#The Fortification Series

[vivwritesfics]

Set The World On Fire

Chapter Fourteen

Lando Norris had been incredibly angry when they met. Incredibly angry, but sweet enough to help her. Turns out he just needed somebody to talk to, somebody to be there for him.

He was easy to fall for, and that put her in a world of danger

Warnings: Stalking

Mafia AU

1.5K

Series Masterlist

"Happy birthday, Stinky."

Lando opened his eyes and let out a groan. It was far too early. He closed his eyes and placed his head back against the pillow.

A hand was in his hair, brushing through his curls. "Oh, you're so cute," she mumbled and pressed a kiss to the top of his head. Lacing her fingers through his own, she tried to pull him up. "C'mon, birthday boy. I made breakfast."

The promise of food was what coaxed him out of bed. As he stood, she threw a pair of pants at him, covering up his nakedness.

The moment she opened the bedroom door, the smell hit him. It was so damn sweet. Pancakes, waffles, French toast. It was a kids dream. "Holy fuck," he said as he walked into the kitchen. "Baby, what time did you get up?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "Doesn't matter," she said as she turned back to the stove, where more was cooking. Holy shit, he was gonna be double his body weight by the time his birthday was over.

Lando strode over to her. He wordlessly wrapped his arms around her and pressed a kiss to her shoulder. "You didn't have to do all of this, baby," he whispered against her skin.

There was a moment of hesitation before she answered him. "I... this isn't like your normal birthdays, I'm sure. I still wanted to make it special."

He kissed her shoulder again. "You already have."

There was no hiding the smile she wore as she placed the newest batch of pancakes (American style this time) on the table. "Eat up," she said as she placed the pan in the sink. "I'll bring takeout home tonight, yeah?"

French toast halfway to his mouth, Lando paused. "Huh?" He asked, mouth still open, ready to take a bite. But then he put the toast back down. "What? It's my birthday," he said. "You can't leave on my birthday. That's the birthday boy's rules."

"Well, birthday boy," she began as she walked past him. "I've got work. Unless you wanna live in a cardboard box in the back alley."

For a second, Lando looked like he was contemplating it. She rolled her eyes as she headed back to the bedroom to get ready for the day.

The way Lando missed her when she was working was unhealthy, he knew. But over the weeks, months (he wasn't sure how long it had been, all of the days seemed to blend together), he'd found ways to entertain himself.

She'd given him complete access to her laptop. Lando had felt so guilty when he'd hijacked it, downloading programmes and logging into software to get into contact with his employees. But the fortification of his house was coming along nicely, all because she had given him her laptop.

Any day now the house would be ready, he knew. Lando wanted nothing more than to see her roaming the halls. He'd show her around, show her the office (once he'd made it his own), show her the library, the garden. He'd take her up to meet his mum, and his dad now, too.

The thought of her in his house, in his space, helping make it his own, it stirred something in him. Something that had him grabbing her waist before she could walk through the door and head out to work. "Lan!" She said in surprise as he nipped at her neck. "Calm down, birthday boy. I'll be back in a few hours."

He watched her go. But the moment the door shut, he sat on the sofa and opened the laptop.

Nobody had wished him a happy birthday, but Lando wasn't surprised. That wasn't how it worked in a family. It was business as usual, maybe a private celebration with the head of the family's partner.

This was already the best birthday Lando had ever had. He logged into the laptop, typed several different and intricate passwords into the software he had to get into.

Will and Max had left him messages, detailing what they had done to the house. You'll need to come by today and get yourself onto the system, Will had messaged.

A groan left Lando's lips. He threw his head back for just a moment, eyes shutting. Her rarely used car was parked just across the street, and Lando knew where she kept the keys. If he left how he could be back before returned from work.

Getting changed into his suit (the one she'd cleaned up for him), Lando grabbed her keys from the hook beside the door. He pocketed them and made his way out to her car.

Lando hadn't been back to the house in months. It didn't look any different from the day he'd left it.

By the gate waited Max Fewtrell. He looked at Lando with a frown before using the keypad to open the gate. As the gate opened, Max climbed into the car. "This isn't yours," he said.

"Nope," Lando replied and began driving up towards the house.

Still, Max looked at him,clearly waiting for something more. Something that Lando wouldn't give unprompted. "You haven't run off and become a car thief, have you?" Max challenged. "Because that would be really bad for business."

Lando couldn't help but laugh as he pulled up to the house. "Nope, this beauty belongs to the love of my life."

Beauty. Max snorted at that. The car was anything but beautiful. "If we get everything set up today, you gonna move her in?"

Truthfully, Lando didn't know. If he'd been any other rich guy living in this huge ass house, he would have done it in a heartbeat. But he wasn't just any other rich guy. His world was dangerous and he wanted her away from it. If he could have kept himself away, he would have.

Max led him to the security office. He sat Lando down in front of a bunch of monitors and began setting up the security system, coding it to his passwords and prints.

It was a long process, one I will not bore you with. Lando was nearly falling asleep by the time he was finally finished. He checked the watch on his wrist and couldn't wait to get back to her apartment, back to her. His baby.

But he wasn't quite ready yet. With Max trailing behind him, Lando walked to his bedroom.

How many mindless hookups had he had in this bed? "Get new sheets," he said and Max wrote it down. "And clear out half of my wardrobe."

Because Lando really couldn't stay away from her, could he? After spending the last few months living together, living in bliss, he couldn't imagine not waking up beside her every day.

So, Lando had his staff readying the house for her to move in. It was incredible to watch happen, all for his baby. And, as soon as that was done, he headed home, headed back to hers.

***

Things had felt normal, leaving the office. He stopped into the shops, got the birthday boy some birthday chocolates, and got some takeout for the both of them.

It was her usual route home and not too far at all. Although she lived in a sketchy area, she'd never felt unsafe on her walk home.

Until tonight.

Maybe it was paranoia. Ever since Lando had told her, she'd been a lot more wary. But she'd never felt this before, never this terrified.

She sped up her steps and quickly glanced back.

The person behind her with his hands shoved into their pockets sped up their steps, too. They crossed the street when she crossed the street and followed her around corners.

When she got to her street, she was running. She kept the takeout and the shopping held tight to her body as she legged it as fast as she could to her door.

The person behind her started running, too.

As soon as she got through the door of the apartment building, she pushed her way through and kicked it shut behind her, buying her just a few more seconds.

She managed to get her own door open before the person grabbed her. Throwing her body against the door she shut it, locked it and put the chain across.

Her chest was heaving as she dropped her bags and wandered into the kitchen. As she poured herself some water, Lando came running out of the bedroom. "Baby, what is it?" He called as he strode over.

She was shaking when Lando pulled her into his chest. "You're okay," he whispered and ran his hands through his hair. He ignored the smashed bottle of wine by the front door. "I've got you, baby."

She didn't tell him what happened that moment, couldn't bring herself to speak. Lando held her until she could and, when she did, he spent his night by the door, watching through the peephole with his gun pressed to the wood.

Tomorrow he'd get her out of here, get her somewhere safe.

a/n: i'm so sorry i haven't updated this one in over two weeks, my focus has been elsewhere lmao

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[whencyclopedia]

Utah Beach

Utah Beach was the westernmost of the five beaches attacked in the D-Day Normandy landings of 6 June 1944 and the one taken with the fewest casualties. Paratroopers were also dropped behind Utah, and despite being widely dispersed and suffering heavy casualties, they managed to secure this western flank of the invasion and liberate the first French town, Ste-Mère-Église.

Operation Overlord

The amphibious assault on the beaches of Normandy was the first stage of Operation Overlord, which sought to free Western Europe from occupation by Nazi Germany. The supreme commander of the Allied invasion force was General Dwight D. Eisenhower (1890-1969), who had been in charge of the Allied operations in the Mediterranean. The commander-in-chief of the Normandy land forces, 39 divisions in all, was the experienced General Bernard Montgomery (1887-1976). Commanding the air element was Air Chief Marshal Trafford Leigh Mallory (1892-1944), with the naval element commanded by Admiral Bertram Ramsay (1883-1945).

Nazi Germany had long prepared for an Allied invasion, but the German high command was unsure where exactly such an invasion would take place. Allied diversionary strategies added to the uncertainty, but the most likely places remained either the Pas de Calais, the closest point to British shores, or Normandy with its wide flat beaches. The Nazi leader Adolf Hitler (1889-1945) attempted to fortify the entire coast from Spain to the Netherlands with a series of bunkers, pillboxes, artillery batteries, and troops, but this Atlantic Wall, as he called it, was far from being complete in the summer of 1944. In addition, the wall was thin since there was no real depth to the defences.

Field Marshal Gerd von Rundstedt (1875-1953), commander-in-chief of the German army in the West, believed it would be impossible to stop an invasion on the coast and so it would be better to hold the bulk of the defensive forces as a mobile reserve to counterattack against enemy beachheads. Field Marshal Erwin Rommel (1891-1944), commander of Army Group B, disagreed and considered it essential to halt any invasion on the beaches themselves. Further, Rommel believed that Allied air superiority meant that movements of reserves would be severely hampered. Hitler agreed with Rommel, and so the defenders were strung out wherever the fortifications were at their weakest. Rommel improved the static defences and added steel anti-tank structures to all the larger beaches. In the end, Rundstedt was given a mobile reserve, but the compromise weakened both plans of defence.

The German response would not be helped either by their confused command structure, which meant that Rundstedt could not call on any armour (but Rommel, who reported directly to Hitler, could), and neither commander had any control over the paltry naval and air forces available or the separately controlled coastal batteries. Nevertheless, the defences were bulked up around the weaker defences of Normandy to an impressive 31 infantry divisions plus 10 armoured divisions and 7 reserve infantry divisions. The German army had another 13 divisions in other areas of France. A standard German division had a full strength of 15,000 men.

Continue reading...

[thatswhywelovegermany]

August 20, 1989: 35 years ago, hundreds, maybe more than a tousand citizens of the GDR went from Hungary to Austria after the Hungarian government had torn down the border fortifications and stopped the border patrols near the city of Sopron. The day before, Otto von Habsburg had organized a "pan-european picnic", inviting Austrians and Hungarians from both sides of the formerly insurmountable border.

This was one of the key events that led to the collapse of the dictatorial government of the GDR and eventually to the German reunifucation in a unified Europe.

Watch the entire series of West German TV news reports to see how things unfolded from the occupation of embassies by GDR citizens to the fall of the wall in merely five months.

[djarins-cyare]

✭ Series Masterlist ✭

Languishing in a dull and lonely existence on the forest moon of Endor after travelling there to help salvage Death Star wreckage, a nearly fatal encounter with a mysterious bounty hunter out in the forest heralds an opportunity to utilise long-forgotten skills and develop something more profound than you ever thought possible.

Second person POV, present tense. Set post-season 2, diverges from Canon events before TBoBF and season 3. This is a novel-length, exceptionally slow burn with an original plot, worldbuilding, and fully-developed characterisation. SWU concepts and lore are accurately researched.

WORDS: 406,690

PAIRING: Din Djarin x Female Reader/You

RATING: Explicit (18+)

CHARACTERS: Din Djarin, Reader/You/Female OC, Original Non-Human Character(s), Original Human Characters, Greef Karga, Cara Dune, Leia Organa, Luke Skywalker, Grogu, Peli Motto

TAGS: Slow Burn, Slow Build, Romance, Love, Sexual Tension, Eventual Smut, Smut, Sex, Sexual Content, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Fluff and Angst, Light Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Relationships, Healthy Relationships, Canon-Typical Violence, Blood and Injury, Dark Past, Additional Warnings In Author's Notes, Bounty Hunter Din Djarin, Soft Din Djarin, Touch-Starved Din Djarin, Din Djarin Needs a Hug, Smart Din Djarin, Soft Dominant Din Djarin, Ewok Species, Mandalorian Culture, Mando'a Language, New Razor Crest, Thoroughly Researched, Worldbuilding, No use of y/n.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This took me almost a year to write and four months to edit/proof. Each chapter is prefaced with specific tags and (where necessary) warnings, plus word counts. End notes contain translations and comments… this baby is thoroughly researched, so I’m sharing context where appropriate. I’ve also added definitions of in-universe terms so people less familiar with the franchise won’t be left wondering what the hell certain words or references mean. This is a slow burn (adult themes), and although the explicit content only occurs in the latter half, when it does, it warrants the ‘E’ rating. Basically, the first half is a love story, and the second half gets spicy. I hope you enjoy it!

READ THE COMPLETE STORY ON AO3:

(Chapters containing explicit content marked †)

Chapter 1: The Obstacle

Chapter 2: The Interrogation

Chapter 3: The Covenant

Chapter 4: The Snare

Chapter 5: The Strike

Chapter 6: The Groundwork

Chapter 7: The Genesis

Chapter 8: The Progression

Chapter 9: The Hide

Chapter 10: The Beast

Chapter 11: The Adjustment

Chapter 12: The Storm

Chapter 13: The Broadside

Chapter 14: The Intercourse

Chapter 15: The Village

Chapter 16: The Confession

Chapter 17: The Reprieve

Chapter 18: The Fortification

Chapter 19: The Ambush

Chapter 20: The Meridian

Chapter 21: The Homestretch

Chapter 22: The Union †

Chapter 23: The Overture

Chapter 24: The Crescendo

Chapter 25: The Harmony †

Chapter 26: The Cadence †

Chapter 27: The Ride †

Chapter 28: The Veneration †

Chapter 29: The Spree †

Chapter 30: The Tribute †

Chapter 31: The Courage

Chapter 32: The Feast

Chapter 33: The Exhibition †

Chapter 34: The Reward

Chapter 35: The Binding †

Chapter 36: The Synergy †

Chapter 37: The Match †

Chapter 38: The Flag †

Chapter 39: The Foundling †

Chapter 40: The Future †

✨Additional Media✨

@burntheedges has written a spectacular little drabble detailing what Din was up to during the paragraph break near the end of chapter 1 (*SPOILERS* you don’t find this out until chapter 27).

