#and every time I learn something new I remember my mother harping on me as a teenager when she told me about my autism diagnosis

[peaches2217]

Holy FUCK I have selective mutism

I never really let myself claim anything like that because it takes a lot to reach a point where I CAN’T talk, but it doesn’t take much at all for talking to become a struggle for me, and situations in which I have to talk for extended periods of time stress me out because, the more I talk, the harder it gets. I only recently let myself say that I go nonverbal sometimes. In presenting my thoughts to my girlfriend, she said it sounds an awful lot like selective mutism.

…what now??

[pesterquestrewritten]

Sorry if this is an inappropriate question to ask, but why do you want to rewrite pesterquest? Was there anything wrong with its original version, or are you just doing this for fun?

brain is a Lil Loopy rn so please excuse if this answer is semi incoherent - recovering from ankle surgery rn.

im gonna try to not harp on the original pesterquest as a project/talk about my percieved issues with it. from what I understand about the work environment where it was developed, it was hell -- poor communication, tiny budgets, little overall direction. plus every artist/writer involved was likely busy with other things at the same time (for example finishing the development of Hiveswap Act 2). they had so much going against them, and... it sorts shows in the final work, which isn't their fault. the original PQ team was passionate and cared and like. the absolutely last thing i want to do is disrespect them.

(generally also stating for the record that calling the original PQ "trash" or "replaced" is like. not good vibes. please don't do this if you're trying to enjoy PQR -- the last thing the original postcanon team needs is more harassment.)

anyway.

pqr is fanfiction, fundamentally.

i started making pqr because in september i was sick with covid, i wanted to learn renpy, and i wanted to study homestuck more. i wanted to figure out what made PQ tick, literally, figuratively, all of the above.

plus i really wanted to write a different story arc for mspar.

i also really love the side characters in Homestuck, and wish they all got more time to shine. the pqr prologue including a set of Spades Slick sprites just for a brief encounter i think helps establish what i want to do with the like. raw potential of the premise of a Homestuck visual novel.

damara is the other big thing -- i've wanted to make a story with her in it work for ages. (if anyone remembers the old MEGIDO hades mod, that was my first big public attempt. she was gonna be the protagonist, breaking out of scratch's mansion. turns out coding in renpy is WAY easier LMAO)

like. the plan wasn't even initially to have the prologue be a full damara route? i just let the writing take me where it wanted to take me. it's been deeply fun and cathartic.

the prologue's "bad end" has some incredibly intimate themes of like. inevitability, and worrying you've let everyone you love down, and i showed it to a college friend who i hadn't spoken to for ages and she set a screenshot from it as her background.

like. to me. that's pqr. that's why i make it.

pqr is the laundry room ending of rose's route, a deeply personal look into my own fears and anxieties as an author reflected back through this girl's circumstances. pqr is also the retcon ending of rose's route, a wildly stupid and indulgent romp through my own past fanfiction for a silly gag that people seemed to really love.

pqr is about dave and myself looking for a place to stay simultaneously -- pqr is about jade leaving prospit, and how i was adding to that part of the game in real-time as i dropped out of college, changing both of our destinies to something unexpected but hopefully better, at the same time.

pqr is also a silly extended sleepover scene. it's just fun to see them interact.

pqr is an excuse to turn over corners of homestuck and see if we can't peek behind them. what was it like for roxy, to think she lost joey and then find rose's meteor barely a year later? of course she'd think it's impossible for her to succeed as a mother. pqr is about finding empathy for yourself for your own mistakes, reflected back at you through homestuck characters.

because really, isn't that what we're all here for?

pqr is me coming back to my last long-abandoned attempt at an act 5 rewrite. pqr is an excuse to watch my girlfriend grow in confidence and style as she makes all the endcards and incidental art (except for joey route pt 2, but THAT was an excuse to work with a NEW friend!!!!!!!)

pqr is a friendship simulator that i am winning by having an incredibly supportive and collaborative group of friends in the dev thread who are cheering me on with every segment of text i post, friends who will hop in vc to check out the newest segment. friends like @dare0451 who literally yesterday rendered out some new audio to upgrade the June route to be even more fucking amazing and terrifying than it already was, AND DARE HASN'T EVEN PLAYED IT????? IT'S LITERALLY JUST. IT'S FRIENDSHIP MAN. PQR IS FRIENDSHIP

what the hell was this question again.

oh right.

yeah it's been fun basically. that's why i do it lol

[mypsychoticmoodboard]

July 22, 2024:

I think that there is something to be said about the unique bond that we as humans share with other humans. It is the unique, defining characteristic of the human experience. To love, to hate, to mourn, and everything in between. And amongst those relationships, I have found the most interesting to be the ones shared between immediate family: father & daughter, mother & son; siblings. And this takes me to when I remember when my mother-in-law lay dying in hospice, and my husband, her only son, said to her, “I am going to find the one piece.” And that sentence will enchant and haunt me for the rest of my life. It brings me to happy yet bitter tears almost every time I think about it.

From what he has shared with me, he talks about how it was his mother who introduced him to anime. Since he was such a high strung child, his mom found it difficult to settle him down to sleep, so she would often make them both peanut butter and jellies (skippys as we call them in our house), and they would sit there long into the night watching the Toonami lineup which included the anime show, One Piece. My husband likes to mention that they would eat doritos with the skippys as well. His mother would go on to tell me such stories when my husband was not around, or they would often mention it to each other when we went to visit his parents as we visited her in her bed. It is known to me now how this nightly ritual had become their favorite pastime together and their fondest memory.

My husband tells me that one of the things he wants to see in his lifetime is the One Piece series completed, so that he may fulfill that promise of ‘finding the one piece’ that he promised to his mom as she was on the precipice of the end. I find this so heart wrenching because everyone has a story with someone such as this with someone in their life. For me, I am reminded of the smell of pancakes and bacon that my dad would make every Sunday when we were a kid. That is why for so long, Sundays were my favorite day of the week.

And with all of this to say, my husband and his mom did not have a very good relationship further into his teen years. They were estranged for a time. And yet, he clings to those memories and relishes in them. He does not harp on her shortcomings like so many of us, me included, do to other people. He has accepted them at face value and realized that she is only a person, and then chooses to remember the good times that were spent instead of the tumultuous times that came later in life. And I know that it is a fine line to walk, because some actions are hard to come back from, and no amount of blissful compartmentalism can help, but in his case, I think it is an incredible thing, and I idolize him for that notion, and I hope to embody that one day.

I know that I seem to talk about death a lot, but it is something that I have been surrounded by all of my life. It has been a hard truth that I have been faced with time and time again, and I find that reflecting upon it really helps me come to terms with it. I also find that if there is something to learn from a person’s life, I try to do so, to take it in, as many things are learning lessons if you let them be.

In unrelated news, I have a job interview tomorrow, and I am trying not to be worried sick about it. I am nervous because I care, and that is something that I will really never be able to shake. But I can try to calm myself as much as possible. I have a job already, albeit one that I hate, so if I do not get this job, there is nothing that I am really losing out on? But to me, it will feel like there is. I would be missing out on something that I really wanted, and I truthfully, am a pretty sore loser. I often revert to feelings of personal inadequacy if I am not selected for such things. I am nervous because I care.

And I often take the stance that everything feels like the end of the world to me. And then I rebuild again. I am fairly melodramatic, and I own it. But I am as persistent as I am melodramatic.

I also overthink things to death. I just need to let it be. It’s my anticipatory anxiety—I swear to God.

But all I can do is what I have always done—take it in stride.

(Reader, please wish me luck; I really want this job!)

In addition, it feels like I am on the precipice of this cliff. I see a castle in the distance, but I have to figure out how to cross this canyon first to get there. I have a home, but I am wanting something more.

[sunnyrosewritesstuff]

Day 5 Birthday Plot Bunnies 2

If you want this to become my next WIP, be sure to shower it with lots of love!!  🥰 💖 All the story starters will be linked back to this masterpost.

Title: For the Love of My Husband

Summary: Bilbo is a thief and a conman who has tricked Thorin, Crown Prince of Erebor, to marry him as an escape from a tight spot. He thought their marriage was happily enough, but Thorin feels a disconnect from the hobbit he’s married. To appease his family and strengthen their bond, Thorin asks Bilbo to take the Trial of Souls with him. Problem is, Bilbo doesn’t want Thorin to know anything about him because they are most assuredly not Ones. And if Thorin learns the truth, Bilbo will find himself back in the streets or worse...

In a darkened pub deep under the kingdom of Erebor, a hobbit and a dwarf squared off. The waiting crowd was near silent as they waited to see what would happen next. The dark haired beast of a dwarf looked fairly confident as he shared a smirk with his two friends directly behind him.

“What’ll it be, Took? Fold or settle?”

The hobbit nonchalantly lifted his overturn cup to sneak a peek at the two dice lying inside. 

“How about I raise you instead?”

It was silent for a moment before the dwarf, Drulik, burst into laughter followed by his cronies.

“Raise? You have nothing left to bet with.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure of that.” Bilbo stated before pulling out a silver harp-shaped brooch with thin golden strings.

The dwarves surrounding the gamblers all began murmuring at once, some trying to lean in for a closer view.

“Is that…?” One of Drulik’s dwarves gaped.

“Yes.” Bilbo announced calmly. “The Courting Gift of our dearly departed queen, Mahal rest her soul.”

“How did you get that?” Drulik demanded.

Bilbo gave him a wane smile as he tucked back into his vest with a pat. “It doesn’t matter. The question you should be asking is how much do you think it’s worth?”

The gambling den awaited Drulik’s long drawn out answer. It almost made the hobbit want to roll his eyes at the melodrama. However, after years on the streets, he knew a good show could sometimes be the difference between success and failure. And Bilbo didn’t fail. Finally, Drulik pulled out another bag, spilling the golden coins onto the pile between them.

“Settle.” Drulik demanded before revealing the contents under his cup.

The crowd cheered and whistled much to Drulik’s ego at the combined total of eleven from his dice. Nine Rings was a gambling game loved by Durin’s Folk and Men alike with a very simple premise. Highest total won. So you bet and bluff to convince your opponent that you have as close to twelve beneath the cup as possible. However, there was one small exception. Nine always trumped any other number. Therefore, when Bilbo lifted his cup to reveal the five and four, there was a near frenzy of excitement. Drulik was rendered speechless as Bilbo lifted his pint in cheer before downing the ale all in one go. Producing a sack from his coat pocket, he raked all the golden coins towards him.

“Well lads, this has been more excitement than any hobbit can take, but I think I’m going to leave now while my fortunes are in my favor.”

“You cheated.” Drulik growled. “You had to have.”

“Check my dice if you wish.” Bilbo offered with a shrug.

