting them weaponize something that is already so widespread and destructive makes it that much harder to dismantle.

Do not stop talking about Palestine. Do not stop speaking up against the horrors of settler colonial violence. But if you can't do this without throwing another group of oppressed people under the bus, you need to question where you learned your resistance tactics, because the company you're keeping there should disgust and terrify you.

[thatpodcastkid]

Magnus Archives Relisten 22, MAG 22 Colony

Oh no.

The Mag 22 analysis that nearly killed me, spoilers ahead.

Facts: Statement of Martin Blackwood regarding an encounter with the being he believes to have once been Jane Prentiss. Statement given March 12, 2016.

Statement Notes: Oh no.

"Writhe."

I pointed that out in my analysis of the first Jane Prentiss statement. It's the perfect verb. It evokes the image of the worms crawling from Jane Prentiss, towards the victim, and into their skin. Prentiss doesn't just represent the fear of insects, but also trypophobia. The creatures dig into your skin, scar you, leaving the victim full of holes. Those holes are where they live, where they writhe.

The sfx begins when Martin says the worms writhe. The additional sound effects have been used sparingly in these early episodes. They're only used when key figures have been introduced, when particularly powerful horrors take action. The crawling effect doesn't begin until Martin says "writhe" because that is when he reveals the true essence of Jane Prentiss and what makes her so dangerous. It's not the worms, but the way they writhe.

It's important that Prentiss didn't break down the door. She could've at any time. She could have easily sent worms up through his pipes or the ventilation system. But she didn't. She didn't want to infect him or kill him. She wanted to keep him locked away for thirteen days becoming paranoid and sick and terrified. She wanted him afraid. She wanted him to tell the Institute how afraid he was.

Building on that, as mentioned in my MAG 6 post, Jane Prentiss seems selectively lucid. She's aware enough to lie to Jon through Martin's phone, to follow him through the underground to his flat, and to wait outside his door strategically making noises to keep him trapped. Yet, by MAG 40, her actions seem to be more controlled by the hive than her.

The only thing that was really confusing me about this episode on the first listen is why Prentiss would be in the basement of Vittery's home. The two statements seem unrelated. However, after developing my MAG 16 theory, I realized that this is why Cane placed the spiders in Vittery's first apartment. She manipulated the scenario so that Vittery would die in the new flat, meaning Martin would have to go investigate, where he would encounter Prentiss, and then be dragged into the ensuing violence.

The final text from Prentiss is what really go me. "Keep him. We have had our fun. He will want to see it when the Archivist's crimson fate arrives." Not only does she know what will happen to Jon, but she knows Martin will be forced to watch. She knows.

Entity Alignment: Prentiss and the worms are obviously affiliated with the Crawling Rot, and the manipulation I discussed earlier ties in the Web. But this episode also highlights the connections between the entities and the existence of the One Entity. Like I said, Prentiss could have simply killed or infected Martin, but she chose instead to isolate him. By making it so being alone is the only way he could be safe, Prentiss pushes Martin further into the Lonely. Martin is not predisposed to serve as a Corruption avatar, so the Entity would not force him towards it. Rather, it utilizes Prentiss and her abilities to push him towards his true destiny as a Lonely avatar.

Character Notes: The diction in this episode drives me nuts. Martin wants to do the investigation "for you," he's getting proof "for you." He's putting his life in danger and dedicating to the world's worst job all because of Jon. My little heart.

This further establishes my theory from the MAG 16 post that Martin and Jon's relationship was part of Cane's manipulation. This is the episode Jon starts ingraining Martin into his life (giving him a room in the archives, taking special note of his safety, believing his account of the supernatural, etc.), forming the roots of what would eventually become their relationship. But the events of this episode were prompted by an investigation into Carlos Vittery, found dead encased in webs.

Jon's dismissal technique is more prevalent in this episode than one may initially realize. In the first live statement, "Alone," Jon encourages the statement giver to speak and stresses the need to record what happened. Although he likely already believed that statement giver because they were using the tape recorder, he likely had some doubts or he would have dismissed the whole thing out of fear. Yet, by this episode, it's been established that Jon believes in Jane Prentiss' abilities, but he still tells Martin he doesn't have to give the statement. He discourages Martin from giving an account of what may be the most real and relevant encounter they've had. But Jon denies things he's afraid of. He knows Prentiss is real, and he's terrified, so he wants to act like nothing happened.

[moniquill]

Hello! I just finished reading To Shape A Dragon’s Breath, and it was WONDERFUL! I loved Anequs, and every character felt like they had dimension. The worldbuilding absolutely ROCKS. I LOVE how you renamed all the academic terms—in addition to being really cool, it basically put me in Anequs’s shoes as someone having to learn all the Terms for the first time. Which was good for communicating info to the audience in a way that felt natural, and also… I’m kind of an academic, and I admit I am a little prone to impatience. So that kind of humbled me—of course those terms seem weird & arbitrary if you’ve just now started hearing them… doesn’t mean you’re not plenty smart. I’m not Native but I’m not white either… It was so great to get some fantasy that WASN’T bog-standard medieval European, and it’s so good to see NATIVE FICTION in particular!!! Thank you SO MUCH for the pronunciation guide—it was so fun to learn how to say all the words! Some of those syllable stresses were nowhere near where I expected, lol. Apologies for knowing absolutely nothing lmao—are these real Wampanoag words/built from real words?

This was, like, everything I was hoping for out of current fiction. You balanced a pretty sober depiction of racism & colonialism with very real-feeling characters who are having, like, actual human reactions to this stuff. At no point did I feel like I was reading an essay instead of a story, which is due to the charisma of your prose & characters. Finally… ANEQUS IS SO COOL! She is both very wise and also so incredibly fifteen years old lmao, and the way she’s written shows me why she’s worthy of being Nampeshiweisit. I feel like with a lot of “chosen” ones it’s like, Really? You? But with Anequs, it’s like, YEAH THAT WAS THE RIGHT PICK LMAOOO.

Thank you so much for writing this book, which I found at the library but am now compelled to buy, and when the sequel hits the shelves I shall purchase it immediately, and until then I will be talking about your work to everybody I know & possibly some strangers, too. You’re the best. Happy F*ck Columbus Day.

I'm so glad you enjoyed it! Sorry for the long delay in this answer; have been swamped this week.

[paradoxcase]

The Traitor Baru Cormorant, Chapter 6

(I am continuing this. I did get a little caught up in my original story, people are actually reading it and commenting on Dreamwidth, it's been fun! But I am going to continue reading this, too.)

I like that we are getting characterization fleshed out for all the dukes and duchesses, although I still don't have a good feel for some of them. Heingyl as some kind of Robert Baratheon alongside colonial era pirates, sounds fun

Baru's theory about rebels stockpiling gold seems a little too simple, and I'm not surprised that it seems to be wrong. Baru seems to think they will be borrowing fiat money and then using it to buy gold - isn't it more likely that if they want to stockpile gold, they would just smuggle it in from somewhere else, and bypass the Fiat Bank entirely?

It's very ironic that the first thing Baru ever said to Cairdine Farrier was to accuse him of doing this kind of thing, of taking all of their valuables and replacing with fiat money that was only worth anything to the Masquerade. Now she is salivating over the thought of doing the same exact thing to the Aurdwynni

I like that there seem to be multiple cultures that have traditions of polygamy, and that in both cases it's not a case of it being exclusively one man with multiple wives. Since no one in Aurdwynn seems to have any issue with women holding land in their own right, though, I am wondering how they resolve what must be a pretty frequent issue of someone inheriting two duchies, one from each parent. Do you want the War of Spanish Succession? This is how you get the War of Spanish Succession

I bet these feudal politics are going to be way more important than she thinks. Or at least, I hope they are

This sort of makes me wonder if Ffare Tanifel's crime was not actually rebellion-related, but just that she was too polyamorous

Ok, so my understanding is that Aminata believes that Baru tricked her into helping her avoid "treatment" for being a lesbian that Aminata believes would have worked, and while Aminata doesn't seem to hate Baru for being a lesbian, or have any compulsion to tell anyone else that she is one, I think she genuinely believes that if she hadn't interfered Baru wouldn't be one and would thus be at less risk from the Masquerade. So I think she is probably feeling like someone whose friend roped them into like, feeding their gambling addition or something without their knowledge or consent. Like they are still friends but she is definitely kind of peeved kind of thing. But Baru seems to think that maybe Aminata is going to betray her?

Ok, here we are getting some different gender roles. I looked back, and yeah, there was nothing about what Cairdine Farrier said earlier indicating women were more emotional or less logical, so sure, I can buy that they have constructed math and navigation as things that women are better at. They made Baru an accountant, after all

I think Baru thinks Aminata is trying to degayify her with a healing penis, and Aminata thinks she is just trying to encourage Baru to have the kind of fun she likes to have? I am really not getting the sense that Aminata is a threat, I think she could already get Baru in trouble if she were

So I guess these are the options here:

He's telling the truth

The other guy was trying to kill him for being a spy, but it seems unlikely that anyone else in Aurdwynn would be that loyal to her at this stage

They were working together on the spying, and the other guy tried to kill him for reasons unrelated to their current task

He actually told the guy he was working for Cairdine Farrier, and that's why he tried to kill him

It seems a little strange the Muire Lo would go confront this big beefy dude who he thinks is on an assassination mission, or that he'd just be casually talking about his position (either as Baru's secretary, or Cairdine Farrier's spy) to a stranger in a bar when he thought Baru was likely to be assassinated. It is also strange that Muire Lo thought she might be assassinated, but didn't mention this before now. It's not like Baru's office is less private than a crowded bar. So I actually think she has some reason to be suspicious. I don't think it's a crazy idea that Muire Lo is spying on her for Cairdine Farrier

[beasbees]

TBA Convention Austin, Day Two!

It was technically my third day and I was exhausted, but it was still so fascinating and engaging interesting, I stayed for the entire line up and didn't head home until around 5:30pm. And I got to drive home with a truck full of equipment for work in the dark lol. Thankfully the trip home was easy and safe.

But I treated myself to some great Intelligentsia Coffee and fancy donuts at The Salty, nearby, which was awesome, and managed to hit up a ton of super imported lectures, like the young researcher who went to Thailand to study hands-on with the local beekeepers about the behavior, biology, and methodology for preventing a new, terrible parasitic mite, the Tropilaelaps Mite.

I sat in on an Agricultural Valuation panel with state tax rep experts, which sounds tedious but I do a lot of ag val work for my customers and I am always trying to be sure I'm following county and state laws correctly.

I sat in on my business friend's (Tara Chapman of Two Hives Honey in Austin) talk about splits and swarm control, which was fun and enlightening. She has just recently published her first book, called For the Bees: A Handbook for Happy Beekeeping, and it is an incredible addition to the fascinating world of bee and beekeeping education, 10/10 highly recommend (no bias obviously lol). It's a very engaging, fun, and approachable book that focuses on bee biology and methodology without overwhelming or infantalizing the reader, which is an important and very fine balance to strike.

I attended Charlie Bee's presentation on Colony and Swarm Removals! Which is one of the most difficult and controversial parts of my job, and it was super validating to listen to his trials and tribulations, and share in his victories. It's such a complex process with such low success rate, many professional beekeepers avoid doing colony removal or 'rescues'.

I enjoyed the final awards and auction luncheon, and got to appreciate all of the statewide honey and product competition and winner's incredible skills and variety.

And I wrapped up the day with my friend and colleague Lauren Ward's presentation on bee communications, which was so intricate and fascinating and now I am completely obsessed with the variety of specific pheromones produced by each cast of bee lol!

It was truly a whirlwind of exciting experiences and overwhelming loads of info being shoved into my ear and eye holes lol, but I adored every moment of it and it was well worth the time, money, and exhaustion lol. I cannot wait to apply everything I learned, to learn more, and to try to continue to network and connect with all of these amazing people out in the real world. What a blast!

Here's Tara Chapman's book btw:

[lucythornwalter]

Of the eight American Girls developed by Pleasant Company, seven of them celebrate Christmas, and Felicity isn’t the outlier. (It’s Kaya. Any time you’re talking about the original eight girls and one of them is different from the others, that one is almost certainly Kaya. I have somewhat mixed feelings about this, but we’ll get to that when we get to the girl herself. There’s a reason I’m saving her for last.) This means that we get Felicity’s Surprise, a Christmas story, and thankfully a story that has basically nothing to do with class or gender, so hopefully I won’t be sucked into the vortex of the slavery-shaped elephant in the room for the fourth time in a row.

We begin the book with Felicity and her sister Nan going home after an afternoon of gathering holly to decorate their house for Christmas, and we can see Felicity’s maturity and growing comfort with her assigned gender because while she still loves to slide around on frozen puddles she’s conscious of the fact that she can’t stay outside and play forever and that she’s expected to behave in a more genteel and mature way. The biggest lesson she learned last book, it seems, isn’t navigating complicated social conflicts, it’s that femininity can be fun – just as fun as masculinity, in different ways. It’s helped her bond with her sister, and created more solid ties between her and her mother. Both of those are shaping up to be important.

After the girls get home, their house is visited by a footman who delivers an invitation for Felicity from Lord and Lady Dunmore, the governor of Virginia and his wife. They’ve asked her to come to a dancing lesson at their palace on the seventh of January, just after the end of the Christmas season (the day after, in fact, as ‘Christmastide’ lasts until Twelfth Night on the sixth). This is both exciting and nervewracking for Felicity. Her father’s store isn’t doing as well as it was prior to his decision not to sell tea, so there’s not as much money to go around and it’s stressing her parents out, and she’s worried they’ll perceive her desire to go to the lesson as a betrayal of their political position since Lord Dunmore represents the will of the King in the colony. Luckily, her father tells her that she can and should go. He hopes that if the children of these opposing families can find common ground and dance together, the adults can solve their problems without violence. I have to wonder if anyone ever bothered to give him a copy of Romeo and Juliet to illustrate how well that tends to go when young people are involved.