@roughdaysandart has sketched a fantastic study of chapter 33 and it’s absolutely perfect (*SPOILERS* cliffhanger ending for the chapter).

@djarin-desires has created some awesome images of a few scenes using Midjourney.

I spent a stupid amount of money on the Hot Toys official Din Djarin action figure, simply so I could photograph him in poses from my fic 🤷🏼‍♀️ This is just a taster of what’s to come, but here he is offering to help Reader climb onto the speeder in chapter 8.

🧡💚 Thank you for reading! 💚🧡

➤ MAIN MASTERLIST

Dividers by @samspenandsword

[scotianostra]

January 24th, 76AD, is said to be the likely date of birth forPublius Aelius Hadrianus, who built Hadrian’s Wall.

When the Romans invaded the British Isles they held, large parts of what is now Scotland, even after the construction of Hadrian’s Wall in AD 122, there were large forts around the country at varioustimes, the largest of which was Trimontium located at Newstead, near Melrose, in the Scottish Borders. It was occupied intermittently from about 79 to 184 AD and was the largest of the "outpost" forts after the construction of Hadrian's Wall

Hadrian’s Wall was largely abandoned for about twenty years from .AD 138, when the Romans established a new frontier in Scotland between what are now the Firths of Forth and Clyde, where they built the Antonine Wall.

The Antonine Wall was more of a very large ditch, and my old flat would have been part of the structure, part of the "wall" is on land only yards from me. I got into trouble for calling it a ditch from a Roman historian before, so will add that it was much more, the thing is it more or less looks like one just now, much of the fortifications are long gone.

Hadrian is noted for his interest in architecture and the number of provinces he visited whilst Emperor. He is likely to have visited Britain in AD 122, after some kind of conflict in the preceding years, and we know that it was in this period that construction of the Wall started. It has also been known as Picts' Wall, or Vallum Hadriani in Latin.

The origin of the Picts is clouded by the many fables and legends about them. There are numerous theories as to who the Picts were and where they came from. Experts even disagree over what they ate and drank and what language they spoke although some point to the existence of a distinct Pictish language, which today is believed to have been an Insular Celtic language, closely related to the Brittonic spoken by the Britons who lived to the south.

Often described as savages the Picts were an ancient and artistic people who defied the might of Rome which conquered the rest of Britain. They were a sophisticated , hardworking, clever people, skilled in farming and fishing.

You would have thought a savage tribe would have been an easy conquest for the Romans, but the Picts were anything but that. Picts are first recorded in history in the third century AD. Eumenius, a Roman writer, describes the "pictus" as fierce and skilled in battle. It is not clear whether "pictus" (the Latin for painted) was intended, or if this is a Latin form of some indigenous name. I prefer to think of them as the "Painted People"

Although the Romans reached Scotland and often defeated them in battle, they never conquered the Picts or Pictland. The Roman Empire's expeditions north resulted in few permanent gains.

Scotland's sculptured stones, created by the Picts of ancient Alba tell the stories of a race of people who defied Rome and survived the invading Vikings, thus preserving a separate culture and race in Scotland. It is in these sometimes mighty, sometimes delicate stones that the history of ancient Scotland is now recorded.

There are many of these slabs on display in The National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh, as well as a fine display in The Hunterian in Glasgow.

When the Romans left the Picts were often attacked by the Britons and eventually all the Pictish tribes agreed to support one High King who would rule all of Pictland.

It's said the Picts, unusually, were a matrilineal society, i.e. bloodlines passed through the mother. Pictish kings were not succeeded by their sons, but by brothers, nephews or cousins as traced by the female line in a complicated series of intermarriages between 7 royal houses. It is this rare form of succession which in 845 AD gave the crown of Alba and the title Rex Pictorum - King of the Picts - to the son of a Pictish princess by the name of Kenneth, Son of Alpin, he is generally accepted by most historians as the first of the kings of Scotland, follwing on from his reign as King of Dál Riata. As usual though, not al agree on this.

The Picts survived as a distinct people until early in the 10th century. However, there is no record of them dying out or moving elsewhere. It is most likely that the Picts simply integrated into the large population within the developing multi-ethnic nation of Scotti, Picts, Celts, Britons and Angles which we now call Scotland. The map, from wiki says this was how their lands looked as late as the 7th century. The last pics are of two Pictish people and a 15th century depiction of King Kenneth.

[carionto]

The Human Battle Moon is... preposterous

After the United Federation unveiled their Battle Moon - a monumental series of fortifications, combat bases, planetary shields, massive fighter bays and factories, and more weapons platforms than you could count aimed at every direction, the Humans became disturbingly excited.

After only a few short months, Humanity unveiled their counterpart, and, well... There's no good way to say it, so we'll just say it:

It's three moons stacked in a row with a giant rail gun going through all of them.

They call it the Death Kebab.

____________________________

(I was gonna write something more but sometimes you need to know when not to, so I'll leave this post at that)

[julianrahmat]

If you like what I do, please consider supporting me on Patreon

" The monks at the ancient Snowpoint Temple arrived with a strange report: The "statue" on the temple grounds turns out to be a long dormant pokemon! The League has deployed artillery and built fortifications on site, and we need Hunters on standby when it finally awakens." - Snowpoint dispatch

Regigigas, the Collosal Pokemon is the final in a series commissioned by Patreon supporter Cholulorax. It is the leader and creator of the Legendary Titans.

Pokemon

Regigigas can be considered as a "final boss" monster, as the battle with it takes place at the fortified Snowpoint Temple grounds. Not much is known about Regigigas, but it appears that it predates the building of the Snowpoint Temple, as it was thought to be a statue of a long forgotten deity, but recent cracks in the rock revealed it to be a long dormant Pokemon. 

When Regigigas finally wakes, it lumbers slowly, its attacks weak and slow. But as the battle drags on, it becomes quicker, tougher and more powerful. Hunters must slay it before its strength returned fully, as it is bound to devastate its surroundings

Researchers theorize Regigigas may be the progenitor of all of the other titans, as many similarities can be found with the titans.

Armor

Regigas boosts the hunter's strength the longer they are in combat.

Weapons

Regidrago weapons have high Normal (Raw) attack, but average sharpness and negative affinity, but can be offset by exploiting Regigigas's armor

Outro

We will return to the regular releases, starting with Rayquaza. I apologize for delaying it for more than a year, as doing this as commission really helped me out financially and I was strapped for cash since moving to my new home. Thank you for staying and supporting this project. 

But going forward I will be doing only one set of weapons and armor for each Pokemon form, as it allows me to not hold back and ration my ideas. So a normal pokemon will get 1 pair armor (Male and female) and 2 weapons, instead of 2 pairs of armor and 4 weapons. But pokemon with multiple powerup forms and regional variants will get 1 set each.

[todaysdocument]

Map of Detroit River and Adjacent Country, August 26, 1813. 

Record Group 64: Records of the National Archives and Records Administration

Series: Reference Maps and Drawings

File Unit: Michigan

Image description: Zoomed-in portion of a map of the Detroit River, showing the tiny grid of streets that indicate the town of Detroit, and the fort just to its west. Across the river on the Canadian side of the river are British Batteries, and the American Redoubt and fortified Camp, evacuated. 

Image description: Map of the Detroit River from Lake Erie to Lake St. Clair. The Canadian townships and the Michigan Territory side of the river are bordered in different colors. Military fortifications and rivers are labeled, as is a tiny section of streets labeled “Detroit.” What we now know as Belle Isle is labeled “Hog I.” 

[sunnie-angel]

The War Years

conrad oxford x reader summary: war has broken out and though love might be the last thing on your mind, it still finds its way in through the cracks. a complete (mostly) canon compliant rewrite of the king's man (no knowledge of the movie is necessary to read) tags: period misogyny, grief, minor injury, off screen death, unresolved sexual tension rating: mature | wc: 9.9k a/n: did i say this was meant to be three parts? because it's definitely not going to be lol, otherwise these chapters would be spiraling into something truly unreadable. come scream at me in the comments? @batchilla has once again been a lifesaver of a beta on this and all mistakes are mine. part 1| series masterlist | ao3

The war doesn't change anything at first. Well, it sends the social season to an abrupt and early end, but most people are so caught up in the uncertainty of what comes next that there aren't very many complaints. Certainly you aren't complaining about the end to the mounting pressure behind every look in your direction as time marches on without some kind of indication of your future plans.

It's a cold comfort though. Your mother slathers jam onto her toast, pointedly ignoring your father's snide comments on her figure, as she informs you of the slight reprieve to any matrimonial plans.

"Of course darling, it's disappointing to end the season without a match but with the war going on, it really would be unseemly to try and pin down a proposal from the Oxford boy. Really, we should wait until it can be a moment of victory for you."

The red jam gushes out from under her pearly white teeth.

You take to sitting with George after breakfast to read the pilfered papers from your father over his shoulder. It's humbling, again, how much you don't know. These people that you could pick out by face and relate their whole family tree simply by name and title, you've almost no idea how they fit into the political and governmental fracas playing out on the world's largest stage. Sometimes Conrad will join the two of you as well, no longer under such tight watch with his father always up in London with the rest of the House of Lords. He adds his own anecdotes, little pieces of information he's ferreted away from dining at his father's table and the friends that often find themselves there. It stings to know that you are still left behind, left out of rooms even when they do their best to include you.

George nearly has a conniption when Conrad refers to Lord Kitchener as 'Kitch'. There's tea spewed all down his front and you've only narrowly managed to twitch your skirts out of the way to avoid the spray.

"What do you mean 'Kitch' came for supper the other day?" George croaks, mopping at his front with a handkerchief you had handed over with a roll of your eyes.

"Well that's what Father always calls him and I've known him most of my life so really, it should be Uncle Kitch but he's always said it makes him feel quite old to be called that."

"You don't think that the current Secretary of State for War being both a close family friend and regularly attending dinner with you might have been important to mention earlier?" you chide him, refilling George's cup as the glassy-eyed expression on his face indicates a strong need for fortification.

"…It hadn't occurred to me?" he says sheepishly.

"Are you sure it's this man?" George says in a mocking tone, holding up the front page of the newspaper featuring a very large drawing of Lord Kitchener calling for military volunteers. "Hadn't it occurred to you that it might just be someone with the same name?"

"Georgie," Conrad says very seriously, "Promise me that you'll never go into the theatre. You'll never survive all the tomatoes thrown at your head for being an awful comedian." He softens as George huffs in protest. "If you really don't believe me, come to luncheon then. Kitch is supposed to be visiting with Father, I'm sure cook can manage one more."

"Only one?" you interrupt, George's effusive thanks with an arched brow, the clink of your cup in your saucer startlingly loud.

"I didn't— Well your parents haven't been letting you out much, I didn't think they'd allow it." Conrad tries to explain away his blunder.

The thing is, he's not wrong. Ever since the announcement, your parents have kept you — but not George — close to home, as if the Germans would storm the isle at any moment. Even if they did, it's not like the walls of an old house would stop them, you'd tried to reason, but no one would hear anymore on the matter. It just that the assumption of it all smarts fiercely. George, so easily able to go wherever he pleased, to join Conrad behind doors that will always close in your face. It would have been nice to have the invitation extended, that's all, even if you would have had to turn it down regardless.

You smile through pursed lips and narrowed eyes. "Ah, but you'll be telling me all about it after, won't you boys?"

They nod and hasten to reassure you that yes, of course they'll tell you everything, but it isn't enough to extinguish that growing distance. You can see it even if they can't, faces forward towards the future while you're helpless to do anything but stare at their backs disappearing into the distance. They don't see it yet but that gap is widening. You can't close your eyes anymore.

"Did you know?" Conrad nearly growls out, startling you from the book you'd been absorbed in. Its the closest to truly furious with you that you've ever seen. Primly you place your bookmark in between the correct pages and put it down in your lap.

"Did I know what?"

"Did you know that George was planning to corner Kitch so he could volunteer?" He advances on and involuntarily you press back into the chair's high back.

"George doesn't have any interest in killing," you say dismissively. The sitting room door silently swings open. "Tell him George, it's all some sort of misunderstanding."

"It's not," is what he says instead.

Conrad whirls around to face him, hands clenching into fists. The book falls out of your lap, the bookmark falling out as it hits the floor. You don't notice.

"Why?" you manage to whisper, voice tissue paper thin.

George's face crumples and he strides forward to kneel in front of your chair, clasping your trembling hands in his own.

"They need more people," he says gently.

"Yes but why does it have to be you?" you insist, fighting back tears.