The tavern owner, Nifror, who ran as honorable a den as one could for thieves and ruffians was at their table in a flash. Bilbo had heard a tale that the last dwarf who cheated at the game got their loaded dice pinned, one to each hand, with a knife made by Nifror’s wife. He threw the dice a few times and each time they landed with a different number. He shrugged.

“The hobbit’s clean.”

“But that’s impossible.” One of Drulik’s own gaped.

“Yeah, we loaded them ourselves!” The other snarled.

There was a pause and then Old Nifror was on them in a flash. Some moved to help the old barkeep out. The rest roared and placed bets on the winner. Meanwhile, Bilbo used this as the perfect opportunity to sneak away. He dropped the loaded dice he had smuggled into his pocket on the ground with a snort. Like he would be that stupid. Now most would have worried walking around with that much gold around the dregs of Erebor’s underworld. Fortunately, Bilbo was a professional at remaining quiet and unseen. A talent he had been forced to pick up early in his life. Which is why he nearly screamed when a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Make a good haul?” The dwarf smirked.

Bilbo turned around with a glare. “You know you don’t have to be so smug every time you manage to catch me off guard.”

Nori, Bilbo’s oldest and dearest friend, just raised an eyebrow as he tried and failed to hide the mischievous superiority oozing from his every pore.

“Just like to remind you, you’re not the best just yet.”

Bilbo rolled his eyes as he continued on his way knowing the dwarf was following.

“We both know I was headed to your place eventually so is there a reason you’re bugging me now?”

“Can I not worry over the sake of my friend?” Nori gasped overdramatically.

Bilbo snorted but made no arguments or agreements.

“Well, if I were coming to find you, it might have something to do with the fact that your husband finished up his duties early today to surprise you.”

The coin he was holding nearly slipped from his suddenly numb fingers.

“Valar above!” Bilbo swore. “That dwarf. He’s positively incorrigible!”

“He’s in love.” Nori pointed out.

Bilbo scoffed. “Love. Well shit, looks like you’re going to have to take this to our hiding place for me.”

Bilbo shoved the bag of gold into the dwarf’s chest before power walking towards the secret tunnels. Nori kept stride with him, clearly not done delivering bad news.

“Are you anywhere close to the right amount?”

“I’ve nearly two-thirds at this point.”

“Bilbo, you only have a week left.”

“I’m well aware, Nori! Maybe it's enough to...buy me more time.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t the whole point of you marrying some rich noble supposed to give you easy access to the treasury?”

“It was, but there was one teeny detail we didn’t take into account.”

“What’s that?”

Bilbo paused, his face falling into a grimace. “In-laws.”

***

One of the first things Bilbo and Nori did upon their rushed and unplanned move to Erebor from Ered Luin was scope out the best places for a quick getaway. They just so happened to make kind with a chatty miner named Bofur who, while deep in his cup, told them that the royal wing originally was meant to be on the other side of the mountain. When the architects realized the disadvantage of having the royal family so far from the guards’ posts and war meeting rooms, rather than just move the furniture back down only to go back up on the correct side, they cut unmapped tunnels around the outside of the mountain. It also had the added advantage of getting their monarchy out quicker in the case of a coup if the knowledge hadn’t been lost through time. It was perfect for the thieves’ needs. In almost no time at all, Nori and Bilbo had found the tunnels and utilized them fully. 

Something the hobbit was thankful for now as he flew down the tunnel to get back to his room. He welcomed the blast of mountain wind to rapidly cool the sweat on his face before ducking back into the opposite entrance. There was a small alcove where Bilbo’s fancier clothes lay and he all but threw himself out of his worn threads for the finer silks and cotton. The last thing he did was pocket the brooch before sprinting back down the tunnel braiding and beading his hair on the run. Once he was back in the royals’ wing, he ducked his head out to make sure the coast was clear, and then silently made his way to his suite. After closing the door behind him, Bilbo relaxed against it, heaving a sigh of relief.

“And just where have you been, Husband of Mine?”

Bilbo prided himself on the fact that he did not squeak even if he did jump nearly two feet in the air. Thorin, Prince of Erebor, was lounging in the armchair by the fireplace looking rather pleased with himself. Bilbo attempted to calm his racing heart as he stepped forward, plastering what he hoped to be a loving grin on his face.

“Just a walk on the cliffs with Nori. Surely, you would not deny this hobbit the feel of fresh air and sunshine?”

Thorin stood at that point, meeting him about halfway. His thumb gently caressed Bilbo’s cheek.

“If I had it my way, I would deny you nothing, ukradê (my greatest heart).”

Bilbo hummed in practiced delight as he met his husband’s lips with his own. The hobbit was at least content with the knowledge that as far as dwarves went, Thorin was stunningly handsome. Not a sentiment necessarily shared with others of his race. Which worked out just fine for Bilbo as it left a prince of all things, uncommitted and available.

“By the way, look what I found this morning.” Bilbo stepped back with a teasing smile as he produced the brooch from his pocket.

“My mother’s brooch!” Thorin gaped as he took it reverently. “Where…?”

“It was under my bed. You must have dropped it when you paid me a surprise visit last night.”

Thorin smirked as he latched onto Bilbo’s hips. “I remember the night well.”

Oh, and he was a really, really good bed partner. No, Bilbo was well aware he could have it much worse. It was just the dwarf’s nauseating romanticism that nearly caused him to roll his eyes more than once. Thorin gave him a long lingering kiss before he bent forward to press his forehead against Bilbo’s own. Their hands found their way into each other’s naturally interlocking.

“I promise, it won’t always be like this.” Thorin murmured when he finally pulled away, his blue eyes shining brightly.

Like this. The dwarf was so dramatic. It constantly made Bilbo feel like some player performing for the court. Heaving a sigh as he looked down between their conjoined hands. 

“We’ve been married for eight months, and two of those have been spent here in Erebor. If your family was going to accept me, they would have done so by now.”

Thorin released his hands so he could lift Bilbo’s chin to look at him.

“Don’t lose faith yet, amrâlimê (my love). I have a plan.”

It was a good thing Bilbo was a talented actor. He laughed, causing Thorin to smile.

“You have a plan? That sounds dangerous.”

“Tease all you want, but I have all the confidence in this plan.”

“Well, out with it. What have you come up with?”

Thorin shook his head teasingly. “You’ll have to wait. I want it to be a surprise.”

Bilbo linked his arms around the dwarf’s neck for leverage as he started showering him with kisses at his jaw, the corner of his mouth, and his throat.

“And I couldn’t persuade you to tell me any sooner?”

“You are cruel, thundanûd (tiny embrace).” Thorin moaned, his hands resting on Bilbo’s arms.

“It’s only cruel if you don’t accept the invitation.” Bilbo teased back as he pulled at the prince’s tunic to allow him access to his collarbone.

Thorin shuddered once with want before finding the strength to pull away. He grasped Bilbo’s hands again as he kissed him deeply as an apology.

“Later. There will be time later. But now...we are having dinner with my family.”

Bilbo’s building fire of lust was immediately doused, a small frown settled on his forehead that Thorin attempted to kiss away. Lovely, the in-laws.

It certainly wasn’t that Bilbo wanted them to like him. He could honestly care less. It was just their dislike of him that made it really difficult for him to do...well, much of anything. Thrain, still mourning the loss of his dead wife, remained suspicious and hardened against Bilbo for the sheer fact that he was a hobbit. Their marriage had yet to be announced to the Council or even the mountain in general. Keeping Bilbo out of the public eye was Thrain’s number one priority which was certainly no hardship. It was Frerin and Dis he had the biggest problems with. Thorin’s brother and sister, ever loyal to him, seemed to think Bilbo wasn’t good enough for the dwarf, and constantly had Balin, the royal advisor, keeping tabs on him. Bilbo was reluctant to admit the dwarf’s keen eyes and sharp wit, but it had taken quite a few of Bilbo’s best moves to lose his tails before entering the secret tunnels.

Therefore, coming together in the Royal Dining Room for “family dinners” was a...stilted affair. There were only two redeeming features to those evenings. One, it was always the best food Bilbo had ever eaten in his life. And two, Thorin’s nephews, Fili and Kili, were not the least bit bothered by him and had some story worth telling that took the edge of him for a little bit at least.

“And then the axe sailed through the air and straight into the boar’s head. So technically, technically we aren’t responsible for the mess in the trophy room.” Kili finished.

“No.” Vili, their father snorted. “Just responsible for startling the poor guard that set off the chain of events.”

“Well how were we supposed to know he was right there?” Fili defended.

Bilbo snorted in spite of himself. “Watch the shadows.”

He immediately tensed after he said it as he waited for the barrage of insults to be hurtled his way.

“Spoken like a true thief.” Dis sneered.

Yep, right on cue.

“I would appreciate it if you didn’t corrupt my sons.” She continued.

“Namad…” Thorin warned softly.

Thrain’s hand met the tabletop in a harsh bang. “What have I said about speaking our language in front of the Halfling?!”

Bilbo sighed and turned his attention to his soup as the line of Durin flexed their tempers. Thorin rising to his defense, Dis and Thrain attempting to argue their points louder, Frerin leaving snide quips here and there, and Vili trying and failing to keep the peace. The joy of family dinners.

“Actually, while we’re on this subject, I have something to say.” Thorin demanded, his voice low and regal. “I will be gone the remainder of the week.”

Everyone, including Bilbo, froze and stared up at Thorin in relative confusion and outrage. The prince’s eyes were boring holes straight into his father whose scowl would be enough to frighten wargs off at this point.

“And just where will you be?” The king finally spat.

Thorin reached down for Bilbo’s hand making the hobbit supremely discomforted. Thorin’s eyes were soft and pleading though as they met his.

“We will be taking the Trial of Souls.”

“We’ll be doing what now?” Bilbo questioned.

“Thorin…” Dis murmured at a surprisingly subdued volume, her eyebrows knitted together.

“Finally! A sensible idea!” Frerin declared. 

All eyes rested on the brunette as he raised an eyebrow.

“Don’t you think? I mean, to put it bluntly, everyone at this table has been trying to convince Thorin out of this marriage in some way. When they don’t emerge from the tunnels together, that would be a pretty good indicator of the truth.”

“We haven’t. We like Bilbo.” Kili reminded softly.

Bilbo shot the troublemakers a quick smile of thanks. They were idiots, but they were sweet. Meanwhile, Thrain was rubbing his beard in thought before nodding once.

“Yes, this will do well. In fact, if you make it through all five chambers, I’ll hold a feast in honor and publically accept your union.”

Thorin nodded, still looking rather cross with his father. “As I’d hoped.”

Bilbo found he couldn’t take it anymore. “Now, wait! Wait just a minute! What is this...Trial of Souls?”

Thorin stared at his father for permission, and the king granted it almost the picture of satisfaction. Being a gambler, it made Bilbo largely nervous as Thorin turned back towards him.