I lied, by the way. This is a little about class. If the Merrimans weren’t at least reasonably wealthy and respected, it wouldn’t matter who Felicity herself knew. She wouldn’t be getting an invite to the governor’s mansion. It’s also a little about gender, too – we see the tension between Felicity’s strong suits (running footraces, riding horses, sliding and skating on ice) and her weak points (curtsying, dancing). Ben also gets to stick his head in as an avatar of masculinity and an aspirational figure, criticizing Felicity for wanting to go to the dance in the first place and wounding her pride and hurting her feelings. Ben seems to only respect Felicity if she conforms to his gender, and acts as a young boy might act; he’s deeply awkward and uncomfortable around her without that buffer of common interest to unite them.

We have a mention of a truly historical food, Shrewsbury cakes. I’d never bothered finding out what those were in all my first years with Felicity as a companion, but according to Wikipedia they’re basically sugar cookies with lemon zest in the dough and dried fruit added for additional flavor. Felicity and Elizabeth make a version with nutmeg and rosewater that seems to be sourced from a 19th century American cookbook, and when I get around to looking at Felicity’s cookbook I wonder if they’ll be included. (Don’t tell me! I want to be surprised.) We also get Felicity’s anxieties over dancing, exacerbated by Annabelle Cole making fun of her again. She decides that if she has the right dress she’ll be confident enough to not make any mistakes, but her family’s money problems mean she doesn’t feel comfortable asking for a new gown. It’s also a new experience for her – usually her mother has to bully her into dressing well. I’ll also point out that the money problems don’t seem to be impacting their ability to feed and house themselves, and they can still do their shopping with more or less the same freedom. It’s possible they’re eating into their savings or Felicity’s grandfather steps in with a loan or a discreet gift, and it’s also possible that the Merrimans’ downward-turning fortunes were always intended to be a temporary state. We do see Kit’s family have a massive upheaval due to the loss of Mr. Kittredge’s income, but that is so significant as to overshadow her entire tenure in the books – my guess is that Pleasant Company doesn’t want to introduce major life events without letting them be major life events.

Our old friend the theme of justice surfaces again here, because the central conflict in this volume is all about the Patriots believing that their opposition to the King is morally right while the Loyalists believe that obeying the King and obeying the laws is paramount. Felicity herself remains neutral on the subject, which I quite like from a historical education perspective because contemporaneous works like Liberty’s Kids have highly opinionated characters who are extremely well-informed and very passionate about their chosen political positions despite being, as the title suggests, kids. It feels more realistic that Felicity is most concerned with how her parents’ interactions with politics are going to affect her ability to go to a party.

This book is also noteworthy for being the introduction to Felicity’s doll. Every American Girl in the original eight books (again, except possibly for Kaya, though I think she did also have a doll of some kind) had a doll that she had some sort of attachment to. Some of them are joined at the hip, others like playing with dolls as one of many toys, still others treat them more like we’d treat a plushie or a comfort object. Felicity’s style of interaction is the most familiar to me, as a doll collector rather than a doll player. She sees a fashion doll at the milliner’s and wants it very badly because of how pretty it is, but basically never plays with it and mostly enjoys having it around in her house. She sees the doll in the first place because Mrs. Merriman takes her on her errands, including to the apothecary to purchase some cough medicine for herself and to the milliner to get some trim or ribbon to spruce up her church gown so she can look pretty for the dance lesson. While at the milliner’s, though, Felicity decides to ask for a new gown of the same blue fabric used to dress the doll, and Mrs. Merriman is so happy that she wants to have a new dress on her own that she spends money the family maybe doesn’t have and buys the pattern and the silk right there on the spot.

(Brief historical aside – the milliner would probably also have been a mantua-maker, which was a style of clothing construction developed primarily by women and that involved what we’d now recognize as a form of draping. Pieces of fabric were draped or held over a client’s body and immediately cut to fit them and match their measurements. Colonial Williamsburg’s milliners now are also mantua-makers, and this blog post from Sarah Woodyard details her experiences becoming a journeywoman mantua-maker after years of apprenticeship and training there. This is significant because instead of Felicity’s measurements being taken right there and her pattern being created from scratch in muslin for her mother or the mantua-maker to replicate and assemble in the blue silk of the finished product, the milliner provides Mrs. Merriman with a preexisting pattern for a grown woman to be altered to fit Felicity – she’s essentially acting as a tailor, who did use preexisting patterns that were then individually cut and altered based on measurements. This is probably because the process of assembling a hand-sewn piece from a modern paper pattern is much closer to tailoring than mantua-making and is thus more familiar to modern girls, but it might also be because Pleasant Rowland and Valerie Tripp didn’t know the difference between the types of garment assembly. I’m curious now if Colonial Williamsburg practiced mantua-making in the 90s, or if they tailored their garments and later adapted to better fit historical practice.)

Felicity is more connected with her labor here than she was in the last book. Now, her household chores and her assistance with additional tasks aren’t just drudgery that no one appreciates – the more time she can clear up for her mother, the more time said mother can spend sewing the gown. She also assists as best she can in sewing it, though most of the work is too complicated for her. It’s a really lovely series of moments, watching her find yet more reasons to appreciate her life and her assigned gender roles but to find them for herself and not through being forced or railroaded.

Unfortunately, Ben is a gigantic asshole about it. He belittles her for liking the gown, and for wanting to go to the dance lesson. He even tells her that if Penny came back he doesn’t think she’d care, which deeply hurts her. Ben has previously been treating Felicity like a peer, even though he’s seven years older than her; this is one of the times when it might have benefited him to remember that he’s practically a grown man and she’s a little girl. He’s mostly angry about her fraternizing with Loyalists, not thinking about the precarious financial status of his apprenticeship or the fact that her appearance at the mansion might mean more business for the store – again we see him treating her like a man and getting angry when she’s more like a woman. Okay, maybe this book is a lot about gender. Maybe gender is inescapable. Maybe it comes for all of us.

Christmas itself is actually not that big of a deal among the Virginians, though it’s certainly more of a big deal for them than for the Puritans in New England. Felicity goes to church, and the family have a spectacular Christmas dinner, and Mrs. Merriman, who has been fighting an illness of some kind, is now significantly sicker than she was before because she’s not eating. As a kid, I definitely didn’t understand that as foreshadowing, but now as an adult who’s had some serious illnesses (and some chronic ones, insert skull emoji here) I definitely get what’s being communicated. The apothecary had warned her to rest, but she hadn’t taken his advice, and I can’t help but wonder if it’s because she couldn’t or because she didn’t want to. I’ve mentioned it before, but the whole family has to work to keep the household running, even with the extra help provided by the definitely enslaved Marcus and possibly enslaved Rose, so it’s possible that it doesn’t matter what the doctor wants, dinner has to be on the table, and my oldest child is nine and can’t do it.

Regardless, by the next morning, she’s gone from “mildly ill” to “actively dying”. The apothecary basically tells her poor family that the most they can do is keep her room warm and try and get her to eat and hydrate whenever she’s awake, but that beyond that it’s a crapshoot. Notably, Mr. Merriman leaves the store entirely to Marcus and Ben and stays home to parent his children and sit with his wife, which is a possible clue as to why Felicity’s parents are so permissive about her gender nonconformity – they don’t quite fit the molds themselves. Felicity herself is deeply impacted by her mother’s illness, and goes through a period of actively hating herself for caring about silly things like a dance lesson or a fancy gown or a doll. She even gets the doll as a present and demands that Elizabeth take it away so she isn’t reminded of how foolish she was. She also says she won’t be able to go to the dance lesson so long as her mother is sick, and even if that were to change her gown is only half-finished.

A turning point for her character comes, though, in the form of providing hope to Nan and William. They’re reliant upon her to be brave and strong, and in helping them through their own fear and grief she finds closure. This doesn’t last long, though, because their mother doesn’t die, thank God, and she’s basically gently bullied by her parents back into being a little girl. This too is about class, I think, because the Merrimans are capable of giving their kids childhoods in the first place. There’s no work around the house or work for other people that needs to be done, and while they have chores and lessons and responsibilities their days are about halfway split between work and play. It’s an interesting contrast to other, poorer girls both in and out of the American Girl franchise – she can run off and drop what she’s doing on a whim, where Kirsten and Addy and even Molly would have to finish their chores first.

And speaking of being a little girl, she gets to go to the dance lesson! Elizabeth and the other Cole women worked on her gown in secret so she could go, and Ben apologizes for having a giant stick up his ass and escorts her to the governor’s mansion. The concept of being escorted is a really interesting one as it’s used here, because Felicity is allowed to run wild all over Williamsburg basically all of the time unless it’s something fancy, but it’s important enough to her parents that she have an escort that she almost doesn’t get to go at all because no one can leave her mother for long enough to take her. At least she has her aspirational figure of ideal Patriot masculinity to project onto and talk with.

Once she gets to the mansion, everything goes perfectly. I’ve actually been in the specific ballroom the kids all hang out in, because you can take house tours of Dunmore’s real life mansion that he really lived in when you visit Colonial Williamsburg, and I did ask myself which specific room Felicity’s lesson was in, and now that I’ve reread it and the walls are described as being blue I can say definitively that yes, I was there, it’s very luxurious and cool, and she was absolutely right to want to go. She ends the night in triumph, and wearing a very cool dress, and really, what more could a girl want?

This is not my favorite Christmas book among the original eight. It’s interesting to note that the titular “Surprise” is basically never to do with Christmas itself, and sometimes it’s a surprise the girl gets to present to everyone else. Here, of course, it’s the blue dress and the Cinderella moment, and truthfully I’m very glad that an actual surprise is present. Not all the titles always check out – Kirsten Saves the Day is not about Kirsten saving the day, it’s about Kirsten almost getting mauled by a bear – but this one definitely does. It also feels the least Christmas-adjacent to me, possibly because very little is done with the day itself. That’s fairly historically accurate, as Christmas was something of a controversial holiday among certain English people and really only came into its own in the 19th century, but it does mean that there’s very little holiday spirit to truly connect with.

The message of peace on Earth really falls flat for me, too. As nice as it is to express a desire to settle your differences peacefully, everyone here is going to be fighting in less than two years. It’s one thing to try and talk about the slowly escalating tensions. It’s something else entirely when there’s not really any mystery about how this will end. Plus, again, the fact that everyone is able to make nice for a night for the sake of the kids just highlights how fundamentally similar both sides of this conflict were. It’s a lovely sentiment, but it’s only accessible to the rich people driving the engine of rebellion, and I do wish there was more acknowledgement of that fact. For all the problems with Hamilton’s historiography, it at least understood that particularly vital point. For some of the people involved, this wasn’t a conflict they could make nice over, it was their futures, their legacies, their lives and deaths.

Anyway, I successfully avoided talking at all about slavery, but that’s not going to last, because in Happy Birthday, Felicity! we meet Isaac, and I have a lot to say about Isaac. See you all next time, I guess?

[snowbellewells]

Captain Swan Collab Words 23 fic: "Freed to Love"

This event was such a fun idea, and the three of us - @statustemporary @jrob64 and @snowbellewells - had a lot of fun working together and seeing our initial idea come to life. We decided we really wanted some whump and hurt/comfort taking place, and eventually we settled on a Revolutionary War time period AU for our setting. We also used a suggested quote about the persistence of hope, and the idea of being touch starved, both of which played into our idea well.

Thanks so much to the @CSCW23 @Captain Swan Collab Words 23 for the idea to create a story as a group. It really was a new and exciting challenge that made for a new CS adventure.

And a very special thanks to @hookedmom for all the time and care she took as our beta reader for this fic!!

Summary: Though the colonists' fight for freedom from the British brought Killian Jones and Emma Swan together, the dangers of war have also pulled them apart. Can Emma find her beloved spy again, or will she be too late? What other trials and hurdles will they have to cross before they are finally free to live and love as they have dreamed?

Reposting with additional edits and correct AO3 and ff.net links.

Can be read HERE on AO3 or HERE on ff.net, if that is your preference.

"Freed to Love"

by: @statustemporary @jrob64 & @snowbellewells

Early morning dew soaks through Emma’s boots to her stockings. The wetness chafes at the skin of her feet and she holds back a wince with every step she takes. Her eyes remain downcast in the role of a perfectly submissive British nurse ready to abide by the orders of officers and soldiers alike. Her horse arrived late yesterday afternoon to the stern face of Colonel Sitwell, a high-ranking officer of the British military who is well aware that escorting a new nurse to camp is far below his station.

Last night’s rain is making the trip uphill more strenuous than anticipated. Sitwell’s boots kick mud back at her, staining the bottom of her gown, and a part of her wonders if he does it purposely.

Philadelphia.

She started in Fort Ticonderoga in late July, aiding the troops who overtook the abandoned rebel colonists’ camp. The end of August found her in Bennington, caring for the few wounded left behind after their defeat at Rebel hands. September brought her to Brandywine Creek, before her new orders informed her to follow the river to Philadelphia.

She has traveled so far just to end a few days up the river from David and Mary Margaret.

Emma’s heart pounds as they encroach on the troops standing guard outside the British camp. How many more can she bear to approach before she’s unable to handle the heartache?

All of them , she thinks immediately. She’d travel up and down the colonies if she has to, until she finds him. Her hands would service each wound on every British soldier if it brought him back to her. She’d swallow back the bile while they brag about killing her friends, she’d clench her fists as they discussed future strategies while on their sick beds.

She is trained for this. Mary Margaret showed her how to survive, while David taught her how to blend in. And Killian…

Her heart lurches when the familiar accents of British soldiers reach her ears. Emma barely pays any mind to what they’re saying. Instead, she embraces the only reminder she has of Killian, of the way he spent hours teaching her his accent to help her prepare for her role.

