#The Little Wartime Library

[a-girl-and-her-quotes]

Kate Thompson - The Little Wartime Library

[blogthefiresidechats]

Latest haul today!

I visited my local book store today and found some more books. I think I was able to get so many because everything I found today was from the bargain section. I am surprised people don’t drive by where I live and think my house is another branch of the local library……

[bargainsleuthbooks]

The Little Wartime Library by Kate Thompson #NetGalley #ARCReview #BookReview #WorldWarII

If you love #historicalfiction set during #WorldWarII then you won't want to miss #TheLittleWartimeLibrary by #KateThompson when it comes out later this month. Charming, heartbreaking, and full of great characters #netgalley #arcreview #bookreview

London, 1944: Clara Button is no ordinary librarian. While war ravages the city above her, Clara has risked everything she holds dear to turn the Bethnal Green tube station into the country’s only underground library. Down here, a secret community thrives with thousands of bunk beds, a nursery, a café, and a theater—offering shelter, solace, and escape from the bombs that fall upon their…

[readingwithwrin]

Blogmas Day 30 | The Little Wartime Library by Kate Thompson | ARC Book Review

Blogmas Day 30 | The Little Wartime Library by Kate Thompson | ARC Book Review

Title: The Little Wartime Library Author: Kate Thompson Publisher: Forever Published Date: February 21st, 2023 Genre: Historical Fiction, WWII, Adult fiction Source: Netgalley and Forever (Grand Central Publishing) Rating: ★ ★ ★ ★ ★ Goodreads Summary: London, 1944. Clara Button is no ordinary librarian. While the world remains at war, in East London Clara has created the country’s only…

[serpentface]

Question for Faiza: what does the average day for an Odonii priestess entail?

We wake before dawn, and most of us spend the morning working around the temple. We maintain the shrines and grounds so- tending the hearths and burning the offerings, collecting water from the spring, feeding the lions. And there's always lay visitors milling around the temple while we're doing all this, but our attendants take care of the general public interfacing so. We can mostly focus on our duties.

There's always going to be some pregnant women or the odd soldier stopping in, so you might give out blessings once? Twice? On any given day. Rarely any more than that. But sometimes, you'll be right in the middle of something important- it's always when you're in the middle of something - and then, suddenly, in wanders an entire troupe. And you hear them before you see them. They'll have brought every single weapon and piece of armor they own, so they're clanging loud enough to wake the dead. And you'll just be standing there thinking, well, this is going to be my entire morning now.

...But it's very important work of course, attending our soldiers. Give a man Odomache's blessing, and he fights more bravely alone than twenty without.

Once the temple closes, we usually spend most of the afternoon just preparing the amenchalme. So- grinding the maize, then blessing the maize, then grinding the salt, then blessing the salt, then mixing the wine, then blessing the wine, then mixing the oil, then blessing the oil... It's a little tedious, I won't lie. But I think this is our most important duty, in a way. Out of every rite we perform, day in and day out, this is the one that serves all our people. The amenchalme that blesses a whore's nameless bastard daughter at birth and the amenchalme that blesses a great lord at his wedding is the very same, made by the very same hands. So when I see priestesses shunting the task off to initiates so they can go nap on the grounds or play with their muskets...

I digress.

So, when the rest of our duties are complete, we end the day with training. This is mostly practicing the six dances. Ideally, every Odonii in the temple should be assembled and practicing in unison. But in practice, there's usually some stragglers. So you'll be out in the yard and everyone is following the same drumbeat, but you'll see one group dancing the spear, another dancing the musket, and then another who's already finished and running laps around the grounds just to kill time.

Our core duties are over at sundown, and we're free to do as we please. Dinner is served at the temple, so most of us will spend an hour or two in the hall, you know, socializing, having a little wine, unwinding. I like to go down to the ocean after dinner, when I can. I prefer the quiet.

Uh, so that's an average day for the vast majority of us. It varies throughout the year, of course. Things get busy when we're approaching festivals. Or during wartime. And I'm a senior Odonii and liaison to the Usoma, so-. My duties tend to be considerably more complex, year-round. Sometimes I miss those long afternoons just mindlessly pounding maize, haha.

---

Notes:

-Temples to Odomache are open to the public from dawn until noon, and closed throughout the rest of the day. The temple consists of a great shrine that is publicly accessible by all, inner walled grounds that are prohibited to the public outside of certain festivals (tame lions are kept here), private spaces only Odonii and temple staff can enter (the Odonii's quarters and bathrooms, a dining hall, library), and ritually private spaces that only Odonii can enter (an inner shrine reserved for internal cult practice that is forbidden knowledge for non-Odonii)

-Odonii-attendants are high ranking servants to the priesthood. They start out as child servants given to the order by their fathers who perform most of the basic labor (this is a very attractive position to poor families in particular, as the family is paid until the child comes of age, and the child themself can acquire a degree of security and potential for class mobility that is otherwise difficult to attain). Those who choose to remain with the order upon adulthood (they have no choice in the matter beforehand due to children being under full legal jurisdiction of their fathers) may eventually graduate into attendant positions. This is a well paid and esteemed job, with attendants managing most of the practical logistics of maintaining a temple and interfacing with the public.

Servants to Odonii are only women and eunuchs. Those considered male are forbidden from this role (which entails entering some ritually private spaces, and sometimes seeing them naked in the course of bathing/being armored, etc) - the Odonii's body is sacrosanct and an analogue to the power and the security of the Wardi nation and God Itself, and the male gaze is considered uniquely dangerous to a metaphysically vulnerable female body and thus to be fundamentally violating of this sacred state.

-Outside of certain festivals and rituals, Odonii only perform blessings for royalty, soldiers, and pregnant women. Odonii also bless soldiers' weapons and armor.

-Amenchalme is the basic material used in public rites for blessing and purification. The finished product is a paste that is daubed on the body to give blessings, and consecrates animals/humans for sacrifice. It is exclusively produced by Odonii, but used in a broad variety of contexts.

-'Nameless' in the context of 'nameless bastard daughter' means not having a family name - ie an orphan of unknown parentage, or not being claimed by one's father, and therefore not having access to and the protection of the family as the foundational social unit in Wardi society. Namelessness itself is stigmatized, and its implications invariably entail ostracization and lowered status. Faiza saying 'whore's nameless bastard daughter' is her conjuring up like, the lowest possible status Wardi citizen she can imagine.

-The six dances are the core weapons-dances used in rites and for combat training, centered around the key weapons techniques- spear, sword, handgun, musket, spear and shield, sword and shield. Bow dances are still practiced by most soldiers (given that firearms are limited enough in access to have not fully replaced them) but are no longer part of the Odonii's core retinue.

-Faiza privately ascribes to a niche quasi-atheist strain of Wardi philosophy that posits that God fully died during creation and can no longer directly affect the world, and thus does not believe that the majority of rites her Entire Life is built on performing have any intrinsic divinely sourced effects. She is very good at not letting any of this slip, but tends to frame the benefits of rites around their practical effects (ie- soldiers who believe they are protected by God fight more bravely).

Her emphasis on the importance of amenchalme as is partly rooted in sincere conviction that all* (*Imperial Wardi citizen) people should receive the practical benefits of the state's religion regardless of class and she finds the ubiquity of the substance to be an equalizer, and partly because she absolutely believes in bad luck, ghosts, and evil spirits, and amenchalme protects people from those.

[aziraphales-library]

Oh great library wizard- Do you have any fics about the Great War between heaven and hell? I'd love to see some angst, world building, or wartime star-crossed lovers stories.

You might be interested in checking out the fics on our #pre-fall, #aziraphale and crowley met before the fall, and #the fall tags, so check those out. Here are some around the war in heaven...

Obedience by Aethelflaed (T)

Before Eden, before the Fall, there was a War in Heaven. Somewhere, amongst the eternal fighting on the endless battlefield, one angel learns the consequences of disobeying an order.

Ingnition by EdosianOrchids901 (T)

Before the beginning, Aziraphale meets a nice angel who makes a star for him. But after the War starts, everything changes, including the nice angel he once knew. When he and Crawley meet again in Eden, will they still be able to enjoy each other’s company?

A Fair Test by takemetotheworld (T)

It took a moment to realize the angel had asked him a question. All coherent thoughts had fled Aziraphale’s mind the moment the other angel uttered the word idiocy in reference to the Great Plan, a level of audacity so staggering he didn’t know how it was possible for the sounds to have even passed the stranger’s lips. He forced himself to focus on the question itself. Surely he had misunderstood the rest of the angel’s comments. Or perhaps not. He wasn’t certain he wanted to know.

Aziraphale is intrigued by the excitable red-haired angel he watched speak a nebula into existence, but he finds himself increasingly in over his head as his new acquaintance starts publicly questioning the Great Plan.

The Devil’s Love by OneDapperCat (M)

Baraqiel has returned from launching a star system with the news of Armageddon. He wants to do what he can to convince God to change her mind about ending everything before it really begins. He crosses paths with Lucifer, who offers helps to the distraught angel. God has set Lucifer the task of designing and building Hell: a place where angels that don’t align themselves with her divine plan will go for punishment. She has offered him up to 1/3 of her ranks, should he find that many that are against her, but she didn’t expect him to set his sights on one of her three favorite angels. Aziraphale finds himself drawn to the star making angel he accidentally upset, but he can never seem to make him slow down enough to catch his name.

Outside of Time by PeniG (G)

God is infinite, her creations finite, and any concept small enough for a creation’s mind to hold is necessarily too small to approximate reality. Hence ineffability is born with Lucifer and language. One must speak imperfectly, or be silent. Gadreel was not/is not/will never be good at silence. Meanwhile, a happy little principality is having a tickety-boo time. Change is afoot, but how can Heaven change? Half of Heaven goes on strike. Gadreel gets depressed. God doesn’t seem to notice anything wrong. Lucifer tries to make Her notice. Aziraphale holds a door, and accidentally makes a flaming sword. Gadreel does not fight in the long night that will be known as The War. Aziraphale becomes a soldier. Because somebody has to. Gadreel becomes Crawly, Satan’s little pet snake; but how much of that is who he is, and how much is who he pretends to be? How long until he can no longer tell the difference, himself? The final pieces are placed. The Human Project goes live. Time begins.

The Truth Remains by WanderingAlice (M)

Raphael had been the third angel ever created, and he’d raised himself first with Michael’s clumsy help. Then he’d turned around and raised three more siblings, and loved them all so fiercely it hurt. He'd loved Aziraphale too, more than either of them really knew. And then, he fell. He lost everything. The bond he held with his siblings was ripped away, leaving an aching, empty void. And while he still has Aziraphale, the angel doesn't recognize the archangel who taught him how to care about the Earth. And Crowley refuses to tell him who he was, or how Aziraphale's voice is the one thing that can soothe the ache in his soul that wants, so badly, to feel a connection again. A story through the ages as an angel and a demon come to terms with their shared past.

- Mod D

[veliseraptor]

October Reading Recap

I read kind of a lot this month, mostly as a product of the holidays meaning I had a lot of time where I (a) wasn't working and (b) wasn't online and also there was the fact that I was (c) depressed and desperately trying to keep myself occupied at all times to avoid slumping into a pit of nothingness.

so this one's kind of long.

Listen for the Lie by Amy Tintera. I need to read more mysteries again. I had a lot of fun with this one - I am always a sucker for books that play with multimedia type formats (movie scripts, podcast transcripts, etc.) and while I've fallen out of the true crime circuit it was fun to watch the ways in which this book was playing with it.

The Tangleroot Palace by Marjorie Liu. I've read all of Marjorie Liu's comics (and loved them) but this was my first time reading her prose. Short story collections are always hard for me to assess, since I very seldom come away from them feeling in any way uniform about the stories within, but this was a rare short story collection where there weren't any I didn't like. There weren't standouts to me in the same way that, say, Monstress stands out to me, but they were all solid.

Pine by Francine Toon. Picked this one up sort of on a whim as a horror novel and I don't feel like it quite was, in the end, a horror novel. It was good - quiet and a little eerie - but probably not one I'd pass on an enthusiastic recommendation for.

The Daughter of Doctor Moreau by Silvia Moreno-Garcia. With the possible exception of Mexican Gothic I've been decidedly underimpressed with Moreno-Garcia's work, and this book was not an exception. I was excited about it! But maybe that's partly because I was hoping for more horror than I got. But then again, it was billed to me as such, so I'm not entirely coming from nowhere with that.

Seven Surrenders by Ada Palmer. I think I liked this book more than I liked Too Like the Lightning, but that might also be because a lot of Too Like the Lightning was setup/catalyzing for events that actually happened in this book. I'm definitely going to read the rest of the series and this is another one where I want to read, like, literary analysis of these books, or discuss them in a group, or something, because they're doing some very interesting things that would be fun to cogitate on more deeply than I feel like I can do just on my own.

Alien Clay by Adrian Tchaikovsky. I didn't like this book quite as much as I've liked Tchaikovsky's other work, in part because I felt like this one got a little heavy handed/didactic which is the fastest way to turn me off a book. But I'm maybe more sensitive to that than I need to be, and I think the question of...is-this-meant-to-be-horror-tinged-or-not means I'm going to be thinking about this one moving forward. It's no Children of Time but I continue to be a Tchaikovsky devotee.