"It's a choice," he pauses to inhale sharply. "It's a choice that I'm making, for myself. I'll go to the recruiting station two parishes over and once I've passed the medical, Lord Kitchener has personally assured me a spot with the Royal Engineers, and gone to great lengths to secure my commission." He gives you a watery smile. "No killing, see?"

"Mother and Father will never let you," you try and persuade him.

"I'm 19 years old now," George says evenly. "Old enough that the army will take me without anyone else's permission but my own." He pauses to make sure he has your full attention. "I'm going."

Your lips start to wobble and you try to pull away, to cover your face with your hands before either of them can see the tears fall, but George won't let you.

"Don't you see? This is my only chance to have anything resembling a career." He parrots your father's pompous tone. "Gentlemen do not have trades, especially not first sons." Weakly you laugh, but the motion frees the tears from your eyes to run hot down your cheeks. "Besides, everyone says this should all be over soon in a few months, a year at most. Let me go have my wild heroics and when this mess sorts itself out, I'll come back and we'll sort the rest of our futures out."

"Do you swear it? That you'll come home and you won't do anything stupid?" you beg him seriously.

"I'll swear it on anything you like," he tells you, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

"I think—" you gasp out a shuddering breath, "I think I'd like to be alone now."

Weakly, George smiles up at you again, squeezing your hands one more time before letting them go. He heads for the door, then pauses when Conrad doesn't immediately follow him.

"Oxford…" George prompts him but he doesn't move, instead just stares at you for a moment. Without warning he strides forward, folding his handkerchief into your hands, before beating George out the door.

"Wait!" George calls after Conrad. For a moment, he is very, very tempted to keep right on walking until he's left the house. Just for a moment, before he slows and allows George to catch up to him.

"I'm sorry for the deception," George apologizes once again, catching his breath.

"That's not what—," Conrad cuts himself off as a maid walks down the hall. He opens the nearest door and pulls George in after him. "It's not that that I'm upset about." Conrad takes a deep breath and sighs, unable to look at George. "I'm jealous of you, and I'm angry that you didn't wait for me. I— I understand why you didn't, why you couldn't, but you didn't even tell me. I would have helped you if I knew."

"I couldn't risk it, not until I'd found out if it was possible." George lays a hand on Conrad's shoulder. "I should have trusted you, and I'm sorry that I didn't."

Conrad sucks in a breath. "I forgive you."

"Can I be extraordinarily selfish and trust you with something even more important?" George asks, voice scraped raw with honesty.

"Anything," Conrad reassures him, turning to face George.

"Look after my sister, will you? I know she'd be the last person to say she needs looking after—" the two share a commiserating look"—but I worry for her. It's selfish to leave now, I know, but its my only chance. You were there for her when I was away at school—"

"I don't know that I'd describe it like that," Conrad interrupts, heat creeping up his neck.

"However you'd describe it then, you made sure she wasn't alone. All I am asking is for you to do that again."

"I'm almost offended you thought you needed to ask," Conrad tells him, though there's a hint of a smile behind it. "I would have looked out for her anyway. She's my dearest friend."

"Thank you," says George, shoulders slumping in relief. "You don't know how much that means to me, truly. Shall we go find something stronger to toast to good friends then?"

"Lead on then, but let's avoid your parents. I shouldn't like to be here when they find out your plans for the next few months." George grimaces at the reminder, then pauses with his hand on the doorknob.

"Oh and Conrad, if it matters, you have my blessing," he says rather seriously.

"Blessing for what?" Conrad asks blithely.

"I pray to God one day you figure it out," George sighs, hanging his head in defeat.

Predictably, your parents do not take the news of George's plans well. By any measure. Your simply pick at your food, grateful not to be at the tender mercies of their concern.

Your mother simply sobs wordlessly into her napkin, too hysterical to even form words. Her reaction is not one you judge harshly. Had you not done the same, the moment the boys had left the room?

"Well it's all well and good to want to serve your king and country," your father blusters, fat moustache bristling and spittle flying, " but you're needed here! At home! Working for the betterment of this family!"

You wince at every word, cowering before his fury, but George takes it all rather calmly. He crouches next to your mother to comfort her, and merely sighs when she simply wails and turns away from his touch.

"You'll simply have to tell them you won't be going!" shouts your father.

"It's too late now," George says to the room at large. "I've already signed up—" liar "— would you rather I be shot for desertion before my first day on the Front?"

"I— no— wha…" your father turns a series of increasingly impossible colours in his anger.

"I did you the courtesy of informing you well before I'm sent away to training. Besides, everyone says that it'll all blow over in a few months anyway. I'll probably be back before Easter."

George looks rather splendid in his full dress uniform, collar starched and hat perched just so on his forehead. He looks grown up, a man taking up the space that your brother should occupy, posing for his picture before heading off to war. The flash powder of the photographer's light burns the afterimage of his smiling face into your retinas.

Your own smile is stiff as you pose behind your mother, your father's hands resting one on your shoulder and the other on George's, proprietary. The harsh flash of the light blinds you again momentarily, and you blink away the blindness to Conrad's eager face hovering just behind the photographer.

"Now, how about one of just the young ones, eh?" the grizzled photographer says, poking his head out from the under the camera's cloth covering.

"Oh I don't—" Conrad tries to demure but George isn't having any of it.

"Do stop stalling and come here!" George calls, shaking off Father's grumbling.

"Now, if the gentleman in uniform would sit in the chair, and the young lady and gentleman could stand just—" the surprisingly spry old man gently pushes you closer to Conrad. "—there. Perfect!"

He steps back and signals his countdown. For the rest of your life you can never quite remember what it was that Conrad said, but the results are forever preserved. George, nearly bent double in laughter, and you, face upturned and an adoring look in your eyes as you too begin to laugh.

It's George's last full day before he leaves on the morrow, an early train heading to Southampton and none of you have the heart to bring it to an end. Leaving your parents behind at the photographer's studio, the three of you make your way to the local tea room and the private room you'd booked in advance through the clever suggestion of Celeste. Just being able to spend a few — all too few — hours without the watchful prying eyes of strangers, or worse, people you know, is a rare miracle. By some unspoken agreement, none of you bring up tomorrow, or what will happen after that. Instead, the three of you reminisce.

"George, did Conrad ever tell you about the time…."

"She's a dirty rotten liar and a cheat at cards!"

"…..well at Eton—"

"oh at my fancy posh school…."

"Oh! Do you remember when.."

"—I told you that in confidence!"

"Well you should have—"

It's only when Conrad uncharacteristically offers the last scone to George that the bubble bursts, the weight of the future too heavy for the past to sustain.

The autumn sun is just starting it's early descent over the tops of trees just beginning to turn fiery colours, painting the stone cottages of the village every shade of warm hue. Slowly, reluctantly, the three of you walk in vague direction of your home, feet dragging. Light shines oddly out of a window, drawing your attention.

"I'll be right back!" you call over your shoulder, before darting into the shop, the boys jogging to catch up with you.

The man that's run the sweets shop as long as you can remember, Mr. McClintock, is happy to keep the shop open a few extra minutes at the sight of George's uniform.

"Go give 'em hell for us! Show them what us Brits are made of," he says excitedly before trying to wave off your money.

Standing in front of the store, you press your purchase into George's hands, paper bag crinkling.

"Pear drops," you tell him as he opens the bag. "Your favourite."

"What!" Conrad exclaims, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the shop door's lintel. "I thought it was rhubarb custards." He offers his own paper bag to George looking so forlorn that you and your brother look at each other and burst into laughter.

"Rhubarb custards were my favourite, right until the moment I discovered pear drops," George consoles him, popping one into his mouth. "I shall enjoy both of them immensely, never you worry."

Considerably cheered, Conrad offers you his arm and you take it. Slowly, though not as tragically as before, you set off once more in the direction of your home. As you walk, a curious weight pulls at your pocket. Reach your hand in slowly, your fingers meet the same waxed paper you'd just passed over to your brother. Letting go of Conrad's arm for a moment, you unearth your prize to discover small bag of barley sugars, one you had no hand in purchasing. Whipping your head around, you squint at Conrad suspiciously only to have him smile back without a trace of guile.

The first letter you receive from George is full of blacked out redactions. It comes with the morning post only two weeks after his tear stained departure. The next letter comes only a few days later with his sheepish apologies for having contravened military secrecy in so many and creative ways that his first letter was rendered illegible (his commanding officer had read him the riot act apparently before instructing him on how to actually write this current letter). Celeste gasps with laughter along with you when you read the message aloud in the privacy of the library.

George has been set to work somewhere in Belgium, expanding a hospital and keeping the ambulance trucks running. He's made a friend, a thought that fills you with a measure of relief you hadn't expected to feel at the news. Private Hart is, apparently, a cheerful fellow until it comes to all matters gastronomic at which point, George confides, he turns into the kind of total snob even Father would be taken aback by. But not to worry! he continues, the food may be rather plain but it's hearty enough to keep a person going in even the worst of the weather lovely Belgium has to offer. You resolve to send him some more sweets and whatever else Cook thinks will survive the Channel crossing long enough to reach him.

You're not sure why, exactly, but you're surprised to discover that Conrad is receiving letters from George too. The two are friends, you grudgingly admit, and they had kept up an informal correspondence during George's Eton years so it's not to be totally unexpected. Still, it annoys you that though you're more than willing to share all of George's letters with him, Conrad sometimes withholds letters from you.

"They're private, see," is what his excuse is.

"Just read the parts you can share out loud to me," you beg him, ravenous for any more scraps of your brother you can find.

"They'd only be as redacted as his first letter then," Conrad tries to let you down gently but it does nothing to diminish the jealousy clawing a hold of you.

It had been just as much as a shock to Conrad when the first letter addressed to him from George had arrived on a silver tray carried by Shola. Actually reading the letter, the mystery had been solved quite easily. Of course George had wanted to make sure Conrad was honouring his promise to look out for you. Of course he wanted details on what Conrad thought of your emotional state, the frequency with which he saw you, if the generic rich American or anyone else had been snifffing around while George wasn't there to scare them into behaving properly. It's no hardship for Conrad to send George his honest thoughts (not well but holding up admirably, everyday or just about, no and if they had Conrad would have performed George's brotherly duties for him), almost freeing to put pen to paper and confess to someone else just as invested as your care as himself.

George writes to you both as often as he has paper, though his letters often take weeks to arrive, sometimes coming out of order. He thanks you for the extra pear drops and requests some aniseed balls for Private Hart, now on friendly enough terms to be 'Henry', who's coming down with an awful cough. Enclosed with the requested treats, you send a letter reminding George that you aren't a mail order catalogue service, but if he should be allowed home for Christmas and the New Year, you'd happily provide him with enough sweets to get sick on.

Despite your grumbling, you send the sweets anyway, because you can't deny your brother anything, not for long. You try not to mention it in your letters, not wanting to make him feel too terrible about leaving, but the fear of George being away, and not just at school this time, eats away at you. Yes, you know that he's finally living out the closest thing to a dream he has, but did it have to be one that put him in such close proximity to danger? He sends you long, rambling messages about the fascinating new engine problems he's dealing with while waiting on the supplies to construct new buildings, little asides about the shenanigans he and Henry — now nicknamed Harry — get into when they're not on duty. Oh how you wrinkle your nose at the mention of lice and resolve to send him more socks if you can ever figure out a decent heel turn, very pointedly refusing to think about how his little asides translate into reality. The cold, the constant itching bug bites, freezing socks that never leave the dampness behind. It would be wrong to wrong to disturb him with your own nameless unease that trickles in, a leaking faucet to which you've find no solution, when George's enthusiasm is palpable in each pen stroke.

The one thing that seems to keep your unease at bay is Conrad. Lightness seem to seep back in when Conrad tries, very badly, to explain his latest lesson in Geography (he always seems to forget the existence of France) or offers to lend you whatever book he's just finished learning about. You laugh through his stuttering explanations of whatever new nonsense exercise Shola has designed to keep Conrad from going totally stir crazy and suitably impressed by both tales of Polly's deadliness with a weapon and her offer to extend her lessons to you as well. The sense of creeping dread, the swirl of unease that threatens to pull you under when you try to peer beyond the words on the page, recedes with distraction, and so Conrad, with the assistance of Celeste, Polly, and Shola, seek to fill your everyday with some form of it.

Really, they've done an admirable job of it, though it took great pains to convince your parents to let you leave the house even with two promised escorts. It comes as no surprise then that the true nature of the little 'outings' Conrad has arranged for you never makes it back to their ears. Shola has begun to teach you the basics of driving, a thrill that sometimes leaving you shaking even if you've never been allowed to leave the stable yard yet. George must be an old hat at this, you think, as you practice checking your mirrors before you turn. He's probably driven hundreds of trucks and cars by now. Polly — or rather Polly through Conrad — teaches you how to shoot a hunting gun.

"More practical for you than a pistol," she says brusquely. "And good practice for him to prove he still remembers how to handle one."

The gun is heavier than you expected in your hands, metal and wood smooth underneath the heavy cloth of your gloves. Conrad stands behind you, his arms reaching around to help take the weight of the gun until you can adjust your grip.

"Stance should be just a touch wider," he says in your ear and you have to suppress a shiver lest you lose your grip. Obligingly you shuffle your booted feet wider until you're rock steady, the relaxed stance of your body just brushing the front of his jacket.

