#This is probably incomprehensible. Sorry lads

[loethefox]

The year is 20XX. The MCYT cisgender nonbinary icon tournament is underway. Zedaph and Grian girlies (gender neutral) are fighting to the death in the tags during their bracket. Cleo is watching everything go down with a bucket of popcorn in their hands and occasional posts on bluesky. Joe tried to get himself entered in but was disqualified before the tournament began because they're a genuine gender icon. Scarlet Pearl ends up in the tournament for having such Woman energy in animatics that it causes a kind of integer overflow. Firebreathman ends up winning cause of that one twitch rivals mcc.

[dreadwulf]

Love is a Burning Thing

(part 1) (part 2)

He is riding away from her. Farther and farther away.

Jaime is riding at the head of his battalion across the Crownlands. Glory trots along quite amiably, at pace with hundreds of other horses around him. Without his needing to move a muscle, at every moment Brienne is farther away. He can feel the distance stretching between them like she is still holding onto him somehow and pulling with all her might, ever since she had left him this morning.

It hurts. Like a steadily increasing stomachache, only it’s some other organ down there in his gut. If there is a structure in the body that secretes devotion like eyes spill tears, it is surely there, somewhere in his belly, and it is contracting violently, whispering at him to turn around and go back. But his gut is perpetually wrong, and cannot be trusted. This is exactly what he wants, to be getting away from Brienne as fast as he can. If it hurts, well, Jaime is quite accustomed to being hurt by the things he wants.

They ride for King’s Landing, and the ache simmers inside him like a low fire. But there is enough else to occupy his mind, and surely it will fade into the background, unimportant, beside the urgency of a Targaryen invasion.

His squire is watching him worriedly from his palfrey nearby, and Jaime straightens under the young man’s scrutiny. Smiles back at him until his squire grins cautiously back, and spurs his horse to ride over to the flanks. There, that’s more like it. Lord Lannister is no lovesick boy pining after some maiden. He made a foolish mistake, but fortunately it has cost him little. A few days away from his post, some chagrin before his men, and this wretched ache in his gut. That is nothing he can’t recover from.

His squire is riding, he notes, much more smoothly than he did when last they rode the Kingsroad, leaving the capital. He has grown tremendously in these months. Just as he had told Brienne, he will have to knight him sometime soon, Peck. Else some other knight will do it, and deny him the honor. He has been a good squire, and Jaime will regret losing him. 

Does he hope for it? Jaime wonders. At his age I thirsted for battle, and if there are truly Targaryens on the march there will be some promise of glory. If he knights him today, Peck will have to fight for his King. He will probably have to fight either way, but as a squire he will keep to the periphery, and a knight will be expected to charge on horseback, into the thick of the fighting. But Peck has not shown any remarkable talent at swordplay, not as Jaime had when Ser Arthur Dayne had knighted him. Not that, not yet. Let him squire a little bit longer.

His eyes drift to the wagon where the sons of the Riverlands are riding, where until this morning Podrick Peck had sat chattering and playing at dice with the other boys. What will he do with the hostages when they ride to battle? They could squire for his men. But if he loses any of them in battle, he will lose the cooperation of their parents as well.

I think Peck was sorry to see young Podrick go, Jaime thinks. His squire had taken the smaller boy under his wing, and the younger Payne had looked up to him with the kind of hero worship reserved by young boys for older, not-quite-grown boys. Peck enjoyed that attention, clearly. Podrick had a starry-eyed eagerness that his squire would be just outgrowing. An innocence. 

Jaime had spoken with the child as well, the night they had caught him sneaking into the camp. A scared and reticent boy to begin with, with a fearful glaze and a pronounced stammer that made one wonder if he had lost his wits. But with only a little encouragement, he had turned into a fair chatterbox. He had been startled to learn that the boy had squired for his brother Tyrion during the battle of the Blackwater; it had been he that saved his life, though not his nose. Timid he may be, but the young squire does not lack for bravery. It seems he had left King’s Landing looking for Tyrion, and followed the Maid of Tarth in hopes that her quest would lead him there. His brother had been good to him, Podrick said. 

As not many people have been, I’ll wager. Cast-off of a cast-off of House Payne, small for his age, and guileless as a newborn. 

Jaime had offered the boy a berth in his army. He could squire for Jaime’s cousin Addam Marbrand, or at least apprentice to someone in his camp, earn his keep. He would not be a hostage like the Riverlands’ noble sons, but he could still run about and play with them, as he seems to enjoy doing. I suspect the boy has not done much of that either, he notes.

Pod refused his offer, however. He said, with some hesitation, that he hopes Lord Tyrion is well, and thanks Ser Jamie for the kind offer, but he would rather stay with Lady Brienne, wherever she will be. He has a fair cavalcade of praise for the lady, which Jaime endures without comment. All in all, he seems a good lad. Loyal. From what little he saw, they are quite tightly bonded, the boy and his lady knight.

He ought to feel better knowing that. If he was to be sacrificed for another, at least the other was a good-hearted and clearly beloved child. It could have been Lem Lemoncloak. 

It does not make him feel any better.

He had gritted his teeth to look upon the boy, to be honest. Can one be jealous of a child? But Podrick very obviously had his lady’s love, and Jaime does not.

He has only just learned how much the wench meant to him, and how comparatively little he had meant to her in return. For her, at a moment’s notice, he had thrown over his family, his house, his responsibilities, to follow her into the Riverlands on the flimsiest of excuses, all because he thought she needed his help. It had been startlingly easy to do it, and as he walked away from his life he had felt lighter and merrier with every step.

What a fool he had been. As it turns out, she would not do the same for him - no, he was no more than a hostage himself, intended to free the companions she valued more. This boy, and that Hunt fellow, a hedge knight of some sort, who awaited them at the Dread Lady’s Gallows. Brienne had risked a great deal to come and find him, but the risk had not been for his sake. 

But no matter. She is gone now and he will not see her again. He will return to his life and go about forgetting her. That should make these feelings stop. It will have to end sometime, the crawling betrayal, the creeping shame, the sharp sting of rejection, and that time will come much sooner without the constant reminder of her presence. With time he will stop thinking of her, and it will be like he had never met that stubborn, ugly beast of a woman.

This is not making him feel any better either. Cheer up, he tells himself, tomorrow you may die. 

The Targaryen pretender has already taken Storm’s End in a rout. This “Aegon” has a band of supporters and a hired troop of mercenaries, the Golden Company, and at last word was riding out to face Mace Tyrell and the Crown forces. Of course it isn’t Aegon Targaryen - Jaime knows all too well the babe was slaughtered, skull crushed against the wall by his father’s creature The Mountain - but he looks the part, with the Targaryen hair and eyes. Perhaps he is some unknown cousin, some lost branch of the Targaryen family tree using Aegon’s name. Should Westeros be nostalgic for the relative peace of Targaryen rule, they might find the young man very persuasive.

He turns the details over and again in his mind. The Golden Company, a fearful force, and Targaryen banners stirring the populace to rebellion. They could be marching into a battle they cannot hope to win. Impossible to tell from the increasingly vehement missives he has received from the Queen Regent. She commands him to victory, but does she truly expect it? As has been amply demonstrated to him recently, he cannot expect even his closest allies to place much value on his safety. After all, what does anyone care if the Kingslayer should die?

My sweet sister would summon me regardless. She has shown that often enough. As coin she would spend me on a hopeless trial by combat merely to flaunt her purse. No doubt my beheading at the gates of King’s Landing would be just as gloriously pointless. 

Though Cersei, it seems, wants him only to return to her side directly, to serve as her personal bodyguard. She is grown obsessed with some prophecy that the children will all be murdered and her choked to death at Tyrion’s hands. Hearing that Tyrion himself is approaching the city has sent her into a kind of frenzy. Her last letter was nearly incomprehensible, raving. 

Yes, that had been the last bit of news the Spider had passed along, with the rest of his whispers: his own brother Tyrion rides with Aegon, and advises the Targaryen pretender how best to defeat their House in battle. That was the lowest blow, and it had knocked his usual confidence right out of him. Jaime does not fear battle, but he dreads this confrontation.

If one side wins, his sister and son are dethroned and probably executed. If the other side wins, he will have to kill his brother. Jaime loses either way.

He should not worry about defeat. The Crown forces are superior, the Lannister army vast and well-provisioned, and King’s Landing is by design a difficult city to take. But his brother is fearsomely clever, and he was Hand. He defended King’s Landing against Stannis Baratheon, and a man who knows how to hold the city will know how to take it. If he does, he will have his revenge for a lifetime of slights. He knows Tyrion holds it against him still, the lie he had told him about Tysha. After all the years they had been beloved brothers, after Jaime had set him free and saved his life, his little brother saw fit not only to murder their father but to conspire with their enemies to contest Cersei directly for the throne. He does not expect Tyrion will pull any punches now for old time’s sake. Not when they will face each other across a battlefield.

If there is anyone left who has not yet stuck a knife in my heart, they are running out of time to do it. 

He mulls over such thoughts feverishly as the dimming winter sun lowers in the sky. For a time he considers pressing the Lannister troops onward into the night to reach King’s Landing. It will be only a few hours march from here, and their summons have been increasingly urgent. Still, he would rather rest his men so that they can arrive fresh to the fighting and not exhausted from the road, and he commands them to set camp.

“Milord,” a lieutenant interrupts him tentatively as he unhorses, “we have Thoros of Myr bound in your tent as you requested, awaiting interrogation.”

Jaime smiles thinly. They have captured Beric Dondarrion’s Red Priest, who had somehow turned Catelyn Stark into the apparition who had lead the Brotherhood without Banners to capture him. Somehow during the conflagration with the Brotherhood he had run away and vanished into the trees. But Jaime’s scouts found him in the night, Thoros, stoking a meagre fire near Maidenpool. There was no time to deal with him in the morning, so they bundled him up and brought him along on the march - though they gave him no horse, and forced him to walk along tied to one of the wagons, thinking it would make him more cooperative. 

The Lord Commander’s tent is first to rise, and resplendent before ever he sets eyes on it, not that he notices. He leaves Peck to unsaddle his horse and enters it in full uniform. He will get through this interrogation before undressing and taking his supper.

He sits in the armchair they have carried across the Riverlands for him, and accepts a glass of sherry. The muddy priest is bound on the floor before his desk, and at his command his bonds are loosened, and he is allowed to sit in a wooden chair before his desk. Jaime observes all of this as he finishes the first glass of sherry, and requests another.

Once a huge man, both tall and fat, Thoros of Myr is now considerably diminished. His red robes are cavernous around him, his skin hanging loosely off his skeleton in great folds. Formerly a fierce swordsman, the fire that he once brandished by burning swords has seemingly gone out. The old Thoros could wear this one like a cloak. 

Even before Jaime can begin to question him, the Red Priest is firing questions back. First among them, “What have you done with the girl?”

“Which girl?” he stalls, disconcerted. 

“The maiden with your blade.” He may be physically smaller but his eyes are bright and sharp, and he holds Jaime’s gaze without flinching. The priest explains patiently, “the tall young woman with the king’s seal, she who brought you to the Brotherhood. I saw you strike her down. Where is she now?”

Jaime ignores this questioning; it is none of the man’s concern. Instead he asks him of his escape from the ambush that night, which quiets him a bit. He could have fought them, could have produced a flaming sword and defended his Lady Stoneheart, but instead he had fled. Thoros does not seem to be interested in explaining why, averting his eyes and answering  him shortly with “yes” and “no”.

He questions the Red Priest about Catelyn Stark, about Berric Dondarrion, about remaining members of the brotherhood and the commonfolk who supported them. Still Thoros turns the conversation back and back again to Brienne.

“But what of the Maid of Tarth? I saw her nowhere in your formation, amongst prisoners or soldiers.” He pokes and prods, Thoros, and his brow furrows with concern. “It has not gone unnoticed that she is gone. Some here have it that you have done away with her.”

His patience at an end, Jaime snaps back, “And what if I have?”

Thoros puts on a perplexed expression, blinking at him curiously. “That cannot be. Surely even you are not so cruel as that.”

“Surely I am, ask anyone in the Seven Kingdoms.” Thoroughly tired of judgement, he decides to go along with the Red Priest’s poor opinion of him, if it will loosen his tongue. “The wench lured me to my barely-averted death. I am well within my rights to punish traitors such as she.”

“Brienne of Tarth never betrayed you for a moment.” The Red Priest is disturbed, shaking his head sadly. “That poor, brave girl. She defended you to a crowd baying for your blood, said that you were a changed man, that you were not responsible for your reported crimes. We called her your whore. But you never touched her, did you? Wouldn’t trouble yourself with someone so pure of heart, when you have your sister the Queen in your bed.”

Ah, so Thoros still has a sense of humor after all. Jaime snorts. “So pure of heart she would lead me to my death, while calling me friend. How is that not a betrayal?”

“She was forced to it. Our dread lady commanded her to kill you and she refused. The entire Brotherhood demanded it and she refused. We offered her a choice, the sword or the noose.”

“And she choose the sword to save her own skin.” Jaime swallows from the glass. “I understand it, of course. It is a hard lesson for one such as her. No one is pure.”

“No!” Thoros smacks the palm of his hand against the commander’s table, and Jaime cannot help flinching. “She chose the noose. Brienne said she would not betray you and they put a rope around her neck and hung her, hung her choking and kicking from a tree. She would have died there without relenting but for Podrick Payne, the boy.”

No. No, it isn’t true, he tells himself. But it tracks with what the boy had told him. She did it for me, my lord, you have to understand… He had assumed the choice had been a simple one. Podrick or Kingslayer. But had there been another choice as well? Hadn’t he seen the angry red marks around her neck, or decided not to see?

“They hung him from the tree next to her, and when she saw him dying, she called for a sword. Not before. Not for herself. She would have died for you.”

“Lies.” Jaime has gone very still. Only the muscles of his hand flex, where he holds tightly onto the drinking glass. “The Brotherhood’s Red Priest. Why should I believe anything you say?”

The priest raises his hands, palms beckoning to the air. “What reason have I to lie about this? What benefit to me? I care no more for factions or grudges. I have seen war render this land a hell beyond anything my lord R’hllor or any the Seven could dream up. So far as I care whoever is left standing at its end is welcome to its rotten fruit. All that matters is that in the ruins of honor and justice I met a maid who embodied both, and now she is dead. That, my lord, is a calamity, and I would have you know just how great of one.”

He hardens his heart. “In this world you are either faithless or dead. She is both, and soon enough we will be too. It’s no calamity.”

“You utter fool.” The Red Priest has the nerve to look sorry for him. “Let me tell you: when we found that girl she was dying of fever, battered and broken by brigands, and all she would do is talk about Jaime Lannister. She said your name in her sleep. She said she had to find your honor. She pleaded for you to come for her when she was next to dead. Not her companions, or her kin. Only you. No sword could have been more loyal to you, and no woman more true to anyone.  

Jaime’s guts are churning now, his heart clenching painfully enough to turn him inside-out. What a stupid organ, the heart. If he could, he would carve it out himself. 

It makes him snap back at Thoros tightly, “Gold will buy loyalty as reliably, and a woman too.”

“Not like her, not to you. You are only too cynical or too stupid to see it. That girl loved you. She loved you.”

The glass in Jaime’s left hand abruptly shatters.

Thoros jerks back, more at the noise of it than anything else, and stares down wide-eyed at the Lord Commander’s desk. His hand had squeezed and squeezed the glass until it finally popped, in a small explosion of shards and blood. Now his hand opens and stretches, and the Lord Commander examines it curiously. A few jagged bits of glass stick out of his palm and fingers. It hardly hurts at all, but it produces an impressive amount of blood.

Lannister guards burst into the tent at the sound of breaking glass, and the sight of blood makes them draw their swords. Jaime waves them back. “My golden hand holds drinking glasses not so well as I’d hoped. Stay at your post.”

“My lord…” Thoros, distinctly alarmed at his lack of reaction, darts his eyes between the bleeding hand and Jaime’s impassive face. “Your hand…”

“It’s nothing.” For a second he moves to pluck the glass bits out of his hand, but his other hand is made of gold. Not much good for that. He can only poke at the bloody shards with a strange fascination. His guards watch warily, not leaving but keeping their distance. 

“You know I am a healer. Allow me.” 

He shouldn’t allow it, and his guards are visibly appalled, but Jaime makes no move to stop him when Thoros kneels at his side. He moves aside the golden hand, taking his flesh hand and extracting shards of glass with careful attention.

“I can’t imagine why,” the priest murmurs, “but Brienne thought very highly of you. I owe her some kindness, for what we did to her. If she is gone, you will have to do.”

Then it comes again; the pain. Worse than ever. Jaime bows his face to the floor at the weight of it.

“I let her go,” he manages to say, hoarsely. “I gave her the sword and I let her go. Her and the boy.”

“Truly?” Thoros looks up at him dumbfounded, uncertain whether this could be another of his jests.

But of course he let her go. What else could he do? He couldn’t keep her prisoner forever.

He sees it now, too late. Brienne in the cell, wasting away. The tears she had shed when he denied her Oathkeeper. How she had hesitated so inexplicably when he allowed her to leave. The way she had looked on him, as though she would accept any punishment he would give her. He had thought it was her simple goodness that made her contrite. But it could have been more. It could be true; somehow, she had loved him. 

When he could not bring himself to harm her, he thought it his own weakness that stayed his hand. Perhaps they share the same weakness.

He jumps up from his chair with that thought, snatching his one working hand back from the damned Red Priest and sweeping out of his commander’s tent. He strides rapidly to the stables and grabs the bridle of the first horse he sees. Honor, not yet unsaddled from their ride. 

Jaime rides hard against the twilight, back down the trail they’d come. Back to the place where he’d left her. It was a day’s ride back as an encampment, but a single man riding as fast as his horse is able made the distance in a few hours.

She won’t be there. She could have gone in any direction with a day’s advance. But if she stopped there. If she stayed to rest, and to think out her next move. If she waited there. If she waited for me. 

He urges Honor to run faster at the thought.

The Riverlands rush by headlong and the pounding hooves drive every thought from his head until he is pure instinct, animal-simple: find her.

The clearing is empty when he arrives, and quiet. 

Jaime slings down from his horse looking around him wildly. It’s dark. There’s no sign of anything. No fire, no trail, no sign she had been there at all except that he knows this is where he had left her. He knows that in his bones. He will never be able to forget this place. 

He walks aimlessly in one direction and then another. Which way would she have gone? East is Maidenpool, closest of anything, where she might find Tully allies. Riverrun in the other direction, a farther walk but where she might potentially find a ship, go back to Tarth. Or would she have headed singlemindedly North, towards the Vale, without even stopping to supply herself?

He takes not much time to decide. He thinks Maidenpool, then North. Climbing back onto Honor he rides East, alert for any campfires or single riders,scouring the forest hour after hour, and shouting out her name until his voice is nearly gone. 

He reaches Maidenpool with the dawn and sees no sign of her there. 

In a haze of desperation he accosts passers-by, one after another. Have you seen a maid pass this way, with a sword and a young boy? Riding a chestnut horse?

They all say no. They step back from him like he has gone mad; but of course it sounds a bit mad, doesn’t it? A lady knight with a Valyrian steel sword, as big as The Hound, with her own squire. While he’s at it, he should ask after Galladon of Morne, and mermaids, and the Crone with her lantern. But perhaps it is the stench of a cursed man they respond to, a man who has held riches and lost them. Such ill fortune is catching. They give him a wide berth, they murmur, they leave him standing in the street lost and alone. Perhaps they do not know a Kingslayer when they see one, but anyone can spot a man laid low by love.

Have you seen a woman, an absurdly large woman? With the bluest eyes you’re ever seen? A woman with a sword - a broadsword, two-handed? Looks like she knows how to swing it? Have you seen her? Big and strong as an ox but pure as a maiden? Straw-blonde, a hand taller than me, shoulders as broad as a barn. Has no one seen her? A knight? A true knight? The truest knight that ever walked this land? Tell me where she’s gone. Please, tell me if you’ve seen her. I saw her and I sent her away. She loved me, and I let her go.

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

The sun is marking mid-morning by the time he returns, and there are dark clouds looming in the distance, swirling up from the horizon.

He has hardly left the saddle before he is accosted by a barrage of debriefs and dreadful news. 