Horror Movie by Paul Tremblay. This book was bad. I mean, it wasn't the worst, but it also wasn't very good at all, and felt like it was leaning hard on the movie script format gambit as a way to mask how thin the book as a whole was.

The Book at War: Libraries and Readers in an Age of Conflict by Andrew Pettegree. I was hoping for a book more about the content of books as they relate to war and wartime propaganda, but I probably should've read the subtitle more carefully, so that's on me. This was much more about books as a material object and libraries as an entity during wartime, specifically mostly during World War 2 and the Cold War. Which was interesting, but not as interesting as I hoped for.

Black Mouth by Ronald Malfi. Another horror novel - I've been meaning to read this one for a while though I'm not actually sure I remember what put it on my radar. I think Malfi is an author I've seen around and this was a book where the summary sounded vaguely interesting to me, so I marked it down as a title to give a new-to-me author a go. While my feelings on this book are sort of mixed - the way it wrote its disabled character in particular had my eyebrows twitching a little - I do think I'll be trying more Malfi.

Long Live Evil by Sarah Rees Brennan. Remember this post? Yeah, it was about this book. I'm not proud it made me cry, but made me cry it did. On the other hand, I'm (a) astonished that it references MDZS for inspiration but not SVSSS, though maybe that's because the author was afraid it'd make the ways she was cribbing from SVSSS too obvious, and (b) this book actually did have me when it settled down into being serious and cut some of the goddamn quippiness. Look, I'm not entirely opposed to a good quip. They can be fun, and I think I get what they were conveying in terms of character (that the protagonist wasn't really taking things in the "fictional" world seriously, up to a certain point), but they can also be very grating. On the other other hand I probably will be reading the sequel, unfortunately. So you know. Mixed fucking bag.

Leech by Hiron Ennes. I read a fair amount of horror this month and this was one of the standouts specifically because of its initial conceit and how that conceit was developed - which I don't want to say too much about because I think it's stronger to come into this book not knowing much about it.

Silent Reading (Mo Du) by Priest. It's not the cnovel that caters to me most personally that I've read so far, but it might be the best one I've read so far, if that makes sense as a distinction. The character work, the dynamic between the main characters, the tightening noose of the core mystery...I really liked this one, and definitely plan to go back and reread it. Might bind it, too, we'll see. I should finish Qiang Jin Jiu first.

Lady Hotspur by Tessa Gratton. I understand why Gratton didn't have Hal kill Hotspur in the end (as in the play this is drawing on for source material) but it definitely weakened the book, in my opinion, that she didn't. It would've been much stronger, narratively, if also a lot sadder. But ah well. Would've been absolutely slammed with bury-your-gays discourse. Anyway, I liked The Queens of Innis Lear better but I didn't dislike this one.

Winter Be My Shield by Jo Spurrier. I am very excited to read the rest of this series, which @mongooseland turned me onto by doing art for it. I don't know that I'd endorse it wholeheartedly for everyone - in fact, I definitely wouldn't, for one thing content warnings for heavily-referenced if not explicitly shown sexual assault - but I'm personally into it and looking forward to reading the next books, which are going to be difficult to find, alas. I have adopted a new terrible boy from this, if anyone was wondering.

Solaris by Stanislaw Lem. I feel like I did not understand this book and probably need to read some analysis of it to get a better sense of what was going on. Makes me wish I'd actually read it for the book club meeting about it, since maybe someone there would have a better idea of how to dissect what it's doing than I did.

Oracle by Thomas Olde Heuvelt. I didn't like this one as much as I liked his other two that I've read - it felt more action/adventure and less horror in a way that appealed to me less. It was still good enough that I'm glad I read it, and I'll continue to follow the author, but I was moderately underwhelmed - though, to be fair, that's more by comparison with his other work than it is comparison with other horror I've read, which it still outshines.

I'm currently reading Catching Chen Qing Ling: The Untamed and Adaptation, Production, and Reception in Transcultural Contexts (that's a mouthful) alongside rereading The Last Unicorn. Might try to finally finish reading Golden Witchbreed by Mary Gentle this month, finally read Cassiel's Servant by Jacqueline Carey, and maybe read one of the short story collections sitting on my shelf (The Way Spring Arrives and Other Stories, possibly). New Remnants of Filth volume and new Monstress (speaking of Marjorie Liu) are coming out this month, so those will probably make it into the rotation too.

taking mystery/thriller recommendations still, if anyone has any! I'm generally pretty good at just feeling my way around in the fantasy/sci-fi and nonfiction spaces, but I've got no idea where to start when it comes to other genres.

[taylors-fourth-cat-meow]

Answering this ask because my clumsy ass deleted the draft of the ans as well as the ask idek how that happened

HERE'S THE COMMENTARY ON ACOFAS CHAPTER 11: THE ONE WHERE RHYISE VISITS A SUICIDAL TAMLIN AND TELLS HIM TO ROT IN HELL 🥰

A tomb.

This place was a tomb.

How can someone be proud of doing something cruel to someone? If they are the saints they claim to be why do this to Tamlin bro? Istg i will NEVER to this understand how on earth did the editors agree to the plotline of the destruction of Spring Court?

Lucien had not come here to make amends during Solstice, I realized as Tamlin opened the door to the dark library.

Lucien had come here out of pity. Mercy.

Bruh why? why? wud he underestimate their bond like that? he speaks as if they hadnt been each others only family for centuries

Tamlin claiming an ornate cushioned chair on one side of it. The only thing he had that was close to a throne these days.

oh fck u little shit atleast tamlin doesnt OPPRESS his people!!

“If you’ve come to gloat, you can spare yourself the effort.”

Tamlin is so non-combative here and people still have the audacity to say Rhysie is the bigger male????

“Do you see any sentries around to do it?”

Even they had abandoned him. Interesting. “Feyre did her work

thoroughly, didn’t she.”

THATS NOT SOMETHING TO BE FUCKING PROUD OF RHYSIE

ISTG this asshole someone needs to kick him in the balls. HARD.

I smiled. “Oh, no. That was all her. Clever, isn’t she.”

No sir she is a dumb teenage girl who taught to destroy a court DURING WARTIME?

tbh if Spring wouldn't have fallen the war would have never gone down i said what i said.

I didn’t smile as I countered with, “I suppose you think I should be

thanking you, for stepping up to assist in reviving me.”

“I have no illusions that the day you thank me for anything, Rhysand, is the day the burning fires of hell go cold.”

my boi tamlin is so savage like??

SLAY

Tamlin deserved what he’d brought upon himself, this husk of a life.

He deserved every empty room, every snarl of thorns, every meal he had to hunt for himself.

Seriously? Tamlin, sweetheart, for the love of good kick this man and his bat dick pls.

Tamlin had burned them long ago, Feyre had told me. It made no

difference. He’d been there that day.

I really want to emphasize that Tamlin DID NOT take part in their death.

Had given his father and brothers the information on where my sister and mother would be waiting for me to meet them. And done nothing to help them as they were butchered.

BRO????

U expect a boy to go against his evil, physically abusive father? NO, strike that.

U WANT A BOY TO GO AGAINT A HIGH LORD?

No tell me? how was Tamlin supposed to fight a HIGH LORD and his brother??? Three against one??

And even if he tried to help them? we will never know? we get only rhysie's side of the story never tamlin's pov

“You brought every bit of this upon yourself,”

Yes yes lets go tell a suicidal person he brought every bit of his misery on himself

Yeh lets all applaud him

“You won,” he spat, sitting forward. “You got your mate. Is that not

enough?”

"No."

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK???

MANNNNNNNNNNNNNN

I WANT TO SCRATCH MY EYEBALLS RHYSIE'S EYEBALLS OUT AT THIS POINT

"You deserve everything that has befallen you. You deserve this pathetic, empty house, your ravaged lands. I don’t care if you offered that kernel of life to save me, I don’t care if you still love my mate. I don’t care that you saved her from Hybern, or a thousand enemies before that.”

THIS UNGRATEFUL LITTLE BITCH?!?!?!?!?

PLSSSSSSSSS

Why doesnt he care that tamlin has saved BOTH their lives on MULTIPLE occasions???

at this point 50% of the IC owe their life to tamlin

“I hope you live the rest of your miserable life alone here. It’s a far more satisfying end than slaughtering you.”

well he isnt even strong enough to keep his people in line and not a hair's breath away from rebellion, i doubt he'll be able to slaughter the HL who tore apart Amarantha, who fought a hundred of Hybern's monsters and soldiers in their camp ALONE, at the same time helping feyre escape AND was able to "drag" another highlord to war

*Drops mike*

But Tamlin only stared. And after a heartbeat, his eyes lowered to the

desk. “Get out.”

Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you the bigger male

Tamlin didn’t have shields around the house. None to prevent anyone from winnowing in, to guard against enemies appearing in his bedroom and

slitting his throat.

It was almost as if he was waiting for someone to do it.

This breaks my heart so much. No, Tamlimn doesnt deserve this. NO ONE deserves this. Imagine being OKAY with someone being suicidal?!

[mrs-nesmith]

Ya'll bitches who watched Masters of The Air?? Our boys Cleven and Crosby went WILD in academics.

Buck:

"After the Second World War, Cleven stayed in the US Air Force serving in Korea, Vietnam and with a spell at the Pentagon. He retired in 1964 with the rank of Colonel. While in the service Cleven had earned an MBA from Harvard Business School and a doctorate in physics and following retirement initially worked in IT for Hughes Aircraft. Later he took over the management of Webber College in Florida which at the time had only fifty students and a poor reputation. He was able to turn it around and it later became a university specializing in business studies. " - Gale Winston Cleven | American Air Museum IM SORRY A FUCKING DOCTORATE IN PHYSICS???? COLONEL. DR. GALE WINSTON "BUCK" CLEVEN???? Croz:

"On returning to the US, Crosby resumed his studies, completing his M.A. in 1947 and his PhD in 1953. He taught English composition, writing several books on the subject. He also carried out work for the US Air Force Academy and the Pakistan Air Force Academy. In 1993, Harper Collins published his memoir of his wartime experiences, titled A Wing and a Prayer." - Harry Herbert Crosby | American Air Museum

"Returning to school, Crosby graduated from the University of Iowa in 1947 with his master's degree, and then earned his PhD from Stanford University in 1953, where Wallace Stegner supervised his dissertation. Harry taught English composition and American literature at the University of Iowa, and was the Writing Supervisor of the Rhetoric Program (1950–1958).[2]

In 1958, Crosby moved with his wife and four children to Newton, Massachusetts, for a faculty position at the College of Basic Studies (CBS) at Boston University. He retired from Boston University in 1984, after chairing the Department of Rhetoric at CBS and authoring or co-authoring with CBS colleagues six textbooks on college writing:[2]

College Writing – The Rhetorical Imperative; Harper & Row, 1968 Just Rhetoric, Crosby/Esty; Harper & Row 1972 The Shape of Thought: An Analytical Anthology, Bond/Crosby; Harper & Row, 1978 Building College Spelling Skills, Crosby/Emery; Little Brown; 1981 Better Spelling in 30 Minutes a Day, Crosby/Emery; Harper Collins 1994 Skill Builders – A Spelling Workout, Crosby/Emery; Harper Collins, 1997

During his early retirement, Crosby served as Director of the Writing Center at Harvard University." - Harry Herbert Crosby - Wikipedia CROZ GRADUATED FROM FUCKING STANFORD, A PHD TOO!!! in conclusion, these boys are academic weapons P.S. Croz's Autobiography in case any of ya'll were interested: Amazon.com: A Wing and a Prayer: The "Bloody 100th" Bomb Group of the US Eighth Air Force in Action Over Europe in World War II: 9781504067331: Crosby, Harry H.: Books and a list of libraries it's in across the world: A wing and a prayer : the "Bloody 100th" Bomb Group of the U.S. Eighth Air Force in action over Europe in World War II | WorldCat.org

Mostly USA but as of (5/29/24 or 29/5/24) there are

457 in USA 8 in Canada 1 In Ireland (Dublin) 35 in UK

if you chose yes^ feel free to dm me/send an ask with facts or stories you find and i'll try my best to post them!! (you can send pictures with too!! my discord is badger_iii)

[queenlua]

can I ask Micaiah/Sothe/Pelleas and some kind of breaking the spirit contract on Pelleas' soul, or some kind of post-op on poly set-up?

The way to unbind a spirit, in the end, is almost insultingly simple: cut the thing out.

Micaiah's been kneeling, poised over a prone, shirtless Pelleas, with a knife in her hand, for over half an hour.  Sothe's impatience is clear, from how he keeps fidgeting beside them, though he hasn't said anything about it.  Yet.

Huddled in this tent, the whole place lit by two lamps, it's like it's wartime again.  They're miles from Castle Nevassa, miles from anywhere else, camping in some little-traveled grove with snow heaped up in great piles all around them.  They agreed this would be neater, if anything were to happen.  If they needed to hide a body.  If this didn't work.

(But it has to work.  She can't lose him.)