"Index finger off the trigger and on the trigger guard, please. Make sure your grip isn't too tight on the stock. Now—" his hand curls around yours making sure the curve of your fingers is just right, the other arm caging you in as he helps support the barrel as you adjust to the heft of it. "—bring the butt to your shoulder. You want to look straight down the barrel now, see the sight at the end?" You nod, a single motion that makes you intimately aware of how close his face is to yours. His breath hangs in the air, a cool puff of smoke in the freezing winter air. "Imagine a line from your eye at this end, down to the sight at the other, use it to aim. Just—" he uses his hold on you to adjust the aim of the barrel, "—like that."

It would be nice, you think half-distractedly as you stare down your target at the other end of the snowy field, if he were to simply hold you like this without the gun in the way. His chin hooked over your shoulder as he holds you tight, cheeks flushed from the cold and affection. Conrad suddenly wraps his hand around your trigger hand, nudges your finger off the trigger guard and lays it gently on the trigger.

"Gentle squeeze now," he murmurs and your nerves are so completely torn to pieces by his proximity that what happens is most definitely not gentle.

The gun kicks back, hard, into your shoulder, knocking the breath from you. Even with your surefooted stance, you're sent rocking straight back into Conrad who lets out an undignified ooomph at the sudden contact. Had he not been there, you most certainly wouldn't have stayed on your feet. As it is, his grip on you only tightens and your whole body sings with a heady mix of adrenaline and something uniquely him.

"Forgot to warn her about the recoil, didn't you?" Polly calls out exasperatedly from behind the two of you. "Right, you might have hit your target but neither of you are firing a gun until I'm satisfied you've stopped faffing about."

Conrad receives your birthday gift for him, a basic book on first aid with the treatment of bruises specially bookmarked, with sheepish good cheer. Having learned his lesson, now whenever you're simply in close proximity to a gun, he dutifully reminds you to mind the recoil. Your answer — provided no one is looking — is to stick your tongue out at him.

Christmas is a subdued and sober affair, George's absence from the festivities keenly felt. No one at the house seems in the mood for holiday cheer, not with the war shaping up to wage on for longer than the general estimates. You've sent George as many sweets as could reasonably fit in a parcel, with some extra aniseed balls for Harry tucked in too. The annual gift exchange with Conrad had to wait until Celeste returned from visiting with her own family and was free to escort you.

"How do you think George is faring?" you ask him, popping another one of the barley sugars he'd gifted you. Already the paper bag is looking rather empty.

"I think he's having a far more cheerful holiday, if any of his stories with Private Hart are true," he replies, eyes crinkling up around the edges.

The letter regretfully relaying that there wasn't any leave to be had for the holidays and an earnest wish for Harry to get well soon so George wasn't stuck digging all the foundation posts of the new surgery arrives well into the new year and after the two letters detailing Harry's sudden decline and tragic death.

Some kind of pneumonia, writes George on tear stained pages. Took him over so completely by the end that his mind was half gone long before he was. Told me that the ward tent was covered in flowers, bluebells, the kind that grow near his hometown in Spring, swaying in the wind. The letter dissolves into a mess of splotchy ink, George's self censorship and tears mixing to create an undecipherable mess. I think I'd like to bring bluebells to his mother and sister, is the next legible line. Lay flowers down for him in the Spring, after the war is over.

It takes you three tries before you can craft a satisfactory letter, one that doesn't belie the sudden gaping terror opening up under your feet threatening to drag you under. Until now, it was easy to pretend that George was off on some grand adventure, like the ones Conrad was mad about, pirates and heroes, musketeers and distant lands. You could ignore the hard cold truth, the details his letters nimbly danced around in favour of a pretty picture. Harry, poor Harry, is the unwelcome reminder that death is a very real possibility in this grand endeavour. Silent and stalking the men stationed at the Front.

George must sense your fear anyway, because his next missive is full of reassurances of his good health, how the hard work has grown his shoulders so much he might start to pop uniform buttons and the mostly redacted latest intrigue about a car engine that has been giving him trouble for the past week. Even in the depths of his grief he tries to cheer you. George mentions Harry only once in passing, a line about being grateful to have been able to attend the funeral before his unit was moved out now that the hospital had been completed.

Private Henry Hart's death — a man you never met and would never know — casts a heavy shadow over you that even your brother's words cannot put to rest. There is no where to hide behind your ignorance now, not when the truth of the matter refuses to stay delegated to bedtime stories and party anecdotes. Fear's got you clasped firmly in her jaws. Your parents, recipients of far fewer letters from George than you, are still informed of this distant friend's death. Their mouths are set in identical pinched lines and the table is quiet, only punctuated by the scraping of utensils, for many meals after. Everything is dampened under the weight of that horrid, waiting dread. Even the sounds in the halls seem muffled, the woolly telephone conversations leaking from your Father's study are thin and one sided, your mother gliding into rooms with only the rustle of fabric to announce her. The sound of the clocks ticking ring out, loud as the bells in church. Even Celeste does not seem to know what to say to you, mouth opening and closing silently before being pressed into a thin line.

Conrad is the only one to brave the stupor that's fallen over the house, a curse that lays so thick even the dark fairy of Sleeping beauty would be proud of, and try to pull you from the clutches of your own swirling emotions. Rain or shine, he still attempts to draw you out, to distract you from the maze of your own mind and to beat back the shadows that have made their home in your house.

"I feel guilty," you interrupt Conrad, hands stained with ink from where's he's tried to plot on on a map all the possible locations George might be based on the heavily blacked out letters he's been sending.

"About Private Hart?" he asks, wiping his hands on a handkerchief and getting smeared inky fingerprints all over it. "I'm sure your brother knows that all of our thoughts are with him."

"About George," you tell him, getting out your own handkerchief and wetting it from the carafe on the table. You take his hand into your lap and dab at it with much more success, his palm and fingers not quite spotless but significantly less mottled.

"I know that he's suffering, in ways he won't breathe a word of in any of his letters," is what you break the silence with. It's taken you the many weeks since Harry's death to quietly work out the source of the fear that has dogged you since, that has made every letter a source of terror and celebration. "He's only God knows where out there—" you just your chin out towards the map, heavy with annotations, "—risking himself at every moment. I don't know how not to be afraid for him. I don't know if I'm allowed not to be."

It's that last confession, the one you're afraid will damn you, that releases the dam of everything you've tried so hard to suppress. Great wracking sobs shake your body though no tears fall, everything boiling over as your grip on his hands turns white knuckled. Carefully, he extricates his hands from your iron grip only to tuck you into his shoulder to shake and expel the Gordian knot of your emotions.

"He wouldn't blame you," he whispers into your hair. "George wouldn't blame you for living your life while he lives his. You hiccup and dig your fingers into the front of his sweater, burrowing into his warmth like it might save you from the roiling ice of your guilt. "You know, my father's grieved my mother every day since her passing. Sometimes I think he's mourning me before I've even gone too. I look at the life he's allowed himself to lead, and I wonder if this was what she wanted for him, for us. And then I look at you, at George, and I know that if she loved us even half as much as your brother loves you, he wouldn't want to freeze you in time this way."

Conrad doesn't say much after that, simply lets you cling to him until you can breathe, until the weight of a thousand elephants has climbed off your chest and from around your shoulders. Holds you for an eternity as everything, every emotion, every half remembered nightmare, drains out of you, the kind of harsh spring storm that leaves rocks stripped bare along the shore. Cleansed. Eventually, your breathing evens out, no longer the hiccuping gasps of a drowning girl but something more peaceful, more serene. Eyes slowly sliding shut, you fall into a daze, not of unease or fear, but of comfort. Something akin to sleep, that absolves you of all responsibilities now that you can breathe for the first time in months and worry that every inhale costs George one of his own.

Celeste, returning with the tea tray, attempts to barge in but Conrad's quiet, pleading look stays her wrath for a moment. Quietly she sets the tea tray down on the table, then settles down on the settee on your other side. She makes a 'come hither motion' with her arms, face set tightly against any protestations. As gently as though he were handling spun glass, he helps Celeste slowly shift your weight towards her, palm cradling the fragile cargo of your skull until your face lies nestled into the curve of Celeste's neck. You mumble, then go quiet, a warm, limp weight settled between the two of them. Satisfied that you'll be properly taken care of, Conrad tentatively stands, then goes to retrieve his suit jacket where it had been hung over the back of one of the library chairs.

"Wait!" comes the whispered command. Freezing, Conrad turns to face Celeste, draping his jacket over the crook of his arm. Her face works through a series of emotions so fast Conrad can't decipher a single one, before finally settling on affection as she glances back down at you, hand cradling the apple of your cheek.

"Stay for supper," Celeste sighs. "The young miss will be embarrassed by….whatever happened here. I'll inform Cook and her parents will be told that she extended the invitation and you gratefully—" she glares up at him, forestalling any protests, "—accepted. Go wait in George's room, one of his dinner suits shouldn't fit too badly and I'll send the valet up to dress you. "

"I'll—" her glare intensifies "—go wait in George's room," Conrad finishes lamely.

Your mother barges into your room halfway through Celeste helping you tie your corset cover on. You squeal in indignation at the door banging open, then simply sigh at the sight of your mother.

"Oh darling, why didn't you simply tell me you were planning something like this?" she asks you, almost proudly. Puzzled, you simply grin and bear her affections. "You've left me in quite the tizzy, no time to plan any special courses or order you a new dress." Gently, she pinches your chin with the most emotion you've seen from her since the announcement about Harry.

"Oh that won't do at all!" she cries, spying the dress Celeste had instructed your maid to lay out for dinner.

"It's the dress I wear to dinner regularly," you prompt her, wondering when on earth your mother had time to lose her mind.

"Yes but tonight's not just any dinner, now is it?" she responds dismissively, already combing through your wardrobe for something that would suit her suddenly inscrutable taste.

"No it isn't?" at Celeste's frantic gesturing, you repeat "No, it isn't," in a much steadier tone. "And it's not because…"

"Oh silly girl, did you already forget that you invited the Marquess to stay for dinner?" your mother chides you. "Oh this will do nicely!"

Your frantic confused faces at Celeste are instantly tucked away under a mask that almost drops the moment you see what your mother has picked out for you. It's a dress, of course, but one far too fine for a simple dinner. A remnant from your first season, the dress that had been intended for the final dinner party that never came about due to that momentous announcement of war at that soiree just over half a year ago. Diaphanous silk chiffon crusted in seed pearls, the frothy Valencienne lace bodice and sleeves giving it a much more….intimate air than a simple dinner gown would necessitate.

"I'm not wearing that," you tell your mother warningly.

"Don't be silly, of course you will," she dismisses you. "Now, matching gloves I think."

"It's clearly a summer gown!" you try to reason with her, but already she's directing your maid to pull out your matching pearl jewellery.

"Then it's a shame it never had the chance to be worn," she replies.

Frustrated, you huff and resist the urge to stamp your foot like a child. "I told you when you commissioned it and I'm telling you again now, you can see all my underthings through that dress!"

"Yes, darling, it's called a lingerie dress for a reason," your mother pats you on the shoulder patronizingly.

"Wh— but. I don't—"

"Hands up dear, the dress won't put it on by itself," she tells you, and you sigh, already knowing that you've been defeated.

Conrad pulls awkwardly at the cuffs of his dinner jacket, just this side shy of too short. He's never really had to spend time with the Baronet like this, as something approximating equals or 'man to man' as your father has just joked, boisterously clapping him on the back and offering him an aperitif. Nervously he sips at the small glass of liquor, using the motion to avoid having to make more conversation than necessary. Your father is extraordinarily interested in how his father runs the estate, what the annual income is and Conrad's own plans for future growth. It's a delicate line to balance between modestly demurring and factually reporting without tipping too far into gauche but Conrad thinks he's managed it. At least by the wide grin and ruddy humour of your father's reactions, he's at least managed not to to offend by talking so plainly about his finances.

With a feeling too euphoric to simply be called 'relief', your mother enters the parlour, trailing you in her wake. The relief is extremely short lived, because as you step out from behind your mother — not so subtly pushed as it were — Conrad promptly swallows his tongue and nearly chokes on the last of his drink. He's seen you in ballgowns, fine day dresses and outfits for nearly every occasion. He's seen you dressed, coiffed, and primped for the most royal of occasions and at your mud-streaked barefoot worst. The two of you have known each other in almost every season of your lives, in fact Conrad can remember the exact moment you stepped out of childhood and into adulthood. None of that, no other moment, has prepared him for this.

It's the simpleness of it all that undoes him. That this could be any other future night, that you could be walking in to dinner with him, skin fresh and eyes glowing in the soft light. The dress is gorgeous — he'd honestly have to be blind and stupidly in love with someone else not to notice — but its how you make it look that has him feeling thick headed and foolish, a child still mixing up his Latin verb declensions while a heavy handed tutor looks on. The sheer fabric of your dress has him inexplicably ashamed, like he's been invited to look at something precious not meant for him yet. On second glance, it's definitely not something he's meant to be seeing because wait, those are most certainly your undergarments. Oh he's going to burn in hell for this, he's going to burn in hell for—

"Lord Bolebec, why don't you do the honour of escorting my daughter in to dinner?" your mother suggests slyly, sliding her arm into the crook of your father's already proffered elbow. "We've been meaning to have her practice hosting more social engagements, and as you're the first guest she's formally invited, it's only fitting to start with you."