King’s Landing is burning. Aegon’s forces arrived faster than anyone predicted, are thoroughly breaking Mace Tyrell’s formation, and their secondary forces sneaking up the bay have set Flea Bottom afire. The Goldcloaks have surrendered already, and the Red Keep will soon be under siege. Even if they ride full-tilt for the capital it will be a rescue mission now, not a defense.

“Ready us to ride directly to battle in an hour,” he instructs his captains. “Leave the camp set here, and I set my cousin Addam in command. Peck, you and your lady Pia will stay behind with the hostages and the provisions. If we face defeat see that they are returned to their homes - quickly as you can, the Kingsroad will be dragon territory before long.”

His squire’s face turns quite red and he looks ready to argue with him, and Jaime quickly turns his back to him. He hears the lad sputtering behind him as he throws the tent flap aside and goes into his Commander’s Tent. 

Jaime sits alone in his tent for that hour and he burns. He feels the flames of wildfire in King’s Landing, hears the screeching laughter of Aerys Targaryen getting his fiery baptism at last. His most sacred oath is to guard his King, and his King is in mortal danger and he is not there. He left Tommen unprotected. Left his sister, his son, his duty. His doom awaits him there, is waiting for him still. He must go.

All around him his men are making ready for battle. He knows, with a dreadful foresight, that it is not a battle they can win. It will be glorious, and at the end of it he will be dead and he will never see Brienne again.

Brienne. Brienne. His heart blazes in his chest. 

He should have kept her with him. He should have let her tell her tale. His stupid pride would not allow it and now she is gone.

Where is she now? Sheltering in some rain-soaked forest? Hiding in some Tully supporter’s house in Pennytree? Could she have seen him foolishly asking after her, and held her tongue?

He has been cruel to her. He has let her suffer. He denied her Oathkeeper. He had been badly wounded, his pride wounded, his poor sore heart wounded, and he had wanted to hurt her too. When he saw her tears some sleeping part of him wanted to take it back.  He felt monstrous for doing it, and told himself it was because he was a monster. He had stood there and watched her with her shoulders hunched and fists balled at her sides, tears running down her face. What might she have done if he had tried to soothe her tears? He could have been kinder.

Now she will remember him as bitter and petty and hateful when he is gone, and there will be no one left in the world who thinks on him fondly. 

But at least she will not see this battle; at least he gave her Oathkeeper to keep herself safe. She will have to think on him when she wields the sword, and perhaps she will remember whatever it was that had made her care for him. Perhaps she will know, when she holds the blade, that he had loved her too.

Mother, let her know it for certain. Give her my love.

When the hour is up, he leaves his tent, mounts Glory, and rides to battle. 

[bambuwu-writes]

annotation hcs (autumn pt 1 )

here’s the autumn lads! be warned, there are spoilers here!! fun fact: i usually cannot spell autumn correctly :)

Banri: taking notes??? Who’s she? Bringing your script to practice?? I don't know her?? To be honest, his script was barren and abandoned a lot in the beginning, like people would find it just lying around and go ‘banri? Don't you need this?’ and he honestly didn’t mind all that much. Later on! He actually gets more invested and starts making little annotations. He probably isn’t very used to annotating text so he would kinda just circle and fold the corners of pages that he needs to remember/deliver well. Later later on he does get better at taking notes tho!! Still minimal, but at least they exist and he knows where his script is

Juza: ok, when he first gets his script I feel like he was probably a little lost. He really didn’t know where to start so it would kinda just lie on his desk, blank. (don’t tell banri but juza was a little intimidated when he got the script and couldn’t bring himself to mark it up for a while) he eventually built up the courage to ask izumi how he should make notes and he’s pretty much stuck to that since! Most of his notes are on delivery, and what emotions should come through in certain words. Probably notes on pacing lines and how to deliver them more naturally too!

Sakyo: spoilers here! Since he’s another one who’s been involved in theatre since he was little, he can read through a script and just go, ‘ah yea, i got it���. Looking at the script it looks almost formal? Like, it almost looks like he used a ruler for underlining and the annotating looks like notes you could use in a textbook. If izumi ever forgets her script (which has happened at leaaaast once i promise u), he will let her use his, albeit with grumbling and lecturing <3 its ok sakyo, we know you love her

Taichi: Oh boyy, that poor script is gonna be destroyed.,,., im sorry, but our lil sk8er boi is just gonna be bringing that script with him eeveerryyywwheeereeee. He takes a buncha notes, but they are absolutely illegible and incomprehensible to anyone that isn't taichi nanao. Lots of scribbles and underlining and just a tooon of writing on almost all of the pages. Practically held together by binder clips by the end of the run of the play. Like, just imagine in the common room...

Yuki, holding up taichi’s script by a corner: what is this?

Taichi, absolutely beaming: my script!! :D

Y: it looks like it’s been through a warzone??

[lauwrite1225]

Broken Crown || Finan x OC || Chapter 13

Summary :  Since the day he has been enslaved, Finan never thought that he would have to face his origins. But when an old friend made her arrival to Wessex, the Irishman is forced to deal with his past.

Other chapters

English isn’t my first language, if you see any mistakes, tell me :)

Warning : fluff ??

13|| DANELAND 

Finan woke up at the feel of a hand shaking his shoulder. He snapped his eyes open, his own hand grabbing the one on him. Through the darkness, he distinguished Ailis’ features and he immediately let go of her wrist.

“Sorry.” He grumbled, his voice still sleepy.

“That’s alright.” She briefly smiled, standing up.

He passed a hand on his face, rubbing his eyes before leaving the furs. He was the last to take the watch tonight. He stared at Ailis while she was undoing the belt holding her sword and saex. They didn’t talk much since they left Navan Fort, and even less since Rohan joined them. He needed to talk to her and he didn’t know when would be the next they could be alone.

“You’ve been hard with him.” He said, gazing to Rohan to whom the fire’s light was drawing the shape.

Ailis look down to him, a certain anxiety revealed in her eyes. “I’m just trying to protect him.”

She dropped the belt next to the furs and Finan took the opportunity to stand just in front of her.

“Ailis, I know I haven’t been here, that I don’t know anything of him or what happened, but… He is almost a man. Let him be one.”

He was almost surprised by his own words. Seeing his eldest son here was the last thing he expected. He had known a little boy who barely knew how to speak, and now it was a young man almost as tall as him.

Ailis’s eyebrows furrowed and she narrowed her eyes. “No, indeed Finan, you know nothing of it.” Her voice was colder than he expected. “He wants to be a warrior. If I let him be one, Conall will make him kill because he’ll feel threatened by him.” She explained him, restraining herself to not speak to loud.

Finan look down, understanding her opinion but he couldn’t help but feel some sort of pride knowing his son wanted to be a warrior.

Ailis let herself drop on the furs, crossing her legs and burying her face in her palms. “Why does everything have to be so difficult?” She asked herself, exhausted by the past days and probably by the ones coming.

She was giving so much to peoples, to protect and help them, and never had anything in return. And even to him. She promised him to keep Conall to hurt him. The task was difficult but he knew she was doing her best.

And as he watched her run a hand in her hair, exhaustion deepening her features, he knew he had something to give her back. It was a feeling uncertain and blur until the banquet. Until she pressed her lips against his.  

“We didn’t talk of the banquet.” He finally said.

For a moment, he thought silence would carry his words away, but Ailis looked up to him. “Do we have to?” She sighed.

Finan sat down and reached for her hand. His thumb ran along her skin, feeling little scars left by battles. His hands too were a jumble of white and pinky lines. He could feel Ailis’ gaze on the one going around his wrist, one of the many that would eternally remind him of his days into slavery. Her fingers slid along it, her touch feeling like a burn and a tickle.

And as he studied every inch of her delicate face, he felt like they were back in the corridor, his heart racing in his chest in an unexpected way. He knew it, that feeling. He felt it before, more than once to be true, but never that strong. Words were still hard to put on it, but he knew actions could tell a thousand words.

So, he pulled her into a kiss and maybe she expected it because she immediately responded. Her hand left Finan’s one to put it on his thigh so she could lean further toward him. He hummed when her lips were pressed even more against his. His own fingers reached for her shoulder and slowly they slid to her neck. He felt the bad scar close to her jugular. He caressed it with his thumb but she immediately froze, her fingers tensed, squeezing his thigh. She pulled away from him, and as he met her eyes, he could read the deep sadness hide behind them. She pressed her hand on her neck, covering the scar. She was still close enough for him to hear her trembling breath.

“Ailis…” He whispered, tilting his head, searching what he did wrong.

She shook her head before lifting it. “It was stupid of me Finan, I can’t keep you here. You have to leave.”

Finan frowned. “What if you leave?” He asked, the solution seeming so simple to him. But it wasn’t for Ailis, and he understood it the moment her face became cold.

“I can’t.”

��

 The morning light was passing through the leaves as they prepared to leave once more. Finan was crouched near a stream, filling his flask with the clear water. His mind was troubled by what happened with Ailis during the night. Somehow, he was angry, because he knew she wanted the same thing as him. But her loyalty to his bastard brother was keeping her from letting go.

But he didn’t overthink longer, the feeling of being watched growing in his mind. He looked above his shoulder and distinguished the silhouette of Rohan. Even after being caught, he didn’t move, so Finan stood up and turned on his heel. It still was hard to believe how he had grown. He was far from looking like a warrior, nor a monk. He was thin, his tunic quite too large for him. Some of his hair was falling on his forehead, almost reaching his eyebrows. Only his green eyes hadn’t changed, they were the same as Dealla, maybe a little lighter, and he remembered his fascination for them when he could still hold him in his hands.

“If you have a question, ask.” Finan broke the silence, noticing the hesitant look of Rohan.

Rohan looked briefly around him, as if Finan could have talked to someone else, but they were only the two of them. “Is it true?” He began. “That you were saved by Ragnar Ragnarsson.”

The Irishman sighed. Of course, now, it was spreading in the whole city. “Yes, it is.”

“But you were enemies.” He retorted, his face twisted by incomprehension.

“He wasn’t here for me, but for Uhtred, his brother.” Finan explained, clogging his flask.

When he lifted his head, Rohan seemed glad to hear that, slightly nodding.

“Ailis says that I have your smile.” He said, visibly not knowing how to continue their conversation.

“I’m not sure you want it.” Finan grimaced. He stepped to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He leaned towards his ear before adding. “It means the devil smiles through you.”

Rohan twisted his neck to look at his father, his eyebrows furrowed and eyes opened wide. Finan chuckled and patted his shoulder before walking to the camp.  He heard the young man ran quickly the few steps separating them.

“You know, I am not the most pious of monks. In fact, I am far from it. Bran, he is quite one. Or maybe he is just less stubborn than me…” He blathered, losing himself in his words. Finan stopped near his horse, scratching its ear as he listened to Rohan. But the boy suddenly stopped his monolog with an embarrassed expression. “Hum… I’m sorry. I talk a lot.”

“You do.” Finan confirmed, tilting his head and raising his eyebrows.

“It’s just… I have never been so far from Navan Fort, nor the monastery.” Rohan explained, his hand nervously sliding in the back of his neck. “And it’s also the first time I meet my father again.” He added, stifling a laugh.

“That’s alright, lad. Last time I saw you, you were barely speaking. You have some time to catch up.” Finan joked.

Rohan laughed and Finan felt Ailis’ gaze from afar, the woman readying herself too. The smile disappeared from his face as he watched her turn away from his sight. He held back a sigh and stepped towards Rohan instead.

“Prepare yourself, we are leaving soon.”

…

 Few days passed since Rohan joined the group warriors and he grew to love their company. They always had a story to tell, or a joke to light the mood. He learned a little of each of them, and he found himself quite appreciating Osferth. The blond man told him one night of his childhood in monastery and how he decided to follow Uhtred. Their similar story made him almost immediately feel close to the former monk.

Uhtred and Sihtric on the other hand were the first Danes he ever met. He learned little of the younger, he wasn’t talkative and most of the time it was to joke with his father or plan the watch for the night.

He didn’t talk much with his father directly. In fact, each time he had been alone with him, he didn’t find a lot to say. Rohan had been living most of his life in a monastery, and the rest of it he was spending it in an alehouse where he was drinking, joking and humping. He found far more interesting to listen the four friends sharing their adventures through the years.

“What will happen when we’ll arrive?” Rohan asked, gazing at the horizon to perceive the Danish camp.

They crossed into Dane land the day before and since then, the warriors had been more than alert. They knew they were certainly watched, so they remained careful on their conversation and silence had been reigning since the morning.

“They’ll probably sacrifice the youngest.” Osferth answered with a smirk as the three other men laugh.

Rohan glared at Ailis with wide eyes, but the woman just shrugged, an amused smile threatening to spread on her lips. The monk sighed, and concentrated himself back on the road.

They reached Annagassan in the afternoon and were welcomed by Danes depriving them from their weapons and escorting them to Thorvard. Earlier, Ailis had warned him to not catch the attention, but even if he tried his best to make himself the smaller possible, Danes’ eyes were on him anyway. And he would be lying if he’d say they weren’t frightening him. But at least, he soon enough noticed that they were staring at all of them.

They finally arrived in a big hall in the middle of the city. As they entered, a huge man was waiting for them, sitting lazily in a chair. Rohan swallowed, of all the Danes he saw that day, he probably was the most terrifying. He had an impressive beard, ornamented with bones and small braids. His hair, brown and thick was giving him an unkind expression, increased by the tattoo covering one half of his face. Instinctively, Rohan’s fingers grazed on the cross under his tunic.

In the other hand, Ailis did not seem afraid. She stepped forward, Uhtred by her side, and the Dane, whom Rohan supposed to be Thorvard, sat correctly in his chair. One of the Danes escorting them joined him and the monk noticed how similar they looked even if he was younger.

“Shieldmaiden.” Thorvard welcomed her, opening his arms. “I’ve been wondering when I’d finally meet you out of the battlefield. And the gods answered me.” He smiled but A  ilis didn’t show any sign of fear, even when he stood and stopped just few inches from her. “What’s your pretty name, Shieldmaiden?”

“I am the Lady Ailis.” She answered, her words as cold as the ice.

“Ailis.” Thorvard repeated, appreciating each syllables of her name. “And who are your friends?” He asked as he stepped back, now starring to Uhtred.

“It’s Lord Uhtred of Bebbanburg.” Ailis presented him.

“Uhtred Ragnarsson or the Dane Slayer, right? You have a lot of names, it’s hard to remember them all.”

“Funny, I didn’t even know yours before the last full moon.” Uhtred grinned and Thorvard unexpectedly laughed.

“What are you here for?” He demanded, his laugh fading to let a seriousness grew on his face.

“We are here to settle a peace.” Ailis declared.

“Already? I thought you had more to show.” He smirked. Rohan thought about what his father told him a few days earlier, and he swore, this smirk was the devil’s one.

“We want to negotiate.” Ailis ignored his teasing. “You can keep the South and in return, no more attacks.”

Thorvard narrowed his eyes, his hands holding the belt around his waist. “If you are weak, what could prevent us to attack you anyway?”

“Ulaid and Wessex or now allies.” Uhtred replied. “If you refuse the peace, Wessex will attack you. And Sigtryggr won’t come to your rescue, because he has a pact with Wessex.”

“We don’t fear the boy King.” Snapped the younger Dane, his lips drawn back as a mad dog. But Thorvard stopped him to step more forward, his hand on his chest. He glared at him, reproving.

“Excuse my son’s rudeness.” He said, not letting his gaze leave his son.

Now Rohan could understand their similarities. Thorvard’s son was as tall as his father and the same muscular body. But no beard was surrounding his jaw, giving a look less frightening than Thorvard.

The Dane’s hand fell back on his side and he turned again to the group of warriors.

“I have to think.” He declared, his fingers scratching his beard. “For now, you are my guests.” He grinned, all his teeth showing.

A/N: Hehehe have you seen ? I am posting almost regularly lol. I hope you appreciated the little reference to Osferth first meeting with danes lmaooo Also, the other day I listened to Rewrite the Stars by Zac Efron and Zendaya, and I proclaim this song as Finan and Ailis song ! (problem : now I imagine Finan singing each time I listen to it D: Anyway ! I hope you liked the chapter <3

Tag: @geekandbooknerd​​​​ @sihtric​​​​ @queen-manning​​​​ @naihqh​​​​ @kelly-fasel​​​​ @cloudjuumpers​​​​ @limenal​​​​ @amyyreblogss​​​​​ @othermoony​​​ @obipoelover​ and @queerbroceliande​

[dhwty-writes]

Chapter 6 - Stories, Smiles and Secrets

So, I have been informed that the last chapter was sad. I'm sorry (I'm not). As compensation there is- uh... 'checks notes* fluff? It's that what you call it? Yes, there's fluff in this chapter! Enjoy! Thanks @persony-pepper for betaing this chapter!

Summary: The poacher is found and Jaskier does what he does best: telling stories. 

Read on AO3

Part 1 | Part 6 | Part 8

Jaskier almost fell out of his bed when the doors burst open without any warning. "Wha's happenin'?" he slurred, trying to regain his balance as well as his dignity.

"I have come to tell you, brother," Janina announced and cruelly ripped the curtains open to reveal bright sunlight, "that Cousin Fiona and I have just led a delightful conversation over the breakfast table. While you were," she raked her eyes over him and wrinkled her nose in disgust, "still sleeping, great gods above and below, the sun rose half an hour ago!" 

He suppressed a groan and swung his naked legs over the edge of his bed, ignoring Janina's shriek: "Good gods, I did not need to see that."

He rolled his eyes at her and dragged himself to a standing position. "Be glad I'm wearing a shirt at all," he grumbled, not even attempting to smooth out his appearance. There was no way he'd be able to match Janina's impeccable countenance in these early hours. "From the top," he demanded as he pulled on a dark green silk robe, one of his most prized possessions, "you had what with the girl?"

"A conversation," she said smugly and sat down on the chair he normally deposited his dirty laundry on. 'Serves her right,' he thought smugly. "Ten whole minutes."

"That's impressive." Were it any other hour, he would be howling with laughter. "You do realise that I had plenty of those, right?"

"She didn't say a single swear word."

He raised his eyebrows. "That's not really what I call 'in her good graces'," he grumbled, unwilling to admit that it was far more than he had to show for it.

"It's progress," Janina insisted stubbornly.

"Well, congratulations to you, dear sister." He winced. "Coax a smile out of her next and you have won." Jaskier clamped his mouth shut. 'Why the fuck did I say that?' he asked himself, 'Why the fuck don't I ever think before I talk?'

The smile on Janina's face told him that she had hoped for an outcome like that. "I'll hold you to your word," she purred and spun to leave.

"Fuck," he whispered, his brain working hard to catch up with what was going on. She was already out the door when he finally got his mouth to work again: "Janina!"

She peered back into his room. "Yes?" When she was batting her eyelashes like that, she looked almost adorable.

"Don't you dare threaten my witcher again," he hissed. "Or Fiona, for that matter."

"I-"

"No, Janina," he interrupted her harshly, "one misspoken word and never seeing the inside of this castle will be the least of your worries." He stood, throwing all he had picked up on by observing Geralt into looking as menacing as possible. "Never forget, sister, in here our power might match but you don't want to face me out there. A word from me and you can forget about your precious reputation. Is that understood?"

It was impressive how she took it all with a straight face. "Quite, my lord," she answered coldly, the slightest quiver in her voice betraying what went on  inside her head. "May I go, Lord Pankratz?"

"You may."

She spared him a long calculating glance. "Just so you know it," she whispered, "you are turning into father. You even look like him."

Jaskier was glad that the slam of the door drowned out his shocked gasp as he staggered backwards, his knees growing weak. 'Sweet Melitele,' he prayed silently as he flopped down on his bed again, 'anything but that.'

'Surely it can't be that bad,' he thought, but when he tried to think back on his behaviour in the past few days, it made him sick.

"Fuck," he cursed again. 'No wonder the princess doesn't like me. I wouldn't like myself either.'

For the second time that week he was already dressed when Jakub came to collect him and quickly sent him away with the food he had brought. The words of his sister weighed heavily on his mind and stomach, and he found himself entirely incapable of eating anything as the words of his letters blurred before his eyes.