“It’s a series of tests to prove two dwarves...or in our case, a dwarf and a hobbit, are Ones.”

Bilbo’s mouth opened and shut a couple of times, but no words were able to come out.

“Problem, Halfling?” Dis questioned with mock innocence.

“Thorin, a moment if you please.” Bilbo was finally able to say as he pulled his stone-headed husband out into the hall.

“Are you serious?!” He finally rounded on him.

“What?” Thorin questioned.

“Thorin, I…” Bilbo fought for the right words without making this worse. “I don’t understand. What exactly do we have to prove? We’re married. Shouldn’t that be enough?!”

Thorin sighed. “It should. You are correct, ibinê (my gem). But don’t you see? It’s perfect! My family will be satisfied by our success at the Trials, and it’ll be irrefutable evidence to the rest of the mountain if any rose to challenge us. And politics aside, I want this for us.”

“Us?” Bilbo repeated too numb to be completely in control of his mouth.

“Yes!” Thorin nodded eagerly. “Couples that pass the Trials of Souls find they become closer than ever. Our...relationship hasn’t been for very long, and I respect that your past is painful to you, but I want to know you azyungel (love of loves). I want to know everything there is to know about my husband, and share myself in return. What do you say?”

Now being a hardened thief, the hobbit knew a thing or two about how to get out of a seemingly hopeless situation. However, as his mind swirled and swirled around the damnable logic of Thorin’s decision, he found himself becoming dizzy and nauseated. That was it then. Bilbo was doomed. He had just enough time to get out a soft ‘nope’ before he fell over in a dead faint.

[bookjonsa]

Hi! :) In ASoS, Jon asks Ygritte about her lost of virginity. He thinks that she losted it with Longspear, and she responds something like "that's vile. Would you bed your sister?". Jon just avoids the question. I don't know, but I feel like this entire dialogue wasn't neccesary at all. Based in the Jon's reaction, could be this a hint about his true parentage? Could Jon, because of that, actually bed a "sister"? Maybe I´m just delusional haha but I would like to know another opinion about it.

Hi! :)

This is the passage you mention:

"There's been no one," he confessed. "Only you."

"A maid," she teased. "You were a maid."

He gave her closest nipple a playful pinch. "I was a man of the Night's Watch." Was, he heard himself say. What was he now? He did not want to look at that. "Were you a maid?"

Ygritte pushed herself onto an elbow. "I am nineteen, and a spearwife, and kissed by fire. How could I be maiden?"

"Who was he?"

"A boy at a feast, five years past. He'd come trading with his brothers, and he had hair like mine, kissed by fire, so I thought he would be lucky. But he was weak. When he came back t' try and steal me, Longspear broke his arm and ran him off, and he never tried again, not once."

"It wasn't Longspear, then?" Jon was relieved. He liked Longspear, with his homely face and friendly ways.

She punched him. "That's vile. Would you bed your sister?"

"Longspear's not your brother."

"He's of my village. You know nothing, Jon Snow. A true man steals a woman from afar, t' strengthen the clan. Women who bed brothers or fathers or clan kin offend the gods, and are cursed with weak and sickly children. Even monsters."

"Craster weds his daughters," Jon pointed out.

She punched him again. "Craster's more your kind than ours. His father was a crow who stole a woman out of Whitetree village, but after he had her he flew back t' his Wall. She went t' Castle Black once t' show the crow his son, but the brothers blew their horns and run her off. Craster's blood is black, and he bears a heavy curse." She ran her fingers lightly across his stomach. "I feared you'd do the same once. Fly back to the Wall. You never knew what t' do after you stole me."

Jon sat up. "Ygritte, I never stole you."

"Aye, you did. You jumped down the mountain and killed Orell, and afore I could get my axe you had a knife at my throat. I thought you'd have me then, or kill me, or maybe both, but you never did. And when I told you the tale o' Bael the Bard and how he plucked the rose o' Winterfell, I thought you'd know to pluck me then for certain, but you didn't. You know nothing, Jon Snow." She gave him a shy smile. "You might be learning some, though."

—A Storm of Swords - Jon III

There is a lot to say about this passage.  I think this conversation illustrates how different Jon and Ygritte were, how different their cultures and values were.  And yes, I think here we can find hints about Jon’s true parentage.     

Yes, Jon avoids the question, but Ygritte avoids the question first.  And that was because Ygritte and Jon managed two different concepts of kin, in this case, brothers and sisters.  That’s why Ygritte is constantly saying: “You know nothing, Jon Snow."  But the line works both ways really. 

Jon asked Ygritte who was her first sexual partner, and he was glad it wasn’t Longspear, that’s why Jon asked again: "It wasn't Longspear, then?"  And Ygritte instead of saying “no”, said; "That's vile. Would you bed your sister?"  And that’s why Jon said: "Longspear's not your brother.", avoiding to answer Ygritte’s question about bedding his sister. 

For Ygritte, a boy from her village was her brother, her clan kin.  That concept doesn’t work for Jon, who could have married (and bedded) a girl like Jeyne Poole for example, a girl that grew up in Winterfell with him, but she is not a Stark, so she is not his sister, despite being a girl from Winterfell.  For Ygritte that would have been vile.  And I bet that Ygritte would have even said that a marriage between two Stark cousins, like Rickard and Lyarra, would be vile.  

The same thing happened when Ygritte started to talk about wildlings marriage rituals and consent.  For Ygritte, Jon stole her the day they met, while Jon insisted that he never stole her.

Jon sat up. "Ygritte, I never stole you."

"Aye, you did.  “You jumped down the mountain and killed Orell, and afore I could get my axe you had a knife at my throat. I thought you'd have me then, or kill me, or maybe both, but you never did.”

Something similar happened to Sansa the day of the Battle of the Blackwater.  Cersei told Sansa about the blood lust that war provokes in men, and later that night she found a man that left the battle, went to her room, pushed her on bed put a dagger at her throat and demanded a song (a sexual innuendo used by the author) under threat of death.  This was basically the same situation Ygritte described as Jon stealing her.  But Jon would have seen that as a rape attempt, never as a marriage ritual.  And Jon definitely didn’t steal Ygritte the day they met, he thought she was a man and he was about to kill her as he would have killed any man of the enemy lines during a fight or battle.           

I don’t think this dialogue was unnecessary, the author has used it to tell us about the evident differences between Ygritte and Jon, and in a more subtle way, he has used this conversation to tell us about Jon’s true parentage as the son of a Targaryen prince and a Stark maid.

Hints about Jon’s Targaryen parentage: 

“Women who bed brothers or fathers or clan kin offend the gods, and are cursed with weak and sickly children. Even monsters."   

This is true about Targaryen members.  They married and bedded brothers and sisters, and that practice affected the Targaryen women health and fertility.  In Fire and Blood, we can find a lot of Targaryen young girls that were weakened with every pregnancy and at the end they ended up dying in childbirth and/or giving birth sickly children or stillborn twisted and malformed babies.  

This happened with Rhaella: 

Following Rhaegar's birth, Rhaella and Aerys had multiple trouble where childbirth was concerned. In the seventeen years following Rhaegar's birth, Rhaella went through multiple pregnancies, stillbirths and miscarriages:

-miscarriage in 263 AC -miscarriage in 264 AC -Princess Shaena Targaryen, born in 267 AC, stillborn -Prince Daeron Targaryen, born in 269 AC, lived only half a year -stillbirth in 270 AC, gender and name of child unknown -miscarriage in 271 AC -Prince Aegon Targaryen, born in 272 AC, born two months premature, died in 273 AC -Prince Jaehaerys Targaryen, born in 274 AC, died later that same year -Prince Viserys Targaryen, born in 276 AC  -Princess Daenerys Targaryen, born in 284 AC                                     

[Source]

And Daenerys: 

-Rhaego was stillborn and malformed

[Source]

Jon’s father, Rhaegar Targaryen, had not fertility problems tho, and Jon was healthy enough to survive.  

Hints about Jon’s Stark parentage:

“And when I told you the tale o' Bael the Bard and how he plucked the rose o' Winterfell, I thought you'd know to pluck me then for certain, but you didn't. You know nothing, Jon Snow.”

But Ygritte was not a Rose of Winterfell.  The Rose of Winterfell is a clear reference to Jon’s mother, Lyanna Stark: 

“You said you were the Bastard o’ Winterfell.” “I am.” “Who was your mother?” “Some woman. Most of them are.” Someone had said that to him once. He did not remember who. She smiled again, a flash of white teeth. “And she never sung you the song o’ the winter rose?” “I never knew my mother. Or any such song.” “Bael the Bard made it,” said Ygritte. “He was King-beyond-the-Wall a long time back. (…) “Well, long before he was king over the free folk, Bael was a great raider.” (…) “The Stark in Winterfell wanted Bael’s head, but never could take him, and the taste o’ failure galled him. One day in his bitterness he called Bael a craven who preyed only on the weak. When word o’ that got back, Bael vowed to teach the lord a lesson. So he scaled the Wall, skipped down the kingsroad, and walked into Winterfell one winter’s night with harp in hand, naming himself Sygerrik of Skagos. Sygerrik means ‘deceiver’ in the Old Tongue, that the First Men spoke, and the giants still speak.” “North or south, singers always find a ready welcome, so Bael ate at Lord Stark’s own table, and played for the lord in his high seat until half the night was gone. The old songs he played, and new ones he’d made himself, and he played and sang so well that when he was done, the lord offered to let him name his own reward. ‘All I ask is a flower,’ Bael answered, ‘the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell.’” “Now as it happened the winter roses had only then come into bloom, and no flower is so rare nor precious. So the Stark sent to his glass gardens and commanded that the most beautiful o’ the winter roses be plucked for the singer’s payment. And so it was done. But when morning come, the singer had vanished … and so had Lord Brandon’s maiden daughter. Her bed they found empty, but for the pale blue rose that Bael had left on the pillow where her head had lain.” Jon had never heard this tale before. (…) “Lord Brandon had no other children. At his behest, the black crows flew forth from their castles in the hundreds, but nowhere could they find any sign o’ Bael or this maid. For most a year they searched, till the lord lost heart and took to his bed, and it seemed as though the line o’ Starks was at its end. But one night as he lay waiting to die, Lord Brandon heard a child’s cry. He followed the sound and found his daughter back in her bedchamber, asleep with a babe at her breast.” “Bael had brought her back?” “No. They had been in Winterfell all the time, hiding with the dead beneath the castle. The maid loved Bael so dearly she bore him a son, the song says … though if truth be told, all the maids love Bael in them songs he wrote. Be that as it may, what’s certain is that Bael left the child in payment for the rose he’d plucked unasked, and that the boy grew to be the next Lord Stark. So there it is—you have Bael’s blood in you, same as me.”