Woodenly, Conrad nods, still unable to unstick his tongue from the roof of his mouth. Your grimace still hasn't faded by the time he sets down his empty glass and strides over to offer you his arm. Heat suffuses your face as he so clearly and stiffly regrets whatever agreement Celeste must have browbeaten him in to. Conrad doesn't even look down at you as you take his arm and lead the group into the dining room. There's a muscle in his jaw throbbing as he pulls out your chair. He's trying very, very hard — and failing — to notice the way the single strand of pearls is drawing his eyes to your throat and down…further.

As your guest, Conrad sits beside you, a duty he fills admirably. As your guest, he is meant to be a conversational partner, a duty he fails at miserably. You've never, in the very many years and moments spent knowing each other, run out of things to speak of. Comforting silences drawing strength from an ease between you have existed, of course, but this, whatever this is, is not that.

Dinner turns into a long, painful affair, time artificially drawn out by Conrad's sudden inability to bloody talk to you. Questions are met with nods or one word answers. Appeals to shared memories or anecdotes you know he knows the punchlines to are met with blank stares or muttered words. Had your outburst earlier truly disgusted him so badly that your very presence unbalances him? Or perhaps it was letting your mother dress you in a very bald attempt at winning his favour through underhanded means. Whatever the matter is, the evening is quickly going from mortifying to downright humiliating.

Panicked, you throw desperate glances at your mother over his downcast head. Already forced to play a part somewhere between person — fully realized, intelligent, wilful, or in other words, a man — and ornamentation — beautiful, malleable, tasteful — your dignity comes cheap these days. With a smile strung as thin as your brother's favourite shaving razor, your mother obliges.

"My Lord Bolebec, I've heard that…"

Her, her he will answer. Polite, well-crafted ripostes to her elegant word games, answers that demonstrate that however reluctant he is to use them, social graces do exist inside of him. Whatever emotion is painted on your face is closer to a grimace than a smile but with every word spoken — distinctly not at your behest — humiliation pools in your belly.

"I'm afraid I've come down with a rather wicked headache," you announce suddenly before desert can be served. Abruptly you stand before one of the footmen can pull out your chair for you and sweep away to the library where hopefully no one will search for you for some time yet. Your last glimpse of the dining room is of Conrad half stood up from his seat, napkin clenched tightly in his hand.

Sprawled out in one of the high-backed chairs of the library, you scrub at your face and sigh. Celeste, thankfully, is the only one that has disturbed you, sliding into the room with a rueful smile and a glass of what would have been part of the after dinner cocktails. Seeming to sense your need to wallow in your embarrassment, she leaves you to it with a promise to come back in an hour if you hadn't gone up to bed by then. The drink burns as it goes down, but not as much as your face when you overhear your parents talking in the corridor outside.

"….awful, just awful. Albert, he hardly got a word out to her all supper! It really couldn't have gone more poorly, I simply don't understand what could have happened," your mother rants, voice fading into earshot.

"Really, woman," your father says disdainfully. "You dangle a boiled sweet wrapped up in nothing but cellophane in front of a starving man and what is he supposed to do? Think about anything other than eating it? That boy might still be wet behind the ears but he's still a red-blooded man. Honestly…."

Maybe it's the drink on a stomach that was far too tightly knotted to eat much at dinner, maybe it's the stinging tears of humiliation that prick at the corners of your eyes — whatever it is, some momentary madness animates you to write to your brother. Every avoided gaze, every stilted word, every humiliating sting of Conrad's sudden coldness, even the uncertain weight of your own grief over George's absence, makes its way onto the page. Fat tears drip onto the paper, smearing some of the drying ink. It's not not legible, and so in your state you let it be instead of trying to rewrite the whole blasted mess.

Is this what heartbreak feels like? You write, pen scratching over paper. If it is, I want my heart back. I want to go back, back when we were still running through fields and loving him wasn't as complicated as being in love with him.

It's with a sore head and a sore heart that you wake up the next morning. In your bleary headed daze, you don't recall asking Celeste to put the letter out with the rest of the post.

Conrad arrives like clockwork after luncheon, a bag of barley sugars in one hand and no mention of the previous evening on his lips. He doesn't bring it up when he's leafing through the paper and telling you the latest news he's gleaned from his father. Doesn't even hint at it when Celeste interrupts with the tea tray and a silent glare. Conrad does not mention it even when he has to return home for his own supper. Despite the many, many times the urge to just ask, to get him to confess to you what exactly had taken place, the words get caught in your throat. At last he must catch on to your hesitation, because he claps you on the shoulder and tells you not to worry.

"If you're worried about yesterday, you shouldn't be." You deflate with relief. "There's nothing wrong with being worried for your brother, but you shouldn't let that be the only thing in your life at the moment. We'll see better days, all three of us, and this will just be a bad memory to laugh about later." You sag in defeat.

You let the matter lie that day, and every day for the next two weeks after. Life goes on like it never happened. Or at least, it never happened whenever Conrad is around, but your mother with her nervous hand wringing refuses to let the matter die. Meal times, the only times she can be certain of your presence to pin you down and rehash the same events over again, are the most wretched parts of your day.

On this day, however, there's a letter from George brought in to you along with the toast. With greedy, eager hands you tear into the envelope, not caring about the crumbs smearing across the paper. Your mother continues to lecture you on all the possible mistakes you might have made but her voice fades into background noise at the first sight of George's sloping hand.

….so don't go wishing away your love, oh desperate sister of mine, he writes. Your hand flutters to your mouth in shock as your last letter, written in a tipsy haze, comes startlingly back into focus. You'll miss him when he's gone, like there's no air but you're still breathing. Don't spend the rest of your life waiting between breaths. Tell him, all right? That's the only thing I want, not for you to spend every day fretting over me. But, I know you and I know him so. I'm writing two letters; this one and one to Conrad, laying out all the reasons I think he's in love with you. Before you decide to strangle me, my reasoning is this: he's far, far more impulsive than you and thus less likely to over think it. If, even after everything is laid out before him and he still feels unable to address his (quite obvious) feelings, then I have asked him not to break your heart and let your feelings dissolve naturally. Honestly though, I don't foresee him not—"

"Oh Marquess, do sit down and join us!" your mother's voice brings reality crashing back down around your ears.

Conrad stands rather sheepishly at the door to the dining room, worrying a letter between his fingers. You swallow around your desert dry mouth and the thunderous roar of your pulse.

"I shouldn't like to impose," he starts nervously. "Only I've received a letter from George and thought that your daughter might like to open it together if she hadn't received one from him as well."

Your fingers are wrapped so tightly around your own letter from George that the paper starts to tear under the pressure. You hope the raw frantic energy bubbling in the pit of your stomach isn't immediately visible but Conrad catching your eye and cocking his head makes you certain it hasn't.

"Sit down and eat something first," your father insists, breaking the intractable hold of Conrad's concerned gaze. "Any news from George is liable to be weeks out of date and you're still a growing young man."

"I—" any protest Conrad might have offered is immediately squashed by the under butler methodically setting out another place setting at your left elbow. "I would be glad to," he lamely finishes.

Taking his seat, he finally notices the paper clutched in your hands.

"Oh I see you received one too."

Desperate not to let him see the all too revealing words George has written to you, about you, you quickly shove the letter into your pocket.

"Yes," you tell him through a tight smile. "I did. You don't usually share George's letters to you with me."

"I suppose it was meant to be a peace offering of sorts," he says quietly, trying to avoid your parents' overzealous attempts at eavesdropping. "For the other night's discourtesy."

The scrape of a knife pressed too hard against porcelain jolts you both back from your own intimate bubble, the rest of the world filtering back in.

"Marquess, I must wonder what are your father's plans for the summer with the social season unlikely to go ahead. Will he be going down to London to attend the emergency House of Lords more regularly?" Your father ensnares Conrad into a conversation about the Duke's political goals and Conrad's own opinions on the same matters, leaving you to bear the pointedly encouraging stares of your mother.

Conversation is interrupted by the door swinging open again only a few minutes later, the butler announcing Lord Kitchener. You have to crane your neck to get a glimpse of the man around the bulk of Conrad's body. It's unfair really, the bean pole he's grown up to become with stupidly wide shoulders to match. Murmurs breakout again as the room struggles to their feet to greet the unexpected guest. Shock, then glee flits across your father's face at such an illustrious visitor, especially one who had become so well known for his war efforts.

"Kitchener!" your father booms gaily, "What a pleasant surprise!"

"My, we really are quite popular this morning to be commanding so many visitors," your mother chimes in, nervously smoothing the fabric of her morning gown under her palms. Her napkin competes with her knuckles for a finer shade of white.

"Conrad, I wasn't aware that you'd be visiting with the family," Lord Kitchener says, removing his hat, tucking it under his arm, and waving off the footmen all in one smooth gesture.

"I wasn't aware you'd planned to visit them either," Conrad replies glibly. "They're very dear friends of mine."

"I see," says Lord Kitchener. "That makes this next part rather grim then."

He sighs, a heavy beleaguered thing, then turns to face your parents. Lord Kitchener rolls his shoulders back, braces himself visibly, and then begins to speak.

"It is with my deepest regrets that in the early hours of April 4th, your son, George, was killed in action."

The clock in the hallway chimes, ringings out the new hour, before resuming its heavy handed ticking. Tick. Tick. Tock. The world grinds to a halt.

A serving tray rattles in a footman's suddenly clumsy hands. Your mother lands in her chair heavily, not her usual graceful descent but the free fall of gravity taking over. Your father gasps as though he's been hit. There's no— there's not enough air in the room.

Georgie's words burn a hole through your pocket, the rest of your body icily numb. No. It's not true.

Conrad is the first to find his words again.

"But he's an engineer! He shouldn't be near any action at all, surely there's been some confusion."

"I'm afraid there's been no mistake," Lord Kitchener sighs, full of regret and the world weary exhaustion of someone that's seen too much waste. "Along with the rest of his unit, he was constructing tunnels near Ypres. The shelling was too heavy for the not yet supported tunnels and every last soul was lost." He pauses, the weight of all those deaths crushing him down. "I am so very sorry for your loss."

"I don't believe you," you croak through vocal chords that feel screamed raw. "I don't believe you. I want to see him. I want to see my brother, I want to see Georgie." Your voice breaks on the last word. Your hands tremble and so you ball them into fists, nails cutting into your palms to hide the tremors. You have to be brave. For him.

It can't be true. He's not dead. He's not. He's just written to you, he's got schemes and wild capers up his sleeves. There's still a parcel of pear drops and socks you'd finally knitted well enough to send him, still packed up on the desk in your bedroom, waiting for the post to resume after the Easter holiday. Georgie, with his soft eyes and wry sense of humour can't be gone. He mustn't be. He promised to come back.

"It wasn't possible to recover any of the bodies," Lord Kitchener tries to let you down gently. "But I assure you there were no survivors."

The gaping pit that's followed you around since the moment your brother left finally opens up and swallows you whole.

You manage one determined step towards him before Conrad steps into your path, arms coming round you to stop your advance. He holds you steady, unwavering even as you fight to free yourself from his grasp.

An animal caught in a trap, you thrash and scream over the sounds of your mother's quiet sobs. He won't — Lord Kitchener can't be allowed to be unscathed by this, the collapse of your entire world. Georgie has been the one constant of your entire life. Your first friend, your first co-conspirator. The first one to see you, to take you seriously, to ask you about the future you want instead of what you were expected to have. Georgie's the one that's always been purely, completely, and totally on your side. He can't be gone because if he is then he's left you. He's betrayed you by dying, by leaving you to face the rest of the world, the rest of your life, without him at your shoulder.

"He killed him," you hiss. "He killed my brother, that bastard KILLED MY BROTHER." You scream and wail and still the body in your way won't budge. Hardly seems affected by your clawing and struggling, and so you, in your anger, strike where it will hurt. "He killed your best friend! He killed Georgie!"

Conrad shudders, takes an involuntary step backwards, but refuses to bend to your grief. "He killed him, he killed him," you repeat over and over again, voice trailing into wracking sobs. The fight, the anger driving you dissipating into something more raw as you futilely throw yourself over and over again at the human wall Conrad has put between you and the man that saw your brother into his living grave.

You'll miss him when he's gone, like there's no air but you're still breathing.

You're going to be sick. Was he scared, your brother, when he realized what would happen, trapped down there in the dirt, in the dark? Did he realize the moment when the air ran out that his life would too? Did he panic? Did he pray? How long did it take to suffocate in the wet earth? Or maybe, maybe there was some merciful god looking down, one that let him be knocked unconscious so that his last moments were not spent in pain. Maybe—

The pounding of your fists against Conrad's chest grows weaker, hands clutching at the front of his suit. It's the only thing keeping you present, the weave of the fabric under your fingers as your face grows hot with the saline of your tears. You sob, great big wracking things that make your ribs ache, the pounding of your heart ever present, even as Conrad holds you up. You're cold, so cold. The core of you frozen, coated over with the thickest ice.

A warm hand cradles your face into the starched collar of a neck. Quickly it grows damp from your tears but the hand never turns you away. A noise, a horrible wailing noise won't stop ringing out. Please, won't anyone make that awful, animal noise stop?With a start you realize it's coming from your own mouth, ripped from your throat and the aching remnants of what was your heart.