There were a lot of invitations from his varying neighbours he had to decline, feigning excuses about his father's recent death while they really were about hiding Cirilla and Geralt. 'I've got to do something to make her descent less obvious.' Hiding her in plain sight hadn't been his worst idea so far, still the possibility that some nobles had been to Cintra in the last few years and had caught a glimpse of the princess. But there still was a month to figure that particular obstacle out.

Midday was approaching rapidly when a knock on his door announced a visitor. "My lord," Borys, one of his guards, greeted him with a bow when he stepped inside. "We have found the poacher."

Jaskier raised his gaze expectantly from the letter he was penning. "Well," he looked around. "Where is he?"

As answer, there was the sound of commotion rising to his study and he rushed to the window to see a scrawny lad kicking and screaming, straining against the iron grip two of his other guards had on him. Marin was shouting orders and gesticulating wildly while the culprit drew quite the crowd. There were stable boys hooting and hollering, not quite obvious who they were cheering for and one of them seemed to shout something bad enough to earn him a clout on the ear from Wiktor. Geralt ushered Cirilla to the side  – they had just been training  – and pressed the two wooden swords into her hands while exchanging a few words. With a sharp nod the princess sprinted across the courtyard, disappearing from his line of sight  – into the armoury probably.

Then, Geralt stepped out of the shadows and his demeanour changed to what Jaskier called the Scary Face. From up here it looked almost a bit like a bird ruffling up its feathers. The thought made him smile benignly. The boy stopped struggling as soon as he saw the witcher looming above him.

Jaskier turned away. He had seen enough. "Have him brought into the hall," he ordered and went back to his desk to at least close his inkwell  – no need to waste the good ink by having it dry up.

By the time he got to the hall, his captive was already there, kneeling before the dais surrounded by no less than four guardsmen and a witcher. Jaskier clicked his tongue in disapproval. "Now that won't be necessary, I think," he decreed. "Leave us, please."

"My lord," Marin began warily, "talking to him alone would be highly inadvisable, in my opinion."

"Right," he answered as he took his place standing before the dais and placed his hands on his hips. "Which is why the witcher stays. The rest of you leave."

There was a fair share of reluctance on all parts but most of all on Geralt's: "I am not some common guard, my lord," he growled.

"Indeed, you aren't," Jaskier answered as soon as the three of them were alone in the room. "I just think the lad might appreciate a more private environment."

The kid laughed, high and clear. "For what exactly, my lord?"

"Ah," he said and leaned back against the dais, looking his captive over. "Not a lad at all, it seems. I am impressed, little girl. Do you have a name?"

"Alina," she answered. "And I am not little."

He raised one of his eyebrows. "How old are you, Alina?"

She raised her chin defiantly. "Sixteen."

"Right," Jaskier snorted. "How old are you?" he asked again.

There was hesitancy in her eyes before she cast them down and mumbled something incomprehensible.

"What was that?"

"She said she'll be fourteen in a moon's turn," Geralt answered for her. "My lord."

His eyebrows shot up. "Now I'm even more impressed. Cut her loose, witcher, Alina and I will have a nice conversation about how she learned to hunt."

The witcher grunted something Jaskier had long learned to interpret as surprise, but did as he was told all the same before retreating to one of the mighty columns that supported the ceiling. Alina rubbed her wrists slightly, obviously torn between looking at Jaskier in confusion and not wanting to anger him by doing so. "Get comfortable," he prompted and waited until she sat before him with crossed legs before he continued: "Who taught you how to hunt? I've seen your traps, they're wonderfully crafted."

She scoffed. "As if I'm going to tell you that."

"I'm not going to hurt you," he tried to assure her, "I'd have already done that if I wanted to. So? Any other master huntsmen or -women I need to know about?"

"Just me," she answered. "Now."

"And your father died when...?"

She flinched visibly. 'Ah.' He was onto something there. "My mother," she said after a while, "died a year ago. She's the one who taught me."

"I am sorry for your loss. Your father?"

"Ask yours," she shot back.

"Then I am doubly sorry that my family has caused you pain. Do you have any siblings?"

"Two," she admitted. "They're both younger than me."

"And there's no one left in Lettenhove to take care of you? Aunts? Uncles? Cousins? Maybe in some other town?"

She shook her head and there was the tiniest of sniffles.

"Oh dear," Jaskier said softly, fighting the urge to wrap her into a tight embrace. "I am so very sorry." He sighed heavily. "Go to the kitchens, Alina. You will receive a warm meal and food to share with your siblings. You will be taken care of for the winter."

She blinked in surprise. "Aren't- aren't you going to punish me, my lord?"

"I do not appreciate it when my game is being killed without my consent, that is true," he amended. "Therefore, you will come back in spring. I believe my huntsman is looking for a new apprentice."

She could do nothing but stare at him, her mouth opening and closing repeatedly.

Jaskier waved his hand at her. "Go now. You must be hungry." Still at a loss for words the young girl scrambled to her feet and rushed out of the room.

"Why'd you do that?" To his shame Jaskier gave a start, Geralt's voice much closer to his ear than he expected. "My lord?"

He turned to the witcher who stood barely two paces away from him and quirked his eyebrow. "Why did I do what?" he inquired.

Geralt gave a non-committal shrug Jaskier usually translated as 'whatever', but to his surprise he even elaborated: "Send her off with food. Promise to train her. Not punish her."

"She was hungry," he explained, "with no hopes of earning money. And she was scared."

"She could have lied," he suggested.

"Why should she?" Jaskier responded without hesitation. "I firmly believe that accused are innocent until proven guilty."

"To escape her rightful punishment? To steal from you?"

"I have plenty to share, it is no trouble at all." He fiddled with his signet ring, waiting for a response. It didn't take long for Geralt's silence to wear his patience thin: "Well, has she?"

"What?" Amusement made the lines around his eyes crinkle.

"Lied, I mean."

For that Jaskier was even rewarded with a tiny smile. "No, my lord. Not as far as I could tell."

"Good." Honest relief flooded through him. 'How terribly embarrassing it would have been,' he thought, 'to discover that my judge of character has betrayed me now.' Then, another thought appeared in his mind: "Do you think cousin Fiona is well enough to go riding with me today?"

"Hmm," Geralt made, thinking about it for a while. "I guess. Give me... give me an hour with her, my lord. I'll bring her to you."

He clasped his hands behind his back and nodded curtly. "I'm looking forward to it."

Geralt was a man of his word and not one hour later there was a timid knock on the door to his study and Cirilla entered, her eyes cast downwards. "Lord Julian?" she said so quietly he almost couldn't hear it. "I wanted to apologise. For disappointing you."

He smiled widely. "Oh, you mustn't. There is nothing to apologise for. The gods know I wouldn't look forward to spending all my time with old fools such as myself or our resident witcher."

She tilted her head, apparently unsure how to respond to that.

"Can I maybe tempt you to go for a ride with me now?"

She nodded eagerly. "I would like to."

"Good!" Jaskier leapt out of his chair and skidded over to her, offering her his hand to take, which she respectfully declined. That was just as well for him, same as the stoic silence she offered in response to his incessant babbling on their way to the stables. Geralt had to have alerted the stable hands, for they were already waiting there with Dancer and Dreamer, the two beautiful mares his sisters called their own. Both had recently received new saddles—he had discovered that, while saddles couldn't be embroidered once they were done, they could be branded, so now he had a saddle with buttercups and Cirilla one with little lions.

They rode out the gates at a leisurely pace, much slower than the breakneck speed Jaskier had grown fond of. But this ride wasn't solely for him; rather it was for the information Geralt had revealed to him on the previous day: Charming Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon, the Lion Cub of Cintra with pretty gifts, was a futile attempt. The reason why he couldn't get her to like him was that she thought he didn't like Geralt. 'And that I am a total ass to everyone,' his brain added helpfully.

They had long left castle and village behind when he tried again: "Would you like to hear a story, cousin Fiona?"

"I would prefer not to,” she answered coolly. 

"It's a good story, I promise." She scowled at him. "And I am sure you have heard it before, though surely not from a raconteur as skilled as I am. Let's see, what do we need? Right, a stage: imagine the most beautiful place in the world. There are miles upon miles of fields with flowers, in every colour of the rainbow. Can you see it?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Good. Now, the actors. We have a Hero, of course, because every story needs one. Large and fearsome with a mighty sword and a mightier shield he uses to protect the Innocent. Ah, there's another character. The Innocent, who ask the Hero to save them from the Villain. There's a Devil in this story, and a King. And... well, there's also me."

"You?" she asked sceptically. "Why are you there?"

"No reason in particular," he smiled at her. "I am just... the Narrator, if you will, the most unimportant character there is. The story would have transpired just the same." His smile grew sad. "There just wouldn't have been anyone to tell it after. But let's not think of that." He cracked his knuckles drumming out a rapid rhythm on the horn of his saddle in lack of a lute to play. "Once upon a time in the late summer of 1247, there was a mighty Hero in a town at the edge of the world. A beautiful year that was, and there were many beautiful places, though none quite as beautiful as where we set our stage. And I was just- I was travelling the continent, looking for a story to tell. Not necessarily mine, just any, really. That's what the Narrator does, right?"

Cirilla didn't answer.

"I was in a beautiful little town, singing not quite so beautiful little songs, when it happened: the Innocents cried out to the Hero. The Hero accepted, of course. He set out to slay the Devil. And I followed him. Always in search of a story to tell, just as I told you. The Hero didn't want me there, of course; he was, hm, a lone wolf, if you will." He quietly laughed at his own joke. "Did I listen? Of course not."

"That's stupid," the princess interrupted him. "And you're telling the story wrong."

Jaskier smiled. 'Finally.' He knew his talent hadn't abandoned him. "Is it? Why so?"

"You're not the Narrator! You're just another Innocent, and the Hero is trying to protect you!"

"Am I? I'm not sure. You are never just one thing, clever girl. A hero in one story is a villain in another."

She scowled. "Well, then what is the truth?"

"The truth?" He contemplated that question for a while. "Why, my dear Cirilla, I believe the truth in this story is completely inconsequential. As is in most stories."

"That doesn't make any sense," she huffed in annoyance.

"Let's see if I can make it make sense." Jaskier thought about it for a little while. "It doesn't matter if the story I tell you is true or if I have made it up," he said finally. "Truth is not what stories are for."

There was a sparkle in her eye, akin to what he'd call curiosity. "Well, then what are they for?" He felt himself reminded of his days as guest lecturer in Oxenfurt. She wasn't even that much younger than the youngest of his students, although he'd always preferred to teach the older classes.

"That is the question every master poet asks themselves," he gave the same answer as always, "Why do we tell stories? Why do we listen to stories? What makes a good story? I fear I cannot give you one true answer as little as I can give you one true story. I can, however, give you the answer that is true for me."

He took the lack of an answer as an invitation to continue: "Stories are for emotions. They are to make you weep and laugh, to make you shout in anger and yelp in surprise. To make you feel wonder and terror and hate. And love. Above all, stories are there to make you fall in love. With the world, with the future, with the past. Love for the villains and the innocents. And for the heroes, of course."

Cirilla grunted, obviously displeased with the answer. Jaskier almost gave up when she didn't offer another reply. But then, to his surprise she asked: "How does the story continue?"

That put a smile on his face as he urged the horse up another path to extend their ride. That would take a while. He continued to give another rendition of his and Geralt's first meeting, a bit truer to the actual events than what he relayed in his first famous ballad. But with her he didn't have to fear that any harm would come to the elves of Dol Blathanna.

Once he had finished, she was silent for a long while. Then she said: "The Hero is Geralt." It was not a question.

"He is."

"Then the story is not a good one," Cirilla said decisively. "I know the ending and it is not a happy one. You hate each other."

Jaskier smiled softly. "Oh, my dear princess. That is exactly why I told you this story. I know this might look like a grim ending but I promise you, it is not. If there had ever been a time to hate him it was there in that shitty tavern in Posada, when he was the Butcher of Blaviken. Before I came with him. Before I had made him the White Wolf. Before I had spent half my life in service to him and his heroics."

"What did he even do to make him hate you so?"

Jaskier flinched at the wording of that. 'I don't hate him,' he wanted to say. 'Not for a long stretch.' Instead he asked: "Shouldn't you ask him that?"

"I did!" Cirilla insisted. "And he tried to explain. But I don't think he even knows what he did wrong."

His heart clenched painfully and suddenly he had the pressing desire to weep. 'You lying bastard, as if you don't know' he thought and felt the anger flare up again. "Then it is not my place to tell you."

"But he hurt you?" Jaskier turned, surprised at the genuine concern in her voice. 'Maybe she doesn't take that much after Geralt after all.'

"Yes."

"A lot?" She blinked at him with large puppy eyes and he wanted nothing more than to reach out and embrace her.

"Yes."

"As much as my grandmother when she-" Cirilla's voice broke and she gulped.

"Oh my," Jaskier breathed. "Oh, I am so sorry, I didn't mean to remind you of that, dear girl, I-"

"It's alright," she whispered, her voice thick with tears. "But it's nice to know that we have something in common."

Jaskier winced. "No, it probably hasn't hurt quite that much. But very nearly."

"Why?" she asked agonisingly. "How?"

"Sometimes the people we love most are the ones to hurt us most," he answered honestly.

She stared down at the reins she clutched tightly in her hands. "I still think it's a sad story."

"Oh, but you're seeing it wrong. We are not done yet; look around you." He spread his arms. "All the players are on the stage again! I think we are merely entering the second act. And I believe we might live to our happy ending yet."

She grunted and rolled her eyes, the spitting image of Geralt.

Jaskier couldn't help but laugh. The sound seemed to startle her. Did all sounds startle her or did he just laugh that little? "I see you are taking after our resident witcher."

"And that is a bad thing," she stated matter-of-factly.

"Not necessarily, no." He granted her a quick smile. "He's got a lot of good qualities. "

More silence followed as they ducked beneath the branches of a tree. Soon after Cirilla remarked: "You never say his name."

'She's very perceptive, that one.' Now it was him who stared at his hands, twirling his thumbs idly. "I suppose I do not."

"Why?"

He sighed heavily. How could he even begin to explain that? "I have shouted his name to every corner of the continent," he said thoughtfully. "The one you know and half a hundred others you surely will have heard. All to erase one unsavoury moniker. And it hasn't gotten me anything but rejection. I guess he has to earn it again."

They rode in silence for a while. To his surprise it was Cirilla again who spoke up first: "So you love each other?"

"I wouldn't know about him. But I guess I do."

"You don't kiss."

That startled Jaskier and Dancer snuffled when he pulled on the reins too harshly. "No, we don't. Never have."

"My grandmother and grandfather used to kiss all the time," she said with the innocence only a child could possess.

"I fear I cannot imagine that."

"It was gross."

He laughed. "That I can imagine. How about a faster pace?" he asked when they left the hill trail they had been on. When the princess nodded her assent, he pressed his heels into Dancer's sides, prompting her into a slow trot, not so fast that Cirilla couldn't follow. To his surprise she quickly sped past him and it was on him to catch up to her again, cursing and panting when he did.

"Cousin?" she asked, her voice lighter than ever before. "What about your name?"

"What about it?" he asked surprised.

"He said you forbade him to say it."

'Ah. That.' That truly wasn't his proudest moment. "I did."

"Why?"

"In part just because I was angry. In the beginning also, because I thought I could soothe my pain like that. I am no longer who I was with him and I can never be again."

"And now?"

"Now it's just fun to look at him trying to avoid saying it." He winked.

There was a smile tugging at Cirilla's lips. And then, for the first time since her arrival she laughed. It was a glorious sound, sweeter than any music he'd ever heard, as if sent from Melitele herself  – he swore he would treasure it for the rest of his life. "You're mean!"

"Only a little," Jaskier replied and laughed, too. It was the first true laugh that had passed his lips since- since the Dragon Hunt truth be told. "But don't tell him, I want to see him dance around it for a little longer."

She drew her fingers over her lips, signifying her silence. Then, she asked: "What about me?"

"What about you, dear child?"

"What should I call you?"

"You, my dear, may call me whatever you like." He smiled brightly. "Though I think I'd like it best if you called me Jaskier."

"Jaskier," she said, tasting the sound of the name on her tongue. "I like that. It sounds pretty."

"I was very pretty when I chose it."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Really? I wouldn't have guessed it with all those wrinkles."

Jaskier placed his palm on his chest, gasping in mock-hurt. ‘She and Yennefer would be a great fit,’ he caught himself thinking. "Now who's the mean one?" To his never-ending amazement Cirilla laughed again. "What about your name. What should I call you?"

"Ciri. It's what everyone calls me."

"And you would like me to belong to that chosen few?" he teased.

"Yes, Jaskier," she answered. "I would like that very much."

"You know what I would like?"

"Hm?"

He leaned over to her so he could whisper in her ear even though they were still a few good paces away from the gatehouse. "Sneak in the kitchen and steal baked apples."

Ciri gasped a little. "We can do that?"

"Pfft," he answered and sat upright again, "who's going to stop us? The lord?"

"Isn't your cook going to be angry?"

"That, my dear," he tapped her on the nose, "is half the fun." He swung from his saddle and extended his arms to help her down. "Come with me?" he asked and this time when he extended his hand, she took it.

Once they had raided the kitchen for baked apples and other sweets  – very unsuccessful in their attempt not to get caught  – he led her to the North Wing, past Armoury and Dining Room and Study, to the floor where his personal quarters were along with two other bedrooms. He pushed the door to the smallest of the three open and Ciri nearly dropped the plate she was carrying.

"What is this room?" she asked in wonderment as she stepped inside. There was a narrow bed on the other end as well as a desk, but above all it was littered with toys  – dolls and tin soldiers, a rocking horse and several toy swords, stuffed animals and balls and drums and everything a child could wish for. "Jaskier?"

"It's, um-" He cleared his throat. "It's my room. It was, rather. Until I was your age. A bit older maybe. I couldn't move you in here for propriety's sake, I'd never hear the end of it but you are welcome to come here anytime you like. Or the four bedrooms above, they're my sisters'. I'm sure they have more dolls and suchlike if you'd prefer tha- oof."

The air was pressed out of his lungs when Ciri hugged him tightly. "Thank you," she whispered quietly and he gently stroked her head. "Can we stay for a while?"

He gulped. "Of course, little one. As long as you like." He sat down on the thick rug in front of the fireplace and watched the little princess flit around, seemingly eager to try out each and every one of the toys while he helped himself to the sweets they had abducted. Despite the host of toys in this room, he didn't have a lot of happy memories connected to this place. 'Maybe it's time to make new ones,' he thought.

"What are those?" Ciri shrieked in delight and showed a box to him.

"Oh!" he answered gleefully as he gingerly accepted the chest. "My puppets!" He had almost forgotten about them. "I invented my first stories with those."

"Can you tell me one? Or two?" she asked eagerly as she sat down.

"As many as you want. Let's see, I guess I'm a bit out of practice, but-" He dug through the chest, searching for the right puppet. "Once upon a time," he said impassioned as he tugged two of them free, "there was a Prince living in a tower. It was guarded by a fearsome Dragon..."

After no less than five of his earliest inventions his throat was sore from all the talking  – how had he been able to sing for hours, gods, what had his life turned into?  – and begged for mercy. Ciri, ever the lenient princess, granted it to him, moving the puppets about by herself for a while. Oh, what would he give to hear the story that bloomed in her head, a story about a knight with a fool's hat riding a kelpie with a prince no less?

"Jaskier?" she asked, hugging the prince close to her chest.

"Yes, Ciri?"

"What about the Narrator?"

"What about him?"

"In your stories," she explained, "everyone deserves to be loved. Even the villains. What about the Narrator?"

"I told you, my darling," he said softly, "his fate is inconsequential to the story. It doesn't matter whether he is loved or not."

"That's not true," Ciri whispered and for a moment he feared she would begin to cry, "Without him there would be no story at all. No happy ending." She hugged the prince closer. "And... it matters to me."

"Oh, my sweet darling girl," it was all he could do not to burst into tears, "the world doesn't deserve you." She looked very confused at that, so Jaskier offered: "Would you like another story?"

It was already getting late, Ciri was bedding her head on an embroidered pillow hugging a toy emperor tightly, and Jaskier could scarcely speak anymore when a quiet knock at the door announced Geralt. Ciri blinked sleepily up at him and Jaskier nodded curtly.