"It'll be fine, Micaiah," Pelleas says, with that soft, soft smile, inclining his head slightly—but he's said that before.  He's said it when it wouldn't have been fine at all, actually, when she'd nearly let him get stabbed him through the heart for nothing, saved only by chance—

Micaiah blinks away the wetness in her eyes before it can become tears.  A bead of sweat drips from her brow and onto that naked chest.  It is midwinter; how is she sweating?  The cloth this tent has made of must be robust indeed, to trap the little heat of the three of them so well.  That, or she's caught fever.  She feels feverish, certainly.  She glances up at Sothe, to see if he looks the same.

"Let me," Sothe says, voice rough, "if you can't.  I'll do it."

It is so tempting.  Sothe's good with a knife, better than she is.  It would be so easy.

"It'll be fine," Pelleas repeats, with strength he doesn't have to spare.  She can nearly hear the bones in his jaw creak as he says it.  He's down to half the weight he was a year ago, all skin and bones.  Apparently, once a spirit's tired of its host, things can... progress... quickly.

Sothe reaches out a hand toward the knife in Micaiah's hand.  He moves slowly.  Wraps his pinky around the hilt, then the next finger, and—

"No," she says, jerking her hands backward, and the knife along with it.  He can't do it, she's sure of it now, she has to be the one to do it—though she can't remember why.

She blinks.  Shakes her head.  Her vision blurs a moment, but that's only a trick of the light.  She wishes these lanterns wouldn't flicker quite so much.  Her fingers twitch, but that's only the strain, from holding this position for so long.

"And we're sure about this," Micaiah says, her voice thinner than she'd like, her head foggier than she'd like.  Everything feels so far away.  "Where did we find this rite, anyway?" she asks, to the air.

"You did," Pelleas says, automatic.

Micaiah blinks.  She can't remember.

"In that old book," Sothe adds.  "The one you dug out of the archives."

That sounds like something she'd do.  She'd have searched every library on the continent, if she thought it'd save Pelleas.  So why can't she remember?

It's the spirit, she thinks, the sort of desperate explanation that would only occur to her now.  Using magic, of a sort.  Making her head and her skin and her fingers feel this way, from deep within Pelleas's chest.  Straining and striving to stay alive.

Or it isn't, and something else is desperately wrong here.  Why can't she remember that book—the shape of it, the reason she'd trusted it, if she had any reason to trust it at all? had they tested it, could they test it, was there no other way to do this—

She fixes Sothe in her sights, and goes cross-eyed a moment with the effort of it.  There's a grim set to his face, enhanced by the lanterns' orange glow.

And then she remembers, belatedly, why Sothe can't do it—the one who cuts out the spirit must love the spirit's host.  And she knows, much as she wishes otherwise, that what Sothe feels toward Pelleas is nothing like love.

Why did Sothe offer, then—?  Does he think the book was mistaken?

Or—does he simply not want Pelleas alive?

Something beneath Pelleas's skin hisses, or seems to hiss, satisfied.  Then it hisses, or seems to hiss, beneath her own skin, too.  The lamps are flickering.  The tent is thrumming.  It must be a hundred degrees in here, from how she's sweating, from how slick the knife feels in her fingers.

She can't trust either of them, she realizes at length.  She loves them but she can't trust them, not with this.  The one who'd gladly kill, the one who'd gladly die—and her in the middle, starting to feel faint.  She's seconds from losing her nerve or her consciousness both—maybe there's no spirit, maybe this a setup, some convoluted mess of a thing, why can't she remember—

She presses the tip of the dagger to the center of Pelleas's chest, just above his heart.  Pelleas screws up his face, but he doesn't make a sound.  She presses down a little, just enough to draw the littlest droplet of blood, a pinprick's worth.  She touches the drop with her finger, and that feels real enough.  She lifts that finger to her lips, to her tongue.  Tastes it.  Blinks her vision straight.

She sucks in a deep breath.  Tightens her grip around the knife.  Breathes out.

And the lanterns in the tent flicker out entirely for what happens next.

[mcd-brainrot-hours]

The Divine Warriors p.1

howdy here’s a post about the divine warriors in my rewrite. this is more of the religious aspect of them. part 2 will be more about them personally. feel free to ask questions!

Irene is the matron of healing, fertility, love, faith, rebirth, and life.

Shad is a symbol of death, decay, plague, destruction, and suffering.

Esmund is the deity of strength, protection, weath, stone, commerce, and smithing.

Kul’zak is the deity of stars, travels, land, weather, music, luck, and storytelling (along with enki).

Menphia is the deity of women, justice, wrath, fury, freedom, choice, and meifwas.

Enki is the deity of knowledge, truth and deceit, storytelling (along with Kul’zak), outcasts, and medicine.

The divine are worshiped in different ways by different people.

-Irene is worshiped by religious folk (mainly in ru’an) and people in the medical field. Really, everyone worships Irene in some way. They typically say a prayer while kneeling, heads bowed with their hands cupped towards the sky (there’s a belief that the rain is the matron’s tears, no one knows why she weeps though). Sometimes, religious extremists will willingly mutilate themselves to be “perfect” in the eyes of the matron. People pray to irene for blessing in fertility, love, life, and whenever they are struggling. She is the most commonly prayed to.

-There are still some mortals who still worship Shad despite it being illegal. When they pray to him, they often do so while kneeling on hot coals. if they are caught worshiping him, they will be promptly executed for their act of treason.

-Esmund is worshiped by guards for strength and people of power during wartime for protection as a graduation ritual, graduates of the guard academy will pray to Esmund while holding a piece of jewelry that is sentimental to them (something that belonged to either a mother or a lover) and they get a symbolic tattoo (idk what yet).

-Enki is worshiped by scholars. They often leave things related to knowledge behind after they pray to Enki (college students joke about leaving blood offerings to enki so they can pass their exams). schools and certain libraries will have shrines dedicated to Enki.

-Kul’zak is worshiped by travellers. They often pray before they leave for their travels and leave offerings to Kul’zak at every stop of their journey. Kul’zak’s followers build him little shrines at certain stops. Those shrines act as guides for fellow wanderers.

-Menphia is mostly worshipped by women and is seen as a symbol of justice amongst them. There's an old legend that once Menphia killed her own father to protect her younger sisters. Many women look up to her as a symbol of strength. women who are caught in abusive relationships will pray to her for the strength to escape. Meifwa in Tu’la will pray to her for safety from the king.

Many churches dedicated to the matron will have stained glass depictions of each of the divine warriors. They are each shown with a halo of light, portraying them as saints. In churches that date back to the divines’ time, there used to be one of Shad. Those were all destroyed, though.

There used to be churches dedicated to Shad but those were all destroyed. Rumor has it there is still one remaining. Nobody has found it.

There are smaller churches through out the specific region each divine warrior is from (except Kul’zak, nobody knows where they came from).

Tu’la has churches dedicated to Menphia and Gal’ruk has one dedicated to Enki (it’s more of a library than a church).

Churches that are dedicated to Irene will also teach about the other divine (mostly Esmund- especially in O’khasis).

The most commonly accepted and preached story of the divine warriors is that Shad was the villian and the rest were the heroes (more on that later >:3 ).

Everybody paints the divine warriors (especially Irene) in such a holy light where they do no wrong (minus Shad).

Little does the world know, the Church went on a little spree and burnt every single book (that they could find) that contained information that opposed what they believed about Irene. But they didn’t find all of them.

Maybe Irene isn’t as holy and pure as they thought.

Maybe the divine aren’t exactly as they seem.

:)

[thecatduet422]

Chapter Three: Blood of the Dragon

Dragon King!bakugou katsuki x reader

Taglist: @genderfluid-anime-goth @iam-thevillain-of-thisstory @nnubee @reddriot

Rating: Mature

Tags: violence, blood, dragons, its wartime babes so people might get booboos, romance, sexual tension, medieval politics, northern!reader, knight!midoriya

Summary: With the fury of winter on the precipice, and food provisions deathly short, you have no choice but to represent your House and speak with the Dragon King. The only problem is your Houses have been at odds for centuries, and the fearsome Dragon King is not exactly easy to convince... (GoT-inspired AU)

A/N: Also, highly recommend @vampyrsm's forbidden flame series!

Chapters: 3/? (20,590 words)

AO3 LINK

Chapter One Chapter Two

Some translations for this chapter: *Dragons: Kanibaru = Cannibal, Kinba = Gold Tooth, Shiroi Tsubasa = White Wing. *Commands (taken directly from GoT): Dracarys = Dragon fire, Rybas = Focus, Naejot = Forward, Dohaeras = Serve, Umbas = Wait

Chapter Three: Blood of the Dragon (12.4k)

Darkness…

An echoing song…

Can't breathe…

You woke up gasping for air, only to be greeted by the sun shining its inferno through the lazy breeze of the curtains that guarded you. The silk sheets wrapped around you slipped across your skin like water as you entered into the morn, nightmare temporarily forgotten.

How useless, you thought suddenly. What’s the point of a blanket if not to keep you warm?

You roughly kicked the sheets off you, finding them to be a total hindrance. But then as soon as you did it, you felt strange. Almost vulnerable in a way, not unlike when you were on the boat, abandoning your extra layers of clothing. 

You’ve been guarding yourself against the outside for as long as you could remember. To meet it head-on, bare skin to sun, it felt like you were heading into battle with nothing but a horse. 

And how the southern heat seemed to target you, causing you to sweat constantly . You were always fighting off against the gross feeling as your body struggled to adjust to the new land.

You missed the cold air of the North, the smell of the grass, the sound of your little brother’s laugh. You missed the peace of the whispering woods, the roars of laughter in the Hall, the secluded comfort of the library. You missed home.

And yet, The Dragon King insisted you stay. 

“Until we both see fit," he had said.

Well, you saw fit to leave once the agreement was signed. That seemed to be the sensible thing to do. Your business would be done, so why stay?

And what was taking the contract so long? Surely, it must be done by now…

"We're gonna do it right this time… We reform our relationship, and in return, our alliance…"

Reform our relationship…

Something about that itched your mind, like the tune of a song you couldn't quite remember. Like any other trueborn of the North, the history of the Great Blacksmith has been engraved into your head. The tale of him and the Dragon Queen is very much a repeated one, back at home at least. But you imagined it would be popular in the Southlands too…

Does the King mean to…

No. Of course not.

You take a deep breath in, smelling the sweet smoke that was slowly beginning to waft into the room. 

“To cover the smell of dragon,” Lady Mina explained to you.

Apparently, the dragon caves weren’t far from the city, and the wind tended to drift the stench over. You smelled it more than a couple of times now; fire, soot, and something else you couldn’t place. The best way you could describe it was wet dog , and yet you knew that wasn’t right. Either way, it wasn’t exactly offensive, not when you’ve spent your entire childhood around livestock. Besides, you thought the incense more than did its job. Whether it was the soft floral scents of jasmine, sweet pea, and lilac or one of the stronger, spicier scents of cinnamon, clove, and frankincense- they all seemed to give you a jolt of energy, giving you the muster to start the day. 

And already there was Lady Mina, ready to start with you as she walked across the other side of the room, lighting the perfumed sticks as she went, soft tendrils of smoke marking her path like footsteps.

“Morning, Lady Mina,” you greeted, ignoring your slight unease.

You almost forgot that it was normal, a lady’s maid waking you up, helping you get ready for the day. And as more servant ladies walked in with clean linens, fresh tea, and food, you found your stubbornness winning over. 

“You know, I’m perfectly capable of getting ready on my own-”

Lady Mina easily countered with a wave of her hand. “Nonsense! You're our guest . Besides, you brought no maids of your own.” 

She shrugged nonchalantly, as if it weren't a problem, but you still found yourself squirming with embarrassment. Was it considered unethical, not bringing any maids with you? It’s not like you had a choice. The outlook of the war forced your lady mother to dismiss them all.

"Knights and guards must be placed over butlers and maids, sweetling. Can’t you see?"

And for a tiny moment, an arrow of sorrow punctured your chest as you remembered your goodbye to Jirou, your lady-in-waiting and best friend. The sad look in her eyes as you told her to pack up her things and go home…

A breakfast tray interrupted your memory, pulling the arrow along with it. As the tray was delicately placed over your lap, you were greeted with a mouthwatering assortment of bread, fruit, and cheese. You dug into all of it without a care as Lady Mina gleefully walked up to an assortment of dresses.

Oh, not again, you thought with an eye roll.

“And I was thinking for today,” she sang, eyeing through the garments, “You can wear… this! ” 

She pulled out a lovely silk dress, dyed the color lavender and bare on one shoulder, the otherside held together with a golden dragon pin. You could pick out the outline of the scales and teeth all the way from your place on the bed. Its jaw was open mid-roar, its eyes studded with tiny rubies, its tail snaking down to wrap around the waist.

It was… a lot.

You gulped down the lump of food in your mouth, feeling it plump down into your stomach. “Don’t you think it's a bit too much for me, Mina?"

Mina pouted. “We can replace the broach with one of your own, if you like. But you can't deny it isn't pretty…”

She dangled the dress in front of you, as if the fabric could somehow hypnotize you into saying yes.

You gulped down your guilt, almost wishing you would've fallen for it. But the truth was, your father raised you to ride on horseback, to swing a sword, to hunt alongside your brothers. Usually, you couldn’t be bothered with dresses.