"An official death notice will be sent to you shortly," Lord Kitchener says tiredly, putting on his officer's cap. "I thought that as it was my direct interference that led to the boy's enlistment in the Corps that I should express my condolences directly."

"You were mistaken," insists your father, voice strangled with grief. "Now good day to you sir."

[ashleyrowanthewriter]

That Dream Again - Life and Times of Ashley the Crow (Crow HRT?)

Next

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

I felt the warmth of the sun rays on my feathers as I was waking up. My murder flew to the ground looking for breakfast. I’ve found some tasty looking fruits and I called my compatriots. I saw a friend finding some nuts so I brought him a rock to crush them. The feast was plentiful. It was time to scavenge for needles to build fortifications on the nest. The murder took off into the air and started the search. I tried taking off too, but no matter how much I tried moving my wings, I could not take off. I tried and tried to no effect. And my murder left me.

I woke up with heavy breathing. In the same bed as always, in the same body as always. No beak, but a human nose. No talons, but human feet. No feathers, but human hair. No wings, but human hands. Some tears appeared in my eyes, but I quickly wiped them.

I looked at the clock. It was 2 AM. I knew I should sleep more, but I doubted I’d be able to. Then I remembered that I had a guest.

My girlfriend Arja was sleeping in the other room. She was far into her dragon transition to the point that she could only sleep on my couch. I went to the guest room. Arja woke up a bit right as I opened the door.

“Are you sleepwalking?” Arja asked.

“No,” I said. “I just had… that dream again… Can I sleep with you tonight? If I fit on the couch of course.”

Arja moved a bit to the side. “Sure, come here,” she said.

“Thank you.”

I snuggled together with Arja. Her scales felt warm like a cup of tea in an Autumn afternoon. I felt it was just what I needed.

“Have you been having these dreams a lot?” asked Arja.

“A lot more since I moved,” I said. “Maybe it’s my brain that is finally allowing this feeling.”

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Arja asked.

“You know I can’t become a crow!” I said. “That stupid fish heart of mine will not transition properly! I’ll die before I can fly!” I was on the edge of crying. “Sometimes I want to jump. I don’t care if I fly or not. But at the same time I don’t want to fall.”

I think I scared Arja. She embraced me tighter. She put a hand on my heart.

“I understand you want to listen to this,” Arja said and moved her hand to mine. “But if so, don’t listen to this!”

I felt better and genuinely smiled. “Thank you!” I said.

We kissed each other and fell asleep.

In the morning I woke up to an empty couch. I looked around the room looking for Arja. I’ve found her in the kitchen with a bowl of fruits and nuts.

“How was the night, my little bird?” Arja asked.

“Much better,” I said. “What’s with that bowl if I may ask?”

“I thought I could pay you back for all the stakes,” Arja said.

I was really happy.

“You didn’t add any sulfur?” I asked, referencing an inside joke.

“I would never!” Arja said.

We laughed and I started eating my breakfast. It was a nice morning. A much needed high after a sudden low. And I was grateful for knowing Arja.

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

So here we are! I've finally wrote my own crow HRT story. And I guess I've managed to unintentionally subvert the genre. But since the OG uses their series to express their feelings on transitioning, I can do it with my feelings on being trans with a heart defect. Maybe someone feels similarly. It would get less lonely.

Anyway, I hope you'll like it! There will be more stories, but they will be more episodic than a typical animal HRT series. Unless it turns out my heart defect doesn't prevent me from transitioning somehow! Then I'll start crowing up as soon as the real me starts girling up.

Anyway, shout out to everybody who might need it!

Aha! And the title of the series lost the poll, but I grew to feel it would be appropriate. Sorry for disappointment.

[sapphoscreature]

Arcane Season 2 Episode 4- 'Paint the Town Blue' sequence and Caitlyn & Maddie Bedroom scene- deep dive

As part of a series I would like to post looking at Caitlyn throughout act 2, I want to analyse the opening sequence of episode 4, ‘Paint the Town Blue’, and the bedroom scene which follows to explore what each is telling us about Caitlyn. A disclaimer that I’m no pro when it comes to analysing the animation medium, just someone fascinated by the storytelling in ‘Arcane.’ These are also only my interpretations, which are not at all meant to be definitive.

‘Paint the Town Blue’

We open with the ‘Paint the Town Blue’ sequence. This provides us with context of all that has happened in the months since Act 1 ended. Caitlyn seems consumed by her desire for revenge. She is a brooding figure of whom we only see snatches- her back; side-on in an armchair; one side of her face, Ambessa looming; her steely eyes, clasped hands covering the rest of her face. The visual black and white suggests she is perhaps thinking in black and white, of revenge and vengeance.

The Bedroom Scene

Following the opening credits, Caitlyn sits awake in a bedroom swamped in darkness but as a full and seemingly solitary figure. The music is melancholy. The late hour and her nightwear suggest a more vulnerable presentation. I read Caitlyn’s expression as pensive. She has a lot on her mind. Indeed, when Maddie appears (surprisingly), she asks, ‘up again? The city’s not going anywhere.’ Caitlyn is losing sleep over the events in Piltover and Zaun.

As this scene progresses, I think it becomes evident that she is uneasy both with Ambessa’s presence and the actions they have taken, and with the position to which she has been promoted. Caitlyn says, ‘I never expected this to go on so long. I thought… I don’t know what I thought. Just… it wasn’t this.’

Caitlyn’s tone wavers on ‘I don’t know what I thought.’ There is strong emphasis on ‘this.’ That she is awake ‘again’ suggests she has been contemplative for some time, not wholly consumed by grief, guilt, and anger.

Her sleeplessness seems to directly relate to her having ‘an audience with the masons’ guild first thing in the morning,’ the topic of which Maddie tells us will be ‘complaints about the Noxians.’ Ambessa’s presence is bothersome, harmful. ‘They doubled their fortification requests again. To keep-’ Caitlyn is interrupted by Maddie, so we don’t know what she was going to say, but that Maddie reminds her that the Noxians are, apparently, keeping them ‘safe,’ suggests that Caitlyn was thinking something along different lines.

As for Maddie herself, we know now that she is a Noxian spy. That she spends this scene being the consolation Caitlyn needs as her doubts about Ambessa grow, as well as suggesting that she could ‘withdraw from the underground and re-establish the council,’ is interesting to consider in this light. Amanda Overton said that Maddie functions as the angel on Caitlyn’s shoulder in this episode, as opposed to Ambessa as the devil.

With the added layer of subterfuge, I think this tells us a lot about Caitlyn’s position here. Maddie may be the angel on her shoulder, encouraging her to be her own leader, but Ambessa engineered the escalation in tensions between Piltover and Zaun. She chose Caitlyn for the commander role. And if Maddie works for her, then I think her motives can be interpreted as monitoring Caitlyn to gauge her feelings and whether she does represent any threat to Ambessa’s continued control of the Piltover/Zaun situation. Because what happens when Caitlyn does eventually betray Ambessa? Ambessa invades and forces them into conflict and Maddie seems to delight in executing Cait (or at least trying to- thanks Mel).

Ambessa and Caitlyn’s relationship is complex, and I’m not going to dive into it properly here, but I think Ambessa both values the Caitlyn’s determination and how grief has twisted her and made her rather pliable. She wants to mend something broken into something steelier along Noxian lines, which is why she trains her. But whilst she respects Caitlyn’s tenacity, she does not respect her authority. ‘We seize[d] control of this backwater,’ she says to Rictus. ‘Child,’ ‘little one,’ she calls Caitlyn. She needs a puppet as the figurehead of the regime, whose leadership is defined by her uncertainty and the need for guidance, and influential feelings of turmoil, such as grief and guilt.

Caitlyn is not yet the leader we see in act 3, taking action and accountability for her actions. This is very evident in this bedroom scene. Caitlyn doubts herself as a leader. She has yet to find Jinx (atp it’s been roughly 3-6 months), and we see it still hurts. ‘Not without Jinx,’ she replies bitterly to Maddie’s suggestion they withdraw from the undercity. That twistedness which had built throughout act 1 remains.

And whilst she is doubtful of Ambessa, she is also a source of guidance for Caitlyn. I find it interesting Caitlyn seems to be talking herself around to Ambessa as a presence and a guide. Maddie jokes she emulates Ambessa when she finds a reason for them not to withdraw. Caitlyn has ‘learned so much from her.’

And when Maddie raises Caitlyn’s chin to look her own reflection in the eye, enthusing that ‘the enforcers, Piltover, they follow you,’ Caitlyn sighs heavily as she considers herself.

There is a lot you could interpret from this, considering Caitlyn’s doubts. The framing of Caitlyn being faced with her own reflection in a mirror is fascinating, especially if you consider the study scene later in the episode, in which her reflection appears melded with Jinx’s visage.

But here, I think we are seeing someone uneasy with the crown on their head, whose rational side which knows Ambessa spells bad news for both Piltover and Zaun is clashing with her more vulnerable, emotional side, desperate for guidance (in Act 1, she laments to Vi she doesn’t know what to do. They make a plan, but when this fails, and Caitlyn leaves Vi, it is Ambessa who is there to ‘fill the vacuum’ Vi’s absence affords).

Through her name, Caitlyn must become a Piltovan leader, but she is not yet ready. Her uncomfortableness with the position she has been raised to, and the way in which her time in leadership has been playing out, is nowhere more evident than in her reactions to Maddie’s affections.

Amanda Overton said that Maddie is Caitlyn’s attempt to date the sort of woman her mother would have approved of, a sign of Caitlyn trying to mould herself into the Kiramman Piltover expects her to be. As Maddie tries to soothe Caitlyn with word and touch, Caitlyn remains, for the most part, turned away from her. She passively receives her kisses and touch. Her thumb glances Maddie’s hand and she musters small smiles, but Maddie is unable to distract Caitlyn from her troubles and she eventually rises from the bed, implying that her troubles remain. She is no more reassured that she was at the beginning of the scene.

Conclusion

There is lots more you could analyse in both these scenes, and as you can tell I’ve focussed mainly on what Caitlyn is saying, and there is more in that which could also be interpreted, but it is interesting to compare them. The contrast between the shadowy, piecemeal figure of vengeance in the ‘Paint the Town Blue’ sequence and Caitlyn’s contemplative, more vulnerable nighttime presentation can allows us to peel back the layers of nuance playing out.

[toskarin]

with all the rimworld talk recently, are there any mods you like for it?

so these are deliberately going to be weirder picks because anyone else would recommend you Majestic Trees, Psychology, Facial Animation, etc.

some sort of music mod is a must if you've played the game long enough. I usually tailor my selection here to the theme of my modpack, but my favourite general purpose pick is Music Expanded: Made in Abyss

Ashlands. I love Ashlands.

the Fortifications series is great if you want lots more to clutter your base with and enjoy the combat side of the game. it does tend to make bases look like industrial nightmares, but that's why you got the mod, right?

D-Pad. it's so handy to be able to manually control groups of pawns on such a granular level, especially if you're getting involved in lots of ranged combat

Outland Genetics, just to get those weird fantasy characters going. have an elf in your colony, help yourself

Army of Fetid Corpses + CAI 5000 if you really want to make it a survival horror nightmare. I personally really enjoy the vibe of realising that horrifying guro monsters are a looming threat, just because they look so deeply unpleasant and scary that you can't ever really get entirely desensitised to them

[whencyclopedia]

Battles of Saratoga

The Battles of Saratoga (19 September and 7 October 1777) marked the climactic end of the Saratoga Campaign during the American Revolutionary War (1775-1783). The battles, which resulted in the surrender of an entire British army, convinced France to enter the war as a United States ally and are therefore considered a major turning point in the American Revolution.

Background

On 20 June 1777, General John Burgoyne led a British army of 8,300 men out of Canada, intent on seizing the Hudson River Valley and capturing Albany, New York. The Hudson River was considered by many to be the key to the American continent, and Burgoyne believed that its capture would allow him to isolate and suppress the New England colonies, thereby cutting the fledgling United States in half. Burgoyne led his army down Lake Champlain to the vital stronghold of Fort Ticonderoga, which the British effortlessly captured on 6 July. After defeating Ticonderoga's fleeing garrison at the Battle of Hubbardton (7 July), the British arrived at Fort Edward, on the Hudson. By this point, Burgoyne felt confident enough to write to Lord George Germain, the British colonial secretary, that he expected New England to fall in a matter of weeks.

Meanwhile, the Northern Department of the American Continental Army scrambled to mount a defense. General Philip Schuyler, who had previously overseen the Northern Department, was blamed for the loss of Ticonderoga and was relieved from command. He was replaced by General Horatio Gates, an ambitious officer who had long been seeking the glory of an independent command. On 3 August, Gates arrived at Stillwater, a small town along the Hudson where the ragtag units of the northern American army had begun to coalesce. Joining Gates at Stillwater were several officers and units who had been sent north by the American commander-in-chief, General George Washington, to aid in the Hudson's defense; these included General Benedict Arnold, a fiery-tempered soldier from Connecticut, as well as the popular New Englander General Benjamin Lincoln, and Virginian Colonel Daniel Morgan, whose Rifle Corps was already noted for its sharpshooting prowess. All told, Gates found approximately 8,500 effective troops at Stillwater.