"I take it you had a pleasant afternoon?" the witcher asked. “And evening.”

"Very," Ciri answered and yawned as he leaned down to brush the hair from her face. "I like Jaskier."

Geralt gaped, though Jaskier could not say whether it was for the statement or the name.

He smiled contently and stood, walking over to the door.

Geralt cleared his throat. "You do not need to leave, my lord." 

"I know," he said softly. "But I believe you have a lot to talk about." He hesitated at the door and looked back over his shoulder. "Sweet dreams, Ciri. Goodnight, Geralt." The look he got from both of them was priceless. 

[sebastianshaw]

“You’re sure?” Shinobi asked yet again, “The potential power you could wield...I realize the goals of the Hellfire Club have changed somewhat, but Krakoa is still--” Harry Leland waved a chubby, thick-fingered hand from across the table, “It’s not about power, my boy. I shan’t lie and say I no longer desire it--I am no such ascetic saint---but it is a desire I have realized I must abstain from. I realize that is a foreign concept for men such as us, but I’m quite doing my best, for my own good. I do appreciate the offer, though, it’s very kind of you.” “Well,” said Shinobi, cautiously, not sure about admitting what he said next, “You were always very kind to me.” It wasn’t that he thought that Harry---his “Uncle Leland” as he had called him growing up--was going to taunt him for this. It was just that revealing any kind of vulnerability, even something most people wouldn’t count as such, bothered him. Any sign of weakness always made him tense, a physical anticipation his father was about to beat him for it. Not like Uncle Leland. Uncle Leland had always smiled at him when he saw him, called him “dear boy”, always had some kind of old-fashioned candy for him and, if he was expecting him, some kind of small but expensive gift. Nothing a young boy would actually like, Harry didn’t have children and he didn’t know a thing about them, but it was the only affection Shinobi had ever received from an adult man. The fact Harry was in proximity to his father, that he was someone his father liked and presumably approved of, made it even better. If someone his father approved of approved of Shinobi in turn, it was ALMOST like getting a bit of his father’s approval, in his childish logic back then.

It couldn’t be said that Harry ever was close with Shinobi or took on any kind of fatherly role, they didn’t see each other often enough for that, he’d never even hugged him (which, Shinobi understood as an adult, a grown single man hugging a friend’s young son would be considered weird, but as a kid who didn’t understand the implications, he’d wished he would once or twice) and Shinobi had been hurt later on when he’d realized that Harry called EVERYONE “dear boy”, he had called WOLVERINE that for crying out loud, and here Shinobi had thought it was his special nickname---but still. Still. It was the most he’d ever gotten from any adult that was not his mother, and he’d treasured it deeply, even concocting a fantasy that Harry Leland was his biological father. A fantasy he still thought possible---his poor mother had been Sebastian’s toy, he wouldn’t put it past the old bastard to pass her around to his buddies like some party favor at the Hellfire Club. Though as long as Shinobi was going to dream up things that could never be, he’d like to imagine something tenderer, something that fit his image of Uncle Leland and didn’t involve his mother being further degraded to support her son. Like Uncle Leland marrying his mother and them all moving far away somewhere and being happy. Childish tripe. But then, he’d been a child. He wasn’t anymore. And he had duly left such candy floss fantasies behind. But he still wanted, in the sole tiny pocket of generosity that existed in his selfish soul, wanted to give something back to Harry Leland. The best thing he could think of was promising him the seat of Black Bishop once he had moved up from it. “I don’t understand,” he said, trying to process what Harry had said, “Is it because it’s not my father making the offer, you don’t think it’s guaranteed without his approval? Because once I take power as the Red---” “Dear boy,” said Harry patiently, “You indeed do not understand. But that is, in itself, understandable. You have the confidence of youth, despite your trials beyond your age, and you have your father leading you every step of the way on top of that. What I told you just now must seem incomprehensible, but it’s the truth. Seeking power may work for some. In the end, all it got me was an early---and oft-disturbed---grave. Krakoa is a place of new beginnings. All I want to do is regain enough of my former finances---the paperwork for that is a mess, they really MUST learn to make allowances for mutants, as we have demonstrated we are BOUND to come back from the dead--to live comfortably as I am accustomed to, and then stay away from these political games for the rest of my natural life, and whatever unnatural ones I might yet again wind up in.” Shinobi just...looked at him. He got the words alright, but, as Harry himself said, he couldn’t understand. “You don’t have to be scared of dying again,” he finally said, “You know that. It’s not permanent anymore.” “It was never permanent in the first place, dear boy, I was dragged back to life TWICE before this, once with you if you recall, though certainly neither time was as...pleasant, as this.” “So what’s the problem then?” Shinobi’s voice came out shriller, more emotional than he had intended. Indeed, more than he expected. He hadn’t realized how much he had WANTED Harry to say yes. He had thought he was just being nice, and perhaps making a smart decision---Leland had always been one of the very few members of the Hellfire Club with a sense of LOYALTY, something neither Shinobi nor his father could boast. Having him with them would be an advantage, one they didn’t have to worry about turning on them. He’d...he’d thought he’d just been thinking practically. But now his own reactions showed him it had been more than that. Yet again, he hated himself for displaying this, this weakness, this need, this vulnerability. But he’d wanted this. He’d had this idea of himself and his father and Harry Leland ruling all together, his father approving him and his “uncle” being there and it just...it just being everything he’d wanted. And now Harry Leland was turning him down, taking it away. Shinobi felt...betrayed. Of all the people he’d thought would ever hurt him, Harry Leland and his mother had been the only two not on the list. That made this sting far harder than it would from almost anyone else. In Shinobi’s mind, it wasn’t the offer that Uncle Leland was pushing away---it was Shinobi himself. Rejected by his father so much, so often, so brutally, so completely, had made Shinobi oversensitive as an adult to any kind of rejection, taking it deeply personally, like a wound, a wound that made him wild with tearful rage like some hurt animal---as Storm and Archangel could attest, as they had also turned down his offers of Hellfire Club royalty and suffered the violent reactions that resulted. Something that would have been a mere tantrum in a normal man---sad and strange, but not threatening---was potentially fatal with someone who had Shinobi’s powers, and his lack of care for other people. Again, something Storm and Archangel could confirm, though neither had been impressed either. What was it Storm had said? A little boy who needs to bully or buy people into liking him? And he couldn’t do either with Uncle Leland. He didn’t think he’d have to. Across the table, Harry watched Shinobi, a sympathetic expression on his bearded face. He was no psychic or psychologist, and he really didn’t even know Shinobi all that well, but he could tell this had meant a lot to the boy. For whatever reason, probably paternally-related ones, Sebastian’s son had latched on to him at an early age like a little limpid-eyed limpet, and Harry, as soft a touch as a man could be in the world of Hellfire, had allowed it. Indulged it, even. He was an indulgent man. He’d felt sorry for the scrawny little boy scurrying about the legs of old men in business suits in a place that was surely both boring to a child, and somewhere that one should never be brought. And though he’d never witnessed physical abuse, he had always felt, from what interactions he’d seen, that Sebastian was too hard on the boy, too sharp with his directions and reprimands. But then, it hadn’t been Harry’s business, and he knew nothing about the raising of children anyway. Still, he’d been fond of the little urchin, for all that he saw him sparingly. He had no idea the pedestal than Shinobi had put him on. He just knew that the young man’s face now greatly resembled that of a stray dog that had been kicked. It would not be fair to call Harry Leland a kind man. He knew this. He had murdered before for personal gain, and he had been prepared to let worse things happen in the pursuit of power, and he regretted neither, at least not for moral reasons, only in that it had not worked out to his benefit at the end. But he also was also not unkind. When he had killed those in his way, or had them killed, when he had briefly had the upper hand against the X-Men, all those times he had never taken pleasure in it nor drawn it out, never even taunted his opponent or victim. He was cordial at all times, affable even. He did what he had to to advance himself, but he would not cause any additional distress in the process. And he had, again, always been fond of the boy. He’d never seemed cut out for Hellfire to Harry, of course, but then, neither did Harry himself. Perhaps that was why Harry liked him. And he didn’t want to see him cry, which it looked like he was about to do. Actually, Shinobi was trying to figure out WHAT he could do besides cry, because the only other option was a violent, uncontrolled outburst, and he was trying to behave with more...decorum...these days...especially since his father seemed to have lost a lot of his...but he didn’t know what to do when hurt except lash out the way he had never been able to as a helpless child. He didn’t know how to recruit people---just drive them away. Like Warren, and Betsy, and Ororo, and now worst of all, Unc--- “Shinobi? Lad?” Uncle Leland’s tone was...gentle. Shinobi suddenly felt a hot stab of anger at the idea the old man might be pitying him. It was the one thing he couldn’t bear, it was even worse than rejection, and he was snapped out of his confusion by this, ready to rip the old man’s heart out because what did it matter, it wouldn’t be for keeps, it would-- “Walk with me, will you?” Harry Leland had stood up, and was offering a hand to Shinobi. To his own surprise, Shinobi took it.

[usaghinanami99]

Hugh Jackman’s world tour: a personal comment

Hi, everyone! I know I'm a bit late, but I'm here to post a not-so-brief coverage of Hugh Jackman's world tour The man, the music, the show, or at least of the performance I've been able to witness myself. To be precise, I attended the concert held inside the Hallenstadion, Zurich, on the 19th of May, which, by a lucky coincidence, also happened to be my 20th birthday. It's been a long trip by train to reach Zurich, and I want to deeply thank my mum for being the kindest parent in the world and going through all of this just to give me the best birthday present I'll ever have had. Oh, please bear with my English, which is less than stellar, unless I’ve written something absolutely incomprehensible (in which case, please don’t hesitate to contact me!). I must say I’m very grateful that Hugh, knowing he was in a non-Anglophone country, purposefully spoke at a very slow rhythm. Thanks for being so considerate and kind. [Edited to put all this wall of text under a cut]

First things first, I have to say I had never been to such a big event, and concerts I had previously attended were nothing like this one. I mean, the only non-classical music concerts I had been to before were shows by Cristina D'Avena and/or Giorgio Vanni (who are Italian national stars specialized in anime theme songs), where the relationship between the artist and the public was completely different, in the sense that it was a given that, after the performance, they would have got plenty of time to meet every fan who wanted to do so for signing sessions, answering questions etc., with no additional price or need to preorder whatsoever. Well, things are obviously different when one's level of fame goes from "national" to "global", so what I felt was lacking more from Jackman's show was a real contact with the public... save a few horribly lucky exceptions. I mean, it's not like I thought he could do a signing session with over twelve thousand fans, but all in all, I reckon that seeing a concert with so little first-hand contact is not all that different than seeing said artist through a screen (which, BTW, we still had to do, since it was not humanly possible to see Hugh and the dancers from the furthest places without the aid of the maxi-screens). I'm sorry to have to start this post with a negative opinion, but I also have to say that this was absolutely the only bad thing about this concert; that, and the fact that Hugh always had a shirt on. Because, otherwise, I was totally blown away by the majesty of the music, as always happens when my ears are graced with hearing Hugh's fabulous voice, with the added bonus of the spoken intermissions, which were endless fun to listen to (and quickly translate to mum).

The show, as probably expected, opened in medias res, with no sort of introduction (apart from a very brief on-screen montage of various scenes taken from Hugh's filmography), but directly on the notes of The greatest show, which, thanks to the meta nature of its lyrics, may very well work as the most fitting show-opener of all time. The first verses of the song already worked very well when the film started at the cinema, but were no less than perfect to introduce a real-life show like the one that Barnum was about to start in-universe. Unfortunately, the version performed was the one from the official soundtrack – I say "unfortunately" because I prefer the film version, where The greatest show is actually two different songs and we manage to hear sad!Barnum's amazing verses at the end of the first part – albeit tweaked a bit to cut Zac Efron's solo lines out. Nevertheless, this song is breathtaking in every rendition, as are all songs from TGS, at least in my opinion, so I was still blown away right from the start of the show, and I remained in a state of hyper-excitation for its whole duration. After the show-opener ended, the first spoken intermission came, which made us understand from the get-go that this was going to be a little bit more than a normal concert, with the inclusion of these short but interesting comedic numbers by the star. This sketch consisted in a weirdly long declaration of the importance of numbers, which in the end was only functional to Hugh declaring in a depressed tone that he's fifty. A fact which matters not, seeing how he is still the sexiest man alive (disclaimer: I am not a gerontophile by any means, I usually lust over younger men and women, but Hugh's sexiness is something that transcends this, also because he objectively looks at least a decade younger than he is) and how insanely athletic he is for his age, a thing which we can confirm first-hand with all the crazy dancing he did on stage... and dancing while singing, may I add. And always with his shirt on, to boot. Man, that must have been hard. Oh, and he also said that, in case we were those horrible people who left before the show ended to have an easier time with the traffic, he would tell us when there'd be only two songs left. I wonder who on earth could have been that insane.

Immediately following this, Come alive came next, with its usual irresistible catchyness. The only negative side is that PT didn't actually put his red coat on in the epic and sexy way we see him do in the film, but I think I can live without that. I really liked the following transition, because, right after starting the show with his latest musical project, Hugh took us back to the start of his thetrical career, telling us how he still can't believe he won the audition to portray Gaston in the Sydney 1995 version of the Beauty and the beast stage musical (the theatric adaptation of the 1991 Disney Classic), seeing how he still had to take singing lessons. Now, the following part was my personal favourite of the whole show, given the fact that B&B is, in my opinion, the very best film ever created, as well as featuring my eternal OTP and sporting Alan Menken (the greatest composer alive) at the very highest of his career, who graced us with the most breathtaking songs I've ever listened to; oh, and Marjorie Biondo is my favourite singer on earth, to boot. So, you may imagine just how elated I was at the perspective of my favourite film meeting one of my favourite singers/actors! I had obviously already listened to Hugh's rendition of Gaston's songs from the official recording of the Sydney cast, just how I also watched Beauty and the beast in every language it's ever been dubbed into, because that's just how much of a fangirl I am; the only other film I've got such an extensive experience of is Frozen. That being said, I honestly reckon that Hugh's singing skills have dramatically improved during the almost-24 years that passed between that recording and this concert, even if he was already an excellent singer at the start of his career! Well, to put things shortly, Gaston was the musical number that followed, and it was undoubtedly the one that I enjoyed the most. The one performed was obviously the stage musical version, which is a bit longer than the original film version because of its lenghty dancing-only intermission; well, the crew didn't actually dance on tables, but the atmosphere was still there, thanks to Hugh being very in character as the sexy but sexist asshole that is Gaston, and the choreography involving tons of fake beer. That being said, since there was no LeFou present, the song was presented in a somewhat abridged rendition, starting from the "When I was a lad..." lines, but then recuperating some of the earlier stanzas and putting them out-of-order before the finale. The visual highlight of the number was Hugh lifting one dancer per arm to prove that Gaston has indeed "got biceps to spare", but sadly he didn't open his shirt like Gaston does in the film to show that every last inch of him's covered with hair. That was the saddest thing ever, imho. Still, I can confirm Hugh Jackman as being on the second spot in my ranking of the best Gastons ever, right after the inimitable Carlo Lepore, not to mention the fact that he's the sole and only baritone I can accept as Gaston. I mean, the character really needs a basso to fit his physical appearance and personality, especially in the film, and a basso also sounds much better in Gaston's songs, but Hugh somehow manages to make a baritone Gaston credible, like no other's been able to. Well, to be honest, maybe he's helped by the fact that he portrayed him in a stage musical and not in a film, so he didn't have to adjust his voice in order to be perfectly glued to the already-present face of a character; still, I regard this feat as something amazing, and you can't change my mind. As a side note, my mum, too, was quite happy during this number, because Gaston was pretty much the only song in the whole concert that she already knew; after all, you can't not know Beauty and the beast if you live with me, since I watch it obsessively every month (I'm still amazed by the fact that the videotape has never broken).

After an introduction with his own music repertoire, Hugh then went on to a small series of covers from different artists, starting with Fred Astaire's classic The way you look tonight (taken from the film Swing time), and on with other songs I had never heard him perform; which was a very nice surprise, because I really didn't expect to listen to anything new that evening! He thanked Switzerland for existing because that's where his parents first met (awww), which means that the country is very important for him, and thanked his public for being there for him, especially those of us who came by train or by plane – which means that Hugh Jackman thanked me, I'm definitely not delusional. But next time come to Italy, pleeease! After this, he performed I've been everywhere, which seems to be a popular Australian song where the singer mentions the hundreds of cities in the country that he's visited; this number was particularly hilarious because Hugh randomly added Zurich to the mix, and because, during an instrumental break, he asked the cameraman to show the audience the small screen where he could read the lyrics... seems that even Hugh Jackman is a human being after all, who would've guessed? Next came two songs from the film Dear Evan Hansen (absolutely watch it if you haven't!), which happens to be scored by the same Benj & Paul of The greatest showman fame, starting with the melancholy, but at the same time uplifting, You will be found, which was my personal favourite among the unreleased covers of this concert. The second song was the tearjerker For forever, a romantic ballad that Hugh aptly dedicated to his wife, and even played by himself on the piano, because apparently there's nothing this man can't do. The number was accompanied by pictures of Hugh, Deborra and their children on the screens, at which I literally couldn't not cry of too many feels... And, at the end of the song, she even went up on-stage to hug and kiss her hubby. Gosh, I envy her so much even as I still totally ship her with her husband, but really, Deborra Lee-Furness may very well be the luckiest woman alive. Returning to Benjamin and Paul, he then told us of how they composed and wrote This is me during a plane trip, one single day before a workshop where the film would be pitched. He then proceeded to recount the famous anecdote of how Keala Settle, who should've only sung this song at the workshop and wasn't to portray Lettie in the film, stunned everyone with her performance so much that she was immediately chosen for the role. This intermission, of course, served the purpose of introducing the night's special guest: the audience seemed to explode when Hugh announced Keala's entrance, to the point that I think that quite a few of them hadn't read that she would make an appearance. Anyway, even without her beard on her impression as Lettie is incredible, and her rendition of This is me was as breathtaking as always (incidentally, she also sang Tom's lines as well as her own). After her number had ended, she briefly thanked everyone who gave her the opportunity to play Lettie, and even the character herself, since she helped her become more determined, all while weeping tears of joy, which caused Hugh to cry, and... I can't. I just can't. These two are so amazing together and I want to see them in thirty more films singing and being happy one with the other.

After Keala exited the stage, a medley consisting of three songs from Les misérables started, introduced by footage from the film of Colm Wilkinson as the bishop giving Valjean the candelabra (you know the scene). The first part of the medley consisted of the aptly titled Valjean's soliloquy, which Hugh soloed with all the amazing skill we've already witnessed in the film. What I wasn't expecting, though, was for a background singer to own the spotlight as a full-on soloist: the second part of the series was none other than I dreamed a dream, in a rendition where a singer called Jenna Lee-James played Fantine. And, oh my gosh... I still have to listen to all versions of the stage musical, but what I know for sure is that I liked this performance even better than the one from the film (sorry, Anne!). I didn't think I would come out of a one-man show determined to check out a never-heard-before artist, but here I am, and it was definitely worth it; Jenna has got such a melodious, angelic voice, that I'm sure you'll be enchanted by her, too. The last number of the medley, as well as the closer of the first act, was One day more (which is already more or less a medley by itself, lol), where basically everyone had the opportunity to shine: since this is such a big ensemble number where almost every main character has got some solo lines, many different background singers managed to step out of the shadow and be recognized for their raw talent. While I'm somewhat sad that Bring him home wasn't included in the concert, this song was a truly satisfying act-closer, thanks to it epic proportions and majesticity.