Despite the harsh, uncaring intonation, the familiar words that swirl in the air around her easily send Emma’s mind back to a happier early morning, months ago now, but emblazoned on her memory with the warmth and clarity of something from mere moments ago.  

Killian had come to the house to report his findings from a recent scouting mission, and when he finished, she had pulled him into the kitchen to speak privately, blushing hotly as she did so, the heat from the pot-bellied stove keeping the room toasty, though breakfast preparations were over.

Up to that point, they had spoken a few times, and Killian had also been friendly, polite, even playfully attentive with her, but Emma had not gotten the occasion to speak with him as much as she would have wished. Mary Margaret had encouraged her, with her ever-present optimism and her hope to see Emma as happily in love as she was herself; to take this very genuine opportunity to seek him out at once and gain the knowledge she sought.

Seated facing her on the rough hewn wooden bench at the Nolan’s kitchen table, Killian had grinned impishly as she settled beside him and arranged her skirts, clearly knowing what she was about, even though the tops of his ears were a heated pink to match her blushing cheeks. When she dared to look up and make full, uninterrupted eye contact with him, Emma had nearly toppled off her seat onto the floor at the electric impact of his gaze connecting with hers.

She was only saved from making a fool of herself prattling away nervously by Killian speaking. The gently cultured cadence of his words reminded her of her purpose, as he dipped his chin to look up at her rakishly through his dark lashes. 

And so it had begun between them that simply. She asked Killian for instruction in British pronunciation, accent, phrases, anything which might help her to better blend in and avoid detection as a patriot spy amongst the Redcoats. Granted, few paid much heed to what the nurses - or women in general - had to say; for once, her femininity was an advantage in the quest for near-invisibility. Still, she wanted to be ready. If the need to speak arose while she was posted in some hospital or camp, Emma was determined to sound as English as any fine lady in London.

Not only was it all too easy to pull up the hazy-warm and peach-sunrise-gilded memories and lose herself within their comfort, but as time and distance stretched between them and Emma searched fruitlessly once they learned of Killian’s capture, it had been one of the rare bits of joy left her for a momentary escape. She could envision his face so clearly within an instant of closing her eyes. The curious tilt of his head as he waited for her to speak whatever term he had just taught her. The way the tip of his tongue poked tantalizingly from between his parted lips to tease her mind addled with flustered desire. The way his lips moved deliberately, patiently, repeating whatever sound or inflection she attempted to imitate, until they were both satisfied with her repetition - usually left Emma nearly in his thrall before they were finished.

One particular morning as the seconds stretched and melted together between them like butter and honey slathered on a hot, homemade biscuit, making her want to soak up every delicious second she could, she paused hesitantly before bravely clutching his hand in shaking fingers, “And what would you say…”  she asked, clinging as tightly as possible to him while they both were still together and safe. “What would you say,” she tried again after swallowing hard and gathering her courage, “if you were captured and threatened with death?”

Emma had held her breath, waiting anxiously for his response, all the while knowing it would not be one to put her at ease, nor had she truly asked for the sake of gaining some stoic, proper British response for her own use. She knew Killian would never yield to questioning or torture, would not plead for his life or make any sort of fearful compromise, much as she might wish him to, if it meant his life. Emma wasn’t sure what she was hoping to hear, but somehow she needed his answer all the same.

“I’d tell them they might bloody well try to end me,” he had replied stoutly, the blue of his fathomless eyes almost drowning her as he held her gaze determinedly. “But I’m a survivor, Lass, and I will find a way to return to you. You need never doubt that.”

His words had left her breathless then, and now Emma forced herself to release the breath she held in her aching chest as she remembered that promise.

Opening her eyes again brings her back into the muddy, chaotic, and haphazardly organized camp around her, which seems all the more removed from the haven she had recreated in her mind’s eye, because of the loneliness that immediately accosts her and the complete absence of Kilian. Though the speech around her had brought those better days to mind at first hearing, now they seem to highlight just how alone she is, since none of the accented voices belong to him… 

“Miss Swan,” Sitwell growls. Emma shoots her gaze up to meet his and she purposely widens her eyes to bear the image of apologetic innocence. The move infuriates the officer further. His white hair is slicked back with sweat across his broad forehead, the wrinkles there crumpling together as he glares down at her. The lines around his mouth become more pronounced as his face fashions into a sneer and he juts his large nose up at her. “Has cannon fire damaged your hearing or are you fit to perform your duties to the Crown and His soldiers?”

“My apologies, Colonel Sitwell,” Emma says, effortlessly picking up the accent Killian worked so hard to teach her. “It won’t happen again, Sir.” She bows her head to him and clasps her hands together in front of her. Her small bag bounces against her hip and she thinks not of the weapons that have been stored there for months, swaddled between clothes and hidden in pockets.

Sitwell scoffs and strides into camp with the silent expectation that she is to follow. Hurrying behind him, she catalogs all possible routes of escape and makes a note to pay attention to guard rotation over the next couple of days.

The European theater of war plays out drastically different than it does in the colonies, or so David has said. Rules of engagement in Europe allow a modicum of respect for the treatment of prisoners of war, varying with rank. To escape while a prisoner is considered desertion and dishonorable. Except, they’re not in Europe, and British troops refuse to recognize Colonists as an independent entity, tossing all procedure out the window.

Will Scarlett’s return just a week after Killian was taken occupies the free moments in her mind. 

Malnourished, with a number of infected wounds and diseases bringing him knocking on death’s door, Will, a fellow rebel from their town, explained to the women that the British didn’t have the care or the resources to deal with their large numbers of prisoners. He’d been kept in a warehouse packed together with other prisoners, like a school of fish with vermin nibbling at their toes. Feces became their pillows and the dead bodies of their comrades their blankets.

Her friend’s words work as nightmare fuel when she lays her head down to sleep. Visions dance behind her closed lids of the worst possible scenarios.

Will was just an everyday soldier, but Killian – he’d barely been a man when he followed his brother into the Royal Navy at the end of the Seven Years War in the colonies. After his brother’s death due to their King’s nefarious orders, he swore off his homeland and pledged his allegiance to the colonies. She watched as he moved up in rank and provided crucial details and secrets of the British.

If what Will saw is what the British did with a regular soldier, what would they do with a traitor of great importance?

Emma's hope for the future outcome of their struggle against the British and for Killian's safe return to her had flickered like a candle struggling in the wind at the picture Will painted. For several frightening moments when he first told them of his experience, she had feared it extinguishing altogether. Her ability to believe had already been fragile; the odds were against them, after all. But as she cleaned and bandaged her friend's wounds, and allowed him to clutch her trembling hand in his, his bloodied knuckles made the bile rise in her throat once more at the idea that Killian could be bleeding out somewhere and she would never know. She had held on just as tightly, trying to impart to him what she needed for herself. She simply couldn't give up. Killian was a survivor; he would never stop fighting, and neither would she.

Emma attempts to swallow around the lump in her throat as she surveys the camp. The area’s fortification means a quick escape is too risky and more planning will be needed if Killian is here.

If he’s still alive , a dark corner of her mind taunts.

At the start of her search for him, Emma would have fought back tears. The topic proved too sensitive to truly dive into, and she felt the walls Killian worked hard to break down shoot right back up. Now she bats the whispers away without thought.

He is alive. She just knows. And she will find him.

Sitwell brings their brief and stilted tour to an end outside of the hospital tent. He pauses and debates with himself before eying her up and down. With a sigh, he turns away from the hospital tent and points to the other side of camp where a small tent is pitched. The material of it is weathered, with mismatched linens patched over holes. The tent sags and barely looks able to stand up, let alone handle the weight of the cloth.

“Understand this, Miss Swan,” he starts, eyes darting between her and the tent. “No matter what you hear – crying, groaning, screaming – whatever you hear, do not enter that tent. Is that understood?”

Her eyebrows pinch together in confusion and her heart skips a beat. In all of her stays at different British camps, she’s never received such an instruction.

Could it…

She briefly forgets the persona she’s created of Nurse Anna Swan and lets Emma Nolan take over for a moment. “What’s – ”

Sitwell doesn’t let her say anything more.

“Do not enter that tent,” he snarls. “Refrain from disobeying my orders, Miss Swan. Otherwise you may join the traitor on the execution block tomorrow.”

The officer spins on his heel and strides away, agitation dripping from him with every stomp of his boot. Yet she pays him no mind as she gazes at the collapsing tent across the way.

Traitor , her mind replays.

Killian , her heart hopes.

Gulping down a large breath, Emma eyes the soldiers of the camp for a moment to ensure no one caught her stare, before she dashes into the surgical tent. Her mind races and her fingers are sloppy, fumbling one too many bandages.

She found him.

*********

Emma is busy all day nursing the sick and wounded, but keeps an ear out for any mention of the traitor being held for execution. She’s torn between praying it isn’t and hoping it truly is Killian. 

As the sun sets and the day transitions into early evening, she becomes more on edge, anxious to see inside the prisoner’s tent. When she is finally finished for the day, she collapses onto a wooden bench outside the hospital tent. 

One of her fellow nurses - Belle, if Emma’s memory serves her correctly - pauses in front of her, gesturing toward a small building nearby. “They’ve a meal prepared for us inside, Anna,” she says. 

Emma hesitates. Should she take the time to eat when Killian could be in that wretched tent, tied up and living out his final hours? Grudgingly, she knows she has to keep up her strength in order to help her beloved escape. 

Rising from the bench and forcing a smile onto her face, she thanks Belle and falls into step with her. They enter the rustic building and find seats at a large, wooden table, where bowls of thin vegetable stew, a few strips of salted meat, and chunks of dark bread are set in front of them. The food’s aroma reminds Emma’s stomach that it hasn’t been filled since breakfast that morning, right after she entered the camp and signed on as a nurse. 

Knowing they will need food for the journey back home, she surreptitiously slips the jerky and half of the bread into the secret deep pockets of her skirt, cleverly designed by Mary Margaret, where they join the boiled eggs she saved from breakfast.

She is just dipping her last bit of bread into the broth at the bottom of her bowl, when the gruff voice coming from a junior officer makes her ears perk up. 

“Well, someone has to take him his tray, and it shan’t be me. I can barely tolerate the thought of a traitor in our midst, let alone feed the bastard!” 

Hurriedly stuffing the bite of bread into her mouth, Emma rises from her seat and approaches the man, her brain scrambling to formulate what to say. “Excuse me, sir,” she says, stepping into the man’s line of sight. “Is there someone who needs tending?”

The officer turns to her, appraising her with his eyes. “Who are you?” he snaps. 

“Anna Swan, sir. I’ve been working as a nurse.” She doesn’t add that she’s been there for less than a day. 

“Are you finished with your work for the day, Miss Swan?” 

“Yes, sir. I was just having my evening meal when I happened to overhear you say that someone needed a tray of food delivered to him.” She hopes he won’t detect the nervous quaver in her voice. “I would be willing to do that, sir.” 

“The man of whom I was speaking is a prisoner - a traitor and a threat to our beloved king and country,” he spits. “Why would you want to aid someone of such ill repute? Someone who is scheduled to be executed on the ‘morrow, I might add, as soon as our commanding officer arrives.”

Emma chooses her words carefully. “I am a nurse, sir, and as such, I have sworn to give aid to anyone in need, regardless of their allegiance.”

Time seems to pass at a snail’s pace as he considers her offer. She knows she is probably out of line for offering and could be facing punishment herself, but she simply cannot forgo the possibility of seeing Killian.

At last the soldier snaps his fingers and shouts over his shoulder, “Bring the food for the prisoner!” 

Emma prays her trembling legs continue to hold her upright. Once the tray, containing nothing but a small piece of bread, cup of watery broth, and a strip of jerky, is placed in her hands, the junior officer escorts her out the door. They trudge through the camp without speaking, until they come within sight of the ragged tent, guarded by two soldiers. 

“The prisoner is in there. Tell the guards Sergeant Gold gave you permission to enter the tent. The traitor is restrained and will pose no physical threat to you.” 

“Excuse me, sir, but if he is tied down, how is he able to feed himself?” 

“I was only instructed to supply him with food. Whether or not he is able to eat it is none of my concern.” After barking out those words, the officer turns on his heel and stomps away. 

Emma squares her shoulders and takes a deep breath, before trekking across the clearing to the tent. The guards drop the butts of their sidearms to the ground, crossing them in front of the opening to the tent as they shout in unison, “Halt!” 

“S-Sergeant Gold sent me to d-deliver this food to the prisoner,” Emma stutters. 

The two men eye each other, then one gives a slight nod and they return their muskets to their shoulders. “You may enter,” she is told. 

Emma ducks her head and pushes through the canvas opening. Once inside, she drops to her knees, her eyes trying to adjust to the dark interior. When they do, she wishes they hadn’t, because what she sees turns her stomach and breaks her heart. 

The man is sitting on the ground against the support pole in the middle of the tent, his legs extended in front of him with thick rope knotted around his bare ankles. His arms are behind him, and she assumes they are tied as well. He is stripped except for his tattered breeches and she can see bloody stripes across his emaciated body. His head hangs down, dark, matted hair obscuring his face, but Emma knows this man is her beloved Killian. 

Quickly, she sets the tray of food off to the side and crawls to kneel beside him. She notices crusts of bread littering the circumference around him and rage burns through her as she realizes that, even though food has been delivered to him, he has been unable to eat much, if any, of it. 

She nearly gags as the stench coming from his unwashed body fills her nostrils. Apparently, he hasn’t been taken outside to relieve himself and reeks of the smell of urine. “Oh, Killian!” she gasps. “What have they done to you?” 

His head jerks up. “Emma?” he croaks weakly. “Is…is that you, Love?” 