"The thought is appreciated, trully,” you said with a mouthful of bread. You swallowed it down before continuing. “But I have training this morning. I very well can’t fight in, well, that .” 

You gestured to the dress as if it were a wild animal with rabies and foam spilling out from the mouth.

Lady Mina huffed, not forgiving you. “All you ever do is train...”

You gave her your best pleading face, trembling lip and the biggest eyes you could make. A trick you’ve pulled since you were a child.

"Ugh, fine ," Lady Mina relented, handing the dress back to a maid. "But the King is hosting a tourney later this week, and I insist on getting you ready for that!" 

She wagged a finger at you. "All of the highborns of the South are going to be there. You need to look like a proper lady of your station. Got it?"

“Yes, Lady Mina,” you nodded in fake agreement.

It wouldn't be a lie if you were gone by the time of the tourney, which you hoped to be once this damned contract was signed…

You shoved a final fistful of food into your mouth before getting ready.

And it was true when you said you could get ready on your own. A simple cotton shirt, breeches, and your boots were all you needed. You’ve forgone most of your armor since the boat, finding it all to be utterly unbearable in the Southern heat. You now only bothered with your arm braces and your scabbard.

However, as your eyes traveled over your form in the mirror, they caught onto your chestplate, tucked away in an open chest. It’s cool steel peeked out, the curve of the white fox stealing your attention with a twinkle of light, a reflection of the sun living in the fox’s eye.

Can't breathe-

Air hitched in your throat, and it was then you felt something unpleasantly strange; a cold air that brushed against the back of your shoulders and shivered into your chest.  

You pulled out the chestplate and strapped it on.

"Uh, are you sure you want to do that, my lady?" Mina asked you, cautiously. "It's a very hot day, today."

"I'll be fine," you insisted, finding a strong sense of pride in the fox that guarded your heart. With that one, and the necklace you wore underneath it, you felt like you knew who you were.

A northerner, through and through.

But as a show of respect, you did let Lady Mina do your hair. She brushed it back and weaved it into a braid as you worked on fastening your arm braces.

When Lady Mina stepped back, finished, you simply couldn't afford to linger anymore.

“Thanks,” you told her, not bothering to look before leaving, too busy fidgeting with the final clasp.

You heard her scoff all the way from the door, but hopefully, she knew you enough by now to realize you meant no offense. You simply had more important matters for the day.

You walked out, and as always, Ser Midoriya stood patiently by your door, waiting.

“Good morning, m’lady!” he greeted brightly.

“Good morning, ser.” You couldn’t help but feel warmth in your heart when you saw your friend. He reminded you of your littlest brother. Eager, innocent, hopeful.

“Any ravens from home?” you asked as the both of you headed towards the grounds.

“Yes, actually!” Ser Midoriya pulled out a scroll sealed with blood red wax, stamped with the outline of your familiar.

You eagerly ripped it open, eyes meeting your mother’s perfect handwriting.

Dearest Daughter,

I insist that you return home immediately.

Of course.

The savaged prince will cut off your head-

He’s a king.

You’ve surrounded yourself with beasts, sweetling. Can’t you see? It’s only a matter of time before they gobble you up.

You snorted.

Come home, before I lose a daughter as well as a husband.

You huffed. Using your father’s death against you was low, but unfortunately, unsurprising.

“Any news on the little lord?” Ser Midoriya asked.

You skimmed through the rest of the letter, worry pinching your face the farther you went down.

“No. Nothing.”

You crumpled the letter up into a ball and handed it back to Midoriya, who took it with no response, long-used to your mood when receiving a raven from mother. 

A couple of courtiers passed by, their gazes straying down to the fox on your chest. You saw them lean into each other in a conniving manner, whispering.

“The Lady of the North...”

You expected the stares. You were probably the first northerner to walk through these halls in decades afterall, and nothing fueled the court more than whispers, rumors, and gossip. 

You imagined that you were the main topic of all three today.

But what did surprise you were the glances cast at your knight.

“The green hair? He’s the one that jousted against the King...”

You showed no sign that you heard them, keeping your head forward. But once you passed them, you looked over to your knight. “It seems your reputation is quite bigger than I've been led to believe, ser.”

And as you predicted, Ser Midoriya flinched and stuttered to answer. “I-I told your lord father everything when I arrived at court, m’lady! I swear!”

“Maybe so, but now you must tell me,” you leaned in to talk quieter, in case there were any stray ears. “Without a written agreement, the Dragon King can have second thoughts on the trade. Perhaps he already is , and maybe that's why it's taking so long… You must tell me your tale, ser."

Ser Midoriya just looked at you, confused. "But, m'lady, Kacchan would never do that. He gave you his word."

Your eyebrows shot up to your hairline, bewilderment making you louder, " Kacchan? You have a nickname for him?"

“W-Well, we grew up together,” Midoriya explained, face turning red as he rubbed the back of his neck nervously. His eyes roamed down, up, to the side, everywhere but at you.

You stopped, grabbing onto Ser Midoriya’s shoulder so he would do the same. When he still refused to look at you, you shook him gently, forcing him to do so.

“There’s no one I trust more than you, ser, can't you see? It’s your opinion that I value the most. Not the Dragon King’s.”

Ser Midoriya stood there, twiddling his thumbs. “It’s just that… it’s embarrassing m’lady. A-And" –he suddenly looked up at you, fists now clenched and eyes sparkling with determination– “I’m not that man anymore. I’m a knight now, and I’m going to be the best in all the lands!”

You gave a small smile at his declaration. Truthfully, it didn’t surprise you. You found that the ones most often looked down on were the ones with the biggest dreams, and Ser Midoriya was probably the most doubted knight in the entire realm. It was easy for the world to do so, with his naturally scrawny frame, panicked attitude, and lack of name.

But you've seen the knight grow. You've seen him be the very first one on the training grounds and the very last one to leave. You've seen how seriously he takes his duty in protecting you, how he treats your family with the utmost respect.

You've seen the boy become the man.

“You forget, ser. I train with you," you reminded him. “If I thought you were an embarrassment, I would have said so.” 

You held onto both of his shoulders now, hoping your persistence would be proof of your honesty. "I already believe you capable of anything. There is nothing you need to prove to me, ser."

You released your hold on him, crossing your arms stubbornly. 

“Now, tell me.”

Midoriya released a shaky breath, tears brimming in his forest-green eyes, and for a fearful moment you thought the knight would outright weep, but then he shook his head, wiping them away. 

“Okay.”

He pulled you away into a corner, where his story could be hidden by stone and shadow. 

“As you know, I was working as a stable boy here, in the Southlands. But, I’ve always dreamt of becoming a knight. My favorite story as a boy was always-”

“-Ser Toshinori Yagi, the All Mighty Knight of the Goldlands,” you finished for him.

Midoriya rubbed the back of his neck. “Yes, well. I would run into Kacchan a lot back then but… but often times Kacchan didn’t want me around." 

You narrowed your eyes at his hesitancy. You could read inbetween the lines. You knew how cruel men like the Bakugou Katsuki could be.

Midoriya went on. "He was training to be a knight too, you see. He kept talking about us going to war soon-”

“And how would he know that?” you interrupted snootily. “The Old Lord of the South didn’t even suspect war, so how did he ?”

“Kacchan has the blood of the dragon, m’lady,” your knight explained. “He has dragon dreams.”

“Dragon dreams?”

Ser Midoriya nodded.

Your oncoming dislike of the King hindered for a moment as you absorbed the information.

You’ve read about the blood of the dragon. The last known carrier was the  Dragon Queen. It was written that she never burned, that her dreams were premonitions, that her shouts could make dragons heel, while her whispers could make them roar.

And, it was written that she was the last who could do so.

"Is this true?" you asked carefully.

Midoriya nodded. “He claimed a dragon when he was five, m'lady.”

Shock flowed through you at the idea.

Five years old…

“Well." With a heavy sigh, you slumped against the wall. "I guess that would prove it.”

You looked up, eyes roaming over the stone of the ceiling as you mused. “I never expected the Dragon King to be a dreamer.”

Midoriya looked down sheepishly, almost as if he were guilty of something. “If you ask about it, he'll deny it, m'lady. Kachaan thinks it makes him look superstitious…"

Is that what happened to you, ser? You made a mention of his dreams, and he beat you for it?

"B-But anyways," –Midoriya shook his head, clearing whatever thought that clouded it– "when the tourney was announced, we all thought that this was it; this was how we can prove ourselves and become knights. Kacchan kept talking about how he would win and be named Commander-”

You snorted. “From one tourney win? Doubtful.”

Midoriya shook his head, correcting you. “By then, Kacchan had a lot of influence, m’lady. He was able to command a dragon, and he was in the Old Lord's favor."

“Really?” you asked, astonished. “So just like that? He won and was named Commander?”

Midoriya nodded, tears brimming once again as he recounted shamefully, “The very first round, Kacchan was put up against me and…” –tears started to fill more as Midoriya choked– “And as soon as I charged, somehow the girth came undone…”

“And you fell off.”

“And I fell off!” Midoriya cried.

His sobs bounced off of the walls as Ser Midoriya could no longer hold it in. He doubled over, completely consumed by his emotions, and you saw curious courtiers start to peek their heads your way.

“There, there, ser.” You patted his back reassuringly. “Your riding skills have improved tremendously since you’ve been with me. Your fighting skills, too.”

“I know that.” Ser Midoriya wiped his tears away. “And even then, I knew I could do better. I stood up and went to mount my horse again.”

“As you should,” you nodded.

“But…” Midoriya hesitated. He looked up at you, and you knew then that you wouldn’t like what he had to say. “But Kacchan wouldn’t allow it, m’lady.”

“What?!” you exclaimed. “ Why? You did nothing wrong.”

"He said I was hopeless, that there was no way I could fight, and if I wasn't fit to represent the Southlands on the battlefield, then I wasn't fit to represent them at all," Midoriya recounted in sorrow. "And the Old Lord listened, m’lady, so I was banished."

“That is-” you choked on your anger, too steamed to finish.

Unfair . Dishonorable . Cowardly. Those were the words that came to mind.

“I don’t like this King,” you decided, making your way back towards the light of the hallway.

Anger and guilt twisted your stomach as you realized, that’s why Ser Midoriya begged you to let him fight the other day. He saw it as his chance to regain his honor, and you didn’t let him. You thought it was your duty to challenge the King yourself, in the name of your House.

You peeked over your shoulder, at Ser Midoriya, who was now dejectedly following behind you.

“There’s a tourney coming up later this week. You can fight then,” you decided.

Ser Midoriya’s face brightened immediately. He reminded you of a child seeing his first fall of snow. “Really, m'lady?! You'll let me?”

Your anger melted at the sight of his excitement. “Why, of course, ser. You will be the sole representative of the North. I swear.”

Midoriya’s face turned serious, his determined nature taking root once more. “Yes, m’lady! I will make you proud.”

You didn’t doubt it, but now you'll have to deal with Mina…

Fresh sun hit your face as you reached the grounds. Along with it, the air, tainted with the smell of sweat, blood, and the putrid stench of dragon caves, their presence out of sight yet far from forgotten. Your gaze traveled from the men moving about- from the knights, squires, and stableboys maneuvering through the chaos of work- to the main sparing area, which sat directly in the sun. 

Can't hide your weaknesses when you're basked in light, you thoughtfully observed.

“Are you sure you wish to train today, m’lady?” you heard Midoriya ask. “You’re wrist-”

“It’s fine ,” you assured him, flapping your wrist around to prove it. “It doesn’t hurt anymore. Besides, we need to practice.” You walked into the sun and pulled out your sword, it’s thin blade pointing at Ser Midoriya’s chin. “Let’s go .”

Your knight stared in surprise at your showmanship before promptly furrowing his brows, looking back with fiery confidence. “Right!”

He pulled out his own sword, and as sudden as lightning, you two began, your motions turning into a dance you knew very well.

“Keep your guard up!” you told him.

Midoriya listened and moved to correct his stance, but that was when you had him. You knocked his sword away.

“Keep your head as well,” you joked.

Midoriya huffed in amusement, resetting himself for the next round. You followed.

The both of you simultaneously began once more. You danced around your knight mercilessly, fighting him with the same sly brutality you showed the King.

Ser Midoriya was your knight, afterall. If he couldn’t hold a fight against you , then there really was no point to him, was there?

But just like you knew he would, Midoriya kept up, though be it, with a very strained look on his face. You weren't sure if he was afraid of you hitting him or he hitting you . You knew if he actually gave you an injury, Ser Midoriya would never forgive himself-

You felt a solid tap on the chest, sword hitting your armor with a solid tink.

“Yes!” Midoriya cheered.

“Nicely done,” you complimented. 

It was what you deserved, with your mind wandering about.

Head in the clouds, ears in the trees, your father used to say.

You both repositioned, swords high and eyes pierced into one another, waiting to see what the next move might be.

Ser Midoriya was smart enough to keep his eye on your hip, where your dagger was hidden. You've been known to pull it out when least expected, surprising your opponent when their attention was focused on your sword. A trick that helped you with Bakugou, but unlike him, Midoriya has sparred with you many times now. He knew your tricks.

You both circled around each other, waiting.