After a well-deserved pause of twenty minutes for the artists, the second hour-long act opened with the cameraman gracing us with a glorious zoom-in on Hugh's butt (though I prefer his buttshots as Wolverine because here he was sadly wearing his trousers); it doubled as sexy and hilarious when the cameraman started to zoom out, only for Hugh to reprimand him and ask him to keep the focus on. By the way, at this point Hugh was already in-costume as Peter Allen, which means that he was wearing that absurdly sparkling jacket, so unfortunately it was a bit difficult to look at him without being blinded by all the *sparkle sparkle*. The initial musical numbers of the second act consisted in a series of freaking seven songs composed by Peter in various occasions and then posthumously used for the biographical stage musical The boy from Oz (I'm writing it here so that I don't have to repeat the various songs' origins every time), for which Hugh played the protagonist role in the Broadway version. The first one was obviously the legendary Not the boy next door, which was as spectacular as you can imagine, with the highlight consisting in Hugh taking the sparkling jacket off (for which my eyes thanked him in every possible sense) and spend the better part of the medley in a bright red shirt. All in all, this was probably the funniest number of the show; but then came the most irritating part, where Hugh invited a random man from the public to dance with him, and by "dance" I mean "being impossibly close and touchy-feely to the point that it was almost hard to distinguish where one ended and where the other started". I reckon it would've been sexy if the other person had been slightly hotter (for example, Hugh Jackman on Zac Efron brings infinite possibilities to mind), but he was just your regular middle-aged man, so no, there wasn't much fanservice for everyone except for him. I mean, Hugh even stroked. his. chest. Not fair. While rationally I know that it could never have been me because 1) I was as far away from the stage as you can get, since we bought the most economic tickets, and 2) he was in-character as Peter, so he needed a man, I'm still impossibly envious of this random man who's got the greatest luck of us all for no particular reason. Jeez, maybe I'm unneedlessly bitter, but I almost hope he's hetero, 'cause if he's either gay or bisexual, then he'd really have got the biggest luck of his life. Not-so-funny sketch aside, the show went on with a preposterous medley of songs from Peter's repertoire (and, indirectly through the musical, also Hugh's own) with no further interruptions: these were, in order, Best that you can do, the only one recycled from a previous musical, namely Arthur; Don't cry out loud, a pop song that Peter originally composed for a female voice, so it was a bit unexpected to hear Hugh sing it; I honestly love you, another pop piece, this one originally sung by Olivia Newton-John (which happens to be Hugh's childhood idol, by the way); Quiet please, there's a lady on stage, this one written, composed and sung by Peter himself; the iconic I go to Rio, where we found out that Hugh's red shirt actually concealed another layer of clothing – that is, the hilariously iconic pineapple shirt (and yes, he did use the maracas); and Tenterfield saddler, with which the medley closed. As previously mentioned, these songs were created by Peter for various different occasions, either for musicals or for more traditional albums, but were later reused for TBFO, sung either by Hugh-as-Peter or by other characters. All in all, this part was really enjoyable, and a totally deserved tribute to Allen's musical legend, even if one can question the inclusion of some minor pieces which kept the much more beloved I still call Australia home from being in the show.

After this, Hugh went on a speech about how dreams are important, and we know what this means: it's A million dreams time! The cutest thing is that this song was accompanied by a woman translating the lyrics into sign language... even though I must admit I struggle to conceive that a deaf would want to attend a concert, so the sense of the operation is a bit lost on me. Anyway, the version performed followed once again the soundtrack instead of the film, and once again I confess I prefer the latter, mainly because kid!Charity is also featured in it; on the other hand, it's true that the soundtrack version has got some additional verses, and the abrupt transition between the kid and the adult Barnum (which is much more nuanced in the film) is breathtaking. The parts were divided between Hugh Jackman as adult!PT, Jenna Lee-James as adult!Charity and another female singer whose name I'm desperately searching for as kid!PT. This song, which was already one of my absolute favourites, is still amazing in this rendition, but Jenna is possibly even better than Michelle (who is awfully talented in her own right), and now I really want to hear her sing Tightrope.

Following this, it was the turn for another long medley, this time a set of five covers from classic US musicals; this part of the show was introduced by Hugh confessing that he's got a very difficult upbringing... because there was only one TV channel when he was a kid, so he watched the same things over and over again (not that we do things differently even now that we can choose among many different channels), which led to his infatuation for old-style musical comedies. The songs composing this medley were: Luck be a lady tonight from the film Guys and dolls, then made even more famous by Frank Sinatra; Gene Kelly's preposterously famous Singing in the rain from the homonyme film, complete with fake rain and real umbrellas; I got rhythm from the film Girl crazy; Fred Astaire's Stepping out with my baby from the film Easter parade; and Benny Goodman's crazily-paced Sing sing sing. Needless to say, Hugh totally owned all of these songs, and I think this is the part of the whole show where his unadultered love for singing, dancing and generally being on stage shone through the most; of course the man is an excellent cinema actor, but you can clearly see that he's more elated when in a theatre or otherwise in front of an audience.

Immediately after came what was very probably the most physically prowing number for the cast, as well as the only non-sung one: after narrating that his brother was so much of an asshole that he discouraged him from taking dance lessons when he was a child, he proclaimed his happiness for having finally managed to study tip tap, which transitioned into a full-fledged tip tap routine with accompanying background music. This was admittedly the part of the show that I enjoyed the least, even if I did like it well enough (that's just to say how much I love this concert), because of the lack of singing and because I'm not the biggest fan of tap dancing. The funniest thing is that, at the end of the routine, Hugh exclaimed: <<Do you think that Ryan Reynolds could do that?>> and then did his Wolverine shtick using the battery sticks. Absolutely amazing. Oh, and after this exhausting number he turned back to drink, and even lampshaded the fact that we could take advantage of his tiredness to enjoy the view.

Then some brief footage from Australia was shown to introduce the members of a humanitarian organization called "Nomad two worlds", which made up the serious part of the show: the number in question consisted of a few men singing while two other men played the didgeridoo and a woman recited a poem. I should mention that all of these people were Aboriginals. After the end of the performance, it was explained to us that the woman who was on stage next to Hugh was actually a member of the Australian parliament who had a key role when their nation finally asked official forgiveness to the Aboriginals for the prosecution of their people. It was a very touching moment, indeed. With this over but still keeping on theme with Australia, Hugh performed a cover of Somewhere over the rainbow from the film The wizard of Oz (like his colleague and friend Nicole Kidman did in that film), and I wouldn't be lying if I said that I honestly prefer him over Judy Garland.

Then cam the most unexpected number of the whole concert, i.e., a cover of Mack the knife from Bertolt Brecht's Three-penny opera, which maybe would've fit better earlier in the programme; after which, Hugh actually told us that there were only two songs left, in case anyone wanted to leave early (I mean, does he think we’re crazy?). The following one was From now on, which I honestly expected to be used as the show-closer, but was nevertheless incredibly breathtaking; this is my favourite song of The greatest showman, in particular because it lets Hugh Jackman show everyone that he's truly the best belter of the world. From now on is also one of the two cases in which I prefer the soundtrack version of the song over the one from the film, since, like Tightrope, it features a bunch of additional verses. Unfortunately, though, Hugh performed an abridged version of the song, only starting with "I drank champagn with kings and queens...", maybe because it would've been difficult to hear him during the first part of the piece, which is sung while whispering. Anyhow, it was still exciting as heck, and the background dancers were even more amazing than usual. And, right when I was left asking myself what the final number would be, Hugh started singing another piece written, composed and sung by Peter Allen (albeit this time not in-character) and then used for TBFO; namely, Once before I go, which is incredibly fitting as a show-closer thanks to its lyrics. Thus the concert ended, with the main star, the special guests, the singers, the dancers and the orchestra bowing in front of the audience. I was appalled by the lack of an encore, and especially by the fact that no one in the public was apparently screaming for one like you usually do at a concert, but I was still utterly satisfied by the experience. Every member of the crew was simply fantastic, not just Hugh, and I'm very happy I've been so lucky to witness this show. ...I'm just still wondering why What a beautiful morning wasn't included in the programme, nor any other song from Oklahoma. That's jarring, I think.

Believe me, I would've totally stayed and bought some souvenirs, if it weren't for mummy, who wanted to go straight to bed; but, after all, she's already done so much for me, in exchange for nothing, that I can hardly believe it. She is the person I have to thank the most for this out-of-the-world trip and I couldn't be happier of being her daughter. So, many thanks to Hugh Jackman and all the others who made this concert possible, but even more thanks to the only one who made me being at this concert possible. Anyway, I simply cannot wait for Hugh to come back where he belongs to, now that his partecipation in The music man has been announced; I obviously won’t be able to go to Broadway to see the musical, but you can be sure I’m going to purchase the soundtrack album as soon as it comes out. What can I say, I love the man and I’m very happy he’s been able to realize both his personal and professional dreams.

If you've come this far, congratulations! I hope you've liked this totally unprofessional coverage, and I'd love it if you could link me to someone who's written a similar piece about a different performance, because I'm very interested in knowing how they differ between one another. Thanks for reading!

[artificialqueens]

And So We Run (ch.7) - Traumathicc

A/N: Buckle up lads, this chapter was lowkey hard to write because it’s basically just a trip to misery town. (But then again this whole AU is misery so I don’t really know what I expected.) Enjoy!

———————————————————————

Trees.

God is Willam tired of these fucking trees. Not only because she keeps walking into them, but do they really have to be everywhere? Maybe they could’ve spiced it up with something else? Willam then pauses and slowly realizes she has no idea what that other thing could be.

It’s the trees. They’re draining her creativity.

She takes another swig from the bottle and winces at the sting of the wound she got yesterday. What did that blonde girl have to be so jumpy for? Okay, she gets that she just watched two people die or whatever, but that’s hardly an excuse to shoot at an unharmed lady who’s clearly just trying to have a drink in peace.

Willam curses under her breath and takes one more swig to numb the pain. It doesn’t really work though, it only makes her dizzier. Fucking trees-

And now she’s on the ground. Bravo.

By some divine miracle Willam actually manages to get up into a sitting position fairly quickly. She then leans over to the side and proceeds to empty her stomach all over a nearby pile of dried leaves. The taste of sour vodka and potatoes fills her mouth and nose and her eyes grow wet with tears.

Everything burns. And it’s disgusting.

It’s there by the vomit pile that Willam realizes she probably hates herself.

Good thing she left that cute blue haired girl alone before she could rope her into her bullshit more than she already has. As much as she hates to admit it, the words of those old fuckers in white suits sound more appealing than ever.

She just wants to die and get it over with.

Willam’s not dumb. She knows that she’s unarmed in a forest full of people out to kill her. And even if she wanted to run and hide, she’s too drunk to get her legs to move. Eventually, she’ll be found by one of them.

So she lies back down and waits for them to come to her.

She closes her eyes for about ten minutes before she hears leaves rustling. Then a small gasping noise.

Willam opens her eyes and immediately recognizes the girl standing in front of her. It’s Courtney Act from district 2. According to Alaska, she’s not that good when it comes to hand to hand combat, so she specializes in camouflage and designing traps. Apparently though, she’s one of those people that can’t stand the thought of killing. Not even animals. This, of course, caused Alaska to look down on her especially during their days at the training camp.

Willam groans internally. Of all the people to find her out in the open like this…

Well, she shoots her shot anyway.

“Please… I need-“ God, talking is hard when you’re this shitfaced.

“I need you t- to ki- ki- umm…”

Courtney doesn’t respond. She doesn’t move at all. She’s just standing there with her hands clasped over her mouth. Her eyes are wide with shock, and it looks like she’s about to throw up herself.

So Willam’s plan is going great.

“Juzz, lizzen to me… I’m- please.” Willam tries crawling towards her and accidentally jams her right arm straight into the vomit pile. Courtney takes a step back. She’s whispering something incomprehensible under her breath. Is she crying?

“Just, listen.” Willam is finally able to form the words and push them out of her mouth.

“I need you to kill me.”

Courtney stifles a sob and starts shaking her head slowly. Poor girl. She’s way too good for this place.

“Courtney!” Another voice suddenly calls out from behind the trees. “Did you find something?”

She gives Willam another look as more tears fall from her trembling eyes.

Then she mouths “I’m sorry” and starts walking back into the woods.

“No! Wait! I- I still need- WAIT!” Willam hates how desperate she sounds. Something cold is running down her face. Is she crying too?

She continues to wail desperately for a few more minutes before collapsing onto the ground, sobbing and covered in puke.

She stays in that position until she falls asleep.

She wakes up about two hours later, and it feels like someone’s grounded up her skull from the inside. She does manage to get up on her feet this time, even if it does take a moment. She looks down at her stained clothes and grimaces. She should probably go find a river or something to wash herself off a bit. She’s just about to start walking when she spots the bottle lying a few feet away.

There’s still liquor inside.

So Willam picks it up and takes a swig. As she starts walking, a small breeze causes the leaves above her to rustle gently.

The trees are laughing at her.

[amnachil]

The College Society Chapter 3 Part 4

Right on time ? Idk anymore

Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey Thursday January 31

It smelled really appetizing. He had almost finished this pie, and he already knew it was a fuckin' success. I think I did my best pie ever. I'm so fuckin' good. The thought of Liam eating it made him both horny and blush timidly in the same time. Damnit. Why it's like this ? Normally, he would just have a boner when he was thinking about his prey. But with Liam... Sometimes, he didn't feel aroused but the dull need to be with him. The need to be with him, it's must be a joke. My bloody body is mocking me.

"What are you doing here ?" asked his great father, surprised. "It's uncommon to see at this hour."

"I'm baking." he answered.

"For what special occasion ? I thought you disliked to cook in the afternoon and especially for nothing."

Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey blushed again. Damn brain, damn body. Both traitors. He lowered his head to hide this shameful red on his cheeks.

"I wanted to. Don't worry, I'll find someone who'll eat it."

He pictured Liam's smile. Stop. Thinking. About. Liam. Since they had officially decided to be a couple, the junior was encountering this problem. Sometimes, he was his normal self, and fucked people. A secretary, a whore from an idiotic book club and some others. But sometimes, especially when he was with Liam, it was different. His mind wasn't thinking clearly. It was weird and a nuisance. But a part of me is liking it. I mean why the fuck I would like being with him ? I can't even bang him ! He watched the clock. Almost time. Liam had texted him everyday, and they decided to have a date tonight. He said he had several important things to ask. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey had respected the conditions so far. He even stopped in the middle of a coitus with Gabriel to answer a text. Gabriel for god's sake, one of the best sucker he had ever met !

"I need to go grandpa." he said.

He took his pie and left, almost running. Stop it you stupid body. Don't be so excited to see him, it's pathetic. Pitiful.

Despite how much he tried to calm down, he felt totally enthousiastic when he joined Liam. They agreed to make a walk at the park. I fucked in every corner of this damned park. Every bench, every child's playground... But tonight, he didn't expect to have sex. Worst, he didn't want to. He was just happy to share a moment with the baboon. That's not normal.

"You bought a pie." noted Liam. "It smell nice."

"Don't touch it yet you foodie." he ordered. "Only after we did the stroll."

What the hell I'm saying ? He took his boyfriend hand and started to walk. For a moment, they stayed quiet. Liam started to look at the sky full of stars. Dreamin' again. So pitiable. Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey thought that, but in the same time he couldn't held but stare at the freshman's face. He looks so peaceful. He's so cute. Hell. Stop thinking.

"So... Maybe we should say some stuff to each other." suggested suddenly Liam.

"Like what ?"

"Uhm... Things to get to know each other ? My birthday is on May 18th, I'll be 19 years old. I'm 183 cm (6'0") and weight 76 kg (168 lbs). Well, I think it'll increase if you continue to feed me. I have two siblings, one sister Chloe and one brother Luka. Both younger than me. Otherwise I don't really want to talk about my family... Your turn."

That's... Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey remainded silent for a bit. A part of him wanted to ran away. So much frivolity, so much ingenuousness. It make him want to puke. But it's so adorable.

"My birthday is on July 1st, I'll be 21 years old." he said against his own will. "I do have one older sister Naomi Alexandra, already married and with a baby. I don't want to talk about my folks. I'm 178 cm (5'10") and I... Am I supposed to give all these data ? It's weird."

"Sorry." laughed Liam. "It worked like this in my old highschool. They were always checking our height and weight."

This. Laugh. It made the blond lad blush like a kid. He was sweating with stress. It's not supposed to happen. I'm a hunter. A fucking hunter.

"Your text said you wanted to ask something." he recalled in hope to change the subject. "What was it ?"

"Yeah, I have many question in fact." confessed Liam. "But we can talk about most later. For now, I have one priority. I think Theo will ate my roommate Nick. Do you think there is a way to prevent this ?"

He asked so genuinely. He just spoke about canibalism. He's insane. So why I'm melting for it ? Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey was definitely going through someting weird.

"I'll see what I can do." he promised.

They sat on a bench. They were only a few people around. It was a bit cold, and for a dreadful moment, the Dean's grandson wished to put his head on Liam's shoulder and embrace him softly. Thanks god, this urge disappeared as fast as it came. Slowly, he took a slice of pie and gave it to his boyfriend. This one ate it happily.

"Damn, you outdid yourself Dami." he congratulated. "I thought you couldn't be better, I was wrong. How long was the preparation ?"

Four fuckin' hours. I skipped one class and two sex meeting do bake this. Fuck you.

"Not that much." Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey just lied. "I hope you'll eat the whole thing."

"Of course I'll. I told you, all your pastries are mine. I want them."

He didn't know why, but the blond lad really felt pleased when he heard those words.

Liam Saturday February 2

Theo's family lived in a impressive penthouse in town. When Liam arrived, he felt poor. Well in truth, his father was a millionaire, but he didn't count that. (It probably was dirty money anyway).

"Let's meet my dad." smiled Theo. "You'll see, he's nice."

There were two things wrong about the whole situation. First, Liam was about to go in the ogre's den. Not good at all. (But Liam the 8yo always dreamed about adventure so... It was time to be brave). Second, when he had texted Dami about this, his boyfriend replied, word for word :

< Dami : Fuckrnthisnjtassholenvirdonhq'tnigo. >

(It probably was a code). (For what Liam understood, it meant something like "be prudent, I miss you"). (Maybe Dami was having some... business while he answered, but it was better to think it was a code) (And to be honest, Dami was always sending weird text).

"Dad, this is Liam Strucker. Well, you already know him."

The freshman went back to reality when he faced his father's lawyer, Mr. Meyers. He was a creepy old man, maybe as brawny as his son's. Another ogre... Damnit.

"Nice to you meet you again young man." he said with his deep, serious voice. "Theo told me you wanna intercede for your mother Rachel ?"

"Yeah..."

Liam didn't really come with a plan. He didn't know why he agreed for this in the first place.  Be alone with two ogres wasn't good at all. (Don't worry, he had put his magical shoes. If needed, he could fly thanks to unicorn's power). (Maybe, at this point, some people would think Liam was completely insane and under influence. To those people, no he wasn't. His imagination just got the best of him).

"Isaac wants an alimony of at least 2000$ per month." explained Mr. Meyers.

"It's more than my mother salary !" rebelled Liam. "How could he be so greedy after everything he already won ?!"

"I'm not asking him as long as I get paid."

"Dad, be nice." interrupted Theo. "And you Liam, stay cool. I'm sure we can find a kind of... agreement, can't we ?"

The freshman nodded. His phone was constantly ringing in his pocket. The vibrations were kinda... titillating.

"Can you put in a good word for me to my father ?" he asked. "I'm ready do to anything you want to in exchange."

"Okay. Just... stay for diner."

"But I'm supposed to work..."

"Do you want me to help your mother or not ?"

Of course he wanted.

Liam took the time to call Judy, and said he couldn't make it tonight. She agreed, as long as it was the first and only time. Then, he called Dami back, since this one had made 24 calls in less than two  hours. (Dami wasn't a text guy, his messages were always in code and filled with spelling mistake, which made them incomprehensible for the most part).

"At least you're answering you baboon !" his boyfriend shouted. "I thought Theo had devoured you !"

Then, he whispered :

"I didn't intend to say that. Fuck myself."

"I'm fine." reassured Liam. "In fact, Theo and his father invited me to diner."

"And you said yes ?! But what if you're in danger or.... I mean, ain't ya supposed to be workin' ?"

The freshman smiled. Sometimes, Dami was weird, in a cute way.

"I called Judy and she said it's fine. Don't worry too much, you know I can take care of myself."

He distinctly heard his boyfriend swear and promise he would call Judy to talk some sense into her head.

"I think they're waiting me." said Liam. "Dami, trust me it'll be fine. Don't take it out on some random guy okay ?"

"Grmbl, fine. See you tomorow at noon."