As Gates' army continued to gather, the British expedition began to falter. On 15 August, nearly 1,000 of Burgoyne's German troops were killed, wounded, or captured by a Vermont militia at the Battle of Bennington. Meanwhile, a secondary British army had failed to capture Fort Stanwix on the Mohawk River and had retreated back into Canada, isolating Burgoyne's primary force. Despite these setbacks, and although his supplies were rapidly dwindling, Burgoyne refused to entertain the possibility of retreat and continued to push toward Albany. Gates, perhaps at Benedict Arnold's instigation, decided to meet this threat head-on and marched his army 10 miles (16 km) north toward the town of Saratoga. On 7 September, Gates' army occupied Bemis Heights, a bluff that sat about 200 feet (60 m) above the river and was covered in dense forests and ragged terrain. Polish engineer Tadeusz Kościuszko oversaw the construction of a series of fortifications atop the heights, which Gates' soldiers sheltered within.

Continue reading...

[twola]

Seven Deadly Sins - VII

PAIRING: low to mid honor Arthur Morgan x Fem!reader

Because if one thing is true, it is that Arthur Morgan is a sinner. Pure, organic, non-GMO smut. A continuing series.

Warnings: Smut, Violence, Low to Medium Honor Arthur (and all that entails)

Pride: a feeling of deep pleasure or satisfaction derived from one's own achievements.

➵ AO3 Link

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It is not even a question, nor even a suggestion, of where you sit high atop Arthur’s horse. Slotted against him, pressed back into his chest, one arm securely holding you to him. There are no jokes or witty retorts this time. One of your hands rests lightly above his, splayed across your stomach.

It is not some hidden thing as you traipse through Rhodes, the dusty red dirt blowing in the wind as townsfolk watch his horse slowly walk through.

Something akin to pride surges through you as men collecting on the hotel’s porch look upon you and then avert their eyes, so as not to garner attention from the gunslinger behind you. His arm tightens around your midsection each time you pass a man, and you’re sure that the look he gives passersby is a dark, threatening glare.

This man, who can tear any other one apart with his bare hands, has decided that you are the thing that captivates him. That he desires above all others. That he will worship and satisfy and murder for you.

You’d happily do the same, of course. While killing rivals may not be as easy for you as it is for him, you’ve noted the way women look at him in saloons and bars, and you can’t wait to sit upon his lap, draping yourself over him, in public as if to stake your claim.

All of the muscle and sinew and strength that make up this man - it belongs to you.

You lean back against him, your head against his collarbone, and sigh contentedly.

His fingers tighten gently on your belly, and you feel him lean into you. He presses his lips against your cheekbone lightly. For all to see.

Yours.

-

The sun has set by the time the two of you reach the old plantation house, the fire blazing up the way as he guides his mare to hitch her for the night. He swings himself down from the saddle and ties the reins to the post. You swing your leg over the saddle and he grabs your waist, guiding you down gently.

You glance toward the camp, where people have gathered around the campfire, laughter, and discussion wafting through the warm air. Arthur places his hand on your lower back, pressing you gently toward the group.

“C’mon, let’s get back to 'em. You know you’ve missed Pearson’s cooking.”

You roll your eyes but smile all the same. The two of you make your way past the horses and mock fortifications that have been built to the gang, where you are welcomed and immediately asked about the take - which Arthur is able to artfully craft and excuse on why you’re coming back empty-handed. One that didn’t involve locking yourselves in a hotel room for multiple days.

The tale is believed, and you take your seat on the ground next to Mary Beth, who hands you a bottle of beer with a smile. Dutch beckons Arthur toward the decrepit fountain to talk in a hushed tone.

The night rolls on, with Javier playing his guitar, men reciting bawdy jokes, and Uncle and Hosea telling stories of old. Arthur and Dutch return to the fire after some time, the latter lighting a cigar and holding the match up for Arthur to light one of his own before they both take seats on chairs around the fire.

At some point, you stand up, stretching your back, which was sore from being in the saddle all day. You lean backward, hands bracing your spine, and wince a little before stepping around the circle and toward the house. After the last several days, all you can think about is going to sleep - curling up in your spot in the downstairs room of the house, where several of the other girls have made their sleeping arrangements as well. You round behind Arthur and he turns his head toward you.

“Darlin,” Arthur grunts, the cigar smoking between his teeth, “C’mere.”

He yanks your arm toward him, and you stumble slightly, his other hand grabbing your hip and pulling you into his lap. Javier, fortunately, does not miss a beat as he strums his guitar, though his eyebrows raise in amusement. Mary Beth stifles a giggle, while both Hosea and Dutch smirk into their respective drinks.

Arthur does not seem to care at all, one hand securely on your hip, the other pulling the cigar from his mouth as he exhales a plume of smoke in the other direction from you. You take the opportunity as it's given, draping your arms around his neck and leaning into his solid warmth.

Javier continues to play in the warm night. 

You’ve started to doze off, sitting there on his lap, head laying on his shoulder. He notices and taps your rear, “Y’can head up to my room. I’ll be up in a little.”

You nod, blinking back the drowsiness as you move to stand up from his lap. Before you can move away from the campfire, however, Arthur grabs your hand, and yanks you back toward him, nearly pulling you to the ground as you jolt in surprise. 

He tuts disapprovingly as he rights you, one hand on your hip, “Ah-ah, not without a proper goodbye.”

A lopsided smirk crosses your face before you lean into him and press your lips against his. He holds you in place for what seems to be an absurd amount of time before drawing back.

“Go on now.” He drawls lowly, his lips hovering inches away from yours. You stand up to your full height, acutely aware of the eyes that have settled upon you. Without acknowledging the stares of the men around the fire; you walk away, toward the house and away from the gathering.

A bottle is chucked at Arthur’s feet. He turns back from watching you to scowl at where it came from.

Micah opens another bottle of beer at his seat on a crate across the campfire. He sneers in Arthur’s direction, pointing the neck of the bottle at your retreating figure.

“ ‘S that why you’re in such a good mood, Morgan? Finally gettin’ your cock wet?” 

Arthur smirks. “Ain’t no fault of mine you can’t get any you don’t pay for.”

Micah scowls back at him, “Least I can please the ladies, old man.”

Arthur snorts dismissively but doesn’t push the conversation back, instead taking a long pull of whiskey from the bottle in his hand and staring into the flickering flames of the campfire.

-

It’s even later by the time he clambers up the stairs of the old plantation house, each creaking under his weight as he makes his way up them. He opens the door to his room slowly, peering in to find you on his bed, facing the wall, under a heap of blankets.

The lantern is turned low but throws moving shadows throughout the room, and you stir from the bed, rolling over to face him. Completely rousing from slumber, you whine softly as he makes his way around the room, pulling his gun belt off and placing it on the table opposite the bed, hanging his hat on an old dresser. 

“Arthur,” you purr, with the vestiges of sleep still evident in the hoarseness of your voice, “come to bed.”

He smirks, pleased with himself in the needy scratch of your voice, as he turns back toward you to take you in.

You’re tangled in the threadbare sheets on the bed, in only one of his unbuttoned work shirts. 

“Hm. Think that’s mine.” Arthur snorts, amused as he places his hands on his hips in mock annoyance.

You smile deviously as you edge the hem of his shirt up, up, over the swell of your thighs, the cotton slowly passing over the thatch of dark hair that hides your cunt. 

“Come here, Arthur.”

You open your legs, showing him your glistening folds. 

Is this what it’s like?  

Coming to wherever he laid his head every night to a warm bed and a woman who wanted only him? Arms to embrace him and a slick, hot cunt to bury himself in night after night? To wake up tangled in limbs and skin on skin instead of rough spun sheets?

God, now he understood why Dutch always had a woman in his bed.

“My lady.” 

His boots rumble to the floor as he sheds them.

“I like hearing you say that,” you sigh happily, reaching toward him.

“I’ll say it t’ya every night if this is the way I find you in my bed.” Arthur pulls his suspenders down and begins to unbutton his shirt. You sit up and start unbuttoning his pants, smirking as he juts his hips forward into your touch, his cock hard and swelling beneath the denim.

He sheds his shirt quickly, peeling it from his arms and tossing it to the floor. You’ve unbuttoned his pants and shove one of your hands down them, grasping for his cock, and he grunts through gritted teeth as your fingers encircle his flesh.

Arthur’s hands find their way to the collar of his shirt on your shoulders, the open ends barely hiding your nipples as he starts to draw the fabric apart. He steps back, pulling away from you and your hand to peel down the sleeves of his shirt from your arms, stripping it from you and throwing it unceremoniously on the floor. 

Still a step away from your bare form, Arthur shoves his pants to the floor, where they pile at his feet as he steps out of them. His hard cock bobs heavily as he steps closer to the bed, and you sit up on your knees, meeting him as he dives in to press his lips against yours.

His arms snake around your warm body as he presses his tongue against the seam of your lips, which you quickly acquiesce and open to him. You run your hand down the plane of his chest, down his stomach, almost reaching his cock before he pushes you back, hard, and you yelp as you bounce slightly on the old bed. Before you can utter a word of complaint, Arthur climbs on top of you, pressing you into the mattress, and slots his lips against yours as his hips shimmy between your legs, his cock rubbing against your most tender flesh.

He knows his mouth tastes overwhelmingly of whiskey. He’s not drunk, not a bumbling mess who can’t see straight… But he has had more than enough to drink to be dangerous .

You gasp into his mouth as one of his hands moves to knead roughly at your breast, the other one looping under your lower back, pressing your hips up against his. His hips roll back and forth against yours, the friction of his cock parting your folds and rubbing against your clit makes you whine in pleasure.

He thinks, vaguely, at this point you’ve gotten the hint. It's one of those nights. He’s near smothering you under his large frame, and his tongue pushes against yours fervently as low sounds reverberate from his chest.

Arthur pulls back, and your bewildered gaze has turned into something more feral, more needy. You let your legs fall open farther as you pant, he looms above you, stroking his cock that’s covered in your slick after rocking against you for many moments. 

“Gonna fuck y’ now.” He drawls, and as soon as the words leave his mouth, you’re standing there, in the middle of Flat Iron Lake, moonlight dancing on your dewy curves.  

And he is gazing from the shoreline with near unquenchable need.

“ Yes -” you moan, and you thrust your hips up to get closer to him, “ Fuck me , Arthur.”

Arthur can’t press into you fast enough, sinking in ‘til his hips are flush against yours, groaning out in pleasure as your tight warmth constricts around him. He can only bear to give you a few moments to get used to him before he pulls back and thrusts himself forward with a vigor that makes you moan loudly. Your sweet cry is music to his ears, and he finds a punishing rhythm that keeps you gasping for more.

He braces one of his arms against the wall as he bears down on you harder; faster. He’s enjoying this, just watching your eyes nearly roll back into your head, your panting, whining voice mewling with every thrust.

He wants Micah to hear you from goddamn Rhodes . 

“C’mon darlin’,” he grabs your chin and you groan as he forces you to look up at him, and with a growl, he pulls back completely from your hips, leaving your pulsing cunt to clutch around nothing, “They can’t hear ya.”

Arthur, in one smooth, fast, bruising stroke, slams his cock back into your cunt and you shriek , screaming your pleasure into the room and out the open window.

“Tha’s it- c’mon now…” He throws his hips into a punishing rhythm, one of his hands spread wide around the globe of your rear, clenching hard enough that you’d have purpling marks from his fingers come morning.

He can see the tears collecting at the corners of your eyes, and your mouth hangs open as he continues to pull the sweet sounds from your mouth. But he wants more, more.

“ Let ‘em know who’s fuckin’ you .” He snarls in your ear, the bedframe clanging against the plaster wall in the room as he slams his hips into yours, and a piteous wail erupts from your throat, volume high as he hits a spot in your cunt that makes your body sing.

Finally, like ambrosia dripping from your blessed lips, his name escapes out into the night as you convulse beneath him, your cunt clenching near painfully around his cock.

“ A-Arthur-!”

That, that did him in. Every man for goddamn miles would have been able to hear that, the high-pitched screech of his name, breathless, satisfied. It’s only four more strokes he can get in before a loud groan tumbles from his throat, he squeezes his eyes shut tightly as his cock pulses stream after stream of spend into your warmth.

He’s breathless - you’re breathless. Maybe he did have a bit too much to drink, considering the most he can do right now is collapse to the side of you, drawing you in closer to him, before sleep overtakes.

-

The birds chirp softly in the morning light. The humidity of south Lemoyne is smothering in its heaviness, even this early in the morning, the cicadas are loud even as the sun rises. Shady Belle, her glory days long behind her, sits as a testament to times long gone, the death of a way of life extinct in this modern age.

If one stands at just the right place, under the awning of the side porch, they’d be able to hear a muted noise of wood knocking against plaster. It was probably a good thing that no one was actually standing there.

In the room above, you and Arthur are wrapped around each other.

Your leg is thrown over his hip as he muffles your sighs with his lips. His large hand is spread wide over the swell of your rear as he rocks his hips into yours, slowly, gently. His fingers cover over darkening signs of his need for you from last night. Under a blanket the two of you undulate in unhurried motions, his cock slowly sliding in and out of your cunt as if he had nothing else to do in the world.

His tongue dances with yours, as your fingers dig into his shoulder blade, your arm wound underneath his.

You give a little cry when he hits that spot within you.

“ There’s my girl.” He whispers against your lips, his low voice husky as he squeezes your rear, rolling your hips against his own.