—ACOK - Jon VI

The tale of Bael the Bard and the Rose of Winterfell resembles Jon’s own story: Bael the Bard, a king, and Rhaegar Targaryen, a prince, both harp players, “abducted” a Stark maid, Brandon’s daughter and Lyanna, ‘the fairest flower that blooms in the gardens o’ Winterfell’.  Rhaegar also crowned Lyanna as the Queen of Love and Beauty with blue winter roses, and they procreated a “bastard” son, Jon Snow. Lyanna died after giving birth to Jon, and the memories of that tragic even haunted Ned, who remembers Lyanna’s bleeding in bed and the blue winter roses.

And here is the best part, because it turns out that Jon actually bedded a girl that was his kin:

“So there it is—you have Bael’s blood in you, same as me.”

Ygritte tried to allure Jon with the tale of Bael the Bard and the Rose of Winterfell, but according to this tale Bael and the Rose joined both people, Wildlings and Starks, as kin.  And that’s why Ygritte said to Jon:  “You have Bael’s blood in you, same as me.”     

¡That’s vile!  ¡You know nothing Ygritte! 

So there you have it, Jon Snow bedded a redhead, blue eyed, half-fish girl that, in a broad sense, was also his sister. 

¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Thank you for your ask.

[cherryblossomflowers]

An Old Life Meets A New (Pt29)

Pairing: Jensen x Daughter, Danneel x Stepdaughter, Jared x Niece

Warnings: Slight Cussing, Angst, Fluff, Death Mentioned, Car Accident Mentioned, Anxiety/Depression, Arguing, Panic Attacks, Yelling, Fighting, Sex Mentioned, Child Abuse, Drunk Abuse, Relationship Abuse, Alcohol

Summary: After the recent death of her mother, Harper must adjust to her new life in the Ackles home, this includes a new stepmother, half-siblings, and reconnecting with her father.

A/N: Things are starting to end, but a happy ending is beginning. ONLY 1 CHAPTER LEFT!!! No hate on Danneel or Jensen please. Feedback is greatly appreciated!

***ASK OPEN***

*LET ME KNOW IF YOU’D LIKE TO BE TAGGED*

*NEW CHAPTER EVERYDAY AT 3PM CST*

An Old Life Meets A New Masterlist

Chapter 29

Jensen and Harper were currently on a flight back to Austin. Jensen was watching a movie the flight was streaming when he felt a weight hit his shoulder. He looked down with a smile seeing Harper fast asleep as she was leaning against him like a pillow.

She must've not slept much last night, thought Jensen.

Jensen shifted so Harper could get more comfortable. A flight attendant walked by and offered a blanket, but Jensen shook his head.

Harper slept the entire flight and Jensen sat as still as he could so she could rest.

When they were landing, Jensen moved his arm to wake her, "Harper? Honey, we're back."

Harper groaned, "5 more minutes."

This made Jensen laugh, "I don't think I can tell the plane to wait 5 minutes, babygirl."

Harper then sat up and rubbed her eyes, "We're already here?"

Jensen nodded, "Yeah, you slept the entire flight. I almost didn't want to wake you," he chuckled, "You still do that cute nose twitch thing when you sleep."

Harper blushed, "I do what?"

"When you're asleep, your nose twitches like a bunny nose. I noticed it when you were younger. I thought maybe you had grown out of it, but I guess not. It's cute."

"It's not cute!" Harper's face was more red than before.

Jensen held his hands up in defense, "You're right, it's not cute," then he whispered, "It's adorable."

Harper crossed her arms and looked out the window, embarrassed of her old sleeping habit. Jensen laid a hand on her shoulder and she turned to look at him.

"I won't tell anyone, you have my word," he said with a smile.

Harper smiled back, "It's okay. I was just messing around."

"Good to know your sense of humor is still there too," Jensen said then kissed her temple.

"Well I'd hope so. I got it from you. Must be why my brain is always in the gutter," Harper shrugged.

Jensen shook his head, "No, you learned that from Jared. Dirty minded giant."

The plane hit the runway and pulled up to the terminal. One by one, people stood from their spots and started to exit the plane. Harper curled into herself and Jensen noticed.

I guess she still has a fear of crowds, he thought.

He wrapped an arm around her, "Why don't we wait until the rest of the passengers get off first? We don't have anywhere to be in a hurry."

Harper nodded and smiled, "Thanks, Dad."

They sat there for a few minutes until the crowd of passengers got off the flight. Then Jensen stood up and helped Harper out of her seat. They grabbed their bags and walked off the plane. They walked out of the gate and down to the entrance of the airport. Once they stepped outside, Jensen pointed to where his truck was and told Harper to follow him.

They got into the truck, Jensen pulled out of the parking lot, and they headed towards home.

On the way, Jensen tried to spark up a conversation, "You know, sooner or later, I'm going to have to teach you how to drive."

Harper laughed, "Good luck. I pretty much gave up the idea after I saw how people drive in New York."

"Well, I hate to tell you, but that's most people in the world no matter where you go. You just have to get behind the wheel and go for it."

Harper looked out the window and smiled, "Let's save that then for another day."

"Deal," Jensen said as he reached for the radio.

When he turned up the volume, Tennessee Whiskey happen to be playing. Jensen looked over and caught Harper's eye. He smiled and turned up the volume more.

It was a moment that seemed frozen in time. A father and daughter driving down a highway, listening to good music with the windows down as the sun began to set off in the distance.

Jensen looked over and saw Harper belting out the chorus and in that moment, after all the chaos they've gone through for the past few days, she looked truly at peace and happy.

When Harper got a glance of Jensen, she smiled, "What are you staring at, Dad?"

Jensen shook his head and kept his eyes on the road, "Nothing. Just my babygirl."

Harper smiled and blushed, "I really did miss you calling me that, you know."

"I'm not going to lie, the first time I said it to your face earlier, it felt like you were 8-years-old again," Jensen chuckled, "Except you grew like 10 feet."

"I'm not that tall, I'm only 5'9". That's average for girls my age," Harper replied.

"Still, you grew like a weed," Jensen laughed.

The drove for a few more miles, and before they knew it they were back at the house. Jensen opened his door to get out, but stopped when he saw that Harper hadn't even moved an inch.

Jensen climbed back inside the truck and shut the door before turning to Harper, "What's wrong?"

Harper looked out the passenger window, "They're mad aren't they?"

"Who’s mad?"

"Danneel. And Uncle Jared. And Aunt Gen," she answered.

Jensen sighed, "Harper, they're not mad. They were worried and concerned. But I called Danneel remember? She's just happy we came back today. And I know Jared, he doesn't get mad at things like this. He's very understanding."

Harper slumped and continued to look out the window.

Jensen laid an arm on her shoulder, "Uncle Jared and Aunt Gen are inside though, and I know they'd love to see that you're okay."

Harper turned to Jensen, "Can I just go straight to my room? Just tell them you grounded me or something."

Jensen shook his head with a smirk, "No, Harper. You need to face this. You can do it. And I'm right there with you. Just explain what happened. I have your back."

She smiled at him, "Thanks, Dad."

They both got out of the truck and Jensen grabbed their bags from the bed of the truck. He had his duffle in one hand, Harper's backpack around his shoulder, and his other arm around her back, ushering her forward.

They got up to the front door, and Jensen opened it wide. Harper walked in first as Jensen held the door for her. He walked in behind and shut the door behind them.

Harper looked up and saw Jared, Gen, and Danneel sitting on the couch. Danneel jumped up and ran over to Harper and Jensen.

"Thank goodness you two are okay," Danneel said as she hugged and kissed Jensen.

"We're all good, Dee," Jensen said as he chuckled.

Jared and Gen stood up and walked over to them as well. They stayed quiet, but they were happy to see Harper and Jensen back from New York.

Jensen bent down and spoke quietly to Harper, "Babygirl, is there anything you want to say to Danneel?"

Harper nodded and took a step forward to meet Danneel, "Dee, I'm really sorry I ran away. It was really stupid of me. I should've just talked with you and Dad. And I'm even more sorry I took money from your purse. I don't care what it takes, I promise I'll pay you back every-"

Harper was cut off when Danneel wrapped her arms around her. Harper was stunned for a moment, confused as to why Danneel just jumped forward to hug her.

Danneel squeezed her gently as she started to cry, "Harper, sweetheart, I don't care about the money. I'm just glad you're safe. I was so worried about you."

"I didn't mean to worry you," Harper replied, "There was something I had to do," she turned to look at Jensen, "But now that I've done it, I feel like I can move on."

Danneel held her at arms length, "I'm glad, sweetheart."

Harper walked past Danneel and to Jared, "Uncle Jared?

Jared bent down to Harper, "Yeah, kiddo?"

Harper hugged him around his neck, "Thank you."

Jared hugged her back, but was very confused, "You're welcome, Harper. But I don't exactly know what I did."

"If you hadn't talked to Dad, he and I wouldn't be as close as we are now. And like I said, you were there when he wasn't. I needed you back then and I need you just as much now," she turned to Genevieve, "And I need Aunt Gen just as much."

Gen smiled, “I’m glad we’re here to help, Harper.”

“Oh and Jared?”

“Yes?” he asked.

“Is there any way you could help me find a therapist? Just someone to talk to about everything,” Harper replied.

“I’m sure we can find someone,” Jared smiled at her.

Just then, JJ, Arrow, and Zeppelin all ran into the room. They ran up to Jensen first and hugged him.

Harper laughed as she turned to the kids, "What? Your sister doesn't get a hug?"

JJ turned around and ran over to Harper, tackling her to the ground. Arrow and Zeppelin ran over and hugged her while JJ held her down.

"Sissy is back!" JJ yelled.

Harper laughed, "Yes, JJ, Sissy is back."

The kids and Harper stayed like that for a while. The adults went to the back porch to sit and chat for a bit. Jensen didn't tell them everything, but he told them about why Harper went to New York.

Jared and Gen went home after a couple hours. Jensen ordered pizza for dinner and Harper suggested a movie night.

And now, the famous final scene was set. Jensen on one end of the couch with Danneel snuggled up to him, Harper on the other end with JJ cuddled up with her, and the twins in the middle all watching a Scooby Doo movie with empty pizza boxes on the coffee table.

Jensen looked over at Harper and smiled. She and JJ were really into the movie, sitting close together and wide eyed. Jensen loved this moment and wished he could hold on to it forever.

A little while later, after JJ and the twins were in bed and Danneel had kissed Jensen goodnight, Jensen made his way to Harper's bedroom.

When he was outside the door, he knocked lightly and cracked the door open, "Harper? Can I come in for a second?"

He received a sleepy reply, "Sure, Dad."

Jensen walked inside and over to Harper's bed. He sat down on the edge and watched as Harper untangled the sheet from her legs.

"What's up?" she asked.