Her fingers brush his hair away from his face, a sob catching in her throat. His left eye is swollen completely shut, his lip is split open, and dried blood obscures most of his handsome face. 

“Yes, my love, it’s me,” she whispers. “I’ve come to get you out of here.” 

“You…shouldn’t…be here. I…I told you…not to come after me.” 

“I never listen,” she tries to joke. 

“You’re…impossible,” he sighs. 

“And you love me for it.” 

A hint of a smile quirks one corner of his mouth. “Aye, that I do.” 

“How long has it been since you have eaten?” she asks, turning to slide the tray containing the paltry meal closer. 

He grimaces. “I…I don’t know.” 

Emma holds the cup of broth to his cracked lips, tipping it until it dribbles into his mouth. His eyes close as he swallows, a moan escaping him as if he was enjoying a fine steak dinner. She pulls the cup away when half of the liquid is gone, tears pooling in her eyes as she watches him chase after it. 

Setting it aside, she picks up the chunk of bread and tears off a small piece. As she feeds it to him, she whispers, “We have to figure out how to get you out of here.” 

He finishes chewing and swallows. “Don’t risk your life for me, Love.” 

“Without you, I don’t have a life, Killian.” 

She offers him another bit of bread, but he shakes his head. “I wish…I could hold you right now.” 

Moving carefully so she won’t cause him any more unnecessary pain, she wraps her arms around his neck, scratching her fingers through his long, unkempt hair. His body shakes with a sob. “I…I’ve dreamed of having you in my arms, Emma. I have been starved for your touch.”  

She is loath to release him, just as desperate to feel his body against hers, so she murmurs into his ear, “I feared you were dead, and am relieved I have found you, but I heard them say that they…they plan to e-execute you tomorrow.” 

“Aye, so I have been told,” he confirms with a sigh. “I am surprised they have not done it already.” 

“They are waiting for the commanding officer to arrive so he can give the order. I am hoping the rain last night will delay him, but we cannot count on that. We have to get you out tonight.” 

Her heart aches as he lays his head on her shoulder, mumbling, “I do not think there is any hope of that happening, Love.” 

“If Mary Margaret has taught me anything, it is that there is always hope,” she says firmly. 

They are both startled and jerk apart when one of the guards shouts, “How long does it take to deliver a tray of food, Miss?” 

“I have to go,” Emma whispers, reluctantly pulling away from Killian, “but I will be back. Do not doubt that. I love you, Killian.” 

“I love you, too, Emma. Please be careful.” 

She nods absently while her eyes sweep around the perimeter of the tent, cataloging  weaknesses in the canvas. Before leaving, she feeds him the rest of the bread and broth, pockets the jerky, then kisses him tenderly, careful of his split lip. 

Just before exiting through the flap, she turns and gives him what she intends to be a hopeful smile. She is encouraged when he attempts to return it.  

The brisk night air of the impending autumn season greets Emma as she exits the tent. Bumps rise on her skin and a shudder runs down her spine during her short walk to the nurses’ tent. Lifting the flap, she finds their sleeping quarters still empty, Belle’s voice wafting through the air from the direction of the campfire. She’s only met the other nurses at their camp in passing at the change of their shifts, but worry creeps up her spine that one of them might walk in.

Her small bag sits on the ground at the foot of her bed, the gray and brown staining a far cry from its original white. A quiet thump fills the tent when she tosses it onto her bed linens, a soft clanging heard just a moment later.

If Killian was with her, he’d chide her for the careless way she shoves her hands between her clothes and blindly feels for her few weapons. There are three knives haphazardly sandwiched between layers of skirts, but pulling them only dampens her spirits. Her fingers grip their leather bound handles and her arm saws furiously at her blanket to no avail. If the blades can’t even rip the thin linen, they’ll be useless for Killian’s ropes.

Her heart starts racing as she fights to keep panic from clawing at her.

Emma paces the short length of the tent, hands on her hips as her mind offers solutions.

The knots are too tight and complicated for her to unravel, and Killian is in no shape to walk her through it. Which brings her back to cutting him free. The thought of stealing something from one of the many British soldiers around camp crosses her mind. She could sneak into one of their tents once they’ve fallen asleep, but she runs the risk of discovery. There’s no helping Killian if she’s delivered the same fate as him.

Belle’s laughter rings loudly in the slowly quieting camp, and Emma’s eyes widen in realization.

Her steps across the camp are soft and she keeps to the shadows of firelight. She moves slowly, eyes constantly roaming the area, her guard on high alert. The lanterns burn low in the tent where she spent most of the day, creating a glowing beacon on the edge of camp. The tent flaps gently move in the breeze, and Emma hears the voices of Zelena and Fiona, as they gather bandages to wash at the basin near the campfire.

The chill of the night starts to prickle at her skin, and her breath becomes visible in small wisps of white clouds before her eyes. She waits, shivering, for their footsteps to move away before she enters the back of the tent.

John Darling, a soldier not yet twenty, groans quietly six cots away from where she ducks in. His eyes remain closed as he calls for someone who is not there, and his blood is visible through the mountain of bandages she applied before the end of her shift. Her heart lurches as he continues to call for people she’s never met and with whom she doubts he’ll be reunited.

Emma swallows back the image that comes to mind of Killian sitting alone in his tent doing the exact same, as he receives food scraps he can’t eat and unable to move to relieve himself. Instead, she tiptoes over to the table that holds the equipment they’ve been using throughout the day. The amputation saw sits on the edge, blood staining the blade. She used one once, back in August after the British faced intense losses. The man said his name was Arthur; he had dark hair and blue eyes that made her heart yearn for Killian. She refused to look at him as she amputated his mangled left hand, but that didn’t stop the nightmares from replacing his face with Killian’s.

Her fingers move deftly past that to the scalpel. Blood stains that blade as well, but it is smaller and more easily concealed. It’ll be sharp enough to cut the ropes and easy to maneuver around his wrists without risk of injury.

Zelena and Fiona’s voices drift into the tent, and Emma glances up in alarm. In a quick move, she snatches the scalpel and rushes out before she can be detected.

Once outside the tent, a thought strikes her, and she seeks out the area where she knows discarded clothing of the deceased have been tossed. There are several jackets and shirts, but breeches are more difficult to come by. She digs through the putrid pile until she is lucky enough to procure two pair, bloodied and full of holes, but still usable. She tugs one pair on under her skirt, then stuffs the other pair, along with two shirts, into her blouse, and buttons it back up. Knowing they may face raw weather, she also picks out two uniform coats, rolling them up and clutching them tightly to her chest.

Moving as stealthily as she can with the extra bulk, she begins picking her way across the camp. Frustration sits heavy in her belly because she wants to hurry straight to where her love is suffering, but she can’t take the risk of being caught. 

Along the way, she catches snippets of soldiers’ conversations and can’t help comparing them to those of the soldiers in the camps of her fellow countrymen. They may be on opposite sides of this conflict, but the same topics occupy their minds - deep longing for their families, hot, home cooked meals and their homes. They’re not very different, after all; yet, they’re killing each other by the hundreds, in battle after battle. 

At last, she comes within sight of the shabby tent, still being guarded by two soldiers. Quickly stepping behind a large tree, she surveys the immediate area and decides on a route which appears to be safe. 

She is just about to step out when she hears a shout coming from behind her. 

“Halt! Thief!” 

Her blood freezes in her veins as her breath stutters in her lungs. Cautiously turning her head, she sees Colonel Sitwell striding across the clearing, approaching a young soldier who looks to be no older than a teenager. He is cowering in front of the officer, his hands clasped behind his back, holding what appears to be a loaf of bread. 

As Sitwell begins questioning the boy about where he is going and what he is doing, Emma turns her eyes to the guards in front of the tent and realizes their attention is drawn to the confrontation, giving her a golden opportunity. 

Crouching down to make herself as small as possible, she scurries to the back of the tent. A thin sliver of moonlight is all that illuminates the heavy canvas and she gives herself a few precious seconds to allow her eyes to adjust. Once she is able to make out a seam, she pulls out the scalpel and, starting a foot above the ground, slices through the thick threads. 

As soon as the seam separates, she drops to the ground, removes the pilfered clothes and pushes them through the opening, then she shimmies herself through. She gets up to her hands and knees, her eyes immediately trained upon the man still sitting in the same position in which she left him.

The dew has already settled on the grass in the darkening night, and Emma shivers as she stands just inside the tent - the leather boots she’s worn all this time are thin enough with gaps in the soles that some of the moisture has soaked through - making her teeth chatter along with the trembles of fear. The heat of the day has long since fled, and Emma feels the clammy chill down to her bones - aching for nothing so much as someplace safe and warm for herself and Killian. That desire drives her forward, despite the uncertainty that plagues her and the fear that she will fail him. She has to grit her teeth at the sight of Killian just feet from her, in a shelter full of rips and holes allowing wind and rain to blow right through, while his clothes are torn and threadbare - not even dry. They have barely deigned to feed him, and so of course he has not been granted any sort of blanket for the cold, autumn nights. She feels as though she is freezing; she cannot fathom the torment he has been going through. It’s a wonder he has not already succumbed to the elements and his countrymen’s gross mistreatment. She means to be certain he does not suffer even more with torture at their cruel hands.

She hates each hesitation as she sneaks across the dirt and grass at her feet; anxious to bolt and flee the danger like a startled rabbit. It is only Killian, so close again at last, who manages to stay her and keep her tiptoeing forward, making sure the way remains clear. All must still be distracted by Sitwell’s angry interrogation and the hapless young soldier he had accosted, to be checking in on their weak and battered prisoner, for she hears no further calls of alarm, no pounding feet bearing down, and she breathes out in relief.

Her eyes begin to water almost immediately - the stench unbearable in such close quarters - and her emotions nearly overcome her at Killian’s being forced to remain in his own filth; a man proud and fastidious of his manner and appearance, determined to present himself in his best light whenever possible. The wounds she had seen on him previously must be festering and growing infected. She cringes against the pain and shame she knows he must feel, in spite of it being no fault of his own.

Finally at his side, Emma drops to her knees and reaches out to clutch his shoulder, shaking gently and hissing urgent whispers of his name.  When he fails to respond immediately, it strikes her all over again just how serious his condition is, and she wastes not another second before beginning to saw at his bonds with her stolen blade. To her dismay, Killian’s dark head lolls lifelessly, chin against his chest, until in her haste, she accidentally nicks the tender skin at his wrist.

With a startled grunt, he jerks an inch or so away weakly, and finally turns to face her, his unswollen eye fluttering uncertainly before managing to focus blearily and murmuring “Emma?” in question, as if he does not quite trust his own vision. “Why are you back here, Lass? If they catch you…” he sucks in a quick breath, whether from the effort it takes him to speak, or from jarring some injury she cannot see, Emma’s isn’t sure, but she aches for him all the same. He struggles on breathlessly, “You have to leave me here and get out. I am not worth – ”

“Hush!” she scolds sharply, giving the single word as much volume and strength as she dares. Her eyes spear his, staring him down with a look that allows no argument. She has managed to break through the ropes holding his arms behind him and around the central tentpost, and Killian nearly slumps over on his side at the sudden release of tension, but she steadies him, then cups his scruffy, nearly-bearded chin in her hand, willing him to accept her words as fact. “You are worth it. I won’t hear another word,” she whispers.

For a moment, unbidden and breaking across his face like the sun from behind the clouds of a storm, a smile upturns his cracked lips, and he chuckles just barely in spite of his condition, then merely sighs, acquiescing to her words largely out of sheer fatigue, but indeed loving her for them.

Releasing his chin, Emma gives a curt little bob of her head and reaches to the pile of shabby, but at least dry, clothing she had managed to scavenge. She had dropped it hastily to the side in her hurry to reach him and make sure he was still alive. Holding out a shirt, she gives Killian a hopeful look, tremulous smile aiming to inject inspiration into both of them for this perilous escape they are about to attempt.

She watches him try to work the feeling back into his hands and arms after their being bound behind him for so long. His limbs move awkwardly, even as he reaches forward to take the shirt she offers.

Killian’s eyes roam her face with entirely too much awe for her comfort, drinking her in hungrily and as though she has done something noteworthy rather than merely rooting through a pile of discarded uniforms and cutting through tent canvas to crawl back to his side. He simply nods to her in agreement.

His silence unnerves Emma; she is used to a lilting flow of eloquent words from Killian - so much so that she has often wondered if he talks for his own entertainment as much as he does to charm her. Whatever the case, his gently cultured, warm, and soothing voice had been one of the things she missed most desperately about him while they were parted, and she cannot help but worry now, as the quiet persists, just how little strength her beloved has left.

When he fumbles to get his hands into the sleeves, a strangled sound and arrested movement at his effort to raise his arms and slip the shirt on over his head attests to just how much pain he is in. Emma soothes him regretfully, reaching out to ease his arms down to his sides and guide his limbs gingerly into the garment, swiftly securing the fastenings as well.

“I’m so sorry, Killian,” she whispers, hating that it had taken so long to find him, that he had ever been hurt at all, and that she has to press him now when he cannot move without causing further anguish. But he is already shaking his head at her, forgiving what she cannot help without a moment’s hesitation. 

He is panting once he finally gets the shirt on, and the sheen of sweat glistening on his face concerns Emma more than she wants to admit. How is he ever going to flee as quickly as they need to, over rough terrain, if just this has taxed him so badly? And, even if they get away, how how sick is he and how badly is he hurt? Will they be able to help him recover? 

Emma bites her lip against another swell of emotion at just how large the shirt appears on Killian’s emaciated frame. His collarbone protrudes sharply where the neck of the shirt hangs low, to a degree that Emma knows it would not have done when last she saw him.