“ Arthur- ,” you whine out, trying desperately to keep yourself quiet, unlike last night’s session.

“Mm, darlin -” he drawls into your mouth, his hips moving faster as your cries become higher, louder, needer. After one sweet gliding thrust, you gasp, your mouth hanging open as your fingers grip around his arm tightly.

“You gonna-” Arthur’s whispered question is cut off as his eyes screw shut, a barely concealed moan escaping from him. He’s brought to that precipice also here under the blankets. You take the opportunity to surge forward and catch his lips, which he greedily accepts and presses his tongue against yours.

Your blunt nails leave crescent marks in his skin as your cunt clenches around his hard cock, and not a moment later, his hips buck forward further into you as he comes, hot and fast, into your wet warmth.

Muffled sounds of lips meeting each other, soft sighs, deep, low rumbles fill the room, though outside the window, the noises of the camp coming alive stream in - the clanging of Pearson’s pots, the crackling of the fire, the murmured greetings of men lining up for their morning coffee. The whinnying of the horses.

Arthur pulls his lips back from yours, and his hand moves to your cheek, brushing back to your hair as his azure eyes scan your face. You smile, your hand pressed against his chest, under the muscle and bone you can feel the strong thump of his still-racing heart.

“Much as I’d like to stay ‘ere all day,” He presses another quick kiss to your lips, just enough that his scruffy beard scratches your chin, “I gotta get goin’ on this job.”

You frown for a moment, but the curve of your lips is playful, you know too, that he has to go. He slowly extricates himself from your embrace, and as you grab the balled-up blanket to cover your nude form, he starts to dress, kicking dirty clothes around on the floor before opening the chest at the end of the bed. You certainly don’t mind the view, the man is hewn seemingly from cut stone, solid and muscular from his head to his toes.

A small sense of regret flushes over you as you watch him pull on a nice pair of suit pants, as the object of your pleasure is hidden from your view as he buttons them up. He snorts, watching your face fall, and a small smirk appears on his face.

“Eager there, aren’tcha?”

“Shut up.”

He laughs to himself as he pulls on a fresh white dress shirt, feeding the buttons through their eyelets.

“Why, ain’t you just the sophisticated gentleman.” You giggle before stretching your arms above your head in the bed as he ties a silk scarf around his neck.

He mutters something under his breath. Probably cursing Saint Denis and the high society trapping it entails.

Arthur pulls on his jacket as you roll to face him fully, tangled up in the worn blanket, your hair mussed with sex and sleep. The fabric does little to shield you, your breasts high and on display to him, he can see the fading bruise he made with his teeth the week prior when he had you up against a brick wall in that Saint Denis alleyway.

Possessive pride surges within him as he steps closer to your form. You smile up at him, a tired, tender look on your face before he leans over you and the bed.

He taps on the bare skin of your décolletage with his middle finger. 

“Much as I like this view… you deserve somethin’ beautiful here. Gonna get you a fancy necklace after this job.”

He leans down and kisses the hollow of your neck, and you smile as his beard tickles your skin.

You laugh, pushing his hand away. “C’mon now, I’m just a lowly thief. Women like me don’t wear fancy necklaces.”

“Y’aint just a lowly thief. You’re my lady. Let me spoil ya.” He drawls lowly into your skin, leaving trails of wet imprints from his lips as he moves downward. Arthur laves his tongue over the swell of your breast, closing his lips around one of your peaked nipples and suckling gently.  A satisfied whine, soft and gentle, leaves your throat, and Arthur smiles against your skin as he presses his lips back up your neck before pulling away from your warm body.

You sigh in contentment as he pulls the blanket up and over your chest, keeping you cocooned in a semblance of warmth as he needs to leave your embrace.

“Y’know, I’m sure you can just steal one.” You laugh as he steps toward the table and grabs his gun belt, wrapping it around his hips. The revolvers glint in the sunlight streaming in from the open window.

“Naw. I’ll have plenty of money after this job. Can buy you anythin’ you want. Anythin’ that looks good round that pretty little neck of yours.”

“Oh?”

“Sure, ain't every day we’re robbin’ the Lemoyne National Bank.”

-

[dailyadventureprompts]

Dungeon: The Fleetbreaker’s Bones

“More than three hundred years dead and rotting and it’s still going to kill us all. That’s dedication right there.”

-Tousu, hapless deckhand moments before a wreck

The remnants of this great kaiju turned fossil-reef has been swallowing up ships for centuries, a habit it’s not managed to break despite a great hero spearing it to a volcanic atoll and founding a prosperous kingdom over the territory it never would have ceded in life. Underwater lava flows create boiling mists and unstable weather patterns making sailing anywhere near the island a gamble. Ships lost in storms throughout the region seem invariably pulled towards the reef, leading many in villages along the coast to speculate that not even death can sate the great beast’s hunger.

In more recent years a ramshackle band of corsairs has decided to make the Reef their home, having suffered a disastrous defeat while raiding the mainland and needing somewhere, no matter how inhospitable, to regroup.  The Fleetbreaker ironically provided the perfect safe harbour, close enough to the trading lanes to raid, far enough out of anyone’s way and into unfriendly waters that reprisal was unlikely. They’ve had such success that they’ve been able to cobble together dwellings and fortifications across the reef, as well as a knocked together shipyard in the sheltered caverns that were one the kaiju’s belly.

Adventure Hooks:

The Fleetbreaker Pirates have managed to chart the rhythm of the atoll’s seemingly unpredictable weather, following in the wake of storms like scavengers after a bloodthirsty predator. With the party’s vessel having barely survived the night battling a sulfurous smelling gale, they’ll have to act quickly as first light and the hope that comes with it is dashed by the appearance of enemy vessels on the horizon.

Captured at sea (or perhaps after having one too many rounds of grog while in port) the party find themselves clapped in irons, stripped of their gear, and locked in a series of muggy stone cells. The Fleetbreakers deal in slaves as well as plundered goods, and it’s only a matter of weeks or maybe even days before their buyer shows up to trade in flesh. They have to escape, but how? Sneak out just their friends and disguise themselves on an enemy ship? Break out the other innocents and risk detection?

There are many sections of the great fossil reef where the pirates do not go, tidal warrens inhabited by skittering things made monstrous by generations of feeding off kaiju flesh, boiling caverns where lava vents glow just beneith the surface of the water and odd shapes move in the mineral vapour, lofty and winding passages leading to the lonlely spinal cliffs where the sound of strange birds causes hallucinations. Somewhere among all of this is the hero’s spear, a divinely invested artifact that has the power to found, and perhaps destroy kingdoms. The party may unwittingly stumble across this artifact while escaping captivity, or find it in a dramatic moment as they pursue the last of the pirate captains into the caverns in their final push to oust the corsairs once and for all. What they do with it after that is all up to them.

[mariacallous]

In Liu Cixin’s science fiction novel The Dark Forest—part of the popular Three-Body Problem series recently serialized by Netflix—humanity is faced with the prospect of an alien invasion. The extraterrestrials are on their way to conquer Earth but are still light years away; humanity has hundreds of years to prepare for their hostile arrival.

Amid a need to bolster defense spending globally and, crucially, to foster innovation across the entire world, representatives of the global south make a proposal at the United Nations. Developing countries demand a universal waiver of intellectual property protections on inventions relevant to defense to enable them to develop their own technologies and contribute to planetary fortification. In Liu’s story, the global south’s call meets staunch opposition from wealthier states, which veto the proposal. Although set in an imagined future, Liu’s point resonates clearly in our own time.

The most recent parallel is the global vaccine hoarding that occurred during the COVID-19 pandemic.

At the height of the emergency, rich countries bought up and hoarded COVID-19 vaccine supplies, which left many developing countries unable to obtain sufficient vaccines during 2021-22. Even when they arrived, donations of leftover doses from high-income countries were often too close to their expiration dates for developing countries to actually use them.

Global south states sought to build up their own secure vaccine production capacity but were stymied. Critically, vaccine manufacturers, such as Moderna and Pfizer-BioNTech, refused to share IP-protected technology with World Health Organization (WHO) initiatives, such as C-TAP and the mRNA vaccine technology transfer hub, that were attempting to create a network of distributed vaccine production. It is estimated that such hoarding cost more than 1 million lives in developing states.

Remarkably, the global south saw this coming. Even before a single COVID-19 vaccine had been administered, developing countries accurately anticipated that they would be left at the back of the line for supplies. Burned by the experience of HIV/AIDS medicine shortages in the late 1990s and early 2000s, the global south predicted similar inequities occurring during the COVID-19 crisis—and they tried to act to prevent this.

In October 2020, this foresight motivated developing countries, led by South Africa and India at the World Trade Organization (WTO), to propose an international waiver of IP protections—known as a TRIPS waiver—on COVID-19 vaccines, treatments, and other health technologies. Much as in Liu’s story, the global north firmly rejected the proposal, leading to a delayed and watered-down WTO decision in June 2022 that I, and other academic experts, argued was too little, too late.

Crucially, we can observe the same pattern emerging yet again in the current negotiations over the WHO Pandemic Accord. Just like Liu’s vision of humanity preparing for an inevitable alien invasion but unwilling to share technologies globally, the world remains stuck in a doom loop. Another pandemic is foreseeable. A new treaty could provide a way for the international community to learn the lessons of COVID-19 and boost pandemic preparedness. Yet the world is making the same mistakes all over again.

Given the failures of the WTO process, experienced commentators such as Ellen ‘t Hoen anticipated that shifting the debate to WHO could help ensure that similar inequalities do not arise during the next pandemic. Many hoped that WHO, with its overriding focus on global health, would be a more receptive forum to the global south’s equity concerns than the WTO, which prioritizes IP via TRIPS, one of its foundational 1995 agreements.

However, thus far, the negotiations have been hampered by the same issue that blighted the WTO TRIPS waiver process: Rich states are unwilling to agree to any potential pandemic-related limitation of international IP rights or to expand IP flexibilities to include nonvoluntary options such as a mechanism for the compulsory licensing of trade secrets on pharmaceutical manufacturing processes needed for scaling up production of pandemic products.

Broadly speaking, developing countries want terms that would mandate technology transfer of key health technologies, such as vaccines, to the global south. Rich countries decry this suggestion, claiming it could undermine IP rights.

Hence, wealthy nations are balking at the use of progressive language on the compulsory use of IP in Article 11 of the draft accord. Instead, the U.S. government emphasizes supporting voluntary agreements—without acknowledging that the voluntary systems, including COVAX, failed to provide for the needs of citizens in many global south countries during the COVID-19 era.

In these negotiations, several key parties, such as the European Union and the United Kingdom, argue that a WHO treaty cannot deal with IP issues because that would equate to trespassing on rules that the WTO created. This back-and-forth between the WTO and WHO reflects an asymmetric power game that the global south is not well placed to win.

With no movement on IP, developing countries seem less willing to agree on a rare point of leverage, namely, the terms of Article 12, which addresses pathogen access and benefit-sharing. Put simply, developing countries are concerned that if they agree to terms on restriction-free sharing of pathogens with pandemic potential, without reciprocal guarantees of technology-sharing and health product distribution, they will be left at the back of the line again in the next pandemic.

Wealthy countries may be succeeding at reducing this leverage; recent news reports suggest that detailed provisions on pathogen-sharing may be shifted to a separate instrument.

It seems that for rich states, property is sacrosanct; global health is not. Yet, rather than property, it is worth recalling that patents were originally considered to be a form of state-granted privilege. In the 19th century, industrial states viewed IP not as an instrument of free trade but rather as a form of trade protectionism.

This idea of IP as protectionist privilege remains a more accurate description of what global IP law is intended to achieve. Much as in Liu’s novel, the stark reality is that there is no circumstance—not a new pandemic, not even an alien invasion—in which the global north would be willing to give up its protectionist privileges by sharing its technology with the global south.

With the WTO in decline and the WHO multilateral process in trouble, the global south may have to examine alternative options for building up pandemic preparedness. Intriguingly, Netflix’s 3 Body Problem envisages this. Unlike in the book, on TV the U.N. resolution for open technology-sharing is never even proposed.

Instead, a Mexican national who happens to be the chief scientific officer of a cutting-edge nanotech company becomes frustrated by Western corporate-military obstructionism and decides to upload all her London-based employer’s source code and trade secrets to open-source platforms with the aim of assisting developing countries to produce the technology. She even includes a downloadable guide on how to copy the functionality of the technology while avoiding IP infringement.

This fictional feint away from the multilateral forum and toward individual decision-making parallels real-world moves toward open-source biotech. This approach has been pioneered by Peter Hotez and Maria Elena Bottazzi of Baylor University, who created the patent-free COVID-19 vaccine Corbevax. They successfully transferred the vaccine technology openly to producers in Botswana and India. Meanwhile, the WHO mRNA hub at Afrigen in South Africa led by Petro Terblanche is encouraging open south-south collaboration on new vaccine technologies.

If the Pandemic Accord negotiations falter before the World Health Assembly begins on May 27 or they fail to produce a just treaty, efforts such as these will take on even greater importance. An inequitable Pandemic Accord will signal that Liu was right: The global north will continue to hoard technologies even in the face of looming Armageddon, and south-south collaboration on producing health technologies may be the only way forward for enhancing global pandemic preparedness.