Jensen shrugged, "Just wanted to come check on you."

Harper laughed, "Come to make sure I didn't sneak out?"

Jensen rolled his eyes, "Exactly," he let out a breath, "Harper, I just want you to know something."

Harper laid a hand on his arm, "Dad, with all due respect, I think you and I have had enough of the past today."

He shook his head, "No, not like that," he turned to look at her, "Harper, I am so proud of you. Of who you've become. You're such a strong, independent young woman. You've grown up so much in the last few years. Hell, in the last few days. And you've showed me what it means to be a father. I honestly didn't know if I would ever be a good one, especially when your mom had you. Now I look at you and I see that not only you coming into this world made me a father, but you being in my life makes me a father."

Harper stood on her knees and hugged Jensen, "And you're the best father in the entire world."

Jensen scoffed, "Yeah, right."

"No, I mean it. You really are. You've done everything possible in the last few days to try to make your house my home. You let me do what I want to my bedroom, you remember little things after all these years. I mean, jeez Dad, you came to New York to make sure I was okay. I'd give that the Best Dad of the Year award," Harper said hugging Jensen tighter.

Jensen hugged her back, "I love you, babygirl."

"I love you too, Dad," she kissed his cheek.

Jensen stood from the bed and started walking towards the door, "I should let you get some sleep."

Harper pulled back the covers, "I mean...you could just stay with me tonight."

"Are you asking me to stay with you, Harper?"

She pouted and opened her big brown eyes, "Please?"

Jensen rolled his eyes and walked over to the other side of the bed, "For the record, the puppy eyes does nothing."

"That's not what Uncle Jared told me."

Jensen got under the covers as Harper settled on to her side. Jensen kissed her forehead and brushed her hair back. He rolled over and closed his eyes.

"Dad?"

"Yeah, Harper?"

"If it's okay with you," she paused to yawn, "I want to change my last name to Ackles."

Jensen smiled as fresh tears bubbled up in his eyes, "I like that idea, Harper Ackles."

------------------------------

Masterlist

My Cherry Blossoms

@mlovesstories @adorable-minibot @chessurkait

@desiredposion @idksupernatural @thevelvetseries @let-me-luve-you​

@obsessedwithfandomsx​ @mangueweaschester​ @starchildwild​ @deans-baby-momma​ @spnbaby-67​ @unicornmadness2444​

@wecantgiggleitsafandom @spnfamily-j2 @emery--nicole--morrison​

[helahades]

HC: Natasha as a Mother Figure to Tony Stark’s Daughter

Request: “Hey, I really love your writing and like to request a hc :)

Headcanon where you're Tony's daughter (Peter's age), and Natasha has been like a mother figure to you, since she's been working for/with Tony.”

-

A/N: I got carried away with this one. It’s angsty. Honestly Natasha is such a mystery to me so this was a nice challenge.

If you’re interested in more on Nat being a mom, check out @avengerscompound ‘s HC about her here. I read it a while back and again before writing this and I think she deserves your time. She understands these characters like no one I’ve ever seen!

-

This is quite a situation.

I can’t imagine Tony having raised a child from birth to mid adolescence by the time he’s meeting Nat and the Avengers Initiative is kicking off. He matures a lot through his timeline, but that’s a rough time for him.

So I’ll imagine that not only are you Peters age, but similarly to Peter, Tony took you under his wing.

He adopted you around the events of Age of Ultron let’s say. (You’ll remember Nat vocalizes frustration with not being able to start a family in this movie)

You become a lot of the reason he becomes panicked about protecting the world, and make it easier for him to understand Wanda

Also, assuming Pepper is in the picture, you’d have a stable foundation as time went on, and a main mother figure.

BUT LETS GET TO NAT

Right off the bat, this reads like a Miles Morales and Spiderverse Peter Parker situation, wherein Miles already has loving parents and doesnt need Peter to be a father figure so much as Peter needs Miles as a son figure.

Nat wants kids. She hates that the Red Room stole that from her. (in biological and emotional readiness terms)

Depending on where we are in Natashas timeline though (if you don’t like my AoU suggestion), she probably is not stepping into the nurturing role right off the bat.

She’s not living a life that accommodates settling down, or where people aren’t looking for the first vulnerability they can use to hurt her.

When she first meets Tony, she does not trust him. He’s simply a mission.

Then it becomes bigger, and she sees complexity in him and his willingness to sacrifice and put the common good first.

When you come into her life, you’ve lost a lot. You’ve seen how bad the world, and things beyond it, can be, and you may even want to dedicate your life to changing it, in a similar way to the Avengers. Maybe you completely disagree with their way about going about it.

Whatever your ambitions, you remind Nat of her younger self. She tries not to harp on the past, lest it drive her crazy, but she always wanted to change the world. Those dreams became a privilege over time though, and her main goal became survival.

She has seen darkness and death and evaded it all, but some seeps into her in the dark hours. Upon meeting you, she feels something inexplicable, and vows to keep you safe from becoming her.

She respects you. You’re young and strong and quick minded and not afraid to speak your mind on, well, anything. (The last one is a trait Tony and Pepper help to cultivate, by listening to all your ideas and opinions, no matter how wild.)

Initially when she’s around, and she’s just only met you, she simply observes. You’re curious about how things work, and Tony’s partner in crime. Pepper has her hands full, because you love Tony’s terrible jokes, the obnoxious schemes, and every eye roller idea...most of the time.

Tony and Pepper are the most stable family you’ve had in a while, and you tend not to like any plans involving Tony going out into the field.

Sometimes, you and Tony fight. It can be ugly. He loves you, and wants to protect both you and Pepper, and sometimes struggles to understand why people can’t see things the way he does.

It’s the night before a big mission.

You’re sitting in silence in the common room at an unreasonable hour. Nat only came down for an apple, and tells herself to keep walking—the elevator is right there!

But youre crying. Apples be damned. When she comes closer to investigate (with her unintentional spy stealth), or comfort or whatever the hell, she gets closer, closer—an arms length away...and you turn—before leaping from the couch in surprise and smacking into the smooth, hard floor.

After some panic and and an awkward apology, she finds an ice pack for your bruised hip and maybe it’s the pain, but you cry again. You can’t stand the thought of losing your family. Suddenly though, you feel selfish, as you’re sitting in front of a woman who’s lost more than imaginable.

She’s surprisingly gentle. Easy to open up to because it’s her job to be. But theres something else in her eye, like she’s truly invested and maybe even distressed at the sight of your distress.

When you’ve calmed down, she starts to walk you back to your room, hand on your shoulder, but on the way you decide you need to see Tony. You do love him, and he’s the one risking his life. How must he be feeling?

You take a step with that intention, before throwing your arms around Nat. It’s only after you’re squeezing that you remember the infinite ways she can kill. Pulling back shyly though, you’re surprised to see her eyes are.. soft.

You get the sense she truly didn’t mind your company at all, with or without the tears, and that she’s pleased to see you going to resolve the fight. A beat of silence, and you’re off to the lab.

After that day—a week later, actually—She’s back. She insists on training you just a little bit and showing you how to get out of basic holds.

Tony had put you in self defense training before, but it was always with a man, and it always felt off. You find it easier to train with someone who knows what’s at stake, and even better, who uses the brute force of her enemies against them.

Fighting Natashas way was fighting with your mind, even when you were using your fists.

She taught you how to analyze weakness and store it like data, but she nurtured your excitement when you were thrilled after mastering a new move.

She taught you all she knew of making weapons of the terrain, your body, and your skills, without making your mind a weapon that would turn on you.

She let you complain when things hurt, because they’re allowed to, and you’re not a machine.

You vented about being ordinary and being caught in a world where extraordinaries were the norm, making you the strange one.

She assured you, without saying these words, that your kindness and hope are the only things worth having, that everyone around you would kill for.

She watches movies with you and learns to braid your hair.

When you get your heart broken by a trainee who made you feel special, she pulls up his entry essay and you laugh at the desperation of his tone. She tells you one day he’ll feel that desperate again when he realizes he’s lost you.

She sings in Russian something that feels familiar, like maybe she’s supposed to sing it, when you can’t sleep.

There are some parts of her that she struggles to relax. She was not emotionally nurtured in a way that people need to be at a young age, and love does not fall at her feet or come naturally.

It is hard for her to believe that people with pure intentions exist, and are not dead or on their way there.

It is hard to let go and love in a world that consistently tells you it is weakness and tries to pull love away.

She rushes to find you after the snap. Finds you kneeling with bloodied knees and a tear streaked face where Pepper’s coffee mug shattered on the floor.

She sits outside your door while you cry, still reeling from the loss of her friends.

She holds you close and pushes you away while looking for the other Avengers.

She cries, but never near you, because sadness is weakness if it is hers.

She smiles and tells you it’s like a crazy dream. Laughs and says everyone will be back soon.

She shuts her door and lets in the dark after you’re tucked in. Thinks of the sky that swallowed Tony and the void where everyone else may or may not exist.

She stares at the ceiling all night. Then wakes to breakfast and stretches like she slept.

She learns to initiate hugs. She learns to tell you the truth.

She learns to mean things.

She allows herself the privilege of inside jokes.

She pulls from within herself where she thought there was no more and offers you hope when your parents and Peter are all gone. Says she’ll die before forgetting them.

She reconciles not being the most important person in your life anymore when Tony returns.

She holds you and the both of you cry, both with hope, and with fear, when she tells you they’re going to try to jump through time. She also says not to worry, be strong. She’ll be back in a minute.

She’s not.

-

-

i love u pls validate me tags: @threeminutesoflife @avintagekiss24 @jtargaryen18 @sapphirescrolls

[nikosheba]

Burning, Breathing, Wanting

Annnnd another @officialtolkiensecretsanta @tss2020 gift from me, this time for @Nuredhel, who it will not let me tag :(

Title: Burning, Breathing, Wanting Fandom: The Silmarillion Pairing: Maedhros/Fngon Rating: T Tags: Mutual Pining, Daddy Issues, Arranged Marriage

Read it on AO3

or 

Read it below!

The first time Maitimo knew what it was to burn, he was in the water.

It was a game. Only a game. His brothers were far wilder in their games, often pouncing on each other from high places, letting the full weight of their bodies drop like stones. They tussled fiercely, laughing and sparring and wrestling, seeing how far they could go. Maitimo rarely began the rough play, but was known to end it firmly--and thus, they rarely invited him anymore. Macalaurë was large enough not to be hurt, but easy to bully, and made far better prey for the youngest two.

Maitimo learned early that he was too large, too strong, to play like that with his brothers for any reason but to teach them a lesson. So he confined himself, seeking other pursuits, bending himself to his studies. There was much to study. He learned statesmanship at his grandfather’s heel, the shaping of beautiful things at his mother’s, letters and metalwork at his father’s. He heard his mother and grandfather praise him, and tried to remember that his father had been at his craft far longer than he.