"JUST GO ALREADY!" Somebody screamed, and immediately, everyone in your peripherals stood at attention.

Perhaps out of spite, you broke your stance, refusing to do so.

You could feel the glare of the Dragon King once more, this time from the shadow of the balcony.

You remained tall and glared back. 

Just because you were making a trade with the Dragon King didn't mean you had to bow to his every whim. He was the King of the South , and your loyalty was to home. To your people.

To your knight, you thought furiously, Ser Midoriya’s tale taking center place once more.

"Good morning, Your Grace," you greeted curtly.

Bakugou continued to glare, eyes searching for a sign that you'll buckle. However, he seemed to find none, for he turned his head away with a huff.

"Mornin'," he grunted before making his way down the steps. Obnoxiously slow, obnoxiously loud.

He wore a fresh cape today, still sporting the blood red color of his House. His chest was still bare, still proudly exposing the tattoos he earned in battle (and yet shamefully, your cheeks flared as if it were all new). 

However, what was new was the chain he wore around his neck, made out of tiny sharp teeth.

The baby teeth of his dragon, perhaps?

When he reached the ground, the King's eyes immediately latched onto your knight, burning with an unmatched fury. 

"Deku," he growled. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

You noticed your knight's hands shaking by his sides, and so you interjected.

"He's my knight, and I asked him to help me train," you answered coolly. "What's it to you?"

The King barked out a laugh. " Right . I've seen the worm fight before." He inched closer intimidatingly. "More like you were training him ."

And then a sword appeared between you two.

"I'm a knight of the North now, Kacchan." Ser Midoriya's voice was tight but steady, and you saw Bakugou's eyes flare even more. "I must ask that you keep your distance from m'lady. She's already close enough to hear whatever you have to say."

The King's face twisted into a deadly scowl. "Stop calling me that! I'm a king-"

"But not his," you cut in, your own eyes piercing coldly into the dragon's. Ice to the fire. "Ser Midoriya belongs to the North now. Remember?"

You saw the King's scowl pinch in, just slightly before it turned into a cruel, arrogant smirk. 

"Must be where the cowards go."

Anger flared within you, contained only by the hard steel of the fox that protected your chest. In fear that you would snap and ruin the agreement before it was even written, you said nothing.

"You northerners won't last five seconds in the dragon caves," the King went on.

You felt a brow perch up, asking, "Oh? Is that what we're doing today?"

The King's scowl returned. "I told ya' I was gonna show you how we get blackstone, didn't I?"

"We’re going to mine blackstone?" you asked with genuine curiosity, anger gone for now. 

But, how ?

"Just come along, will ya'?" The King growled darkly before walking away.

The way he said it cowed you into obedience. You were both curious to see how the southerners attempted to mine, as well as the sudden seriousness that seemed to possess the King.

And in following him, you got to see the true power he welded.

Everywhere the Dragon King went, the people would stop. Women dropped to the floor in curtsies. Men would bend the knee. Knights and guards would stand at attention and salute, any hint of life gone in the presence of their liege.

You expected he liked it that way.

And how the King wouldn’t stop or even nod at his courtiers. Instead, he chose to act as if they didn't exist at all, keeping his head forward as he marched towards the gateway. It wasn’t until you were halfway there when you noticed…

“You don’t have a guard?” you asked curiously.

The King snorted. "Like to see someone try . In my own castle…”

Good point. Only a fool would dare to slay a dragon when they're in the belly of its lair.

The three of you reached the gateway, reintroduced to the sky once more, and the sight in front of you brought a smile to your face.

“Oh good! We’re riding there!” 

The first horse you saw was the one in front, a bay gelding with a tail that wouldn't stop flicking. The sootiness of his coat shined against the sunlight, bringing attention towards his strong legs and dark snout, his eyes dark as night. He wore a gold trimmed saddle with blood red padding, all bearing the sigil of a golden dragon breathing flame. 

The Dragon King's.

But then you spotted the light-gray mare behind him, her coat reminding you of snow. Not the pure white snow that blessed the North deep within the winter season, but the real snow you used to see every day; the slush that squished under your feet when you walked to the stables. The half-melted snow that cornered the gateway, forming into small mountains you and your brothers used to climb, and then later fall in. The dirty snow your older brother dared you to eat once (and you almost did, until mother saw you and screamed bloody murder).

It was the type of snow hardly anyone ever thought about.

And how the mare's eyes bled into yours, her stature unmoving and calm, her long tail occasionally flicking with the unearthed energy that she was, no doubt, reserving for the ride.

You walked past the King to greet her, making sure to keep to her side, so that her eyes could be on you as you approached carefully.

"Hello, there," you spoke to her in a gentle tone, holding a cautious hand to her nose so she could catch your scent.

She took some sniffs and sighed into your touch, her own sign of welcome. She then nudged her nose into your palm, urging you to pet her.

You let out a giggle at her persistence, finding a light-hearted joy you haven't felt in a very long time.

“I take it you like to ride, my lady?” a voice startled you, bringing you back to your surroundings. 

You didn't even notice the man next to you, which was saying something given his solid build and eccentric red hair. Everything about him read strong and warrior , yet he wore a gentle smile with kind eyes to match.

You bashfully answered. “As soon as I learned how to walk, I learned how to ride. The North is full of open land, you see. It’s far more practical to be on horseback than inside a carriage.”

The large man smiled, showing off his sparkling sharp teeth.

“You’ll like Yuki, then. She’s nice, but she sure likes to run.” The man patted the horse's neck affectionately. 

Your chest panged with heartbreak once more, as you remembered how you had to give up your own stead for the northern cause. 

Another sacrifice for the war.

The man turned towards you, and nodded his head in the form of a bow. “Kirishima Eijirou, if it pleases my lady.”

It was then that you spotted the gold broach holding the man’s cape together. It was a hand, palm open in a show of promise.

“You're the Hand?” you asked, surprised. But then again, perhaps it was unsurprising that someone like Bakugou Katsuki would want someone equally built along his side.

“Indeed, I am!" Kirishima cheerfully replied. "Sorry for not greeting you at the gate. We had a-”

“Oi, Ei!” The King barked. “Quit yapping and get on a damn horse!”

The Dragon King was already on his stead, ready to go.

“Best not to keep His Grace waiting,” you grumbled sarcastically.

Kirishima leaned towards you, whispering as if in conspiracy. “You’ll find that he’s more roar than bite, my lady. I promise.” He tossed you another smile before leaving to head to his own horse.

You felt your brows furrow in confusion. 

Somehow, you doubted that.

You mounted Yuki with ease, her steady nature being a welcomed gift after dealing with the fiery tempers of this morning.

And, you were sure, the fiery tempers you still had to deal with.

“M’lady is one of the best riders in the North!” Midoriya excitedly proclaimed, mounting his own horse clumsily. “She raced against all of the lords and knights of the land and beat them all! Even her lord brother.”

The King snarled. “As long as she’s better than you.”

Anger flared inside you, and quite suddenly, you felt the need for a challenge. “Have you ever raced against a northerner before, Your Grace?”

The King scoffed, jutting a thumb towards his chest as he bragged, “I’ve ridden dragons, Lady! I doubt you can beat me.”

You smirked.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out,” you said smoothly. Then without any warning, you hit your reins, urging your horse to run with a loud “Ya!”

And you left everyone in the dust.

You could hear the shouts of the King behind you. “Oi! This is cheating! Get your ass back here!” 

You also heard the cries of your knight. “M’lady, please! You can’t just leave like that!”

You looked back, catching the sorry sight of them struggling to catch up, and your laugh carried you over to the other side of the Bridge. Out of mercy (and also because you genuinely did not know the way), you slowed Yuki down to stop.

The King caught up to you within a second, halting right next to you. 

“That doesn’t count!” he scolded, eyes burning angrily into yours.

You rolled eyes and shrugged. “It was a joke, Your Grace. Nothing more…”

He scoffed, melted gaze fading into curiosity. You felt his eyes stray to your posture, how posed you looked on a horse, but then they stopped at your chestplate.

"You wearing that for the whole day?" he asked you calmly.

For some unknown reason, you felt a prickle of nervousness creep up to the back of your neck. "Yes, Your Grace. I was planning on it."

You watched as Bakugou's brow arched up, his face contorting into a look of confusion and disgust.

He thought you were stupid.

But just as quickly as the expression appeared, it fell as you heard him grumble quietly, "Fine. It's your funeral."

Then he rode his horse ahead of you, leading the way, and as you watched his retreating form, you couldn't help but ponder over his sudden cut off from you.

It was almost as if he were disappointed in you.

And then you found yourself questioning your choice, wondering if perhaps it was a stupid idea, wearing a chestplate on a day like this.

You were starting to feel it- the strong band of heat trapped inside the plate. The weight of it was starting to drag you down, and when you looked, you saw that no one else was wearing anything to a similar degree. Even your knight, who wore his whole uniform on the very first day, was now only wearing his pauldrons over a light shirt.

Doubt started to sink in, and your fingers started to play at the clasps holding the plate together.

Can't breathe-

All of the air suddenly escaped from your lungs, like you were punched in the gut, forcing you to take a greedy breath in. The chill that tickled your skin returned, making the sweat that coated your skin turn ice cold. It was like a ghost was passing through you, inflicting you with the feeling of his bloodless fate.

So you decided to keep the chestplate on as you rode alongside your party, more of the King's soldiers following close behind.

Silence filled the time of the journey, as dirt and land started to give away to sand, beach rocks, and tall grass peeking through it. Even though this was in the Southlands, you felt as if Tochiryuu was an island, a place of its own with nothing but the things inside it; the beat of the sun, the white of the sand, and the roar of the ocean that was slowly growing bigger and bigger, its water twinkling like it was made out of stars.

Maybe the sea wasn’t such a sorry sight after all. 

And as you turned your head around, marveling at the beauty of the beach. You couldn’t help but think there was a battle here, not that long ago.

“So, tell me about Sunset Beach.”

A wave of tension seemed to pass through the King and his Hand, and for a moment, you thought perhaps you got it wrong.

“This is where you had your big victory, yes?” you asked the King directly.

His crimson eyes seemed to darken into the color of blood as they peeked back at you.

“Aye,” was all he said.

You huffed. "Well, King of Victory. Wouldn't you like to tell me how you earned the name?”

Surely he expected you to ask about it?

But oddly enough, the Dragon King didn’t reply. He just turned away and completely ignored you.

You didn’t understand. You'd imagined an arrogant man like Bakugou Katsuki wouldn't dare miss the opportunity to brag. Was his success exaggerated? Or was the battle more gruesome than how the songs described it to be?

Either way, you got it wrong, and you found yourself looking back at Ser Midoriya for guidance. But, he looked just as puzzled as you, his face scrunched up in deep concern as he met your gaze.

The heat within your chestplate started to curl up and tighten your throat. You suddenly felt panicked at the idea that the King didn’t like you. Personally, you wouldn’t have cared. You didn’t necessarily like him either, but your country was on the line. The King could decide not to follow through on the agreement. You needed to stay in good graces, at least until the bloody contract was signed and you could get the hell out of here.

You decided the best route was to just keep your mouth shut for the rest of the journey, and try to impress later.

“Have you been to the caves yet, my lady?” Kirishima suddenly asked you. He sounded kindly, and he even slowed his horse down so he could be by your side, better to hear you.

So much for keeping your mouth shut.

You swallowed down your reluctance to speak. “Not yet, but I’ve read about them, my lord.”

You eyed the King warily before going on. “The caves live just south of the Arashi Mountains. Not only are they the only known caves that hold blackstone, but they are home to many other gems as well- blood rubies, yellow diamonds. But…” You looked back at Kirishima. “But because of all of that, they're a natural attraction for dragons.”

Kirishima nodded. “That’s right. Dragons love treasure. Many of them end up making their nests in the caves. They're crawling with them.” And then, perhaps fearing that the comment would scare you, the lord backtracked. “B-But not to worry! The King and I have been in the caves many times. Right, Your Grace?!”

The King grumbled under his breath before begrudgingly replying, “Know ‘em like the back of my hand.”

“I trust you,” you told Kirishima, but your eyes did briefly wander over to the Dragon King.

The Arashi Mountains grew bigger. You could now pick out the lines of smoke that punctured various corners, curling up into the sky and beyond it, making the peaks disappear. The stormy-black of the rock seemed to swallow the sun that touched it, painting its entire aura gray. You caught the smaller pieces of rock circling around the base, how jagged and sharp they appeared to be as they covered the pitch-back that was the entrance to the caves.

You then spotted the white tents lined up around it, the small ants of men moving about to the faint sound of metalwork, as more lines of smoke traveled up from the ground, signaling the presence of bonfire.

But then a mighty roar vibrated through the sky. You looked up behind you and saw a tiny black speck flying, growing bigger and bigger until you struggled to see under the brightness of the sun. You felt a rush of wind fan your cheeks and whip through your hair, and the darkness the dragon brought shielded you from the torture as it flew over you. As it passed, you saw the familiar colors; red shimmering into black and green as it headed towards the mountains before you, letting out another roar as the dragon reached its home.

You saw the King smirk with pride.

"Katsuko" he greeted.

"Yours?" you asked.