Hesitantly she tries to help him stand, not wanting to insult or demean him - a man of lesser strength might not have clung to life as long as he has - but she genuinely fears he may not be able to support his own weight, and she isn’t sure what she will do otherwise.

Killian grunts, clenching his teeth and lurching forward to plant his hands on the hard-packed dirt and push himself upwards, then leaning against the tent post, he does indeed manage to leverage himself to his own two feet. It isn’t without obvious discomfort and struggle, and he lists worryingly to one side, though Emma isn’t certain if he is favoring broken ribs or trying to appease the stretching of the whip weals on his back.

She has already seen more of his body bared to her eyes than ever before - more than is entirely proper. It is far from the interlude she would never admit to having envisioned when they would finally explore each other’s bodies one day. All the same, she will not let that keep her from any small modicum of comfort she can offer him, not after all he has already withstood. Blushing hotly, but ready to press on, Emma is about to hold out the stolen pants in offering, when with a low moan, Killian crumples back to his knees weakly, barely catching himself by leaning once more against the post which had held him captive.

Heedlessly, Emma tosses the breeches away in alarm. They will have to worry about comfort and his taking further chill later. He cannot stand much more of this, and she has to get him out. His eyes rise to hers looking so pained and ashamed that Emma wants nothing more than to wrap his trembling frame in her arms, hold him close to her, and comfort and soothe him until he is well again. That he would feel embarrassment in front of her for something he cannot help, weakness forced on him through malnourishment and abuse, breaks her heart anew. She can hardly stand to push him further, but there is nothing for it.

She only shakes her head when he attempts to speak. “We’ll manage,” she asserts with a false bravado. There is no other option. She won’t even allow herself to consider it.

He nods again, some of the resolute steel she knows and loves at last returning to his gaze. She places her hands under his arms, and with them both heaving and straining, Killian gains his feet once more. This time Emma doesn’t let go, keeping one arm around his waist as he uses her as a crutch, sliding her shoulder under his arm so he can brace against her. 

Quickly grabbing the pack she has carried with her from camp to camp, she leads forward, and together they take the first few shuffling steps toward the hole she has made in the back of the tent. She can tell he is lightheaded, hurting, struggling even to breathe properly, but now that Killian is up, his survival instinct - or at least his concern for her survival - has him painstakingly putting one foot in front of the other.

It is only as they near her makeshift exit that Emma realizes in horror that the distracting commotion which had been going on outside has calmed, and that she is still dressed exactly as anyone else in the camp would have seen her earlier. Quickly she cautions Killian just to lean against her for a moment, seeing his discarded tricorn hat in the corner of the tent, she grabs it, stuffs her brightly identifying hair up under it, then unbuttons the waist of her skirt and flings the long, heavy material away. It is far from a brilliant disguise, but that would only cover her absence for so long, anyway. Once Killian’s escape is discovered, the new nurse who had asked to bring food to him, then disappeared the same day she arrived, is going to be the most likely suspect. Her shaking hands quickly transfer the food she managed to grab from her skirt pockets to her stolen breeches, and she stands to let Killian lean on her again. She doesn’t have time to worry over any other items left behind at the moment; they just need to make haste as soon as possible.

As she adjusts her grip on Killian, Emma realizes once more just how poorly he must feel. Unlike his usual self, he has not a playful comment or even a salacious wink for her, despite the fact that she has seen him shirtless, helped him dress, and shed her skirts in front of him. She sends up a silent prayer that they can make it to the surrounding woods before they are discovered. She knows he cannot run full tilt - he can barely stand - so they must manage some sort of a head start. 

Dipping her head to peer just barely through the roughly torn flap of tent in which she created an exit, Emma sees that although things have grown much calmer since she snuck in - Sitwell must have carted off the poor younger soldier he caught stealing - the other staring eyes throughout the camp have returned to their previous concerns and conversations. Though it still feels much too risky, far too exposed, the time will not get any better for them to escape.

As a last minute thought, Emma changes her mind, throws on one of the jackets, grabs the breeches she’d tossed aside, realizing she’ll eventually have to get Killian into enough clothing that he doesn’t freeze. Then, half-supporting and half-tugging him, Emma ducks her head to slip out of the prisoner’s tent through the hole she made, making sure Killian follows without stumbling or getting caught on the ragged edge.

Killian bites his lip against the agony that each step and merely standing upright clearly causes him in an effort to ease her nerves and steel himself for flight. He nods, visibly marshaling every last bit of strength he possesses to push forward as they step onto the dew-wet grass. Holding her gaze for one brief, but weighted moment, he then bows his head to watch each wobbly step he struggles to take. Gritting his teeth, the wounds that burn and pull each time his feet strike the ground try to steal his breath, but he forces himself to move on, matching Emma pace for pace.

She doesn’t dare speak, but she urges him along in her head, silently cheering with each foot they progress across the trampled field and closer to the treeline, nearer to the relative cover and safety of the woods nearby. Heart pounding in her ears, frantic and alert for the first sign they have been found out, Emma forces herself to lead without looking back, to focus on the shadows and brush of the forest as they draw blessedly nearer. Twenty-five feet…fifteen feet…ten…just a few more feet…

They have only just gained the edge of the woods when a shout of alarm goes up. Bellows of “The prisoner has escaped!” and “Search the area!” ring out, along with the sound of feet pounding and general mayhem as the camp mobilizes from the drowsy comradery of evening by the fire to the dogged pursuit of a fugitive. Emma’s breath catches in her chest with fear, and she risks one frantic look thrown over her shoulder as they dodge beneath low-hanging branches and plunge into the darker foliage that surrounds them just in time. 

She sees torches - far too many to evade it seems, as panic momentarily takes hold - fanning out from the camp in all directions; some moving closer to them than she can bear already.

This time it is Killian who brings her back to the present, to the immediate steps before them. “You can do this, Emma. Bloody brilliant you are,” he pants. “Lead on, we’ve almost made it.”

Grateful for his steadying belief, though she knows he is half-delirious with pain and fever and is no more certain of their escape than she is, it is the jolt Emma needs to shake her panic and bring her back to her task. Turning once more, she steps forward again, only to snag her foot on an uprooted twig, making her stumble forward off-balance, bringing Killian with her.

The ground seemingly dissolves beneath their feet, falling away to nothingness and sending them plunging downward into the dark. It happens so suddenly that Emma has rolled and pitched against the hard, sloped ground several times before she can cry out, thankfully. A wounded grunt is all she hears from Killian before hitting the bottom of an incline hard enough to knock the air from both of their lungs as she lands on top of him with a sickening thud. 

Scrambling off of his body, Emma tries to squint in the dark to find his face in front of her, stomach turning at the thought of having hurt him further. “Killian?” she whispers, not daring to speak any louder. He doesn’t respond, but before she can try anything else, she hears yelling and footsteps drawing nearer, crunching through twigs and fallen leaves. Wrestling a dirt-stained, ragged gray blanket from the pack that is miraculously still on her shoulder, Emma flings it desperately over them both, hoping it will blend into the night and the overgrown vegetation at the bottom of this steep dropoff. There is nothing else to do, with their enemies nearly atop them. She holds herself motionless, her hand over Killian’s chest, feeling for the barest rise and fall, praying the Redcoats will pass by and fail to see them.

Each agonizing second seems to stretch on for an hour as she waits, but slowly, painstakingly, the tramp of threatening forces move on, circle back, and judging by the calls she overhears, return to the main camp to regroup. They will be back on her and Killian’s trail by first light, but it is a miraculous reprieve in that moment, and she lurches upright to see if he has regained awareness to carry on.

“Killian?” she pleads once more, clutching at his shirt and gently trying to shake him awake. “Killian, please! You have to answer me!”

At last his eyes flutter open, though focus in them is far from clear. “Emma…?” he mumbles blearily, the words hazy in a loose-lipped mush. “What happened?”

“I tripped on a root of some sort, and we tumbled down a ravine. I- I’m sorry, I didn't see it until it was too late.”

He reaches out unsteadily and cups her cheek as if to brush her apology and fear away, despite the ever-weakening tremble of his limbs.

She presses on doggedly. “The blanket has hidden us from your jailers for the moment,” she adds, “but we better get as far as we can before daybreak. They will be after us again, no doubt.”

Doubt and an embarrassed uncertainty flicker in Killian’s eyes, but he does not speak, only pushes himself into a sitting position through sheer force of will. “You may have to help me up,” he finally relents, no longer meeting her eyes, but Emma is so relieved and glad that he is awake and willing to try, that she somehow musters the strength and adrenaline to help him lever himself back to his feet.

Rather than attempting to scale the hill they had tumbled down, they follow a small trickle of water running along at their feet, which becomes a stream after a mile or so. Pausing briefly to see that Killian gets a drink and has a crust of bread she stuffed into her pocket, Emma wrestles the ruined pants Killian wore off his legs, hurrying to dip a less dirty part of them into the stream and wash his skin the best she can, knowing that despite the cold, it must be done since he’d been forced to wear them so long. She doesn’t dare look him in the face as her fingers skim his bare skin, and she still looks off to the side determinedly as she helps him wrestle the change of breeches she had stolen over his jutting hipbones, urges him back to his feet and fastens the breeches securely. She shoves the other pair in her bag for the moment, to avoid leaving evidence behind. They just need to focus on getting out of here. Anything else they could work through, once they were safe.

By the time the first pale rays of sunrise start to color the sky, Emma hopes they have covered enough distance to avoid detection. They are heading for David and Mary Margaret’s quiet, out-of-the-way farm, but they will not make it today, not before Brits catch up to them.

Luckily they find a small cave, and Emma presses them as far into the dank, winding depth of it as they can possibly get. Sitting at last, she urges Killian to rest, his head in her lap, her hands smoothing through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. Watching over him, fretful and sleepless, she tries to gauge how long it has been and listens for any sign of discovery. When she finally sneaks out, she discovers they have made it until dark again and they can press on. 

She counts each ragged breath that rattles through Killian’s shockingly light frame, and thanks the Lord above he hasn’t been taken from her yet. They are still together, and will fight on.

*****

They have been traveling for two days when Emma again hears the low babbling of a brook. Killian struggles during their journey, relying heavily on her to help him move. His weakened state only worsens with the small amount of food she can scavenge and no canteen to provide him hydration. Blood seeps through his pilfered clothes to stain her own when she supports his weight on their walk. She thanks the heavens he’s only awake during the night hours so he doesn’t see it, all the while cursing herself for not being able to do more for him.

But the sound of fresh water is enough to give her a sprinkling of hope.

Emma practically drags Killian in the direction of the noise, eyes frantically scanning the tree line for an enemy to surprise them. If worse came to worst, she’d drop Killian to the ground and batten her defenses, grabbing the blunt blade from her boot. She’d fight the entire British army if she had to, just to help him.

Thankfully the only other inhabitants of the woods are the animals that scurry across their feet.

Killian’s eyes blink rapidly as he fights to stay awake. She knows that they’ll have to stop for a full night tomorrow or the next day. He needs to regain his strength, and, aside from a few hours rest the night before, Emma hasn’t slept a full night since before arriving at camp. Adrenaline has kept her going thus far, but even she knows it’s not sustainable.

“We’re almost there,” she whispers to him, Killian’s head lolling against hers as he grunts a reply.

Twigs scratch at their ankles, and the cool night air wraps around their shoulders in a deep embrace. Moonlight offers their only source of light, and Emma desperately clings to the moon beams that shine down between the treetops.

Relief floods her body as they break through a particularly profuse thicket and the creek flows just a few paces from their spot. Rocks litter either side of the stream, one large enough to lean Killian against. She drops to her knees once he is situated. Dew seeps into her clothes, a wet patch gathering quickly where she kneels. The cool sensation is nothing compared to the water.

Emma dunks her hands into the water in a quick fashion, hissing when the brisk liquid stings her fingers. She quickly pulls her hands back and looks to Killian. “You need to drink,” she murmurs, not expecting an answer that he has no strength to give. Taking a deep breath, she sinks her hands into the water, up to her wrists and cups them together, gathering water that she hastily carries over to him, tipping her hands onto his lips. Water slips between her fingers as she tries to give him some, droplets slide down the sides of his face. He gasps as he gulps down the meager offering.

She repeats the process until she suspects his stomach is getting upset. Her fingers tear the hem of her borrowed clothes and rip a few bands of cloth. The moon highlights the blood cresting on his skin from the open wounds along his body, the dirt collecting on his person.

“I need to clean you,” she whispers as her hand cradles his cheek. Killian opens his eyes to meet hers, and she sees the corner of his mouth lifting under his unruly facial hair.

“You’ve done enough, love,” he says just as quietly. “Give me a moment and I can wash myself.”

“The water’s cold,” she argues.

“Suppose I’ll need a distraction then.”

Hydrated and more awake than he’d been when they arrived at the creek, Emma helps Killian shed his shirt and aids him in kneeling at the creek’s waterbed.

Killian stares at the water, and Emma notices a faraway look taking over his face. The look is one she’s become familiar with working on other soldiers. Memories – nightmares really – that haunt even their waking hours. Her hand reaches over to cover his shaking fist crushing a band of cloth. She swallows as he suddenly swivels his head to her, blinking a few times before he offers her a wobbly smile.

“Do you remember when you caught fish?” she asks. Her tone is light and her smile is encouraging. The undercurrent of teasing that usually accompanies the story is barely tangible.

Killian breathes out a small laugh. “You would never let me forget.”

A nod is shared between them and her voice offers a distraction as he dips the cloth, hissing as it touches his raw skin.

The sun was barely rising over the horizon, when a specialized knock echoed throughout the quiet Nolan house. David and Mary Margaret were undoubtedly already awake with the livestock kept on the property, but Emma had hoped for a few more hours of rest. Her feet ached and her fingers felt numb, her first week spent treating wounded Colonists draining every ounce of her energy. She won’t be shipped out to a British camp for another few months; her secret coding needed to be finely tuned and her stitchwork would give her away as an inadequate nurse.