He tried to remember that he was young, as the Eldar measured it. His father often looked disappointed, but told him he would find something that made him burn, as Fëanáro burned, and would truly know himself upon that day.

When the elder of his cousins invited him to one of their games, it was a relief to see that they did not play so roughly as his own brothers. His protestations--I’m much larger, I might hurt you, I know not the rules, I must study--fell upon deaf ears, and he submitted himself to being hauled to a pool at the edge of the Pastures of Yavanna, as Findaráto called up a song of laughter and light, and Findekáno took it up. Maitimo hesitated to join; Macalaurë had a voice none but the Valar could equal, and Maitimo did not often sing at home, knowing how pale he sounded in comparison.

His uncle’s sons were not quite so hardy, or not quite so fierce, as his own brothers. They were younger, and kinder, though no less cheerful. Macalaurë liked them too, though at times Findaráto made him angry, made him argue, not all songs are meant to be of the light, surely you must wish to bring your audience to tears sometimes.

But Findekáno...

Findekáno was Maitimo’s favorite.

He was quick, to laughter or to daring, clever with his voice, always eager for a challenge. He was a chief architect in their games, setting complicated rules and breaking them with abandon, admitting shamelessly that the only reason Arafinwë and Ñolofinwë allowed them to come was because Maitimo was with them, and he could be trusted to keep them out of trouble.

“Is that why you always invite me?” Maitimo asked, one auburn eyebrow raised. He’d wondered. Macalaurë was closer to them, in age and temperament, but they always invited him out, whether to swim or hunt or play singing games in the woods, despite that he never quite kept up with some games and handily won all the others without trying.

Findekáno gave him a strange look, and took his hand. “No,” he said, then briskly knocked Maitimo off a large rock and into the pond, letting out a gleeful whoop as he followed.

They came up, sputtering for air, Findekáno’s eyes dancing as he laughed. He’d lost his tunic at some point, and was bare and glistening in Laurelin’s golden light.

Maitimo found himself suddenly unable to breathe in.

His blood felt as if it was moving wrong, too hot and in strange directions. He felt oddly helpless, like he did when confronted with some small adorable animal but unable to find any outlet to deal with it, the odd thought that he might squeeze too hard, just because he couldn’t think what else to do to make the overwhelming feeling go away.

Findekáno appeared to be suffering no such handicap. He promptly ran out of the deepest part of the pool, splashing the whole way, to grab Findaráto, both of them laughing and pushing and shoving, until Findekáno grabbed his cousin and physically hurled him into the waves. Maitimo wished suddenly that he were not so tall, that Findekáno could lift him as easily, and he might know what it felt like to be held in those strong arms.

“Maitimo!” Findekáno called, and Maitimo painted a false smile on his face, forcing his lungs to work.

The strange feelings would pass, if he ignored them.

~

“Nelyo. You’re not focused.”

Maitimo’s eyes snapped up to his father’s, guilt suffusing his face. “Sorry. I’ll do better.”

Fëanáro looked up to follow the direction of his gaze, and Maitimo schooled his face to careful neutrality, as his father’s expression turned sour. “Ah. Ñolvo.”

Ñolofinwë nodded to his half-brother as he entered the palace courtyard, where Fëanáro and Maitimo were taking measurements for a new inscription to be wrought in sapphire, setting the great fountains alight at the mingling of every Light. Findekáno and his brother were trailing behind, all in their finest court robes. Maitimo felt his gaze drawn as soon as they entered, tracing over inky black hair, high cheekbones, a stubborn jaw, long-lashed eyes, a generous curve of lip, the way Findekáno’s robes were parted just so.

“Fëanáro,” Ñolofinwë said, nodding to his elder brother, and drew up, as if they would have speech.

Maitimo’s heart thudded. No, it would not do to have speech with Findekáno here, when his father was present. He knew his own tongue to be treacherous when his cousin was around, clumsy and unreliable.

“Hi, Maitimo,” Findekáno said cheerfully, apparently unconcerned with the tension around their fathers.

Maitimo jerked his head. “Hello, Findekáno.”

“Want to go--“

“I’m working.” If he didn’t meet Findekáno’s eyes, maybe his cousin would understand.

There was no response, but the sound of soft boots moving away.

His father’s hand was strong on his shoulder, a soft squeeze of approval that made Maitimo feel sick. Approval, for being short with the cousin he enjoyed spending time with above all his brothers, above all others.

“Now, focus, Nelyo. They don’t even speak correctly. No need to even pay attention to them.”

Might as well tell his heart to stop beating.

He considered trying that.

~

Findekáno leaned out of his tree at an impossible angle, his ankles hooked onto a branch, and set the Fool’s Crown onto Maitimo’s head before lunging upwards into the greenery. “It’s your turn!” he called, and pulled his harp free, strumming a chord that somehow managed to be insulting.

They had been at their games for hours. Findekáno was long past his majority now, they both were, but the essence of youth and laughter clung to him, making the light dance in even his skin, as if he were ephemeral. Of course, he was anything but, a solid and cheerful presence that kept Maitimo firmly grounded. He was kind, but quick-witted, and Maitimo thought even Fëanáro did not mind this particular Ñolofinwian so much.

Maitimo scrambled up the tree, making full use of his height to scale the branches, and heard Findekáno cheerfully curse when he realized he was truly caught. Maitimo lunged forward, catching his cousin by the wrist, and grinned.

Heat thrummed through him. He could feel Findekáno’s pulse against his fingertips, light and fast, a swift drumbeat that made him lean into the rhythm. They were balanced precariously, standing on a slender bough, but they were both surefooted, and neither had a fear of heights.

“Maitimo,” Findekáno said, and his voice was different when they were touching, as if Maitimo could feel it through his skin, feel it where they were joined.

“Finno...”

Findekáno leaned up--not so far as he had to before, when Maitimo didn’t know what burned inside him; he knew now, he burned--and met his eyes, challenging. “You caught me. It’s my turn to chase you, is it not?”

Maitimo’s mouth was dry. He nodded, and took the wreath from his head, settling it on Findekáno’s thick black braids. He made to drop his cousin’s hand, but Findekáno reversed their grips, catching his wrist. “You can hide as well as you like,” Findekáno said softly, unblinking. “But when I catch you, Maitimo...”

Maitimo felt struck dumb. Findekáno quivered with tension, something eager and bright inside of him, and Maitimo felt the world shift around them. He was a High Prince, skilled and learned and careful with words and deeds, and was known for his clear-headed decision making and sound advice in the council rooms of Tirion.

He did not feel clear-headed now.

He looked down at Findekáno’s hand around his wrist, and switched their grips again, twining their fingers together, and heard Findekáno suck in a sharp breath. “I think you caught me already,” he said softly.

“Ah. So I did.” Findekáno took a step towards him, until Maitimo could smell the sweet herbs he’d used to wash his hair earlier. “But I don’t want the crown.”

“No?”

Findekáno looked up at him, unafraid. “I want a kiss, Maitimo.”

Maitimo’s breath hitched. He leaned forward.

Jeering laughter broke out from below, and Maitimo jerked back. He nearly lost his balance, but Findekáno’s hand was steady on his. Findekáno was blushing, but his balance didn’t waver. “You didn’t want to play!” he called down, and snapped off a branch, hurling it at Maitimo’s brothers below. “So leave us be!”

Maitimo gave him a rueful smile, but the mood was gone. Gently, he pulled his hand out of Findekáno’s, and swung down from the tree, turning on Turco and Curvo with fire in his eyes. “Dear sweet brothers of mine,” he sing-songed, and rolled up his sleeves. “I think it’s been too long since someone reminded you who’s oldest here!”

It was their way, after all. He grabbed them by the arms, and they called him cousin-fucker, and he bloodied their noses, and they kicked at his shins, and he called them feral brats, and finally hauled them back home, where they all cleaned up and no one said a word to their parents.

Maitimo lay in his bed that night, staring out at the silver glow of Telperion. He touched his hand to his face, then his lips, imagining the warmth of Findekáno’s hand still lingered there.

Imagining his lips, full and generous, always quick with a laugh or a song.

He shifted, staring out through a gap in his curtains across the great courtyard, to where he knew Findekáno’s rooms were. He could go now. Maitimo imagined himself dressing, and padding over to the other side of the palace, and slipping inside--his uncle liked him, it would be a matter of little difficulty--and telling Findekáno, “I forgot to give you something earlier, my fair cousin.”

“What do you mean?” Findekáno would ask, guileless.

“Your prize from the game,” Maitimo might say, and lean down to kiss Findekáno’s unresisting lips.

A light winked from outside.

Maitimo shifted, staring out the window, and saw it flash again. A candle, and a mirror, angled directly at his window.

Perhaps I’m not the only one lying in bed thinking of my cousin.

Dare he?

His knuckles were still raw from the thrashing he’d given his brothers earlier. Perhaps he could say he was leaving for some salve.

Mouth dry, he fetched a tiny brass mirror and a candle, and flashed the signal back. They had done so, many years earlier, when the grand palace was completed, and Ñolofinwë’s family had first moved in, a temporary arrangement while their own great house was being completed. Back when Fëanáro rarely stayed at the palace with his sons, before he felt the need to do it to remind everyone who Finwë’s firstborn was. Back then, Findekáno often wished to hear just one more story, or tell him about just one more adventure, so much sweeter and more earnest than his own little brothers, unable to bear the thought of being parted until morning.

But now he was grown. And Maitimo was far past grown. He was certainly too far grown to want to sneak out and see Findekáno without fantasizing about pulling him into an alcove, kissing him until they were both breathless.

Yes, he flashed back. Just that. The light stopped. Findekáno would know he was coming.

He dressed as quietly as he could, relying on what of Telperion’s light filtered in through the window with the curtain shut. He grabbed a robe, of some indeterminate color, and tugged slippers onto his feet, hastily raking his fingers back through unbraided hair. Well, Findekáno had seen him disheveled before.

Excitement thrummed through him. He thought of kissing again, and felt his nipples stiffen against his robes, though why that should be he had no idea. He crept out through his chambers, moving as silently as possible, making for the large door.

“Nelyo,” his father said, as if he had been waiting for just such an appearance.

Maitimo froze. He swallowed, and turned.

His father was leaning on the door frame, wiping ink from his fingers. Bad timing, then. His father had been up late working, and happened to see him. He raised a dark eyebrow now. “Up so late? Where are you going?”

“...Salve for my hand,” Maitimo said, and swallowed.

Fëanáro looked unconcerned about his hand. Of course, he never injured himself. “All right. And, while you’re out, deliver this message for me.”