The King whipped his head towards you, and for a moment you thought he would ignore you again or at least give you another half-ass answer, but pride seemed to take over. He boasted,"Of course. It's only right that the King has the best dragon."

"Is he the biggest?"

Bakugou snorted, hopping off the horse to walk the rest of the way towards the caves. "For his age. He’ll only grow bigger as he gets older, don’t worry."

You weren’t.

Truthfully, you weren’t too keen on the dragons yet. You admitted they were beautiful creatures and that they held a charming sense of power and grace when they flew in the air, beyond any danger or limitation. But you faintly wondered about the consequences of taming such a beast…

You went to unmount as well when a dizzy spell hit you, knees buckling as your feet touched ground. You held onto the saddle to keep yourself steady.

Ser Midoriya raced to your side when he noticed. “M’lady! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, ser,” you gritted determinedly, still feeling light-headed. 

“Are… are you sure you need the chestplate, m’lady?” Midoriya asked quietly. “If it’s your safety you're worried about, don’t worry! I’m sure Kacchan knows what he’s doing, and I’m here-”

“I said I’m fine, ser,” you seethed, hating to snap at him, but now the ghostly feeling has increased tenfold, from brushing against your shoulders to now trapping you in a bear hug, whispering in your ear…

Can't breathe…

You squirmed under its warning.

Your eyes peeked open to find Ser Midoriya staring at you in worry.

You gave a short, exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry, but my gut is telling me to keep the plate on and so it stays on. And that’s that.”

Ser Midoria nodded silently in agreement, although the worry was still plain on his face.

You both followed behind the King and His Hand, who were currently being greeted by a familiar face.

“Ah, great! The Dragon Whisperer has arrived.” Kaminari approached, a wide grin on his face as he bowed to the King.

Bakugou grunted in response and simply moved past him, heading towards a large slab of stone set in the middle of the base, sanded down so that it resembled a table. Some men were huddled around it, but quickly stepped aside for him. You had a feeling if they didn’t, the King would’ve just plowed through them anyway.

Lord Kaminari didn’t seem phased however, and instead his gaze landed on you.

“My lady,” he said with another bow. “I hope your ride was pleasant.”

“Better than the carriage,” you muttered grumpily.

It was true. Although the heat was gruesome and it was currently racing through your veins like snake venom, it was still a better journey. Afterall, you had yet to throw up.

A canteen floated right in front of your face. You grabbed at it- delighted to find it was real - and saw that it was your knight that gave it to you, worry still etched onto his face.

You ignored it, and drank out of the canteen heavily, fresh water flowing down your throat and branching through the rest of your body in heavenly relief.

You wanted to pass it back to Ser Midoriya, but he beated you to it by insisting you needed to catch up to the King, who was studying the slab. As you went to do so, you eagerly eyed the men working on the tools- pickaxes, hammers, and spears you quickly noted. You squinted in on them, and was shocked to find they were working with steel. Not blackstone.

Then, how?

You reached the King, approaching on his left. You looked down, curious of the source of his attention, and saw that the slab was carved with many lines, some short and some stretching to the opposite side, all of them connecting like the roots of a tree. At certain points, there were names, some of them faded so that you had to squint to read- Kinba, Shiroi Tsubasa, Kanibaru -and some of them were new, freshly carved- Musouka, Katsuko …

It was a map… and the names must be where the dragons live.

"So, which path are we taking?” you asked.

Bakugou huffed, dragging a finger from the older end, passing through Kanibaru and following the main line all the way down until reaching Katsuko , and then Musouka .

Your heart dropped to the bottom of your stomach.

“We’re going through their nests?” you asked in quiet horror.

“That’s how we find blackstone,” the King shrugged, as if it were no big deal. “The dragons are attracted to it, so they nest where it’s at.”

“And luckily for us, Musouka’s expanding her home!” Kirishima joyfully informed you. “She must be laying eggs soon.”

“‘Means she’ll be even more territorial,” the King grumbled. “We have to be careful bringing Katsuko in there.”

“We’re bringing Katsuko?” you asked.

“‘Need him to melt down the rock,” the King answered before turning towards Kaminari. “Oi! Where’s Musouka now?!”

“On flight, Your Grace. The watchtower last reported her heading east.”

“Then we need to move now,” the King stated, and in the wink of an eye, everyone did, and with such urgency that you found yourself looking in every direction, utterly lost.

“W-Wait! What if she comes back?!” Ser Midoriya cried, looking just as confused as you.

“Don’t worry, I’ll let you know,” Kaminari winked, handing each of you a torch, top end wrapped in cloth and reeking of alcohol. A heavy pack was suddenly tossed your way, and you peered inside it to find a pickaxe, rope, gloves, and a fresh canteen.

“You’ll also need this. The smell is quite strong down there.” Kaminari then handed each of you a large white cloth. 

You gave a good whiff and found that the putrid scent of the mountains, which was once tolerable in the city, was now churning deeply in your stomach.

Oh, you can not throw up again.

You secured the cloth over your nose and mouth, as tightly as you could. Then, you faced the pitch black of the cave’s entrance. No torches lined up against the wall, nor any wagon tracks. The only physical sign that man has been in that cave before was the slab of rock right next you.

Steeling yourself, as much as you could with the heat and the smell, you marched towards the black, but as soon as you met Kirishima at the entrance, you heard something big walking up behind you. 

You turned to find none other than Katsuko the Dragon, being way too close to your comfort with the King riding on top of him, looking as smug as ever, even with the cloth over his mouth.

It made you feel more sick than the stench ever could.

You all scrambled to get out of the way as Katsuko continued to march past you. 

“Just follow me, northerners, and you’ll be fine,” the Dragon King bragged.

Torches lit, you, Midoriya, and Kirishima silently walked behind Katsuko, who led the way. Wings tucked and body flat, the dragon scurried through the tunnels almost like a lizard, his tail slithering after him.

As rock and dirt crunched under your feet, you observed the walls around you, your torch light capturing the indented black that swallowed you whole, its tiny glimmers shining from your fire. It looked solid. Strong. And yet you knew you could easily take your pickaxe and pick a piece off.

It wasn’t blackstone. Blackstone only shined in sunlight.

Your eyes strayed down to find a white line of rope tied to the sides, a bell attached every few inches. You followed the line all the way until darkness stopped you.

Kaminari.

That’s what he meant. If Musouka comes back, he’ll pull the rope and ring the bells.

You all continue your path silently, letting the distant echoes of the cave consume you. It was somehow calming, the sound of the caves; the small drip of water from somewhere in the dark, the small roar of fire that came from your torches, the small shuffles of your footsteps, even the small sounds of Katsuko as he sniffed and scampered his way ahead.

All of these small sounds being casted out into the vibrant air of the cave, traveling through and meeting into one singular song. It gave you this strange, lulling sense of tranquility, one you were only familiar with through the whispering woods of home.

You hated to interrupt it, but you had questions.

“Why aren’t we using the blackstone tools?”

Everyone stopped to look at you. Even Katsuko.

“What blackstone tools?!” The King barked, the echoes of the cave capturing his voice and making it louder.

And it was such an offensive response that you couldn’t help but stare at him, speaking full of snark. “You know, the ones my family made…"

The Blacksmith's Hammer. The Anvil. The Five Pickaxes. Tools that have been passed down to your family for generations, that is, until the truce was broken.

“Eh?” the King asked. “Why the hell would we have those?!”

All you could do was look blankly ahead, the flare of your annoyance washed away into stupor.

“You… you don’t have them?” you asked quietly, fear and heartbreak creeping in with the thought that your ancestor’s creations may be gone for good.

“No, my lady.” Lord Kirishima shook his head . “At least, not us nor the Old Lord.”

“Do…" Your throat clogged with emotion, forcing you to clear it out and adjust your mask. "Do you think the Dragon Queen did something to them?”

“I wouldn’t know, my lady.” Kirishima shook his head again, sadly .

You let the sharp pain of grief curl up around your throat before stubbornly swallowing it down, ceasing the sting in your eyes along with it.

“That’s why our pickaxes are plain,” you roughed out, continuing your walk. "And why we need Katsuko to melt down the stone."

Dragon fire.

Except for blackstone itself, it's the only thing that can affect it. Without the Blacksmith’s tools, it would be the only option.

"And what do we do if we run into a stray?" you asked nervously.

No one answered.

Swallowing down the lump in your throat, you took the silence for what it was and moved along.

You let your hand brush along the cave wall, feeling the coarseness scratch along your palm, and you wondered distractedly, how far down were you? Then, how far down did the tunnels go? You haven’t even passed through the first dragon’s nest yet…

The sound of your footsteps began to grow louder, crunchier , and then,

Snap.

Startled, you looked down, absent mindedly thinking you somehow stepped on a twig.

But that couldn’t be right.

And when you brought your torch down to the ground, you saw it- the stick of bone white, coated with ash.

You swallowed down your fear over the sickening realization that, you were getting close.

“Kanibaru. That’s the first nest, yes?”" you asked nervously.

The King rumbled, “Aye.”

“And, do we need to worry about him?”

He let out a snort. “Kanibaru’s been dead for years, lady. We’ll be fine.”

"Not too far now, m’lady," Kirishima assured you.

You looked over towards your knight, who's been oddly silent since entering the caves, his eyes downcasted in deep thought.

“Are you alright, ser?”

Midoriya blinked, startled back to reality by your voice. “Oh! Y-Yes, m’lady. I was just pondering over the name.”

“Kanibaru?”

Ser Midoriya nodded solemnly. “Cannibal.”

Ice cold dread ran through your veins, making you feel cold once again despite the warmth of your armor.

The temperature of the air was fine, but the strong stench of dragon was fully watering your eyes now. You found yourself furiously wiping away your tears with your arm.

“Watch your feet!” the King called behind him.

You immediately looked down, seeing the bones in Kirishima’s torchlight. No longer were they fragments, hidden in the earth, but fully exposed and bigger.

And bigger…

Bones grew and multiplied. While once you were watching your step, now you were actively maneuvering around them- stepping over a ribcage only to narrowly avoid what appeared to be a broken sheep skull.

But then the bones went on, until they formed tiny mountains of their own and it was impossible to ignore the sickening crunches and snaps that formed under your feet, as you had no choice but to fully step on them now. 

And then you reached the nest.

Large white pillars sat on both ends, forcing Katsuko to tighten himself so he could crawl under it while Bakugou ducked, the rest of you huddling closer into the center. As you carefully stepped through, you looked up, seeing the roof that was the spine. And once you passed the pillars and the broken off roof, there were a few steps of nothing, and then…

The skull. 

It was facing away from you, so you couldn’t quite see it in all its glory yet, but Katsuko could, and he didn't like it. The dragon growled softly at the bone, sniffing at it and nudging it with his nose before his jaw opened slightly, growl growing louder and more rattled.

“Oi, Katsuko,” The Dragon King warned, “Rybas.”

The dragon let out another growl before turning his head and continuing walking.

And when you circled around the great white marble, you caught the side of the jaw, and then, the heavy spears of the teeth. The ones toward the front of the mouth were chipped off and broken, but the ones towards the back were completely intact, and so large- you imagined all it took was one strong bite for any prey to be turned into a slush of meat.

Your eyes traveled up the eye sockets, the one on the right torn and shattered all the way down the cheek.

The final bite that killed it.

When your fascination began to drag you behind, Ser Midoriya grabbed your elbow, nervously urging, “C’mon, m’lady! Best to keep moving.”

Sweat coated the palm holding your torch. You grasped it tighter, suddenly fearful of any small sound that passed through, your peace dampened with the idea that a dragon had no qualms killing one of its own.

But the bones soon disappeared, and the regular pathway of the tunnels returned, turning your thought into nothing but a shadow in your own mind.

Your chestplate grew heavier and heavier the farther you went down, and soon you found yourself being the last one in the group. At least, you would’ve been, if Ser Midoriya didn’t insist on staying by your side, making sure you were keeping up. 

And you tried to, you really did, but the weight of the chestplate felt heavier than stone, and every slight breeze that passed through seemed to tickle the back of your neck and crawl down to the bottom of your spine, making you shiver as the haunting came back again and again.

You kept waiting for the bells to ring, or worse, the small rumblings of a beast to poke through.

But besides the sounds of your party passing through, there was nothing, and Katsuko seemed to not be worried at all. In fact, he seemed to be going faster now, eager to reach his own domain.

The pathway began to grow wider. You, Midoriya, and Kirishima now free to walk with a bit of space, nothing but the darkness of the void and the small specks of torchlight warding it off, until Katsuko suddenly took a left turn, leaving you all chasing to follow.

The dragon took a few more steps then abruptly stopped, causing a domino effect for Kirishima, Midoriya, and you.

Katsuko grumbled softly again, flapping his wings slightly as he entered his own home. The white pieces of bone once again resurfaced from the ground, this time, only the remains of sheep scattered along with it.

But glittering light soon caught your eye, and you squinted closely to see the shadows of gold. You brought your torch in front of you, illuminating the hoard of treasure in all of its sparkling glory; not only gold, but diamonds and rubies as well, all hidden safely within the darkness of the caves and further protected by its owner, Katsuko The Dragon himself.