She winced as her fingers worked to knot the belt of her robe. Sleep still scratched at the edges of her consciousness, but her racing heart beat it back vigorously.

Emma opened the door in a rush, breath caught in her throat from anticipation. She sighed heartily when she realized it was merely Killian standing on the porch. A woven basket hung off of one arm, and he clutched a bouquet of wildflowers in the opposite hand.

“Morning, lass,” he greeted with a wide grin.

She squinted as the early sun rays overwhelmed her sight. “To what do I owe this honor?” The door squeaked momentarily as she leaned against it, her heart racing for an entirely new reason. A smile threatened to emerge as she struggled to keep a disinterested face in the presence of such a magnificent man.

The sun shone on him like he was a gift from above, just for her. Golden rays of light gleamed on his dark hair to create a halo and his grin was certified to make any lady swoon. His eyes crinkled in delight as he gazed down at her, and she swallowed hard as she awaited his answer.

“I remember you mentioning over the summer how much you missed cod,” he said as he maneuvered his way inside the house. The basket is placed gently on the kitchen table while the flowers remain in his tight grasp.

“I don’t think that’s enough of a remarkable statement to explain your appearance this morning. Nearly everyone in town misses the cod.”

Killian grinned, something quick and hidden as he ducked his head out of her sight. Her statement was true, no matter the humor he found in it. The increasing warships offshore had chased the fish further out into the ocean. The wider landscape made it difficult to catch a quantifiable amount of cod to justify the trip, not counting the dangers that came with being in the same waters as opposing military forces.

“Well,” he started, “it does offer an explanation for my appearance.”

“Oh?”

Wildflowers were suddenly thrust in her direction, and she blinked for a few moments before it finally registered. Killian’s arm was extended to her and nerves crept up his tense shoulders. “Firstly, these are for you.” His tongue poked out of his mouth to wet his lips, her attention dramatically pulled from the flowers by the movement. The sight was always a distraction when they practiced her accent, but now it felt like it had intent. An intent to tease her, to bring her to a different focus.

Belatedly, she took the bouquet from Killian. “Thank you,” she said softly, taking a moment to smell the flowers. No one had ever brought her flowers before. Most girls she grew up with were married off with children of their own by now, but she found herself too different from them to warrant the attention of a gentleman in town. Until Killian.

“And this is for you as well.” Killian proudly walked over to the basket and pulled back the linen covering its contents. “Freshly caught cod.”

Emma stepped closer and peered into the basket. A gasp left her mouth before she covered it to prevent her laughter from becoming noticeable.

“What?” he asked.

“You have never been fishing here before, have you?”

“No… Why?”

She failed to keep the laughter from her voice as she spoke. “These fish aren’t cod.”

A slew of expletives was voiced under his breath as he moved to her side. His hand reached for the basket to examine the fish closer. “Are you positive?”

She huffed. “I may not be a fisherman, but I do know my food.” Her eyes examined the fish, wrapped and salted to preserve it for the days long trip back, as a smile threatened to appear on her lips. “These are summer flounder, which are still edible and mild tasting. I appreciate your efforts.”

The amusement left her body as she watched Killian’s face fall and his demeanor depress. His hand toyed with the edge of the basket as his jaw ticked from how tightly he clenched it. She called his name only to receive a shake of his head in return. He dropped his weight onto one of the kitchen chairs and sagged into the seat.

“I wanted it to be perfect,” he murmured to himself. Emma followed his lead and sat beside him. The urge to reach out and grab his hand between her own brewed deep in her stomach.

“Wanted what?”

“Apologies, love,” Killian said. He offered his best self-deprecating smile for a brief second before he returned his stare to the table. “I had hoped to present this as my official request to court you, but alas, I’ve made a fool of myself, instead.”

Her throat dried at his words and the butterflies in her stomach fluttered. He wanted to court her? The mere thought left her practically speechless. Killian had wanted to present her with her favorite meal – cod – and picked flowers for her by himself.  He traveled in dangerous waters just to impress her.

She hummed, bringing the flowers to her nose. The fresh aroma made her head spin in the most delightful way, and she sent Killian a shy smile. “It seems to me like you’ve been doing a splendid job, so far.” He grinned back at her for a moment before it fell at the sight of the summer flounder. “You really went out to sea to catch these fish? For me?”

There was no teasing inflection to her words, a heavy weight instead accompanied them. Their eyes met over the table, and she watched Killian’s throat bob as he swallowed hard. He matched her seriousness and kept their eyes connected; his single word answer said a million things to her.

“Aye.”

Emma placed the bouquet gently on the table between them and refused to let her eyes trail away from his. She leaned forward as he watched in anticipation, breath hitched in his throat.

Their lips met, and Emma finally tasted freedom.

*********

“Just…a little further…Killian,” Emma gasps, her arm tightening around his waist. Her eyes are trained on the small house shining in the moonlight in front of them, but they also continue to dart around for any sign of being followed.They’ve been careful to travel only at night, seeking out dense woods where they could hide and rest during the daylight hours. 

It’s taken them nearly a week to reach Mary Margaret and David’s farm, their progress hampered by the constant surveillance of their surroundings for fear of being captured, and by Killian’s injuries. Emma has tried to treat his wounds along the way, cursing herself for not grabbing any medical supplies when she pilfered the scalpel and clothing. He was also weak from lack of food, since the small amount of food she smuggled and berries she was able to find were not doing much to build his strength. 

But now, the end of their arduous journey is finally within sight. Emma tries to quicken their pace, but Killian’s groan of pain reminds her that he’s already going as fast as he can. He hasn’t once complained, but she knows every step has been agony for him. 

“I’m sorry, Killian. Please forgive me for my impatience.” 

“You…you’ve been anything…but impatient, Love,” he rasps. “I should be…apologizing for…causing you all this trouble.” 

“Hush, now,” she admonishes. “You are worth everything to me. I would go to the ends of the earth to find you and bring you home.” 

“It almost feels like…that’s how far we’ve come,” he says with a dry chuckle. 

She laughs in response, her heart lifting a little over his attempt at humor. They continue their laborious trek over the uneven ground until finally, they are standing on the small wooden stoop at the back of the house. 

“I hope someone is awake,” Emma whispers. Raising her hand, she raps on the door three times, pauses a few seconds, knocks twice, then twice more in rapid succession. 

The wait seems interminable until they hear a familiar voice saying, “Identify yourself.” 

Emma almost cries at the sound of her brother’s voice. “Em-” Her voice is suddenly not working, so she clears her throat and tries again. “Emma Nolan.” 

There’s a pause. “What happened when I was twelve that you always thought was your fault?” 

Without hesitation, she replies, “You fell out of a tree and broke your left arm trying to rescue my kitten, Patches.” 

She smiles at Killian as they hear the sound of a key turning. Before she can react any further, the door swings open and she’s pulled into a crushing hug. 

“Where have you been?” David’s voice rumbles under her cheek where it’s pressed against his chest. 

“Let us in and I’ll tell you.” 

“Us?” he questions, pulling away to look behind her. 

“I found him,” she says simply, reaching to take Killian’s hand. Even in the dim light coming from the fireplace in the kitchen, she can see David’s eyes brighten. He steps out of the way so the two travelers can enter. 

After closing the door behind them, he turns around and the happiness in his eyes instantly turns to dismay when he takes in the condition of the other man. Before he can say anything, Mary Margaret’s voice can be heard from their bedroom doorway, asking, “Who was it, David?” 

“See for yourself,” he answers, grabbing a match to light a kerosene lamp on the kitchen table. 

She emerges, tying the belt of a thin, cotton robe. “Emma! We’ve been…” Her eyes move to the figure leaning on her sister-in-law. “Oh, Killian! Look at you!” Pulling out a chair, she helps Emma gingerly lower the injured man into it. 

“I’m alright,” he says, but can’t stop the groan from escaping his lips when he’s fully seated. 

Mary Margaret immediately begins assessing the injuries to his face. “David, please bring the basket of supplies. Emma, get a wash basin of water and a cloth.” 

They both scurry to do as told, coming back to find Mary Margaret has already started working on the shirt fasteners. “Have the two of you had anything to eat?” she asks.

“Just whatever we could scavenge from the woods,” Emma answers, placing the basin on the table and tossing the cloth into the cool water. “I ran out of the food I was able to steal from camp.” 

Mary Margaret finishes with the fastenings and pushes the shirt aside, gasping when she sees how much weight Killian has lost. “I’ll, um, I’ll let you clean him up while I heat some chicken stew.” Emma can see tears shining in her eyes when she turns away. 

After setting the medical supplies on the table, David moves to the fireplace to remove the kettle. He pours some hot water into the basin, replaces the kettle, and returns to help Emma peel the shirt off of Killian. When he sees the wounds from a whip across his back and chest, his mouth tightens into a straight line, his eyes hardening with anger. 

Emma speaks as she squeezes out the cloth and begins tenderly wiping her beloved’s face. “When I found him, they were holding him prisoner, planning to execute him the next day, as soon as their commanding officer arrived.”

She continues relating the conditions in which he was held, as she moves on to begin sponging his neck and chest. Mary Margaret and David share grim looks as they listen, appalled at the way their friend was treated. 

“He was actually much worse than this, but we came across a clear creek and he was able to wash himself off a bit, even though the water was pretty chilly,” Emma says. 

“David,” Mary Margaret says, turning quickly to her husband. “Can you please begin filling the tub with water? I’m sure soaking in a hot bath would feel good, wouldn’t it, Killian?” 

The man looks up at her with bleary eyes. “Aye, it would.” 

“Take the tub into our bedroom, David. We can move into one of the rooms upstairs and Killian can have our room so he won’t have to climb the stairs.”

David sets to work getting the metal tub moved and filled with water, while Mary Margaret dishes up bowls of reheated stew for Emma and Killian. His hands are shaking as he spoons the food into his mouth, slopping some into his unkempt beard. “Sorry,” he apologizes. 

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” Mary Margaret says, as Emma dabs the spill away with the cloth. “Just don’t eat too fast. Your stomach is going to have to get used to having adequate food in it again.” He nods in understanding, giving her another look of gratitude when she sets a plate containing several slices of bread between him and Emma. 

They’re just finishing their meal when David rejoins them in the kitchen, announcing that the bath is ready. He offers to help the other man bathe, and it’s a testament to how weary and weak Killian is that he accepts. 

Once the men leave the room, the women have a whispered conversation. “Do you think there’s any chance they’ll find him here?” asks Mary Margaret. 

“I really don’t think so. We were very careful and diligent about not leaving any evidence behind. You and David taught us well.” 

“How did you find him?”

“I kept moving from camp to camp, working as a nurse. If I didn’t find him in one place, I would move on.”

“You were very fortunate to find him when you did. If you arrived even one day later…” 

“I don’t even want to think about that,” Emma shudders. “I came so close to losing him.”

Mary Margaret reaches over and pats her hand. “But you did not. That is the important thing.” 

“Now we need to help him recover, and I fear it is going to take a long time. He is very weak. There were times when I was afraid he would not have enough strength to make it here.” 

“I suppose you will not want to be far from him tonight,” Mary Margaret observed. At Emma’s confirmation, she added, “We can set up a cot for you just outside the bedroom so you will be able to hear him, should he need you.”

By the time the two of them retrieve the cot from the attic and take it downstairs, David is exiting the bedroom with a concerned look on his face. “A couple of his wounds appear to be infected, but I can’t be sure until we see them in the daylight. I cleaned them the best I could and bandaged them. I know you wanted to tend to him tonight, but he is utterly exhausted, so I already helped him to bed.” 

“That is probably for the best,” Mary Margaret says. “I think we all need to get some sleep. Emma is going to sleep on the cot so she can be there for him if he needs her.” 

“Do you want me to fill the tub with clean water so you can take a bath, too?” David asks Emma. 

“No, I will just take a sponge bath using the water in the basin. I’m so tired, I would probably fall asleep in the tub.” 

Husband and wife empty the water from the tub and carry it out, then set up the cot in the kitchen and cover it with bed linens, while Emma washes up and changes out of the filthy, stolen set of clothes into a soft, flannel nightgown. Releasing her hair from the tight bun, she brushes the snarls and tangles out of her long blonde tresses, then, after bidding her brother and sister-in-law goodnight, goes into the bedroom. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed, she observes her love by the dim light of the kerosene lamp on the nightstand. His face is relaxed in sleep, but she can still see the cuts and bruises marring it. Tenderly, she reaches over and brushes some strands of still damp hair away from his brow. Leaning down, she brushes kisses to his cheeks and lips. “You are safe now, my love,” she whispers. “No one is ever going to take you from me again.” 

After watching him sleep for a few more minutes, she moves out to the cot, climbs between the soft, clean sheets, and falls into the first deep sleep she’s had since she said goodbye to Killian months ago. 

*********

Emma is awakened in the middle of the night when Killian begins groaning loudly and thrashing around in the bed. She throws back the blanket and rushes into the bedroom, distressed when her hand touches his forehead and feels the heat radiating from it. 

Quickly, she goes back into the kitchen and pumps more water into the basin, adding a couple of washcloths to it before carrying it into the bedroom. Nudging the extinguished lantern aside, she makes room for the basin on the nightstand. 

She wrings out the first cloth, folds it, and lays it across Killian’s forehead, then repeats the process to lay one on his chest. He begins mumbling, but she doesn’t think he’s quite awake. Leaning down, she speaks into his ear, “What do you need, my love?” 

He runs his tongue over his dry, cracked lips, murmuring, “Thirsty.” 

Returning to the kitchen, she fills a glass with water and brings it back. She slides her arm behind his back to help raise him up, tears coming to her eyes once again when she feels the sharpness of his shoulder blades through his nightshirt. 