He handed over a scroll, and Maitimo took it, surprised. His father had plenty of servants to do his runner work for him. He saw the name--Ataliel--and knew the nís for a prince’s daughter, who had often visited the forge at Formenos with her brother, one of his father’s many students. A queer sense of misgiving ran through him, as he tried to imagine what reason his father could have for sending a message to a young noble lady so late. “Yes, Atar,” he said instead of asking.

“Do you know her?”

Maitimo blinked. “I know of her, of course.” Why had this happened? He wanted to go, wanted to run out and meet Findekáno and maybe run barefoot through the grass under the stars with him, until they laughed and collapsed together as they had when nothing was quite so complicated.

His father seemed unwilling to relinquish him just yet. “What do you think of her?”

Taken off-guard, Maitimo frowned, considering. “She is...well-mannered, and high-spirited. She speaks intelligently and dances well. I have not heard her sing, but I have seen her run in the Games, and she was very fast.”

Fëanáro gave him an almost pitying look. “Stay and talk to her when you give her that, then. See if you might make it a match.”

Maitimo’s heart stopped beating. “A...”

“A match.” One powerful shoulder shrugged. “I can’t have you running around in trees with Ñolvo’s son forever, Nelyo. I expect more from you.”

Maitimo heard iron bars close slowly around him, though he still stood in the warmly-lit parlor. He fumbled for something to say, and found no words, nothing but shadows. “I...will deliver it,” he said numbly.

“Then come right back.” Fëanáro’s eyes were sharp. “With the salve. Curvo told me you play quite rough when that nér is involved.”

Maitimo nodded, and made a mental note to give Curvo another thrashing tomorrow, to match the one he already had. “Yes, Atar.”

“You hear me? Come right back.” Fëanáro paused, then added, “You don’t have to marry her, Nelyo. If you have a better match in mind, I’m listening.”

He had never quite been quick enough for his father.

Maitimo’s hand did not tighten on the scroll. He repressed the urge, and gave his father a bow of his head. “I will come right back,” he said through numb lips.

Ataliel was asleep, her father informed him, but would surely receive the message with enthusiasm upon her awakening. Maitimo politely declined the offer to stay and have tea. There would be plenty of time to speak with Prince Silárion in the future, if his father’s plans held.

The Healer clucked disapprovingly at his knuckles, but he was High Prince, and she gave him the salve. Mechanically, he turned back to his father’s quarters.

Findekáno was there.

He wore a long sleeping shirt under a light robe, his feet were bare, and he was leaning against the wall outside the entrance to Fëanáro’s wing of the palace. At Maitimo’s approach, his head snapped up, and he smiled. “Good evening, cousin,” he said, soft enough not to be overheard, but every syllable carried to Maitimo’s sensitive ears.

He swallowed. It was late now. He had promised to come right back. Findekáno should be upset with him, for not showing up after he’d said he would. “Good evening. I...think there may be some members of my family still awake, or I would invite you inside for tea and stories.”

“I did not come for tea and stories,” Findekáno said simply, and strode to him, taking his hand again. “Do you feel it?” he asked, and his voice was little more than a whisper, his hand warm, skin supple and giving under the pressure of Maitimo’s fingertips. “Do you burn when you see me, like I do for you?”

Maitimo swallowed, his fingers tightening on Findekáno’s. “What changed?” he whispered. “For me...it has always been thus.”

Findekáno grinned, unrepentant. “I grow impatient,” he admitted. “When I was younger, I thought I would wait for you to come to me. You are the High Prince, it is your right. But...I am finding I am not so patient as all that. I think I know your heart. Will you say it?”

“Finno--“ Maitimo’s heart thudded against his ribs. What could he say? Could he refuse, seeing Findekáno right in front of him, holding his hand? Could he agree, knowing full well his father’s temper?

(It was very rarely directed at him. Maitimo was careful to keep it thus.)

On his way back from Ataliel’s father’s quarters, the hand that had carried the missive had felt heavy. Now in Findekáno’s, it felt curiously light, hardly attached to his body. “And...if I feel it, too?”

Findekáno beamed at him, as if he had never had reason to doubt. “Then perhaps we should go in and wake your family,” he suggested. “And tell them that we’ve decided to plight our troth.”

As if Maitimo’s father was anything like Ñolofinwë.

As if he were someone you could just tell things to.

As if Maitimo were allowed to disappoint him.

The door to Fëanáro’s chambers opened, and Maitimo jerked back his hand as if he’d been burned. His heart sank, turning to lead as he spotted his brother, Macalaurë, whose gaze landed on the two of them, eyes going wide.

“Wait here,” Maitimo muttered, and took three long strides, grabbing his brother by the collar, a finger to his lips as he carefully shut the door. Macalaurë wasn’t much shorter than he himself, but he was slighter, and easy to hold in place. “Káno,” Maitimo said, in a low, pleasant voice, as if he weren’t holding his brother against the wall essentially by his throat. “Out for a walk?”

Macalaurë’s eyes were as wide as saucers, and he nodded, rather enthusiastically. “Just a walk,” he agreed. “A walk, to find some material for my new song.”

Maitimo searched his brother’s eyes. Was he lying? Was he going to tell their father what he’d seen? Was he here to spy?

Macalaurë looked up, and was far more frightened than Maitimo thought made sense. “Please,” he whispered, and gripped Maitimo’s tunic. “Don’t tell him.”

Maitimo looked down, and understood. There was a lovely comb in his brother’s hand, finely wrought (though not so finely that Macalaurë himself could not have made it), covered in tiny yellow flowers.

All at once, he felt sick. He nodded, and stepped back, releasing his brother. “Don’t let Curvo know about her,” he cautioned. “He doesn’t keep his mouth shut around Atar.”

Macalaurë gave him an odd look. “You think he has a choice?”

Maitimo swallowed, and looked back over his shoulder. Findekáno’s smile was gone, replaced by nerves and concern. “Maybe none of us do,” he said quietly, and turned away from his cousin, walking back into his father’s chambers and closing the door behind him.

[poepoe-thebunny]

A Story Told in Chords:

A little ditty inspired by @rudolph-sackville-bagg posts about a TLV Musical. Truly, you should stop encouraging my madness with your brilliance, I’m still not sure what this is supposed to be but you can all have it I guess. 

‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘‘

Rudolf’s first memory is of music. It is of music and dancing, and laughter that is loose and free in a way he has never seen before. The clan has come together for a celebration, and his older family members play on instruments that were crafted before he was born. The notes are warm like the wood of their bows’ and the strings bounce sounds into the air that pull the family into a dance. Rudolf and Anna watch, side by side, as their parents dance to the summery music of Vivaldi’s ‘Sinfonia in C Major.” Gregory tells them that, according to their aunt, it was played on their wedding night. Rudolf thinks he has never seen them look so in love before.

Tony’s first memory is of laughter. It’s laughter, and music from a staticky old radio in a busted old ford with their camper in the back. The Thompson’s are going camping this weekend, traveling far out from the city accompanied only by each other and Donna Summers “On The Radio” and Cher’s “If I could Turn Back Time”. His mother is dancing in her seat while matching Tony’s voice word for word while the Queen  of Disco plays, and his father is laughing at their shared ridiculousness. 

Much like Gregory, Rudolf had never been blessed with the ability to keep still. something that drove his parents up the wall as they chased after their wayward children. Yet Rudolf remembers the way his father smiled at him as his second-born learned his first dance, springy feet stuttering out the steps to Joseph Haydn’s symphony no. 94 “Surprise”. And what a surprise it was when Rudolf, feeling lighter than air, began to float. His aunt and mother cooed at the boyish grin on his face while he danced, only to fall flat on his face the moment the music stopped. Anna and Gregory laughed at him then, although they never quite got over Rudolf mastering flight first. 

Tony’s father has an old acoustic that he plays sometimes. For nothing more than stories and folk songs, but he plays for Tony every time the boy asks. Tony watches his fingers move while he sings Chuck Berry and Eric Clapton,  entranced by such simple sounds as his mother hums along in the background. Their favorite is “When You Say Nothing at All,” and Tony wonders how his mom can look so happy despite being misty eyed. Later on, he finds out it was the song they danced to at their wedding. 

Rudolf learns the Violin to his siblings harp and cello. He enjoys it quite a bit, not as much as flying, or even dancing, but he takes to it well enough. While his father can be quite grumbly about some of the “new fangled noise” he learns, Rudolf loves the time spent working his bow and fingers over the strings. He’s not quite as skilled as some other members of their family, but he supposes even they had to start somewhere. He plays “Au Clair de La Lune”, a small beginner piece that makes his face burn when standing before his family. He’s almost envious of Gregory’s cover of Johannes Brahms, his sound smooth and rounded compared to Rudolf’s own. But afterwards Gregory ruffles his hair in congratulations and sends him a fanged tooth grin, and Rudolf suddenly remembers the look of pride on his brothers face when Rudolf took the stage. 

Tony’s head is wrapped up in monsters and magic and siren songs. He’s a world away dreaming of glowing red eyes and hypnotic voices. In between school and being out with the neighborhood kids he’s in his room, strumming on the old acoustic his father had given him. His mom and dad taught him Elvis and he plays “Can’t Help Falling in love,” despite being too young to know what love is, except for the sound of laughter and music. He never plays for anyone except for maybe his parents. They have jam sessions together every now and again, and he laughs at his dad’s dancing and drinks way too much soda. Tony plays almost as good as his dad now, and strums out Elvis with his dad keeping the beat. He thinks of the way they look at each other when Allison Krauss comes on and wonders if that is love. 

As with flight, Rudolf takes to music like a duck to water. Oh his siblings can more than hold their own, hundreds of years of practice can do wonders. But for Rudolf it’s more. Rudolf learns through his music; about passion and love and grief. He learns forgiveness, watching his brother and father perform “Nuvole Blanche” on their cellos, side by side for the first time since Gregory’s return. But Rudolf learns more; he learns grief from Romeo and Juliet, and love from the Italian operas, and a hundred other stories he never had the chance to have. Rudolf sings, crooning love songs until his voice runs smooth with practice, putting his unbeating heart into words meant to reach someone, even if he doesn't know who. And that, that is what he learns the most about. Rudolf wants to love, he wants the love of legends, the kind of love where stories are told a thousand time’s over, where the world will watch in awe the depth of his feeling. 

Then they meet. 

And Tony is in awe at his larger than life friend. With his scarlet eyes and humming voice. He fumbles with his words and his strings, unsure if his slow songs and simple sounds could ever hope to impress the ever elegant vampire. Tony has no training beyond the basics and the ability to pluck strings, his voice is not refined but instead made for singing low and scratchy in a room full of stories. Despite this, Tony plays “Dust in The Wind” while swaying in his seat. “Country Roads” Tells Rudy all about the vast skies and mountains his family would visit during the summer, and all the memories in between. And with his heart beating a staccato rhythm and the moonlight overhead, he strums out the simplest and most honest song he can think of. Tony can’t hit the low vocal notes, so if he switches to a higher register that’s alright. Rudolf doesn’t seem to care, watching Tony croon Elvis’ “love me Tender” with the sweetest voice he can. Elvis is no Allison Krauss, but it seems simple love runs in the family. 