“Don’t you dare touch any of it,” The King commanded, yelling over his shoulder. “This is his , got it?!”

You nodded silently in agreement.

You lingered on the treasure until your eyes traveled up, meeting the giant hole in the wall.

“Is this where you got the blackstone for your throne?” you asked innocently.

“Aye,” the King grumbled. 

If they had the Anvil, they would’ve been able to make more tools…

Katsuko suddenly decided that he had enough walking for the day. He marched up to his hoard and started digging into it.

“Katsuko,” the King scolded. “Naejot!”

Katsuko ignored him and continued to dig.

Bakugou huffed, annoyed. “Katsuko, dohaeras. Naejot!”

Katsuko grumbled, before turning it into a growl, and then, a sharp whine. His tail swung out dangerously, whipping left and right,  hitting the cave walls.

You backed away nervously, as Ser Midoriya pulled you back even more, behind him.

“Oi,” the Dragon King warned. He started speaking in full sentences, in the language you didn’t understand.

But Katusko cocked his head, listening. Then, with a great huff, he turned around and continued down the path towards Musouka’s domain.

By now, the smell was so strong, your nostrils burned. You tightened the tie on your cloth to no avail, stuck with the stench attacking your nose hairs, and the long journey wasn't just weighing on Katsuko. Everyone was starting to feel fatigued, tension and impatience was starting to build in the air, and you feared that a single sneeze would cause the King to snap at you.

"Getting close…" he grumbled, stretching out his back while Katsuko carried him.

Easy for him to say. He didn't have to walk…

But then, shortly afterward, the King was proven right. You arrived.

Musouka’s home was definitely the biggest you’ve seen so far, with gold and jewels completely blocking the walls with its tall peaks, while bones and carcasses painted the floor, all of it forming into one very large nest of treasure and death.

Katsuko rumbled greedily as heavy steam began to leak out of his nostrils, with his tail slithering sinfully to and fro.

"Katsuko, umbas."

The dragon grumbled, shaking his head at the command, before begrudgingly, sitting himself down, staying.

The Dragon King hopped off his back, heading towards the back wall to move all the gold. Kirishima moved to help him, while you and Ser Midoriya held your torches high so they could see.

They exposed the smooth, black surface of the wall, not a single hint of shimmer reflected anywhere.

You walked up to touch it, feeling the familiar smoot-yet-rough scratch as it grazed your palm.

Blackstone.

“Get your asses back,” the King told everyone, and once again, you felt Ser Midoriya gently guide you back, making you to be the farthest away from the wall.

You peeked over Midoriya’s shoulder, watching Bakugou walk up to Katsuko, standing by his side.

“Katsuko.”  The King nodded towards the wall. “Dracarys.”

Katsuko scrunched his neck, growling deeply as a burning ball of flame formed deep in his throat.

Then, the dragon roared with all his might, a great wave of fire shooting out of his mouth and hitting the wall in all its fury.

The whole cave seemed to come to life, suddenly illuminated by the dragon fire as every shadow disappeared, and all the smell of dragon was burned to a crisp, replaced entirely by the smell of fire. The dry heat was hitting your face, burning your cheeks and making your heart pound furiously in your chest, its thump bumping the steel fox in front of it.

Then the roar died, the cave returned to darkness once more, and the wall of blackstone now glowed a fiery red.

“Quick! Put your gloves on and start picking at it!” Kirishima shouted, hurrying to do the very thing himself.

You threw down your bag, and dug in for the gloves, made from a very thick leather and a bit too big for your hands, but you put them on, grabbed your pickaxe, and ran to the wall.

“Careful. Don’t let the stone touch you,” the King warned. “Only grab it by the glove, got it?”

“Aye,” you answered him, moving to take a swing.

You managed to pick a chunk off, much to your delight. You grabbed it carefully with your gloved hand, and ran back to grab your bag- deciding to put the rock in there once it cooled.

You all kept picking at the blackstone, slowly gathering as much as you could in silence. The wall was now chunked to pieces, while the rest of it began to cool, the glow of dragon fire beginning to fade away.

You went to take what was maybe your last swing, and then…

A low, soft rumble echoed quietly down the tunnel.

You froze.

"Stop!" you whisper-cried, panicked.

Everyone halted, and listened.

But there was nothing.

“Calm your nervous ass!” The King yelled at you.

“I heard something,” you insisted.

The King rolled his shoulders back, eyeing the progress on the wall. “Probably a rat. If it’s anything else, Katsuko will let us know.”

Your ax felt numb in your hands. You stood there, petrified. You knew you heard something, but everyone else went back to work, swinging at the stone. Prickled flesh ran up your arms,  your shoulders, your neck.

Nothing but silence.

Then a deaf defying screech pierced through the air as a large blue dragon jumped out from a deep crack from within the wall. It launched itself onto Katsuko, and everything went to chaos. The torches went out. The roars and screams of the dragons bombarded the tunnel as they tumbled and rolled over one another, their fight illuminated only by the breaths of fire they were spitting at one another.

You heard Midoriya from afar, but you couldn’t find him.

“My lady! My lady!”

“Midoriya!” you called back, trying to run towards the voice, but then the large thwack of a tail came from somewhere above, forcing you to duck and cover our head as rock rained down. When you felt it stop, you got up and went to keep running, the sounds of the dragon fight still lively behind you.

Before you could even take a step, something hit you strongly in the chest, knocking all the air out of your lungs. Another thwack of a dragon tail. It sent you flying into a wall, its impact strong.

And then, black.

You didn’t know how long you were asleep. All you knew is that you blinked your eyes open, only to find that you still couldn’t see. Everything was black, your chest hurt like hell, and when you took your first breath, a sharp pain shot up from its right side. As you layed there, on the ground, face cloth lost somewhere in the struggle, you pinched your eyes shut and focused on breathing slow and even, hand naturally clutching the place of injury. You could feel the metal of your chestplate, now dented and digging into you.

“Help,” you whimpered, desperately hoping someone could hear you. But you heard no voices, no footsteps, and the sound of the dragon fight was long gone.

How long has it been?

Clenching your teeth, knowing it was going to be a bitch, you shot yourself up, immediately crying out from pain.

But you had to move. So you felt around you, thankfully finding a wall. You leaned against it for support, pulling yourself up, the sharp pain stabbing you from the inside. Sweat poured freely from your body, your forehead utterly slick with it as you just stayed there for a moment, focusing on your breath before you took one step. Two.

“Midoriya,” you tried calling out, the sound of you bouncing down the tunnels, but nothing came back.

What happened to him? To the others? Did they get blocked off from the fight? Crushed by the falling rock? Or did the dragons…?

You swallowed down your agony. You could not dwell over the fate of your poor knight. Not now. Now you had to figure out what to do.

You didn’t know where to go. You couldn’t even see , but you knew you couldn’t stay. Not when a dragon could come by any minute. You remembered, Musouka’s nest was the farthest one on the map. Depending which side you ended up on, you would either be heading towards the exit or heading deeper into the cave, into untrodden territory.

“Fuck,” you groaned, anguished over your predicament.

Sending a quick prayer to the old gods, you began your journey into the darkness, alone. Thankfully, besides your chest and the throbbing bump on your head, you felt fine, so you stumbled your way down, keeping a hand along the wall and your ears open for any sign of life.

You don’t know how long you spent walking, as time seemed endless in the caves. Five minutes could’ve been thirty. Thirty minutes could’ve just been five. The only hint of time you had was the soreness of your feet and the all-over ache of your body.

You wondered what your father would say, if he could see you now. Would he scold you for being stupid? For ever going into a dragon cave to begin with? Would he disown you for ever stepping foot in the Southlands? Perhaps, if things turned more sinister, you would know soon enough.

A sickening crunch halted your thoughts, and you froze, listening.

Let it be a footstep, let it be one of the others .

But then a low growl rumbled through the night, soft and slow, like the creaking of a mill. It crushed your hopes and filled them with terror. 

Goosebumps ran up your flesh as your breath quickened. The thrumming pain of your ribs seemed to echo the beat of your heart as you could feel the strong pulse of your blood racing through your veins.

You reached for your sword, but paused.

Only a fool would dare to slay a dragon when they're in the belly of its lair.

And then you could finally see again as the dragon opened its jaw, a dim ball of light starting to brew within it. You could see the outline of its teeth, just as big as the skeleton you saw eons ago. As the fire grew, rumbling deep with the dragon’s throat, more was illuminated for you; the beady eyes staring directly at you, the blue scales glimmering into green.

“You must be Musouka,” was all you were able to say, coming to the conclusion that this was your fate.

The dragon released a sizzling exhale, hot ghastly air steaming out of its nostrils and onto your face and hair. It gave another low rumble, as if agreeing with you.

The rumbling began to crank up, growing louder as the jaw was released more, fire growing brighter as the full, monstrously beautiful face of Musouka was revealed, her fire reflecting in her eyes as she inched closer to you, sharp claws digging through the earth.

Yes, I am Musouka, mother dragon to be, you imagined her saying.

And you are a stranger in my home.

As you closed your eyes, waiting for the inevitable, a soft melody seemed to echo from somewhere beyond. You thought it was a part of your imagination, that your mind was simply conjuring up a sweet, distant mirage before you faced a gruesome death.

But then you felt Musouka cock her head to the side, listening as well. The silkened words grew closer, more present.

When you felt her finally looked away, you opened your eyes, and you were glad you did, because you would’ve never believed it if you hadn’t. 

Blonde hair peeked from within the soft glow of his own torch flame, crimson eyes reflecting its ferocity as the Dragon King stepped up, bringing Musouka’s attention fully on him.

He didn’t seem scared as he sang his sweet song. He seemed calm, confident, and strong. He stood his ground as Musouka drew near, and it was like his honeyed words only grew more powerful as she did so.

The blood of the dragon…

The fire in the King’s eyes seemed to match Musouka’s completely, the only proof of the invisible string connecting them. The song was so hypnotic, it felt like it would never end. An endless song of beauty that could never be broken, like the bond between a dragon and its rider.

It is magic. It must be, you thought.

But as endless as the song felt, Musouka suddenly turned her head away from the King and from you. She went up to another deep crack within the wall. She folded her wings and flattened herself before scurrying inside the broken rock, sharp tail slithering away and disappearing with her.

You felt the magic disappear, broken for good, and your senses returned to you as you begrudgingly stood up straight, feeling the throb of your knees, shaking.

You were now alone with the King. A heavy silence passed through the both of you as you worked on regaining your nerve.

“Thank you for that.”

The King grunted, as if it were no big deal. “You okay?”

You found yourself nodding, “Yea-Yes. I’m fine. I think I have a broken rib, but that’s the worst of it. Thank you, again.”

His eyes seemed to wonder over you, checking for himself. They simmered over you head-to-toe, making you shiver under its gravity. Then they lingered over your damaged chestplate.

“Here,” he spoke quietly, moving to undo it for you. You grabbed his torch for him, as he worked to undo the clasps, freeing you from the literal weight on your shoulders as the warmth of his proximity brushed your skin.

Feeling your cheeks flared, you stumbled for a distraction. "H-How did you find me?"

"Told ya', didn't I?" He carefully guided the plate over your head, granting your freedom, as he met your curious eyes. "I know these caves like the back of my hand."

Cheeks flared again once he reminded you.

Of course he knew where to go. He was the Dragon King.

“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, stepping away and taking the torch from you and handing back your chestplate in return.

Before you could even ponder over the lost proximity, he grabbed your free hand and started dragging you away.

He led you through the dark, and feeling just utterly helpless and out of your depth, you let him, putting all of your trust and dependency on the Dragon King as he guided you through the caves, occasionally halting to listen, occasionally pulling you left and right on a random notice.

And perhaps because your mind was tired and numb and you finally felt a sense of safety again, but your thoughts began to wander, fading into faint dreams of the stories you grew up with, of the Blacksmith and the Queen. Perhaps the Blacksmith got lost in the caves the first time around and the Dragon Queen had to rescue him, just like this. You imagined that this was how their friendship was formed, with trust being put into one another and the threat of death waking them up from their ignorant and childish feud. Maybe this was how the idea of the Bridge came to be…

Through the rush of being pulled this way and that, and your mind being lost in its fruitless thoughts, the rustling in your ears came forefront. The sound of the whispering trees bending violently in the wind, their words growing louder…

A broken oath…

A dragon only knows greed…

What do they know of honor …

“Head in the clouds and ears in the trees," your father's voice whispered.

You reached fresh air, and you found yourself gasping for it greatly. The muffledness of your mind faded away, making everything clear the more you breathed. You hardly even noticed Ser Midoriya fretting over you, his mouth moving in frantic motions you couldn’t hear nor decipher. You did however see the tear tracks staining his cheeks.

“She’s got a broken rib,” you heard the King say behind you, his voice low and close. “We should take her to the maester.”

A blanket was pulled over your shoulders, and you realized then that, you two weren’t holding hands anymore as the palm that was once in his now felt cool and naked. You tried to make up for the strange feeling of vulnerability by rubbing your palm against the blanket, willing it to go away.

How silly, you thought. Escaping into dreamland and fretting over his touch while he was just saving you.

“Oi! Dunce Face!”