He gulps the water thirstily and thanks her, before she lowers him back to the mattress and kisses his feverish brow. After returning the glass to the kitchen, she refreshes the washcloths with cool water, then sits down on the wooden chair beside the bed, turning to face him. She sleeps fitfully the rest of the night, reapplying the cloths and checking his temperature a few more times.

Once the morning light begins filtering in through the thin curtains, Emma dresses hurriedly and goes into the kitchen to find Mary Margaret already preparing dough to make bread. She looks up at Emma with a smile that fades when she sees the worried look on her face. 

“What’s wrong?” Mary Margaret asks, pulling her hands out of the dough and wiping them on a towel. 

“Killian has had a fever all night. I’m afraid he does have an infection.” 

“Is he awake?” 

“Not yet. I know we need to examine him more thoroughly, but he needs his rest, too. Do you think I should wake him?” 

Mary Margaret ponders for a moment. “Let him sleep a while longer. David has gone out to ride the perimeter of the property. When he gets back, we will find out what he thinks we should do.” 

Emma pinches off a small piece of dough and pops it into her mouth. “Is he making sure we weren’t followed?” 

“He knows you were careful, he just doesn’t want to take any chances,” Mary Margaret explains, beginning to shape the dough into small loaves. 

Upon hearing a sound from the bedroom, Emma turns and hurries in there. She finds Killian sitting on the side of the bed with his feet on the floor, his head hanging down and his hands gripping the edge of the mattress. 

She steps in front of him, cupping his face in her hands and gently lifting it. “Good morning, my love. How are you feeling?” 

He manages a weak smile. “Much better, being here with you, Love,” he says, his voice rough with sleep and fever.

Combing her fingers through his hair, she asks, “Do you want some breakfast?” 

“Aye, that sounds good.” 

Emma discreetly runs the back of her hand over his forehead, troubled to still find it overly warm. “Do you need help getting dressed?” 

“Trying to peek at me naked, are you?” he jokes weakly. 

Despite her concern, she still blushes and can’t help but smile. He has always had a knack for making her laugh, and she’s pleased to see he hasn’t lost his sense of humor. “I’m just trying to be helpful.” 

He turns his face to press a kiss into her palm. “You are helpful, and also very beautiful. My beautiful saviour.” 

Her heart swells at his words and all she can think to say is, “I love you.” 

“And I, you.” 

She dips her head and brushes a kiss to his cheek. Leaning her forehead against his, she sighs. “I cannot believe I actually found you and we made it back home. There were times when I thought I…” The emotion makes her breath catch in her throat. “...I would never see you again.” 

“You can’t get rid of me that easily, Emma. You should know by now that I’m a survivor.” 

“The order of execution did give me pause.” 

“Point taken.” 

She soaks in a little more time of being able to touch him, before declaring, “I’ll go upstairs and get some clothes for you.”

“Thank you, Love.” 

Giving him one more kiss, she exits the room. David is stomping his feet off on the mat inside the kitchen door. “Is everything secure?” she asks. 

“As far as I can tell,” he answers. “How is Killian this morning?” 

“He is carrying a fever, but it does not seem to be as bad as it was in the middle of the night. I’m going to get clothes for him. Could you please go in and check on him?” 

“Of course,” David agrees, already heading toward the bedroom. 

Emma goes to the cedar chest, where Mary Margaret keeps extra clothes for anyone in their spy network who is in need of them. Kneeling down before the chest, she takes the opportunity to send up a prayer of gratitude and also a plea for healing. Killian may be putting on a brave front, but she knows him. He’s weak and in pain; far from the strong, robust man he was months ago, before he went undercover behind enemy lines. 

Gathering the shirt and knickers into her arms, she descends the creaking stairs, finding Mary Margaret removing the bread from the oven. “Is David still in with Killian?” Emma asks. 

“Yes. He came out to get some clean water, whiskey and towels. He said Killian has wounds showing signs of infection and he has heard that pouring alcohol on them helps.” 

Emma grimaces. “That sounds like it would be painful.” 

“Not as painful as amputation, should the infection get worse,” Mary Margaret notes quietly. 

Emma’s face pales as she thinks about the possibility. The wound around his left wrist, caused by the ropes with which he was tied, is especially concerning; the flesh around it red and angry, while the wound itself appears to be festering. 

“David said Killian is relaying information to him about the enemy’s position and strategies. Even being held for execution, he was gathering vital information. That man of yours is a model of bravery, Emma.” 

Now her chest swells with pride, but the moment is interrupted by a hoarse curse coming from the bedroom. “Bloody hell, David! That bloody hurts!” 

The two women share a concerned, and slightly amused, look. “At least he has a little fire in his voice,” Emma comments. 

Her sister-in-law nods in agreement before asking, “Should I prepare a tray of food for him?” 

“I’m sure Killian will insist on joining us out here. He won’t want you making a fuss over him.” 

“He deserves to be fussed over, after all he’s gone through.” 

“I agree, but you know he won’t see it that way.” 

Emma approaches the bedroom door and taps on it lightly. At David’s permission to enter, she pushes it open and peeks in. “I have some clean clothes.”

“Bring them in, I just finished treating his wounds,” David says, tying off a bandage around Killian’s wrist. 

Emma’s eyes scan over her love’s form as he sits slumped on the side of the bed. He looks up and manages to give her a small smile. “Thank you, Love.” 

She deposits the clothes on the bed beside him and catches David’s eye, communicating silently with him to ask about Killian’s condition. The grim set of his mouth and slight shoulder shrug tells her he shares her concern about the other man. 

Emma picks up the shirt, unfolds it, and carefully pulls it over Killian’s head. David helps guide his arms into the sleeves, Emma ties it, and a lump forms in her throat when she sees how loosely it hangs on him. Mere months ago, he would have easily filled it out with his muscular physique. The stolen shirt was also baggy on him, but she tried to reason that the man to whom it belonged must have been much bigger than Killian. Now, there’s no denying that he has indeed lost a substantial amount of weight during his captivity, and her hatred toward the soldiers of his former homeland intensifies. 

She holds out the remaining clothes to David. “Please help him put these on while I go help Mary Margaret get breakfast on the table,” she says, knowing her voice sounds gruff from the raw emotion she’s feeling. 

Turning on her heel, she exits the room. 

*********

The next two days for Killian are a series of ups and downs. He continues to run a fever, sometimes mumbling deliriously because of it. His stomach repels the food he eats ravenously, the vomiting causing his already dangerously weak body to weaken even further. Heedless of the custom dictating unmarried couples not sleep together in the same room, they move the cot into the bedroom so Emma can get to Killian more quickly when he needs her aid. 

There are far too many moments when she wonders if they escaped and made the dangerous trek back home, only for him to die anyway. 

Yet, in the mornings, after a good night’s rest, he’s fairly alert and his endearing personality comes shining through. They’re relieved to see his wounds responding to their careful treatment, the fiery looking skin around them returning to normal as the infection ebbs away. 

On the third morning after their return, Emma is awakened by Mary Margaret rushing into the bedroom, shaking Emma’s shoulder as she whispers urgently, “Get up! David just found signs of someone being on the property, and we need to get the two of you down to the root cellar!” 

“Enemy soldiers?” Emma asks, throwing off the covers, her heart in her throat. 

“He does not know, but he also does not want to take any chances. He and Leroy have gone out again to see if they can find anything else, and he wants me to get the two of you into the cellar.”

Emma pulls her robe on and ties the belt, then slides her stocking feet into her shoes. Mary Margaret is trying to rouse Killian, but it’s proving to be a difficult task. “Gather as many quilts and blankets as you can and go down to the cellar to try to make up a bed for him on the floor,” she instructs Emma, her voice still a whisper but full of tense anxiety.

Emma hurries to do as she’s told, emptying the linen closet under the stairs. It takes two trips down the steep, rickety steps to get everything to the dank root cellar. The pungent smell of earth and unwashed vegetables fills her nose as she tosses the thick quilts on the ground in the corner under the stairs, quickly straightening them the best she can and dragging sacks of grain over to use as pillows, before dashing back upstairs. 

Mary Margaret has managed to get Killian standing and into a pair of breeches. She’s just tugging a heavy, knitted sweater over his head, his arms sliding sluggishly into the sleeves, when Emma re-enters the room. She grabs his boots from under the bed and works to get them on his feet. 

When he’s dressed, the two women half drag him to the opening in the kitchen floor between the fireplace and the stairway, which leads to the cellar. Emma moves down the steps backwards so she can help guide Killian with her hands on his hips, while Mary Margaret is behind him, supporting him under his arms. As they struggle to keep him moving, they both give him quiet encouragement, praying they can get him out of sight in time. 

It seems to take an eternity until he finally sets foot on the packed dirt floor. As they maneuver him behind the stairs and lower him to the pile of quilts, Mary Margaret whispers, “There is a lantern and matches on the shelf, but only light it if absolutely necessary because it might show between the floorboards. As soon as I get back upstairs, I will get a basket of food together and bring it down to you. Oh, and there’s a chamber pot under the table.”

“How long do you think we will have to stay down here?” Emma questions. 

“I do not know, but it’s better to be prepared in case it ends up being a while. Please remember to stay as quiet as possible,” she reminds them needlessly. After squeezing Emma’s hand, she turns and bustles up the stairs, dropping the door down behind her. 

Emma and Killian are left in complete darkness, and she fights to tamp down the panic tightening her chest. Her eyes work to adjust, beginning to make out the shapes of objects around her with help from the tiny slivers of light sneaking through the floorboards overhead.

She turns her attention to the man lying on the pile of quilts, head resting against a burlap bag of grain. He’s still feverish, and she fears the dampness of the cellar is going to exacerbate his condition. Her hands grope for the pile of blankets she had dropped carelessly to the floor. 

As she unfolds one blanket after another and lays them over him, she listens for any sounds coming from above. Everything is muted, but all she can hear are shuffling footsteps she’s sure are Mary Margaret’s. 

Soon, the room is flooded with light again when the trap door is lifted. Emma rises and hurries to the bottom of the steps to take the basket of food and pitcher of water from her sister-in-law’s hands.

“I think I heard David and Leroy’s horses returning to the barn,” Mary Margaret tells her. “Hopefully they have some good news and you will not have to stay down here very long.” 

Before Emma can answer, Mary Margaret returns to the kitchen, leaving them in darkness once again. Emma cautiously picks her way back across the floor, setting the food and water down when she senses she’s back at Killian’s side, then sits down herself. 

“Killian,” she whispers into his ear, “you need to drink some water. Can you sit up?” 

He pushes himself up, groaning with the effort. Since she doesn’t have a cup to pour the water into, she holds the rim of the pitcher to his lips, slowly tipping it up until he’s swallowing the liquid. She gives him several sips before he pulls back and taps her arm to signify he’s had enough. 

“Do you want something to eat?” she asks, but he’s already dropped back down to the makeshift bed. 

“Not…right…now,” he forces out through chattering teeth.  

“Are you cold?” 

“A…bit.” 

She already used all of the blankets to cover him, so she does the only thing left she can think to do to help him get warm. Peeling back the blankets, she stretches her body out alongside his and pulls the covers up over both of them, then wraps her arms around his thin frame and buries her face into the crook of his neck, breathing warmth against his skin. 

Soon she can tell he has fallen asleep, but she remains awake and alert. All is quiet upstairs, but just as she’s dozing off, she hears muffled pounding on the back door. Her eyes pop open and her breath catches in her throat. 

Murmuring voices reach her ears and she strains to listen, but can’t make out anything that’s being said. Heavy boots thud across the floor, and Emma holds her breath, praying whoever is up there doesn’t discover the trap door beneath the innocuous-looking braided rug. 

The voices increase in volume and she can catch a word here and there. “...nobody…sister…left yesterday…” she hears David saying. 

Another deep voice, obviously a man’s, responds, “...proof…evidence…escaped…” And then the word that makes her heart stop “...traitor.” 

She hears doors slamming and wonders if Mary Margaret had time to hide the cot before their unwanted visitors arrived. She has to believe she did, since her sister-in-law has plenty of experience with hiding evidence. Their spy ring has been active since the beginning of the rebellion, and they’ve had a few close calls, but they haven’t lost anyone yet. 

Killian shifts in his sleep, letting out a soft moan, and Emma swiftly covers his mouth with her hand. Chances of anyone upstairs hearing him are almost nil, but she doesn’t want to tempt fate. 

Disconcerting noises continue for what seems like an indeterminable amount of time, until at last, the door slams and silence settles again. Emma strains to hear anything, but there is absolutely no sound at all. She should feel relieved, but she’s worried for her brother and his wife. What if they’ve been taken by the soldiers? If they have, will they become prisoners of the British army? Unbidden tears fill her eyes at the thought, and she forces herself not to think along those lines.

It is several minutes before she realizes she still has her hand over Killian’s mouth. She removes it and strokes his cheek, allowing herself to enjoy the prickling of his beard against her palm. 

She has no idea how much time passes until she hears the sounds of someone entering the house and her entire body tenses. If the soldiers have come back to search again and find the hidden cellar door, she and Killian are helpless and will without a doubt be captured…or killed. 

Her heart is pounding so loudly she’s afraid she’ll give them away, when she hears light tapping on the floor above them. Three knocks, followed by two and then two more in quick succession. She wants to hope, but what if it’s a trick? 

Then she hears Mary Margaret’s voice through the floorboards. “It’s me, Emma. They’re still on the property, so stay put.” 

They stay hidden in the cellar the rest of that day. Emma is eventually able to get Killian to eat and walk in small circles around the crates of vegetables, but most of their time is spent lying on the nest of quilts. In between fitful spurts of sleep, they have whispered conversations and cuddle together. Emma understands the danger they’re in, but she has to admit she doesn’t mind the time spent in Killian’s arms. 