The diner happened to be fine. They were a bit generous with the portions, as he could've expected from ogres. (He tried his best to not overindulge but... Damn he had became a food-lover again). (Dami had reawaken his sweet tooth and his gluttony). Then, they shared a glass of wine. Liam wasn't into wine or any alcohol, but Mr. Meyers insisted. Afterwards, Theo brought him home. During the trip however, the chestnut lad started to feel sick. He was a bit nauseous. His eyes were closing against his will. (And it wasn't fatigue, he was an sleep expert, he knew when it wasn't). Being more and more uncomfortable, Liam put an hand on his slightly distended belly, and another on his forehead.

"Everything's fine ?" asked Theo.

"I don't know. I don't feel well."

He was losing consciousness, he knew this. The ogre trapped me. He'll eat me. He tried to activate his flying shoes, but failed. He noticed they were idle. Please, let me.

"I'm sorry Liam." whispered Theo. "I don't like it this way, but hell, I'm just losin' so hard. It's not only money, it's also my reputation which is at stake. And I don't have any other option. Seduce you is impossible, you're just too weird. I'm sure he failed too. And I'm not waiting that he drugs you first. Don't worry, it won't be long nor painful..."

Liam found enough strenght to get out the car. He wanted to run, but fell onto the sidewalk. He heard a feminine voice.

"Hey guys. Is he alright ?" she asked, seemingly worried.

"I think he drank too much." said Theo. "He just started to feel ill."

"Let me see. Shall we call 911 ?"

"It's not necessary. I should bring him back home."

"I will come with you, to be sure he's fine. I got a nurse diploma."

Liam was maybe dreamin'. The voice went silent for a while.

"Okay." eventually ceded Theo. "Help me put him here..."

"Deborah. I'm Deborah."

Barbara Saturday February 2 (at the same time as Liam's chapter)

This morning, when she eventually got ready, she headed towards the Dean's quarter. She had a special mission in order to please the hunters. Make the king fall. It was a bit thrilling honestly. She met Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey when he left the building.

"Hi." she greeted with her brightest smile. "Can I talk to you ?"

He looked at his phone angrily.

"Fast. I'm in a hurry."

Maybe someone already warned him about Theo's plan. I need to be prudent and smart on this one.

"I was wondering, could you attend to the general assembly of the student union ? I know you don't like these stuffs usually but... I think you should be there for once. As the president of the cooking club of course."

He looked at her, not convinced.

"Summer's summarizing this bullshit for me. Not that I care. For real, a bunch of dummies fighthing for money, it's like watch some rabbits fight for a carrot. Funny, but nothing more."

Of course, you greatfather gives you all the funds you need anyway. This man really was arrogant. Barbara already knew Summer was devoted to him. In fact, she counted on this.

"I can't agree more but this time, I don't think Summer will defend your interest. She might even give some support to Theo and the swim club."

"And why that ?"

He was losing patience. He's used to get eveything instantly. Finally, he's really different from Raphaël. But as powerful... For now.

"You ditched her for me. And you're losing your bet. C'mon, the best hunter is gonna let them do the general assembly without him ? Summer can convince them all you're out of the running."

"I'm not losing. You know what ? I'll come and watch for a bit." he grumbled. "Oh and... I really want to fuck you, but I think you are too tiny to handle the thing, if you know what I mean."

She let him speak. You're so full of yourself. But this evening, you'll lose absolutely everything.

The general assembly happened to be boring, since she wasn't the president yet. Javier and Summer were doing all the work. Mostly Summer. They listened representatives from each clubs. Barbara noticed Steve, from the music band. She had tried to speak with him on tuesday, but as the other, he liked the stupid head of the student. There were some others hunters among the crowd, but she didn't know most of them. The swim club was represented by a petite girl and a cocky sophomore. The running team by this black girl and her captain, a blonde one. Many other groups tried to catch the lower dollar Summer was givin'. Of course, the football captain Oliver got the biggest budget. Barbara looked towards Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey. He was watching his cellphone, but keeping a calm and neutral expression. He's good, I can say. But I think he's worried. He knows somethin's happening.

They made a break after two hours. They hadn't made any progress. There were still a lot of clubs unhappy and complaining. But it was clear Summer was managing the meeting well.

"Hey Barbara. Long time no see."

The blonde turned towards Leila. What on earth is she doing here ? In front of people, they had always looked friends. Back in 12th grade, where Colton was the king of their pitiful highschool, they both stayed close to him. They used his power. We were at war. Two queens. But in college, it was different. Colton was nothing more than an useless handsome guy. In fact, he never had the guts to be a real king. At start, Barbara had hoped he would make an effort. But she had understood she needed to work for herself. Alone. Leila've been hating her since the beginning.

"What are you doing here ?" she asked. "This is an important meeting."

"Yeah, a general assembly. All students are allowed to be here." Leila replied. "And I'm the secretary of the Women-defense club, remember ?"

"This useless association who's supposedly defending women rights ? I didn't even know you've a budget."

"Well we're not defending only women nowadays, but everyone who needs protection. And you've always been a real cocky bitch." insulted Leila. "I knew you had dated Colton only to take advantage of his popularity. And now ? He came to this college for you, you know this. He could've been in a way better university. And you want to make him meet some random girl ? Don't try to justify yourself. Just keep in mind I'll make you pay, one way or another."

"Sorry, miss secretary of I don't know what, but you don't scare me at all. Now I have some duties. See you later."

The end of the general assembly came. Summer had done quite a good job. But I can do better, for sure. Barbara glimpsed Damian Nicholas Smith-Carrey calling someone. She came closer, but stayed quiet when he groused :

"I'm not asking Debbie. Just go. I know this asshole is up to something bad. I have a gut feeling."

His interlocutor replied during a moment, but he cut off :

"Just go ! You're supposed to protect people aren't you ?! You'll recieve the location."

Then he hung up. I guess he has a lot more ressources than I expected. I think Theo might lose after all...

To be continued

A little part where two awkward and socially inept guys try to interact with eachother. Seriously, Damian and Liam are weirdos. But they’ve a point of agreement : this pie is delicious.

Barbara plays with fire, but she likes it.

[cottonpadenthusiast]

Stolen Kisses

Since it’s International Kissing Day, I decided to take a break from Love Can Tell A Million Stories, and write a bit of wolfstar. I hope everyone’s day was full of kisses or, if you’re a loner like me, some hugs. This is dedicated to @thedecenturlsaretaken for being the most amazing person ever and swimming in my self-loathing with me. Thank you xx

Remus sighed, squishing himself deeper into the chair by the fire, his book pulled close to his face. He was not having a good day. Actually, today was one of the worst days of his life. And he had excruciatingly painful transformations into a werewolf every month so that was saying something. The reason today was so awful was that it was International Kissing Day, which didn’t seem to be too harmful itself and was actually a nice day for showing love and affection. However, what made this day so horrendous was Sirius. In particular, Sirius going around the Gryffindor common room kissing everyone in sight. Sirius who Remus may or may not be completely in love with. So yes, he was not having a good day.

Remus watched as Sirius pranced from person to person, asking for a kiss. Sometimes it was just a light peck on the cheek, other times it was a full on snog, resulting in a chorus of cheers from the rest of the common room. Sirius latest victim was Olivia Doherty, a pretty fifth year, and as Sirius cupped her cheeks and slammed his lips against hers, Remus snapped his eyes away before glaring at the page in front of him. Jealousy, annoyance and hurt settled in his stomach, but he knew he had no right to feel these things. Sirius wasn’t his and never would be and the quicker Remus accepted this, the easier it would be for them both.

Remus tried to concentrate on the words in front of him but they were meaningless. He even had to read the same sentence five times before he was able to understand it. God, what was wrong with him? Just as he slammed the book on his knee, deciding to stop reading that bloody book and its stupid incomprehensible sentences, Sirius came bounding over, a smile plastered on his face. At least someone is having a good day, Remus thought, wariness filling him as Sirius leaned against the couch James and Peter were sitting on.

“Right, lads. Who wants a kiss first? Prongs, I know you’ve been staring at my lips all day so I’ll put you out of your misery.”

James grinned, fanning his face dramatically. “Oh, Sirius. I thought you wouldn’t notice. How embarrassing,” James replied, his voice airy and higher than usual.

Sirius laughed, long black lock falling into his grey eyes, before grabbing James’ face and pressing their lips together. The kiss was fleeting, lasting only a few seconds, but Remus’ heart still twisted in hurt. He knew the kiss was platonic, James and Sirius’ love for each other was strong but nothing more than friendship, yet it didn’t stop Remus having to cast his eyes down, staring at the crackling fire, watching as little orange sparks flew into the air before disappearing into the air.

James and Sirius pulled away, both laughing like idiots before Sirius turned to Peter. At first, Peter refused to even touch Sirius, but eventually relented, allowing Sirius to plant a quick kiss on his cheek. Then came Lily, who was seated across from Remus. She just smiled before pressing her lips to Sirius' head lightly and ruffling his hair, before laughing at James, whose face was red with jealousy.

Remus was laughing at this when he realised that it was his turn to be kissed. Oh, fuck. His stomach twisted with apprehension, as Sirius turned slowly to face him. He didn’t know what to do. As much as he wanted to kiss Sirius, he didn’t want it to be meaningless. He wanted it to be important, not just a passing kiss that Sirius only did because he felt he had to. However, this would probably be the only chance he ever got to kiss Sirius, the only time he would ever feel wanted by him. But what if Sirius kissed him and realised Remus’ feelings for him? What if he kept kissing Remus, unable to hide his deep, hidden love for the werewolf? Remus almost laughed at the absurdity of this last thought. 

Remus, however, didn’t need to worry about any of these things as Sirius just smiled at him, eyes full of something like regret, before stalking off, searching for the next person to snog. Remus felt like he had been punched in the gut. Sirius hadn’t even asked to kiss Remus, never mind actually wanting to kiss him. He should have known. He should have known that hope was only for the weak. He should have known that hope was something that Remus Lupin would never, could never have. Remus was a monster and no amount of friends or love could ever change that. 

Remus got up, ignoring the concerned glances of his friends, and scurried up the stairs and into his dorm. He collapsed onto his bed, sinking into the soft mattress and feeling his tears begin to soak the burgundy blanket. His felt sick with the hurt and pain, but soon anger began to rise through him. Anger at Sirius for not even explaining why he didn’t want to kiss Remus. Anger at his heart for falling for Sirius. And anger at himself for believing Sirius would want to kiss him in the first place.

Remus jerked up when the door to the dormitory banged wide, footsteps drawing near. He quickly wiped at his tears and stood, expecting James to be there, complaining about Lily, but instead, Sirius was standing in front of him, head bowed and looking nervous.

“Hey, Moony.”

“Hello Sirius,” Remus replied, shaking off the shock.

Sirius finally looked up, searching Remus’ face. “Have you... have you been crying?” He asked. He extended his hand to touch Remus’ face, but thought better of it and quickly pulled away.

Remus felt his cheeks flare red. “It’s fine. I’m fine.” He brushed past Sirius, darting straight for the bathroom when Sirius grabbed his hand, pulling him back.

“Rem... I’m sorry. I didn’t-“

Remus stopped him. “Sirius, it’s fine. I understand.” Remus swallowed, looking down. “I’m a werewolf and nobody in their right mind would want to kiss me. Hell, I wouldn’t even want to kiss me. Don’t blame yourself. It’s my fault. I’m the one who should have just told you no before you even asked so you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

Remus felt tears prick at his eyes, but he blinked them away, still staring at the carpet.

“Remus, that’s not why I didn’t kiss you,” Sirius said softly.

Remus snapped his head up, anger flooding through him. “Then why?” He snapped. “There’s no point pretending Sirius. I am disgusting. I have scars all over my body. I turn into a crazy, bloodthirsty monster every month and you can’t tell me that’s not the reason you can’t even touch my these days. You’ve hardly spoken to me in weeks. Every time I come near you, you suddenly have something to do or someplace to be. And just because I’m a monster, doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed. Just because I’m a monster, doesn’t mean it never hurts. Because it does.” Remus was yelling now, the tears rolling freely down in his cheeks. He knew, deep down, that Sirius would never speak to him again after this, but he didn’t care anymore. He had already lost him. “Just tell me you hate me. Please. Because it’s better than the silence, Sirius. Anything is better than the silence.”

Remus was panting, all his energy and fight and anger gone. The only thing left was emptiness and heartache. He dragged himself to the edge of his bed and sat down, not daring to meet the hostile gaze of the dark-haired man. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his jumper, his throat raw from shouting, when he felt the bed dip beside him. A strong hand took his frail ones, while the other hand stroked Remus’ cheek. Remus looked up to meet Sirius’ gentle gaze.

“I don’t hate you Remus, and I never will. The reason I didn’t kiss was not because I think you’re some monster, Remus. It’s because I like you. A lot. I’ve been ignoring you because I was so afraid of you finding out and hating me. I’m sorry, Rem. And by the way, I don’t think you’re disgusting. I think you are the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen, and I see myself in the mirror every day.”

Remus smiled but his mind was whirring, still trying to understand everything Sirius had said. He likes me. A lot. Am I dreaming? Remus searched Sirius’ face, trying to find the lie or joke hidden beneath it, but all that he was met with was love. However, Sirius smile began to drop when Remus hadn’t replied, apprehension sneaking into the defined features.

Remus shook himself from his thoughts. “Well, I suppose I like you a lot too. And I forgive you. Also please can you erase that big meltdown I just had from your mind forever? That was not one of my best moments.”

Sirius grinned, nudging his shoulder against Remus’. “I think I’ll keep that one in their for the next time you say I’m being overdramatic.” Sirius’ face turned solemn, his eyes glancing down to Remus’ lips. “It’s still International Kissing Day, you know. And unfortunately, I still haven’t kissed the only person I wanted to. Do you think you would be able to help me with that?”

“I think I can,” Remus whispered. Remus stared, as Sirius’ lips inched closer and closer to his own. His heart began beating frantically but Sirius’ grip on his hands steadied him, as their lips met and Remus’ heart soared.

Sirius guided Remus’ hands to his hips, before running his own through Remus’ tawny curls. Sirius' lips were soft, the kiss sweet and gentle, full of uncertainty and want all at the same time. When the two became more desperate, mouths opening and tongues searching, Remus wondered what he had done to deserve this. What had he done to deserve this happiness with Sirius? Remus pulled Sirius closer wanting, needing more. Both hearts were erratic, yet the boy who never had a home and the boy who was isolated from his own had never felt safer than in each other’s arms. 

And as Sirius pulled Remus onto his lap, smiling through the kisses he planted on Remus’ lips, Remus received each one eagerly. It was A Day of Kissing after all.

[moremikaplease]

I don’t know how to start this, but I met Mika tonight

ok so literally just got home and this is a very fresh memory (it happened like 40 minutes ago) so I want to write it all down before I forget anything... this is going to be a long post though 

So I went to a concert with my parents here in London and they were having some technical difficulties so everything was running late. We were starting to get a bit irritated as the concert was 1 hour late at this point AND THEN MY MUM POKES ME AND SAYS “hey that guy looks just like Mika” to which i immediately reply “THAT IS MIKA!” He was with a group of friends by the way and as they were walking to their seats quite a few rows down from us my mum was being really embarrassing and taking photos of him.... So at this point I decide that I need to take a chance and just go for it after the concert is finished and I need to get a photo with him. Might I add that ever since I’ve moved to London I’ve been entertaining the idea of how lucky and strange it would be if I just so happened to bump into Mika. Lo and behold that actually happened tonight! 

Throughout the hour and half concert (which was really good by the way and I think Mika enjoyed it as well because he was bopping his head to the songs) I rehearsed what I would say and how I would approach him about a thousand times. I obviously didn’t want to disturb his night but I have also never before had the opportunity to meet him so I had to go for it. It was the longest hour and half of my life. After the end of the concert I got up to make my way towards the exit where he would leave and of course they left early before everyone else started filing out so I was kind of running after his entourage trying to catch them and probably pissing a lot of people off in the audience. 

THIS IS HOW IT ACTUALLY WENT DOWN - I managed to catch them on the stairs and he was looking back up the staircase towards his friends because they were talking so I just smiled at him and waved a bit and then the following dialogue: (What I said will be in Italics and Mika’s in bold) 

- Hi I’m sorry I don’t want to disturb you but could you please take a photo with me 

- Sure no problem, let’s find better lighting (AND THEN HE PROCEEDS TO PUT HIS HAND ON MY BACK AND GUIDE ME TO A BETTER SPOT (I had a mini anxiety attack there) so then his friend offers to take a photo of us. 

-Thank you so much, this is the first time I’ve had the opportunity to meet you even though I’ve been to a lot of your concerts and I’m so happy that I finally had the chance. I know you must get this a lot but I’m a really big fan of yours (and then I said other incomprehensible things which all boiled down to excited screaming basically)

- (in response to how many people must come up to him everyday) No I don’t get many people and then he fucking GIGGLED LIKE!!!!!!!! WHAT !!!!!!! 

After this he asked me my name and where I’m from etc. He also repeated my name back and then I told him that I moved to London recently and that I study History of Art

-Oh cool, where are you studying 

-[Name of the uni which is quite well known for it’s Art History department]

-Amazing, a lot of my good friends studied there

- Yeah I love it too! Thank you again for taking a photo with me I hope to see you in concert soon

- Yeah I should be doing one next year (I assume he meant a concert in London specifically but also concerts in general?) 

- I will definitely be there you can count on that

- Well enjoy your time at xyz university and it was nice to meet you!

and then he gave me a hug and we were walking away from each other but I also said thank you again and wished him a nice Christmas break to which he smiled and said thank you to me................. lads, I don’t know how I’m able to keep my cool writing this. First of all, we all know how nice he is but he genuinely is incredibly lovely. He must have been really tired but he took the time not only for a photo but then ask me who I am and what I do and having a little chat which he initiated! I’m floored... also he smells really good kind of spicy and sweet, I’m sure it was amber or cinnamon

So there you have it... I’ve been a fan of Mika since 2013, so it took 4 years to meet him but I did it! So if anyone is feeling sad that they haven’t had the opportunity yet DON’T GIVE UP! I promise you that you’ll get there and maybe in an unexpected way like I did! 