You turned just in time to see the King grab onto Lord Kaminari, holding him up by the collar. “Why the hell didn’t you ring the bells?!”

“I did Your Grace! I was ringing thrm the whole time!” Kaminari screamed, holding his hands up in front of him in mercy. “Something must’ve happened to the rope.”

It occured to you quickly.

“Katsuko," your voice croaked.

Both Kaminari and the King paused to look at you.

You cleared your throat, speaking again. “It must’ve broken off when he swung his tail.”

Realization dawned on the King’s face, as Kaminari slipped away from his grasp, retreating.

"Did… did you at least get any blackstone?" The lord asked hopefully.

You looked towards everyone you went into the caves with.

Midoriya looked down, defeated.

Kirishima rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly.

And the King… The King looked ready to kill.

You don't know what came over you. Maybe you were coming down from the highs of what happened, maybe you were just overwhelmed with the relief of being alive, or maybe you simply found the irony out of the situation, but you started to laugh; small giggles that bubbled out of your mouth soon became full-on laughter that hurt to do, but broken ribbed be damned. You couldn’t help it and you certainly couldn't stop it.

Everybody stared at you, not sure of what to do or how to read your reaction.

You finally calmed down, wiping a stray tear from your eye. "Well, Your Grace. If you wanted to prove the value of your people's work, you needn’t go to such extremes.”

The King simply looked at you, dumbfounded by your reaction.

You sighed, feeling tired and ready to go to bed.

“I would've believed you, if you simply told me,” you told him quietly, a smile on your face as Ser Midoriya guided you to one of the tents.

“Wait.”

You stopped and looked back, waiting for the King to say what he needed to.

“How’d you know to wear it?” He looked down at the chestplate, which was now in Midoriya’s grasp.

You looked at it briefly for a moment, the fox that was now covered in soot. Unsure of what to say, you looked back up at Midoriya, seeing the look of warning in his eye, his words from before coming into mind.

" If you ask about it, he'll deny it, m'lady. Kachaan thinks it makes him look superstitious…"

You looked back up at the King, and  shrugged innocently. 

“Just instinct, Your Grace.”

[blogthefiresidechats]

Monthly Release Party......February 2023

I’ve assembled a few books that will be released this month that I’m looking forward to. I’ve posted the cover art for the book as well as the synopsis for each book. At the end of the synopsis, I’ve listed the day it will be released this month. What are you looking forward to reading? Synopsis: Growing up in a beautiful house in the English countryside, Katie Shaw lived a charmed life. At the…

[shoshiwrites]

The lovely @mercurygray is running Blind Dates again this year — now with a blog @blind-dates-fest! — and I wanted to make it four for four!

My sincerest apologies to Esther Bubley, whose photo stories for the Office of War Information I borrowed for this piece (and header), more specifically the six-week bus trip she took in 1943 to document the country's travels during wartime.

Her photos are amazing and can be found in multiple books on the Internet Archive and on the Library of Congress website. Her OWI peers included Jack Delano, Marion Post Wolcott, Gordon Parks, and John Vachon, and I should probably put together a second post instead of taking up all the space in this one!

Without further ado, meet Paulette!

so many miles and so long since i've met you

It’s 5:00 AM, and she’s hungry. 

She’d gone for a boxed lunch at the last station, scarfing it down at a corner bench with her camera on her lap, her jacket flung over it for protection. The taste of salmon salad lingers in her mouth, her fingertips still smelling of orange peel even though she’d waited in line to reach the ladies’ room, politely elbowed her way between fellow passengers reapplying lipstick and dabbing their makeup to scrub her hands clean at the small sink.

I could go for a Coca-Cola right about now. 

If nothing else, it would keep her awake to keep shooting, capture the people waiting who look as tired as she feels, as tired as she knows she looks by now. She’d gotten some good pictures at the machine shop back in Indianapolis, the garage where the mechanics worked and the drivers wrote out trip reports. 

Maybe she’s predisposed, her comfort in these places. Her papa’s a mechanic too; she knows the chambray shirts with their pockets, stained with oil and stuffed with pens, wrenches hanging on the wall, the smell of new tires and grease.

She tries not to yawn, and fails, into the back of her wrist. Sleep finds a way here — she sees it in heavy shoulders, click, the flyaway curls, click, the man walking through with a stack of used pillows off an incoming bus, click. The children dozing on their father’s arm, little brown shoes barely touching the floor, the stuffed bunny in the little one’s arms. Click, click, click. The woman behind her has taken up a whole bench, her pumps kicked off besides. Click. Her camera is small, comparatively, and even still, they all sleep so soundly that the noise doesn’t wake a single person. 

Good shots of the garage in Indianapolis, and better ones of the women who washed the bus windows, the baggage clerks hustling with their caps and cigarettes. They let her roam, with the permissions she’s got, all stamped and tucked in her bag. Behind the driver’s seat, the front, the middle, the back. Her bus out of D. C. was segregated; it depends which bus, which city. Everyone looks at her funny until they forget she’s there.

Paulette has plans for a short stay in the next city, photographing a driver and his family. A real bed and supper at a table, marking the halfway point of this East-Coast-Midwest criss-cross. She thinks of sending a few postcards home — there’s hardly time, but Maman always likes to hear from her, and Paulette knows she’ll catch hell if Charlie and Dot don’t have anything to tape up. 

Is it better to send the same postcard, or different ones, she wonders. Sometimes the twins like to match, and sometimes there’s nothing worse. Just as long as she calls Charlie Charles — makes him feel like a grownup, like Pa’s official correspondence, and her sister Dot or Sis. Marie-Dorothée makes her sound like their grandmother, Dot says. Paulette, ten years older, out of sight and on the road with her knowing smile, does as she’s told.

“Miss?”

Her eyes fly open to the asker, the soldier in front of her as tired as the rest. It pulls at his frame, still upright with the force of hard training. His voice is a little hoarse, that sleepiness, like it’s not a question. “Mind if I sit here?”

Here is the space between her and the end of the carved bench, not much. But here, it’s all at a premium. She nods.

He slumps in next to her, his bag on his lap, and they touch at too many points to count, warm hip warm thigh warm calf. He’s close enough that she can see freckles under the artificial light. If she got up, she could make a photo. Give him some space. 

She feels like she’s missed her chance, the part where she introduces herself and asks for permission. There’s no one here to distract him, no friends or pretty girls to let her fade into the background. Something tells her to get up and walk around. Her bus will be here in an hour anyway, it’d do her good to get the blood in her legs moving. And there’s no such thing as enough pictures, of course. She taps her finger against the flattened lever on the side of her camera. 

“Neat gadget,” says the soldier. 

Paulette’s had the Rolleiflex just under a year, and she’s just now getting less jumpy about it. Photographers have to get used to expensive pieces of equipment. Mr. Linehan back at the office had no patience for it, squeamishness. Trust yourself, a colleague told her. George Gordon, always wore an old leather jacket and signed his letters G. G. He’s somewhere in Maryland now, or Massachusetts.

She’d saved and saved. Gotten a good deal, too. Did some free photos in exchange for the balance. Probably put the corner store out of business from all the Mounds bars she didn’t buy. She’d kill for one of those now, too. 

“Thank you,” she says, even though that’s not the thing to say. 

“My sister’s got one of those little Brownie cameras.”

“Has she? I’ve still got mine at home.”

“Where’s that?”

Maybe she has to give him credit for that. Don’t I ask the questions, she wants to say. “Cincinnati.” There’s a small bruise at his jaw, and maybe she wouldn’t even call it that, it’s still reddish-pink. Training accident, she guesses. “Where are you headed, soldier?”

“Ain’t that confidential?” He smiles, and she can see the slight overlap of one of his front teeth. Boyish. That’s the word. She doesn’t quite feel girlish, here in her tired slacks and her curls that haven’t seen a bottle of hairspray in weeks. “South. Georgia.” Paulette nods. “You?”

“Far as the next bus takes me.”

“Taking pictures?”

“Taking pictures.” Where d’you wish you were headed? she wants to ask. Maybe that’s too much. Maybe that’s something she doesn’t allow herself here, doesn’t want to, usually. Doesn’t have the time. You don’t fill a portfolio getting distracted. You don’t get taken seriously, either.

She doesn’t know him, anyhow. 

“You take a lot?”

“Too many.” Her finger hurts from it. She lets the air out of her nose, something like a smile. “On my last frame, actually. On this roll.” She know she’d better load the next one before the bus rolls up. “You wanna see how I change ‘em?”

He’s twisted in his seat already to talk to her. Nods, watches her hands fiddle with the body, pull the film taut. She’s suddenly self-conscious, but he stays silent. His head is bowed, the scent of his hair and his sweat and the remnants of aftershave in her nose. He points a finger, slowly following her movements, her steps. The scent of orange. His lunch, or hers?

“Gotta take one now, dontcha?” he says quietly, that little bit of brassy shine to his voice.

She smiles. “Would you oblige the lady?” The words run together, in her accent, in her tiredness.

Paulette can’t think about where he’s headed. His easy calm, the flecks in his eyes. The little twitch at the corner of his mouth. “Thought you’d never ask.”

She does get up, gets him turning in profile, thumb curving at his bottom lip as he looks off. The light glints off his boots. A little posed, for her usual. And it never feels like this, like a photo might be just for her. She takes two, just in case. She doesn’t pull out her notebook. 

“S’pose my mother wants a copy-” he starts.

Silly. “Oh, of course!” The notebook, the tiny pencil. He writes down the address. Kokomo. Not so far from Cincinnati. “And- and your name?”

“Floyd. Floyd Talbert.” Does she stick out her hand? He swipes his tongue over his bottom lip, before she can say anything. “S’pose I ask if- if I can write you?” 

It’s not the first time. She’s lost count, actually. She’s never given it, the road forgiving her with warning bells and train whistles, timetables. There are freckles on the bridge of his nose. 

She tears a scrap of paper off the metal rings. Paulette Schafer. Her home address. Her mother hosts servicemen for Sunday dinner, shoos them out of the kitchen with a wooden spoon. “You can call me Pauli.”

“I hope so.” He smiles. “When’s your bus?”

Her watch — the thing she hasn’t looked at for the last hour — tells her twenty minutes. “Soon. I’m headed west.”

“Cryin’ shame.”

“You know, I can’t spend all my film on you.”

He leans back against the wall. “You’d like to though, huh?”

Floyd Talbert, how many times has a girl wanted to keep a photo of you in her pocket? “You’re a compelling subject.”

He smirks, and something in her stomach flutters. 

“You say that to all the handsome soldiers.”

“‘Course.”

She’d better head out now if she wants to get some good quotes out of the driver, a few shots of the baggage clerks, if she doesn’t want to get stuck in the jump seat if it’s a full house. 

“It’s been a pleasure, Floyd,” she says, and sticks out her hand.

A voice intones over the PA, 6:00 AM to Kansas City- “All mine, Pauli Schafer.” A beat passes, and he’s looking at her with an expression she can’t name. “Can I walk you out?”

She knows he’ll let her do what she needs to, stay quiet by her side. 6:00 AM to Kansas City- She wishes they had time for a cup of coffee. She’ll take a moment though, get one more picture of him walking out in the morning light. “You may.” 

[californiastatelibrary]

These images and documents, all of which are available via the National Archives (archives.gov), show a part of United States history that should never be forgotten.

Image Caption: Oakland, California, April 1942. Part of family unit of Japanese ancestry leave Wartime Civil Control Administration station on afternoon of evacuation, under Civilian Exclusion Order Number 28. Social worker directs these evacuees to the waiting bus.

"On February 19, 1942, President Franklin D. Roosevelt signed Executive Order 9066, stripping people of Japanese descent of their civil rights.  That order and the subsequent actions carried out by the Federal Government represent one of the most shameful chapters in our Nation’s history.  On this Day of Remembrance of Japanese American Incarceration During World War II, we acknowledge the unjust incarceration of some 120,000 Japanese Americans, approximately two-thirds of whom were born in the United States." — President Biden, 2022

Image Caption: Los Angeles, California, April 1942. Mr. and Mrs. K. Iseri have closed their drugstore in preparation for the forthcoming evacuation from their "Little Tokyo" in Los Angeles.

The State Library's California Civil Liberties Public Education Grants are part of our efforts to shine a light on this dark time in our history. The California Civil Liberties Public Education Program funds projects which seek to spread awareness of civil liberties injustices of all types — including, but not limited to, the internment of Japanese Americans during Word War II. 

Image Caption: Oakland, California. Following evacuation orders, this store, at 13th and Franklin Streets, was closed. The owner, a University of California graduate of Japanese descent, placed the "I AM AN AMERICAN" sign on the store front on Dec. 8, the day after Pearl Harbor. 

The deadline for grant applications is April 14, 2023. To learn more, and to submit an application, please visit the Civil Liberties Program page at https://www.library.ca.gov/grants/civil-liberties/.

Image Caption: Document from “Evacuee Property Department” with handwritten numbers showing the number of evacuees, vehicles, and property under Civilian Exclusion Order Number 23 (Vacaville).  

Image Caption: Page one of the Official Exclusion Order (sometimes also called Evacuation Order) for Multnomah County, Oregon. “Instructions to all persons of Japanese ancestry” is written in large letters across the top.