Later in the evening, Mary Margaret brings down more food and water and tells them that David is pretty sure the soldiers are long gone, but as a precaution, recommends they stay in the cellar overnight since they could be waiting to see if there’s any movement from the house after dark. After her sister-in-law goes back upstairs, Emma lets tears of exhaustion and relief pour down her face as she buries it in Killian’s chest. 

*********

David and Leroy thoroughly inspect the property early the next morning to ensure the soldiers have moved on. Once they return to the house and give the all clear, the two men help Killian back up the steps. While Mary Margaret and Emma collect the blankets and begin making breakfast, David fills the metal bathtub and assists Killian into it. Being in the cellar all that time is surely detrimental to his recovery, and they want to drive the chill and dampness from his body with a long soak in hot water. 

Mary Margaret fills Emma in on the men who searched the house and barn as they fry eggs and slices of ham. “It seems they sent men more interested in finding something of value to steal, rather than finding the two of you, because they were looking in places where it would be impossible to hide - inside cupboards, behind the stove, in dresser drawers. If the situation hadn’t been so nerve wracking, I would have laughed at their blatant disregard for their mission.”

Emma manages a small smile, knowing if the British would have sent doggedly determined men like Colonel Sitwell and Sergeant Gold, she and Killian would surely have been discovered.

“It was our good fortune that they were more preoccupied with burglary, though,” Mary Margaret continues. “I do not think they realized that a house can have a cellar beneath it. As many times as they tramped across the kitchen floor, they did not notice the hollow sound of it.” 

“The search seemed to take an eternity and I do not think I breathed the entire time,” Emma states. 

“I was holding my breath, too. That is the closest call we have ever had.”

They are plating the food when David comes out of the bedroom, carrying a bucket of the bathwater. “Killian wants to join us in the kitchen for breakfast,” he informs them, before emptying the bucket outside. 

“He is feeling up to it?” Emma asks, a hint of worry in her voice. 

“He says he’s tired of being a bother to everyone. And yes,” he adds quickly when he sees Emma getting ready to object, “I assured him that is not true, but you know he is stubborn.” 

“Yes,” Emma agrees, “but his stubbornness is what kept him alive.” 

David nods with a grin and disappears into the bedroom again. Emma and Mary Margaret share a smile and finish putting the food on the table, eager for the four of them to be eating together again, just as they had so many other times.

On the eve before Killian left to infiltrate enemy lines, he shared a hearty meal with Mary Margaret, David and Emma. 

“We double checked the route Killian will take to try to find the British encampment,” David said between bites of his hash. “He should be able to follow the river almost the entire way.” 

Emma blinked rapidly to keep the tears from falling. She had seen many spies off on missions, and had been sent herself, but this time was different. This time, it was the man she loved who was putting himself in danger. 

She felt his knee bump against hers under the table and knew he was well aware of her thoughts. He always seemed to be able to read her like an open book. Swallowing hard, she turned to look at him, valiantly forcing a smile onto her face. He returned it with one of his own, though it didn’t quite reach his beautiful, blue eyes. 

They finished their dinner, speaking of mundane topics to skirt around the issue that was weighing heavy on all of their minds. Afterwards, Mary Margaret waved away Emma’s offer to help clean the kitchen, and Emma knew it was because her sister-in-law understood her desire to have some time alone with Killian. 

The two of them walked outside, enjoying the evening’s cool respite after the heat of the mid-June day. 

“You plan to leave at daybreak?” Emma questioned, already knowing the answer. 

“Aye. The sooner I depart, the sooner I will be able to come back to you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. “There’s not a day will go by I won’t think of you.” 

“Good,” she replied with a slight smile. 

They continued walking until they were on the back side of the barn, out of sight of the house. Killian turned and took both of Emma’s hands. “I will miss you, Love.” 

“Promise me you will be careful and will come back to me.” 

“I will try my best, but you know as well as I that what we do is dangerous. Extremely important, but dangerous.”

She nodded solemnly, casting her eyes down to the ground. After several moments, she looked back up at him. “If we do not receive any communication from you for more than a month, I will come looking for you.” 

“Emma…” 

“You know you would do the same for me,” she interrupted, before he could object.

“Of course I would, but we do not know exactly where I will be.” 

“It does not matter. Wherever it is, I will find you.” Wrapping her arms around him, she pressed her cheek, damp with tears, to his chest. “I will always find you.” 

Returning her embrace, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. “I love you, Emma.” 

“I love you, too.” Turning her face up to his, she added, “We probably will not have any time to ourselves tomorrow morning, so I want to give you something now.” 

His brows rose in question. “What is it, Love?” 

“This,” she said, then pushed up onto her toes to press her lips to his. It was a tenderly sweet kiss, expressing all the love, fear and longing they shared, and neither wanted it to end. When it finally did, she pulled him close again. “Take that with you to remember that I am here, waiting for you.” 

The next morning after a quick breakfast, Killian mounted his horse, pressed his fingers to his lips and waved goodbye to her. She wouldn’t see him again for more than three long, agonizing months.

*********

Two mornings later, Emma opens her eyes and immediately rolls over to face Killian. His eyes are also open, and she can see that they appear clear, bright, rested and fever-free. 

She wastes no time throwing back the covers and getting off of the cot to go to his bedside. “Good morning, my love. You look like you feel better.” 

Pushing himself up onto his elbow, he gives her a lopsided grin. “I do feel like I have re-entered the land of the living.” 

Emma sits on the side of the bed, brushing his shaggy hair out of his eyes while releasing a sigh of relief. “I was beginning to wonder when you would decide to stop making us coddle you,” she teases, her heart lighter than it has been for as long as she can remember.

“Do you mean to tell me that by recovering, I will be giving up my chance to be coddled?” he asks, flopping back down onto his pillow. “Perhaps I haven’t thoroughly thought this through.” 

She leans over and boldly presses a kiss to his lips. “I believe there are better ways for me to pay attention to you, than by nursing you back to health,” she says, only pulling away far enough to look into his beloved cerulean eyes. 

“Do tell,” he grins, reaching up to twist a lock of her hair around his finger. 

A knock on the door interrupts their private moment, and Emma sighs for an entirely different reason. Killian finds her hand and brings it to his lips. “Best answer that, Love.” 

She nods in resignation, rising from his bed and grabbing her robe from the nail beside the door. Once she has cinched the belt around herself, she opens the door to find Mary Margaret on the other side. 

“How is the patient this morning?” 

“Much improved,” Killian answers for himself. 

Mary Margaret steps into the room to see for herself. “Oh Killian, you do look better!” 

“Back to my devilishly handsome self?” he cheeks. “After all, the bloody Brits pretty much knocked the handsome out of me.” 

“No army is that powerful,” Emma assures him, earning her a warm, loving smile. 

She knows he still has a long recovery ahead, but it relieves her to see that he finally appears to have turned the corner. 

*********

It takes several months for Killian to completely regain his strength and health. He stays with David and Mary Margaret during his recovery, so he and Emma are able to spend every day together while their relationship continues to deepen and flourish. 

One day, when Killian is almost fully recovered, he asks Emma to take a walk with him after the evening meal. She can tell that something is on his mind, and when she questions him about it, he turns to face her, gently clasping both of her hands. Then he slowly lowers himself to one knee and Emma gasps, realizing what he intends to do. 

Looking up into her beautiful face, he says, “Emma, I know that we face an uncertain future, but there is one thing I want you to be certain of - that I always, always want to be by your side. So…Emma Nolan, will you marry me?” 

“Oh, Killian,” she begins, tears already escaping her eyes and trickling down her cheeks, “you know how much I love you, but are you sure this is the right time? We still do not know when or how this conflict is going to end.”

“That is exactly why I think we should get married. I do not want to waste any of the time I could have as your husband, because we have no guarantee how many years we may have together. I love you, Emma, and I don’t want to wait any longer to marry you, but if you do not want…”

“No, Killian,” Emma interrupts firmly. “I am not saying I do not want to marry you, because I do, with every fiber of my being. I just do not know if we should take the time to plan a wedding, when there is still so much work to do for the cause.” 

“I understand how important our work is, but you are more important to me.”

Emma sinks to her knees and frames his face with her hands, scratching her nails lovingly through his beard. “And you to me, my love. You are right - we should not let what is happening around us dictate our lives. So yes, Killian, I will marry you and be the proudest and happiest woman alive.”

Killian huffs out a relieved breath and flashes her a dimpled grin, before dipping his head to claim her lips in a celebratory kiss. No one knew what the future held, but the newly engaged couple was sure that whatever it was, they would face it together. 

*********

The conflict, which becomes known as the Revolutionary War, will drag on for another six years. The spy ring organized and aided by David and Mary Margaret will operate until the end, providing important intel to the Continental army. After their close call, Emma and Killian won’t risk going behind enemy lines again, but continue to work tirelessly for the cause nonetheless. 

One evening, nearly a year after Killian’s capture, their daring escape, and his lengthy recuperation, he and Emma sit on the rickety wooden steps leading up to the back entry to David and Mary Margaret’s home. They watch the sun set with golden spangled light on the field and trees of this land for which they are fighting, and for which he nearly died, fingers twined together and Emma’s head lying on Killian’s shoulder. They are in the process of working with David to save the money to purchase a few acres next to he and Mary Margaret’s property, where they will build a home of their own, when the fighting is over, and hopefully the colonies are left to self-govern.

Emma sighs, in as near a state of perfect contentment as she can remember feeling in some time. There were many dark moments in the last months, and even years, and she knows better than to think the future will be perfect or easy. But the hope that feeds her, bolstered by the strength of their love, is a source of joy that she trusts will endure through any challenge. She might once have thought hope and true love fanciful notions from fairy tales rather than the stuff of real life. 

It’s true that people often speak of hope as if it’s this delicate, ephemeral thing made of whisper and spider’s web. She knows better though, after what they have been through. Hope is not fragile or fleeting. Hope has dirt on her face, blood on her knuckles, the grit of the cobblestones in her hair, and just spat out a tooth as she rises for another go. But that’s the beauty of it; hope will always get up and start again.

Killian’s arm around her lends the warmth of any blanket as he draws her closer to his side, murmuring his love for her into the skin at her temple before placing a chaste kiss there as well. The fight may not yet be over, but that time will come. They will see the battle through and celebrate that day - a happy beginning - together.

*********

Tagging a few who might enjoy: @searchingwardrobes @kmomof4 @jennjenn615 @whimsicallyenchantedrose @laschatzi @apiratewhopines @anmylica @stahlop @bdevereaux @xsajx @bluewildcatfanatic @gingerchangeling @gingerpolyglot @spartanguard @therooksshiningknight @optomisticgirl @tiganasummertree @teamhook @revanmeetra87 @booksteaandtoomuchtv @kazoosandfannypacks @xarandomdreamx @motherkatereloyshipper @winterbaby89 @justanother-unluckysoul @the-darkdragonfly @donteattheappleshook @elizabeethan @darkcolinodonorgasm @hollyethecurious @artistic-writer @killian-whump @cocohook38 @wefoundloveunderthelight @drowned-dreamer

[shiftingdiariesofophelia]

okay i need to talk about it somewhere because i’m losing my mind.

niche dr has taken over my every waking thought but it’s the most adorable one ever omg. so, it’s a Lost In Space DR. for those of you who’ve never seen it, basically (the Netflix version) revolves around a broken family of five navigating their place in a space-colonist mission gone awry by the introduction of evil alien robots.

Set in the late 2040s, Estranged Patriarch John Robinson- a soldier who’d neglected his family in favor of service, now with them aboard the Resolute, a huge, long-distance space travel vessel with technology that can transport humans over four light years (currently 70k+ years away with modern technology) away in just around 3 months. Matriarch and honestly the family’s primary parent for the first half of season one, Maureen Robinson- a hyper-intelligent engineer who designed the personal spaceships (called Jupiters) that the colonists on board the Resolute call home. Oldest daughter Judy Robinson- a doctor, despite only being 18 years old as of season one, who enjoys running and harbors a bit of resentment towards her adoptive father John for leaving the family for service. Middle child Penny Robinson- often the “worst” of the family, but ultimately proves her worth time and time again by thinking up creative ways to solve hard problems, she is emotional and compassionate, while ultimately being less nerdy and know-it-all than the rest of her family, and she also enjoys writing and authors a book based off of their travels. And, youngest and only son, Will Robinson. A child with issues regulating his anxiety, with a heart maybe too big for his body, he rescues and befriends an 8 foot tall killer robot that he tames and helps learn the intricacies of humanity and friendship. Additionally to the family there are three additional main characters. Robot, Will’s best friend- who attacked the Resolute and resulted in the family getting “Lost In Space,” who changes his ways and does anything to protect his friend and newly found family. Dr. Smith, real name June Harris, a criminal stowaway who’s running from her past and will do anything to keep herself ahead, but ultimately has a heart and learns to do the right thing when it comes down to it. And, finally, mechanic Don West, a former orphan who’s made several routine trips to the colony on Alpha Centauri, the planet the Resolute was headed towards when it got attacked, but he abandons his post to save himself when the initial attack happens- though, he has a heart of gold and serves as a bit of comedic relief throughout- as he adopts a pet chicken he affectionately names Debbie that he holds very near and dear.

They’re all so unique and interesting just in CANON, let alone seeing them as rounded actual people in a dr. I’m scripting myself still as a teenager as a sort of maintenance/crew member on the Resolute who befriends the Robinson children (Namely Penny) and adventures with them through deep space. It’s honestly fun and lighthearted and i absolutely adore space. Also, Adoptive Father Don West <3 because i love him more than words. Honestly a space exploration dr is kind of the best idea ever personally and I didn’t want to do it alone, so this universe makes perfect sense for me and i’m falling more and more in love with it all the time.