Also here’s the photo because I’m way too happy to not share it:

[quasithinking]

Gravity’s Rainbow: Part VII

I'll admit: I thought about not doing these anymore. I guess my attention span for writing about books I'm reading runs to six commentaries before I can't be bothered. But then I reread the previous parts and thought, "Why am I keeping from the world my superior perspective on this novel, infused with healthy dollops of confusion and mentions of re-reading entire sections three or four times (seven or eight if there's sex in them)?" And then my brain was all, "That's the narcissist I and five people on the Internet know and love! Keep at it, champion!" My brain calls me champion because otherwise I'd spend a lot more time ignoring it than I already do. I mean, if I'm not going to listen to it warn me about computer viruses when I'm searching for Poison Ivy/Killer Croc cosplay porn the first five hundred times, why does it think I'll listen to it the next five hundred? But it keeps on trying! And how smart can it be anyway? Whose computer is almost entirely free of viruses?! That's right! The local Portland library's, that's whose! The first sentence of this section describes Roger Mexico in a way that probably also describes me, "hunched Dracula-style inside his Burberry." By making that statement, I've now admitted to owning a Burberry coat. But I don't want you to get the idea that I know anything about fashion! I simply bought it for $20 from a used clothing store for a Philip K. Dick costume for a San Francisco themed New Year's Eve party. My entire thought process when purchasing it was this: "This will make me look like a mentally ill homeless person which is almost certainly what Philip K. Dick looked like on his better days!" Only later did I learn it was a fancy lad's coat when people would say things to me like, "Oh! I love your Burberry!" And I'd respond, "I don't have any blueberries." I understand Pynchon's method of writing in a way in which I mean I don't actually understand a lot of it but I understand why he's writing it that way. I get it. He's entertaining himself in a lot of ways. He's saying things in ways he thinks are hilarious or poetic or interesting and couldn't give any number of fucks whether or not the reader understands it in the way he does. What I don't understand is how he found an audience doing this?! Seriously. Can somebody explain it to me so that I can get an audience as well? I suppose the difference is that Pynchon is incomprehensible in a way that makes you think, "He's way smarter than I am! If I carry this book around, people will think I'm that smart!" But I'm incomprehensible in a way that makes you think, "This guy is an idiot who admitted to wanting to suck Lobo's dick even though he couldn't quite tell if Lobo was super cool or reminded him of a clown and maybe it's because of both of those?! Also Grunion Guy doesn't have any books to carry around which is perfect because who would want to be seen with one? I'd rather be caught with an oversized coffee table book collecting the nastiest spreads from Oui magazine!" Is that Oui coffee table book a thing you can be caught with because I'd like to order it on Amazon, please. At one point in this section, Roger Mexico calls Jessica's boyfriend Beaver "Nutria." It's hilarious jokes like that which make me think, "How the fuck did I not realize this book was absolutely hilarious?!" You can read that previous paragraph as completely earnest or totally sarcastic. I don't fucking give a shit. This section tells the story of how Jessica and Roger met. Pynchon describes it as "what Hollywood likes to call a 'cute meet.'" Having only heard that phrase late in my life, I would have sworn it was a modern, 21st Century Internet term. I suppose I can still be surprised by some things! Some times you think life just can't offer up any more new things; usually that happens after your first sexual experience where your butthole is involved. Christ, how terribly disappointing does my life sound when I describe learning that "cute meet" is an older expression as one of life's great surprises? This is the section that describes Roger Mexico's discomfort working statistics for the Psi groups. He is searching for evidence of something outside the realm of the living via science and data. It seems a dismal hope for somebody without any psychic powers at all, working amid people who can seemingly do magic with their minds. Sure, he also works with Pointsman whose only super power is making dogs produce inordinate amounts of drool. So he's not totally alone in his inability to transcend reality. Although he's definitely not as passionate about his number crunching as Pointsman is about his stimuli. Roger reminisces about his cute meet with Jessica as he and Jessica head into London to meet with Pointsman. As they're traveling through the streets, they pass by a recently rocketed neighborhood which gives us my favorite passage from this section: "Once Roger and Jessica might have stopped. But they're both alumni of the Battle of Britain, both have been drafted into the early black mornings and the crying for mercy, the dumb inertia of cobbles and beams, the profound shortage of mercy in those days. . . . By the time one has pulled one's nth victim or part of a victim free of one's nth pile of rubble, he told her once, angry, weary, it has ceased to be that personal . . . the value of n may be different for each of us, but I'm sorry: sooner or later . . ." Maybe that's not as good as the simple final two sentences of this section ("They are in love. Fuck the war.") but it's a nice description of the emotional attrition that violence and war and the constant threat of death will take on a person's psyche. It feels like the same kind of thing we're going through in America right now, minus the threat of instant death by V-2 with the incoming sound following. This was a really nice section because it wasn't confusing and it was short. A short section in a Pynchon novel goes a long way. There's nothing more terrible than getting confused on the third page of a twenty page section and continuing on thinking, "I'll probably get a handle on what's going on any paragraph now!" Then you're twenty pages through it and you realize you're just going to have to give it another go. But this section could have gone on for twenty pages because it was straightforward! I think I understood it all! Roger Mexico is in love with a woman who could leave him at any moment because she's in a relationship with another man but his time with her is so magical and special that he's convinced himself that she feels the same way and he's ready to abandon everything to live a quiet domestic life with her in some hidden bombed out section of the city. He even has chickens in the bombed out garage! It won't be for another section or so that we get inside Jessica's head to discover that she maybe isn't as all in on Roger as he is on her. Ha ha! No wait! I take back that ha ha. It was cruel and cynical! But Roger maybe deserves me mocking him because he's really sort of put Jessica on a pedestal and might be more in love with the initial feelings of love and intimacy and the normality that the whole process of early courtship brings to his life after six years of war.

[the-wig-is-a-metaphor]

Stab Right Through

by Yuudan

Harry Potter/Tom Riddle

Time Travel

Angst

Harry's Life Sucks

Time Travel Fix-It

Thinly Veiled Antagonism

Set In Harry's Sixth Year

Unspeakables

Summary:

Getting lost in old memories is a dangerous thing for anyone, but in Harry’s case the whole situation is slightly more literal, and - as it always tends to be - much, much worse.

Chapter 1: Arrival

“Merlin’s beard, Tom!” yelped memory-Slughorn. “Seven! Isn’t it bad enough to think of killing one person? And in any case . . . bad enough to divide the soul . . . but to rip it into seven pieces . . .”

Slughorn looked at the young Riddle with a disturbed expression, perhaps starting to realize his true nature for the first time. Harry tried to meet Dumbledore's eyes, wondering what the old man thought of this, but the Headmaster appeared entirely focused on the memory playing out in front of them, seemingly refraining from blinking lest he missed something of importance.

If he was getting this right, didn't it mean Voldemort had split his soul seven times? Even contemplating it made him sick to his stomach . . .

And even leaving aside the unnatural act of ripping one's soul apart multiple times, this probably meant there were seven pieces of Voldemort's soul to somehow get rid of before he could even contemplate killing the man – or whatever he had become.

“This is all hypothetical, what we’re discussing, isn’t it? All academic,” Slughorn was saying, though Harry could tell he was regretting the conversation very much. After reassuring the Potions Professor, memory-Riddle left, but not before Harry had glimpsed his face – it looked feral.

“Thank you, Harry,” said Dumbledore quietly. “Let us go back now . . . ”

Harry was all for the idea, really – they had a lot to discuss after this particular revelation, and Dumbledore must have some more information to add – but the universe didn't seem to agree. Instead of soaring weightlessly, or being automatically ejected like every other time, the opposite seemed to be happening – it felt like he was being dragged down by force, like someone had grabbed his legs and was refusing to let go. He looked down at once, and saw Slughorn's carpet, on which he'd been standing, had started to swirl and collapse around his feet, forming a vortex he was already knee-deep in.

"Profesor!" he shouted at the disappearing figure, "Professor –"

Dumbledore noticed his plight, and alarmedly tried to grab a hold of his outstretched arm, even while being in the process of being expelled by the memory.

"Harry, don't let go of my hand!" the Professor said urgently, gripping his own sweaty hand with his good arm, "Focus on your mind, and try to – "

But he never found out what he had to try, because Dumbledore was violently blown away like a leaf in the wind, and disappeared in the distance, presumably out of the pensieve.

Meanwhile, the scene around him – Slughorn alone in his office, eating candied pineapples with a perturbed expression – dissolved like the rain had washed it away, replaced by a thick white mist that didn't let Harry see anything further than his nose.

He tried yelling for help, and tried focusing on his mind – whatever that meant – but with every pasing moment he was getting dragged deeper. Before he knew it, he was submerged to his waist, and thought he glimpsed an endless expanse of sand through the mist . . .

He heard Dumbledore yell "Harry!" from somewhere far, far away before the world turned black and he had the dinstinct feeling of falling down from a great height.

And then he did fall, with the sickening crack of broken bones, on what felt like metal spikes.

He made a squeaky sound like a dying seal, but in his defense his back hurt really badly and he couldn't feel his left arm.

"Why, hello there," a calm, if slightly confused voice intoned from beside him, "And who might you be?"

Harry jumped, or at least tried. Big mistake. He almost screamed with the pain.

But that voice . . . he cautiously turned his head to the side and realized a number of things simultaneously. For one, it wasn't spikes he'd fallen on, but Dumbledore's desk, which was more or less the same thing given the many metallic and pointy instruments that populated his worktable. Secondly, that was indeed Dumbledore who was staring at him perplexedly, but not any Dumbledore. Oh no. It was an auburn-haired Dumbledore, with marginally less lines on his face and an even bolder – if possible – taste in fashion. His arms were also both perfectly fine. In fact, he resembled very much the one he'd seen in the other memories he'd been shown. The one from fifty years ago.

Harry opened his mouth, to answer the question or to splutter he didn't know.

What came out was a feeble, "Merlin's saggy ballsack," before he passed right out.

"Are you awake, lad?" a brisk female voice asked as soon as Harry opened his eyes. He didn't need to ask where he was, the white ceiling all too familiar after years of waking up to it. He was in the infirmary. That was nice. It meant it had all been a bizarre dream – Voldemort hadn't created seven horcruxes after all and he hadn't been sucked into a memory vortex-thing, and –

And that wasn't Madame Pomphrey. And Dumbledore, who was standing next to his bed, was still red-headed and perplexed.

Blast.

"Am I?" he answered wryly, "No, I don't think I am,"

The unknown nurse – blonde, with an unfortunate nose – started to fuss around his head with her wand, muttering to herself.

"I fixed his back, but his arm needs rest and a bone-mending potion every day for two weeks," she said, presumably talking to Dumbledore, "There doesn't seem to be anything wrong with his head,"

"Nothing? Are you sure?" Harry croaked, "Maybe you should check again,"

The nurse sent an unimpressed look his way, but repeated her spells and confirmed, "Your head is perfectly fine,"

Dumbledore nodded and said, "Thank you, Madame Spleen. I'd like to exchange a few words with our guest, if it's all the same to you?"

Madame Spleen nodded and left them alone in awkward silence, at least for Harry. Dumbledore seemed impervious to such pesky things as awkwardness, even as a slightly younger old man.

"Professor Dumbledore," Harry said hopefully, "I don't suppose you know who I am?"

It was unlikely by a long shot, but who knew? Maybe the headmaster had simply dyed his hair and the situation had nothing to do with him, for once.

. . . Yeah, right.

"I'm sorry, but I don't think I've ever seen you before. And I make a point of knowing the names and faces of everyone in the castle," the headmaster said pointedly, "I also make a point of checking the anti-apparition wards every month . . . would you mind explaining who you are and how you got in my office?"

"I'm Harry, and . . . I'm not sure what happened, Professor," he said honestly, trying to sit up without jostling his arm, "I was in your office, watching a memory in the pensieve, and then bam – I was sucked into this vortex thing and fell on your desk,"

Dumbledore blinked at him a few times and started to say, "In . . . my office? With me?" but then something seemed to occur to him and he asked cautiously, "If I may ask, what memory were you watching?"

"My potions professor's memory from 1943," he replied honestly. No point in lying – maybe he was still dreaming, but if he wasn't Dumbledore was sure to be the only person who could help him out of this pickle.

The professor stilled, and stared at him at length with those eerily penetreting eyes of his. Finally, as if accepting that he was telling the truth, he said quietly, "Today . . . is 1 September 1942,"

Harry's eyes widened and he repressed the knee-jerk reaction of yelling 'Lies!' and shutting his ears. But it did seem extremely unlikely . . .

Dumbledore, seemingly reading his mind, twirled his wand murmuring "Tempus," and sure enough, the numbers wobbling two-dimensionally in the air confirmed what the professor had said.

Minutes and minutes of silent, dumb-struck denial ticked by, until Dumbledore cleared his throat and assumed a very grave air.

"I can't help but notice that you seem to know me personally, Harry, and if you were watching a memory in my office, a memory that has yet to happen . . . I'd have to deduce that you travelled here from the future, however unlikely that sounds,"

Despite Madame Spleen's reassurances, Harry's head felt like someone had used it as a gong and it was still ringing.

"But sir . . . ! How's that even possible? I wasn't doing anything related to time at all – I was watching a memory, taken from Professor Slughorn's head! If anything I should have ended up in his head!"

Dumbledore, still looking remarkably calm, replied, "Magic cannot be taken lightly, Harry, especially when interacting with the mind. It is entirely possible that your Professor's memories acted as a gateway between the present and the past – or for us, the future and the present,"

Trust Dumbledore to start theorizing in three seconds flat. "A gateway?" he repeated somewhat dazedly, "But you were with me sir! Why was it only me who ended up here?"

"Such things cannot be divined without proper study, my boy. Time, mind and magic are the most enigmatic and incomprehensible things in existence, and you seem to have run afoul of all three at the same time,"

After that they fell into helpless silence, Harry trying to come to terms with it all, and Dumbledore looking like he was terribly curious about something but at the same time dreading to hear about it.

"Aren't you going to ask why we were watching Slughorn's memory of 1942 together, sir?"

Dumbledore looked guilty for a moment, then said firmly, "Such matters are best handled by the people most qualified to – I'll contact the Department of Mysteries at once, Harry, so you must refrain from revealing anything until then,"

"The Department – ? But . . . I need help," he said with a truly pathetic amount of desperation, "I need your help. I'm sure – if you just hear me out for a moment, I'm sure –"

The professor raised a hand to stop him, and said sadly, "I'm sorry, Harry,"

Harry tried not to feel crestfallen, and failed. Even knowing that this Dumbledore didn't know him, the cold rejection stung.

Dumbledore stepped away from Harry's bed and headed for the door, "Wait here, I'll firecall Unspeakable Croaker, he should be here shortly," he said, then he paused and turned around, looking more vulnerable than Harry had ever seen him, "You mustn't tell me anything, Harry. I proved it, time and again – I cannot be trusted with this kind of power,"

Then he disappeared in the corridor, and Harry gave a half-hysterical snort.

"And you think I can?!"

Waiting with nothing to do, Harry tried napping a bit, hoping to Merlin and Morgana and every deity he knew that he'd wake up and find out he'd dreamed the whole thing. And yet, when he woke from his feather-light fitful sleep, his broken arm was there to remind him that no, everything was real. He was in the past. In a past where he hadn't been born yet – hell, his parents hadn't been born yet – where nobody knew him. Where Ron and Hermione were nowhere to be seen and Dumbledore wasn't yet old and all-knowing.

After a while he tried to get up, but doing that without moving his back was sort of impossible, so he gave up. Dumbledore had said an Unspeakable would be coming. Surely, he would know how to send him back to his time – he did remember from last year's escapade to the Ministry, that the Department of Mysteries had a Time room, full of Time-turners and whatnot...

Just then, the door opened and a tall man with glasses and an odd moustache stepped in, his almost black eyes immediately finding Harry and staring unblikingly at him. Dumbledore lead the wizard to Harry's bed and said, "Harry, this is Unspeakable Croaker, he studies time, as it happens, and would be very interested to know the circumstance of your accident,"

Croaker opened a briefcase and handed him a folder, saying, "A pleasure, Harry. You understand this sort of thing doesn't happen every day, but enough that there is a procedure to follow – firstly, you must fill in that form – you may leave out things if you wish, but I must warn you that the paper is spelled to prevent untruths from being written upon it, so please refrain from lying,"

Harry didn't bother looking at the form and demanded, "You'll return me to my time, right? You have a Time room at the Department, so you must know how, right?"

Dumbledore stilled and Croaker looked at him sharply, his eyes lingering on his lightning bolt scar, and he said softly, "Now how would you know that, Harry?"

But he didn't want an answer, Harry could tell. He would have thought an Unspeakable, and one who worked with time at that, would be especially interested to know everything he could grill out of Harry, but apparently Dumbledore's friends were as wise as him.

"No, I'm afraid we haven't the means necessary to do that just yet," Croaker answered to his earlier question, "But your accident may help us get closer sooner,"

Harry lowered his eyes to the form even as a weight plunged into his stomach – he'd never go back to his time, never see Hermione and Ron again. Or Ginny...

Or well, wizards lived long lives, so he'd probably live to see them be born and grow up, but they'd never be friends like they were now – had been – never share all those adventures...

His sight became blurry and he was mortified to discover that he was, in fact, crying.

Croaker and Dumbledore tactfully refrained from commenting, and he was able to calm down and pretend nothing was wrong without incident.

He filled out the form in a matter of minutes, detailing what had happened to the best of his capabilities, hoping against hope that it would help the Unspeakables send him back. He wrote only his first name, not quite trusting the document with his full, famous name. Then he described the vortex of sand and the swirling white mists, and the sensation of falling down that had resulted in a literal fall on Dumbledore's desk. The form asked for a description of his background, which he refused to share as his background was not only distinctive and rather unique, but also something he preferred to keep to himself. The rest was normal enough – blood status, would-be date in his timeline, school he'd been attending and so on.

When he was done, Croaker skimmed it interestedly and asked clarification on some points, ("what color was the sand?", "How far did they extend?", "Was there a sun?" and so on) then stuffed the form in his briefcase and pulled out a roll of parchment marked by an official-looking seal.

"Don't worry about the form – it will appear blank to anyone outside the Department," the Unspeakable tried to reassure him, "Now this, this is a contract of sorts, also part of the procedure for time travellers. It will stop you from spilling the beans on things like politics, wars, natural disasters, economy and so on,"

After his drop of blood had been spilled where indicated, Croaker looked him in the eye and said, "The contract is not perfect, as you may have guessed, but then nothing human-made is, is it? I would still advise you not to divulge too much, as our department will be keeping an eye on you,"

Harry nodded distractedly. This seemed all pretty inconsequential before the looming knowledge that he would not be getting back to his time, would not get to kiss Ginny or avenge his godfather, or even get to see Ron and Hermione get married like everyone knew they would. Would they miss him? Would someone else fullfill the prophecy in his place?

Irritatingly, a picture of the Dursleys celebrating his disappearance popped in his head.

"The contract will keep you from revealing anything of great impact, but you'll be able to talk about innocuous tidbits normally – which I'd be careful with, by the way," Croaker stressed, "We will try to keep an eye on you, of course, but you have more than that to worry about. I don't know if it's the universe, the forces of time or magic itself, but something always happens to people who are more loose-lipped than they should. Many time-travellers suffered a horrifying fate for their carelessness,"

"Horrifying? Like what?" Harry asked, fascinated and nauseaous all at once.

Croaker leaned forward, an intense look in his eyes, "A woman who told everyone who asked about the future under the guise of being a seer, one day became inexplicably and incurably insane. They had to strap her to a bed until the end of her days. Another example is the man who published everything he knew on the newspapers looking for fame and money, and ended up paranoid and unable to get out of his house. he killed himself soon after that,"

Satisfied that Harry was suitably disturbed, Croaker cocluded, "It might just have been that living in a time not meant for them messed them up, but . . . you'd do well to be careful, anyway,"

At Harry's coscentious nod, Croaker got up and extracted a contraption that Harry recognized after a few seconds as a camera. Bloody hell, did it look old. The unspeakable muttered some spells on it, swirling his wand in small circles, and said, "Now if you would, I'd need some photographs,"

After that, throroughly documenting his appearance from all angles in what Harry suspected would become moving pictures of his puzzled blinking, Croaker left.

Dumbledore, perhaps interpreting Harry's pale face, reassured him, "He's mentioned only the blatant cases. It's actually a lot more common than you would think, for someone to be misplaced sometime else, and the great majority of them manage to live a normal life just fine. No need to worry, Harry, I'm sure you will be alright,"

"I hope so," he muttered, but he was still spooked and jittery.

After a few minutes in which Harry contemplated the complete joke that was his life and Dumbledore looked out of the window, Madame Spleen made another appearance, this time with a tray of about ten different-sized, different-coloured potions hovering about her elbow.

Harry made a face, but the routine of being in the infirmary and being fed foul-tasting potions was actually calming in its extreme familiarity – he'd been at it since first year, after all, and this almost seemed just one more of those adventures that had seemed insurmountable when he was living them but had ended up mere memories over time.

Except this time there was no clear enemy to defeat or person to save, no clear course of action that lead him to his objective, that is going back home – which had been deemed impossible by both Albus Dumbledore and the head Unspeakable . . .

But there had to be a way, and goddammit, he was going to find it if it took him decades to do it. So what if those old geezers thought it was impossible? He was Harry Potter, his very existence and survival had hinged on impossibilities since he'd been one year old.

They thought travelling back to his time was impossible, but then he bet they would say the same about surviving the killing curse.

[lunuanaki]

stupid headcanon stuff i have no one to talk to about and so will just spew all over you, sorry. for vent purposes more than anything, bc i think this is the muse i have on here that my followers give the LEAST shits about (which is fine i’m just saying don’t be disappointed that this is incomprehensible garbage to most of you) (tho you are missing out tbh) (much as i hate its misogynistic, transphobic, stereotyping fandom, I actually do love Marsh Poles as a game and wish my higher quality pals here would give it a go, if not for me, for the memes)

So in the first Snark Moles game, there’s a couple of references to an “occult war” between the humans and the Lords that Velka joined in on the wrong side of, and it has to be my very least favourite thing in the entire Shark Holes series because it’s honestly maybe a total of three lines in two item descriptions and the fandom have taken one person’s guess (fuck you, Popular Youtuber) and like to shove it down everyone’s throats like the entire premise of Harsh Foals isn’t that you’re not supposed to know the lore for definite

[inhales]

 but like a lot of things, J made it palatable by making it believable for me and now I actually find I occasionally enjoy thinking about it. What I mean by that is, I hate myself.

The popular theory states that Velka was a Villain All Along and tried to kill god Because She’s An Evil Woman** and it’s all linked to this bullshit world within a painting and it flies directly in the face of what we know about her as a character and cancels out the very little lore she’s provided with and it’s such a reach I’m surprised the entire fandom can keep playing at all for the arm ache. 

Anyway, J’s version makes subtle alterations that turn it into less of a disappointing, childish fight for superficial power and more of a revolt based in morals and covenant loyalty and politics and I just thoroughly enjoy it, so thank you, J, for that.

Some things I would like to say some words about on the subject:

Velka told Ornstein her end goal, but no one else. Should Team Crowmother win, she will not take Gwyn’s throne. Gwyndolin will. But no one else is to know about this; so she’s reviled as a power hungry traitor, and allows it. 

Ornstein needs to know, partly so he can keep Gwyndolin from trying to join in; but he’ll do that anyway, and it’s perfectly likely that he’d side with Gwyn, but it’s not as if telling Gwyn that part of her plan will do anything apart from potentially get Gwyndolin into serious trouble. So really, it’s a heads up and a “think about it, if you’re still alive when we get rid of the boss man, I’m happy to keep you”. 

Havel, her new bff, has his suspicions and doesn’t speak about Gwyndolin in the same contempt-drenched tones as he does Gwyn.

Havel adores her, actually, from a philosophical point of view (and no other) - he trusts her judgement because of it, so if she says it’s Gwyndolin, it’s Gwyndolin.

Havel is actually Way of White, but has a slightly skewed view of it compared to most of his peers. He’s like the Jeremy Corbyn of Lordran, only with a massive club made of dragon tooth and fewer social graces.

Gwyndolin also knows nothing at all about this plan, and probably hates her guts for defecting. I think about this a lot. I also think about the possibility that he’ll take it personally, flip Ornstein the bird, join the fight and kill her himself.

Why doesn’t she tell him? I can already hear enasaliin cry; because it’s espionage 101, what he doesn’t know can’t be beat out of him. It’s to protect him.

Also, he’s a terrible liar, and as long as he appears as pissed off as everyone else by it all, he’ll be completely overlooked. As usual. And not even he will know he’s the key player.

Ornstein is a good lad and will make it look realistic. He may even kill her, because, well, if that becomes a possibility, she’s already lost. And he needs to stay close to Gwyndolin and Gwynevere, no matter the outcome, who are the ones who actually need him.

If he doesn’t kill her (and now we’re wandering into recently formed thoughts, so forgive my potential abstractness of explanation here), she’s taken back to Anor Londo and put through a trial that’s all for show so Gwyn can grandly sentence her to execution. 

Much as Smough will delight in the idea, it’s sort of tough shit for him, because he’s not going to carry this one out; they’ll burn her instead.

Since there’s no in-game implication that she actually died; I like to imagine Ornstein let her out before it could be carried out and told her to get lost, and quickly. 

This could be the point where our verses divide; there’s the canon one, where Velka is gone and it’s not specified where or why (normal ending), the one where she loses and dies (bad ending), and the one we can only dream of, where she wins, Gwyndolin replaces Gwyn, Ornstein is given permission to marry Gwynevere at some point, everything is cool, a logical solution to the Flame issue is found as opposed to the Big Hero Gwyn one, it’s all good, DS2 and 3 never happened. Sighs. (best ending).

I may add to this but I won’t reblog it or anything when I do, so don’t worry, you haven’t accidentally followed a Bark Coals blog.

** get fucked with this “evil woman” trope. if you see a female character who uses a dark colour palette and doesn’t immediately want you to wife her, it doesn’t mean she’s automatically going to offer to whip you in her sex dungeon, you degenerate. 

[footballghana]

Kwame Dwomoh-Agyemang Writes: Disbursement of COVID-19 fund - My opinion

There has been mixed reviews following the release of the disbursement plan by the Ghana Football Association regarding the COVID-19 Funds.

Before I wage into this conversation, kindly find below the dictates of FIFA per the permissible use of the Funds and the disbursement plan.

PERMISSIBLE USE OF THE FUNDS

The relief plan has been established in order to alleviate distress caused by the impact of COVID-19. As such the funds made available with stage 3 of the Relief Plan should be used for relevant losses that have been incurred or expected to be incurred, as well as to address the needs that have risen or envisaged to be to arise as a result of COVID-19.

Areas in which funds provided within stage 3 can be used include, but are not limited to the following, provided they have been adversely affected by COVID-19.

The restart of competitions across all categories (where the sanitary situation and government policy permit)

The implementation of return to play protocols

The Participation of national teams in all age competitions

The maintenance of football infrastructure, and

The payment of general administration and operating costs

When there is reasonable doubt as to whether the intended use of funds is permissible, a request should be submitted in writing to FIFA in order to obtain approval.

In respect of the grants, and only where all COVID-19 related losses and needs have been addressed, any surplus finds may been invested in developmental projects. In respect of the loans, all funding drawn down is required to be directed towards COVID-19 related losses and needs.

USE OF FUNDS FOR RELIEFS OR STAKEHOLDERS WITHIN THE WIDER FOOTBALL COMMUNITY

Now where COVID-19 related losses and needs have been addressed, MA’s have the option of using the funds to mitigate needs of the wider football community, such as making payments to clubs or other stakeholders. Disbursements should ONLY be directed where the subsequent recipient has been clearly demonstrated to be in need, and the principles of transparency and non-discrimination should be applied. Where such disbursements to stakeholders within the wider football communities are made, MA’s (Mother Associations) are obliged to report these separately to their members via statutory audit and activity reports for the year in question, clearly indicating the recipients and related amounts. The approval of MA’s executive committee should be obtained and documented for such disbursements and this applies in respect of both grants and loans.

Any loans made to subsequent recipients need to be secured or collaterised accordingly. FIFA will offer guidance and assistance to these matters, including standardized forms and templates if needed.

The above reveals the permissible use of the funds and the disbursement plan. The funds are clearly stated. These funds have been made available to offset particular costs as a result of primarily, the challenges being faced by the football space, herein being the various elements, with greater emphasis on the clubs especially in our parts as the FA have consistently made it clear that expenditure on the various national teams are borne by the state. One would have thought that club football which was the hardest hit would have benefited immensely from this relief fund especially on the back of the huge expense in the running of football clubs in the country and as captured in the relief plan by the International football body with respect to the needs of the football space in Ghana.

Strikingly though, the League clubs only benefit to the tune of $880,000.00 representing less than 50% of the total funds, herein being $1,800,000.00. These are the direct stakeholders of the industry in any part of the world and to think that the local football controlling body would draw up plan for reliefs with the main stakeholders receiving less than half of the funds is incomprehensible to say the least.

We have been told in the past about how the expenses of the various national teams are borne by the state and how various governments have been lambasted for not honoring their part of the bargain with respect to the various national teams. Indeed, when the FA have incurred any costs of these teams, they are quick to send the payment vouchers to the Ministry of Youth and Sports, by extension government to be reimbursed. Now these national teams at this point are NOT

Involved in ANY ongoing competition.

Secondly when any cost is to be incurred as and when football makes a return, the cost would be borne by government

Thirdly, the government has not complained at this point that it is in such distress for the FA to absorb any future cost in catering for the various national teams.

How then is a whooping $ 332,000.00(18% of the total funds)  allocated to the various National teams and for what purpose?

Again, as we speak, there is NO local competition ongoing in this country. The FA in the last few weeks have defended strongly why the $ 500,000 from FIFA was purely for administrative and operational costs in the running of the FA’s activities. The same association following the CANCELLATION of the league have made it clear in their release concerning that cancellation, that all fines incurred by the clubs in the course of the league be paid, never mind all the records being expunged. The FA wants money for a league that has been cancelled and results expunged. That is a whole conversation for another day. The running of the football season was effected on December 29th, 2019 with a budget. The FA was even kind enough to go into their coffers to dole out some monies to the participating teams. Now with no competition ongoing, and with MTN funding the organization of the MTN FA Cup, I am at loss as to why a whooping $ 200,000.00 has been allocated for the competitions department. What craters has the department found themselves in these times of nothing to benefit from relief funds? The department if they need any form of support should be coming from the FA and all the funds accrued to them and not from relief funds to be honest.

I am also not aware of any active Beach Soccer or Futsal competitions (I stand to be corrected) currently ongoing in Kwame Nkrumah’s Ghana to benefit from a total of $30,000.00. My understanding is that this is for the future of these disciplines. Reliefs, again, as captured by FIFA in the permissible use of the funds is to alleviate the challenges in these times. These funds again should be coming from the already generated funds of the FA and/captured in their operational cost for the season.

The long list of Stakeholders to benefit from the Relief Fund is confusing, baffling, strange and incomprehensible.

PLAYER INSURANCE (@ $26,000)

Can the GFA be respectfully reminded that the responsibility of insuring players in the Ghanaian football space is to be effected by the clubs that they are affiliated to. Secondly the figure suggests that not all players in the country can benefit from a $26,000.00 package. If that is the case, is it going to be done on quota basis? Again in recent times, the FA released figures in excess of 50,000 falling into professional and dependents . How are they going to track all these lads to benefit from the package or will this be targeted only at the juveniles?

PFAG (@ 2,000.00)

What on earth is the body, a welfare body for over fifty thousand players in the country going to do with GHC 11,505.64? The more I look at the figure, the more laughable it gets. How does this figure pass for relief in these times? Our lads would probably get a few pesewas each to deal with their COVID issues. You must be laughing by now. I am laughing too.

MATCH COMMISSIONERS, VMO’S, REFEREES AND CAMERAMEN AND WOMEN

This group is benefiting to the tune of $144,000.00. The more I look at these categories, the more I feel like going for a refund from my business related lecturers in Senior High School, Undergraduate and Postgraduate school because I cannot for a moment understand how this would not have been captured as OPERATIONAL COST under the season that was just cancelled. How these groups are captured for relief support defies all the education I have had my whole life. Funds to cater for these groups were surely captured under these costs to be born by the FA in the absence of Relief Funds. These groups would have been taking care of in the discharge of their duties at the time they offered their service. Any logical reason why they deserve a penny from these funds?

MEDIA CAPACITY BUILDING-$7,000.00

Thank you for being so thoughtful GFA but the last time I checked my capacity building as a Media Person has been facilitated by the companies I have worked with. In Page 30 of President Okraku’s support for the media, he makes it very clear that the support for the media would be facilitated by the GFA. I don’t remember this exercise being done by the FA before COVID. That the FA has to depend on a Relief Package to build the capacity of the Media is most unfortunate. How the figure would even be enough to cater for the exercise of thousands of media personel in the football space would be earth shattering and mind blowing. I wait to be a part of this.

GHALCA (@ 2,000.00)

I feel sorry for GHALCA, the welfare body of the football space in the country. The once powerful body that had the high office of the Vice President of the Football Association appears not to be that relevant to the bosses at Ridge. What this body will do with $2,000.00 is anyone’s guess. Buy some stationary I guess.

I would reserve my comments on the figures allocated to coaching, SESSA and University Football Subscriptions. They only added to the numbers.

A gentle reminder of the word Relief in this COVID context is financial or practical assistance given to those in special need or difficulty, the redress of hardship and grievance or a cause or an occasion for relief.

The above carefully incapsulates the challenges of COVID and how some of the groups captured in the disbursement plan find themselves there is worrying. The major relief seekers are the CLUBS and they should directly benefit from a lot more of these funds purely on the back of their distress and not under 45% of the funds.

The power of every football association is derived from its franchises which are primarily executed by the clubs. How they are served with such funds is disappointing. I pray the FA has a look at this again and act accordingly.

  The writer Kwame Dwomoh-Agyemang is with the Sports Team at Imax Group (Max FM/Maximum FM/Max TV/StarTimes) and also serves as the Communications Director of Legon Cities Football Club.

source: https://footballghana.com/

[soccernetghana]

Kwame Dwomoh writes: Disbursement of COVID-19 fund- My Opinion

There has been mixed reviews following the release of the disbursement plan by the Ghana Football Association regarding the COVID-19 Funds. Before I wage into this conversation, kindly find below the dictates of FIFA per the permissible use of the Funds and the disbursement plan. PERMISSIBLE USE OF THE FUNDS The relief plan has been established in order to alleviate distress caused by the impact of COVID-19. As such the funds made available with stage 3 of the Relief Plan should be used for relevant losses that have been incurred or expected to be incurred, as well as to address the needs that have risen or envisaged to be to arise as a result of COVID-19. Areas in which funds provided within stage 3 can be used include, but are not limited to the following, provided they have been adversely affected by COVID-19.

The restart of competitions across all categories (where the sanitary situation and government policy permit) The implementation of return to play protocols The Participation of national teams in all age competitions The maintenance of football infrastructure, and The payment of general administration and operating costs

When there is reasonable doubt as to whether the intended use of funds is permissible, a request should be submitted in writing to FIFA in order to obtain approval. In respect of the grants, and only where all COVID-19 related losses and needs have been addressed, any surplus finds may been invested in developmental projects. In respect of the loans, all funding drawn down is required to be directed towards COVID-19 related losses and needs.   USE OF FUNDS FOR RELIEFS OR STAKEHOLDERS WITHIN THE WIDER FOOTBALL COMMUNITY Now where COVID-19 related losses and needs have been addressed, MA’s have the option of using the funds to mitigate needs of the wider football community, such as making payments to clubs or other stakeholders. Disbursements should ONLY be directed where the subsequent recipient has been clearly demonstrated to be in need, and the principles of transparency and non-discrimination should be applied. Where such disbursements to stakeholders within the wider football communities are made, MA’s (Mother Associations) are obliged to report these separately to their members via statutory audit and activity reports for the year in question, clearly indicating the recipients and related amounts. The approval of MA’s executive committee should be obtained and documented for such disbursements and this applies in respect of both grants and loans. Any loans made to subsequent recipients need to be secured or collaterised accordingly. FIFA will offer guidance and assistance to these matters, including standardized forms and templates if needed.   The above reveals the permissible use of the funds and the disbursement plan. The funds are clearly stated. These funds have been made available to offset particular costs as a result of primarily, the challenges being faced by the football space, herein being the various elements, with greater emphasis on the clubs especially in our parts as the FA have consistently made it clear that expenditure on the various national teams are borne by the state. One would have thought that club football which was the hardest hit would have benefited immensely from this relief fund especially on the back of the huge expense in the running of football clubs in the country and as captured in the relief plan by the International football body with respect to the needs of the football space in Ghana. Strikingly though, the League clubs only benefit to the tune of $880,000.00 representing less than 50% of the total funds, herein being $1,800,000.00. These are the direct stakeholders of the industry in any part of the world and to think that the local football controlling body would draw up plan for reliefs with the main stakeholders receiving less than half of the funds is incomprehensible to say the least. We have been told in the past about how the expenses of the various national teams are borne by the state and how various governments have been lambasted for not honoring their part of the bargain with respect to the various national teams. Indeed, when the FA have incurred any costs of these teams, they are quick to send the payment vouchers to the Ministry of Youth and Sports, by extension government to be reimbursed. Now these national teams at this point are NOT

Involved in ANY ongoing competition. Secondly when any cost is to be incurred as and when football makes a return, the cost would be borne by government Thirdly, the government has not complained at this point that it is in such distress for the FA to absorb any future cost in catering for the various national teams.

How then is a whooping $ 332,000.00(18% of the total funds)  allocated to the various National teams and for what purpose? Again, as we speak, there is NO local competition ongoing in this country. The FA in the last few weeks have defended strongly why the $ 500,000 from FIFA was purely for administrative and operational costs in the running of the FA’s activities. The same association following the CANCELLATION of the league have made it clear in their release concerning that cancellation, that all fines incurred by the clubs in the course of the league be paid, never mind all the records being expunged. The FA wants money for a league that has been cancelled and results expunged. That is a whole conversation for another day. The running of the football season was effected on December 29th, 2019 with a budget. The FA was even kind enough to go into their coffers to dole out some monies to the participating teams. Now with no competition ongoing, and with MTN funding the organization of the MTN FA Cup, I am at loss as to why a whooping $ 200,000.00 has been allocated for the competitions department. What craters has the department found themselves in these times of nothing to benefit from relief funds? The department if they need any form of support should be coming from the FA and all the funds accrued to them and not from relief funds to be honest. I am also not aware of any active Beach Soccer or Futsal competitions (I stand to be corrected) currently ongoing in Kwame Nkrumah’s Ghana to benefit from a total of $30,000.00. My understanding is that this is for the future of these disciplines. Reliefs, again, as captured by FIFA in the permissible use of the funds is to alleviate the challenges in these times. These funds again should be coming from the already generated funds of the FA and/captured in their operational cost for the season.   The long list of Stakeholders to benefit from the Relief Fund is confusing, baffling, strange and incomprehensible. PLAYER INSURANCE (@ $26,000) Can the GFA be respectfully reminded that the responsibility of insuring players in the Ghanaian football space is to be effected by the clubs that they are affiliated to. Secondly the figure suggests that not all players in the country can benefit from a $26,000.00 package. If that is the case, is it going to be done on quota basis? Again in recent times, the FA released figures in excess of 50,000 falling into professional and dependents . How are they going to track all these lads to benefit from the package or will this be targeted only at the juveniles?   PFAG (@ 2,000.00) What on earth is the body, a welfare body for over fifty thousand players in the country going to do with GHC 11,505.64? The more I look at the figure, the more laughable it gets. How does this figure pass for relief in these times? Our lads would probably get a few pesewas each to deal with their COVID issues. You must be laughing by now. I am laughing too. MATCH COMMISSIONERS, VMO’S, REFEREES AND CAMERAMEN AND WOMEN This group is benefiting to the tune of $144,000.00. The more I look at these categories, the more I feel like going for a refund from my business related lecturers in Senior High School, Undergraduate and Postgraduate school because I cannot for a moment understand how this would not have been captured as OPERATIONAL COST under the season that was just cancelled. How these groups are captured for relief support defies all the education I have had my whole life. Funds to cater for these groups were surely captured under these costs to be born by the FA in the absence of Relief Funds. These groups would have been taking care of in the discharge of their duties at the time they offered their service. Any logical reason why they deserve a penny from these funds?   MEDIA CAPACITY BUILDING-$7,000.00 Thank you for being so thoughtful GFA but the last time I checked my capacity building as a Media Person has been facilitated by the companies I have worked with. In Page 30 of President Okraku’s support for the media, he makes it very clear that the support for the media would be facilitated by the GFA. I don’t remember this exercise being done by the FA before COVID. That the FA has to depend on a Relief Package to build the capacity of the Media is most unfortunate. How the figure would even be enough to cater for the exercise of thousands of media personel in the football space would be earth shattering and mind blowing. I wait to be a part of this.   GHALCA (@ 2,000.00) I feel sorry for GHALCA, the welfare body of the football space in the country. The once powerful body that had the high office of the Vice President of the Football Association appears not to be that relevant to the bosses at Ridge. What this body will do with $2,000.00 is anyone’s guess. Buy some stationary I guess. I would reserve my comments on the figures allocated to coaching, SESSA and University Football Subscriptions. They only added to the numbers. A gentle reminder of the word Relief in this COVID context is financial or practical assistance given to those in special need or difficulty, the redress of hardship and grievance or a cause or an occasion for relief. The above carefully incapsulates the challenges of COVID and how some of the groups captured in the disbursement plan find themselves there is worrying. The major relief seekers are the CLUBS and they should directly benefit from a lot more of these funds purely on the back of their distress and not under 45% of the funds. The power of every football association is derived from its franchises which are primarily executed by the clubs. How they are served with such funds is disappointing. I pray the FA has a look at this again and act accordingly.   The writer Kwame Dwomoh-Agyemang is with the Sports Team at Imax Group (Max FM/Maximum FM/Max TV/StarTimes) and also serves as the Communications Director of Legon Cities Football Club. source: https://ghanasoccernet.com/