And Rudolf melts at the sound, and the honesty in Tony’s voice. And what can he do but return the sentiment? He floats his way up to Tony’s window after sunset, Puccini’s “Vissi d’arte” on the strings of his violin. Rudolf lets the sweet sound float between them, the song glimmering with young love, watching the smile reach his mortal’s eyes. Rudolf teaches Tony to dance, and then fly, to Romeo and Juliet’s overture. And they are laughing as they spin about the room, feet never touching the floor. And while it isn’t Vivaldi, is it theirs and Rudolf enjoys it just the same. 

[ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes]

Blue Eyes Part 17

Summary: After the Garrison is shot up, the youngest Shelby daughter finds a new home in London. She strips herself of her last name and tries to live a peaceful life far away from her brothers’ chaos in Birmingham. But fate leads her right back into it after she runs into Alfie Solomons.

Part 17: After the death of her brother, Ella doesn’t know which way is up anymore. And she receives more shocking news. 

        Alfie let Ada into Ten Watery Lane even though Ella explicitly told him not to let any of her family members in. He probably would’ve turned Tommy away after the fiasco of a funeral, but it didn’t feel right turning Ella’s sister away. And he was sure Ada wouldn’t listen to him.

           “She’s upstairs,” Alfie told her.

           “Did you try talking to her?” Ada removed her coat, letting him take it.

           He nodded and hung the coat up on one of the hooks by the door. “When I got here she locked herself in the room. Won’t open the door for me or nothing. Only told me to keep you lot away.”

           “She’s good at isolating. It’s what Tommy does.” Ada replied. She’d known Ella since she was born. Had seen nearly every temper tantrum the girl pulled. For a while, she was just like the rest of the siblings. A Shelby who was damned good at kicking up a fuss until she was red-faced and screaming profanities that she’d only just learned. But as she matured, she turned to locking herself away to keep out the world. She learned from the best, Tommy, who could effectively block out everything for a good period of time.    

           But despite their brother’s death, Ada wasn’t going to let Ella retreat into herself. They all needed to be on their toes. Their world wasn’t safe anymore.

           “Can I get you anything, Ada?” Alfie asked. He figured one of them had to be civil. And since Ella had taken the aggressive route with her siblings, he had to play the peacemaker. The role was making his skin crawl. He never could’ve imagined being in Small Heath playing nice with all the Shelbys. It was like a bad nightmare. But he didn’t have an issue with Ada, so that was something.

           “No thank you.” She replied and headed upstairs. Halfway up, she could hear someone crying. When she knocked on the door, it quieted a little.

           “Alfie, I’m not hungry. I told you.” Ella spoke, her voice stuffed up from crying.

           “It’s not Alfie,” Ada replied. “Can I come in?”

           There was a moment of silence as Ella considered the question. “I told Alfie not to let anyone in.”

           “Well, I think it’s a good thing he didn’t listen to you. This isn’t what you need right now.”

           Another minute of quiet before there were footsteps and a click of the door unlatching. Ella opened the door and let her older sister inside. Cyril was sprawled out on the floor, his long legs stretched out and Anthea was sleeping on Alfie’s pillow.

           Before she came in, Ada enveloped her in a big hug. “I’m not your enemy.” She whispered. “When have I ever been against you?”

           “When you ratted me out for sneaking out late with Tommy and Arthur,” Ella mumbled into Ada’s blouse.

           Ada laughed softly and stroked her baby sister’s hair back. “Okay, when have I been against you in the last ten years?”

           “Never.”

           “Exactly.” She ushered Ella over to the bed so they could sit. “Nothing about this is ideal.”

           Ella sniffled and curled up into Ada’s side. “It’s all gone to shit.”

           “I know. But there is hope and I think you know that.” Ada murmured softly. “You’re married, that’s something isn’t it?”

           “No one was happy ‘bout it. Arthur’s angry with me. So is Tom. They don’t want me to be fucking happy.”

           “I’m happy about it because I know he makes you happy.” Neither of them could speak on their brothers’ behalf although their reactions were strong. “Give it time and I think they’ll accept it.”

           “They won’t accept him.”

           Ada sighed. “Well, they didn’t accept Freddie at first.” She reminded her. “Just give it time and I promise things will get better.”

           “If we’re not all killed before then,” Ella muttered cynically and withdrew from her sister’s side. She scooped up Anthea and snuggled the puppy close.

           Ada decided it wasn’t in Ella’s best interest to keep harping on the bleak situation they were stuck in. “Where’d you get this little thing?” She wondered.

           “I found her in Margate when Alfie and I were on holiday,” Ella answered. Her fingers grazed over the mark on the pit bull’s head that was nothing but a scar at that point. She wanted to brag about how Alfie had made Anthea’s abuser pay for what he’d done. How he saved the woman who had been abused too. But she didn’t think Ada would understand.

           “What’d you name her then?” Ada picked up the puppy from her sister’s arms.

           “Anthea. I named her after that book you used to read me.”

           Ada smiled. “Five Children and It. Yes, I remember.” Long winter nights when she sat by Ella’s bed. Reading fantastical stories to keep the cold chill at bay. Ella would smile and ask if they could go to Neverland or Wonderland or find the Secret Garden. Ada couldn’t break her free spirit so she said, yes. They would go as soon as they could. It was enough to keep the little girl optimistic even in the slums of Small Heath.

           Now, what could they do to escape when they were caged in? Fairytales weren’t enough anymore.

           “I couldn’t remember all their names. I couldn’t remember the other girl. I remembered Robert and Hilary. I named her that because of Cyril. Cyril was one of the children. The oldest one.” Ella rambled on quietly.

           “Jane,” Ada recalled. “Jane was the younger sister.”

           “That’s right.”

           The sisters went silent. Ada set Anthea down and let her curl up in Ella’s lap again. Her fingers stroked over the pup’s sleek slate-colored fur.

           “El…”

           She sighed and rubbed her eyes. “Ada, please, I don’t want to argue.”

           “No, I’m not here to argue,” Ada replied. “I told you that I’m not against you. I wanted to know what happened. When did you get married?” She hoped that the light conversation would help her sister open up a little bit instead of burrowing further into her shell.

           It appeared to work because a small smile crossed Ella’s pink lips. “He asked me to marry him a few months ago. Said he didn’t want to live another day without me as his wife.” She shrugged sheepishly and glanced down at the wedding ring on her finger. It rested comfortably beside her mother’s ring.

           Ada smiled warmly. “It’s clear how much you love each other.”

           “He’s everything to me.” Ella fiddled with the diamond ring. “I feel like I can truly be myself with him. I just want things to be okay so I can be with him.”

           Ada tucked a piece of Ella’s hair behind her ear. “You will.” She promised softly. There was no certainty anymore but at least they were together again. “Your hair’s gotten so long. Do you want me to cut it?”

           Ella nodded. “Yeah, I didn’t want to do it myself and fuck it up.” She mumbled.

           “Alright, I’ll grab my scissors and we can do that.” Ada stood up and kissed Ella’s forehead. “You should eat something, Alfie’s worried ‘bout you.”

           Ella nodded when she felt her stomach rumble. “Okay.” She smiled and followed Ada out of the room and out of her isolation.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           From then on, things were shaky with her family. Ella relied more on Ada and Polly instead of her brothers. Arthur was still heated about her relationship with Alfie but it was clear he missed his sister terribly. Tommy, on the other hand, was too caught up in his responsibilities to fix anything. They needed to get along by necessity. Small Heath was well…small. They couldn’t avoid each other at all, instead, they had to be cordial.

           As John’s death sunk in, the Shelby siblings began to realize the implications of holding their grudges. There was no telling if something else would happen to one of them. None of them wanted their last words to be ones of anger. So they slowly began to lower their defenses around each other.

           Ella bit her tongue and did her best to smile more instead of kicking off. It worked in her favor and they managed to keep the peace even as the Golds infiltrated their lives and their territory.

           “Snuck you in some chocolate.” Ella entered the hospital room where her cousin had been healing. She shooed away the Blinders standing on guard by the door. “The good stuff, from Switzerland.” She pulled the bar of chocolate out of her purse. “I know where your mum keeps it.”

           Michael smiled. He still appeared weak although he was in much better condition than the day before. “Happen to sneak in some gin too?” He joked half-heartedly.

           “Next time.” She winked and went to open the shades a little more.

           “My mum with you?” Michael began to peel open the wrapper of the candy. It was the first time he didn’t feel nauseous while looking at food.

           “She’s on her way. We took different cars because I need to be somewhere else after this.” Ella explained and wandered over to the table that had a few bouquets of flowers. She cleaned up a few fallen petals and leaves, tossing them in the bin.

           He eyed her with a raised eyebrow as she cleaned up. “Who are you and what have you done with my cousin?”

           Ella stuck her tongue out at him. “Sorry I don’t like living in a pigsty like you apparently do.” She retorted playfully.

           “No, I just didn’t think you’d be all…wifey.”

           She involuntarily flinched at the word. After the strong reaction from her family, she didn’t really want to bring it up again. Best they all just ignored it until they could all go their separate ways. Her bitter side wanted to shove it right in their face. Tell them all how much she loved Alfie and how well he treated her. But it would only stir the pot. Bite her tongue, that’s all she could do anymore. “Tommy told you?”

           “My mum did.” He shrugged but the movement made him wince. “Feel like the world’s gotten all shaken up.” He mumbled. They all knew she’d been living in Camden for quite some time with the Jewish gangster but they didn’t expect marriage without some warning.

           She stopped tidying up and chewed on her lip. “I know but things will work out and we can all go back to normal. I suppose we just have to listen to Tommy.” The idea gave her a sour taste in her mouth.

           “Your normal is back to Camden?” Michael’s tone was a little accusatory but she paid him no mind. It wasn’t Ella’s decision whether her cousin continued to blindly follow Tommy.

           “I’ll be returning to my life with my husband, yes.” She said in a clipped tone. Sometimes her cousin was too much like her brother. It was strange how time with the Peaky Blinders had changed him so much.

           The doors to the hospital room opened and Polly interrupted the curt conversation between cousins. She went to sit beside her son’s hospital’s bed. “How are you?” She murmured softly and smoothed his hair back.

           “Well, he’s talking, that’s for sure,” Ella muttered and passed by her aunt.

           Polly frowned when she appeared to notice something startling. “C’mere.”

           “What?”

           “Come here.” She insisted again with an irritated glare and beckoned her over insistently. “Did you forget that I don’t like to repeat myself?”  

           Ella sighed and walked over to the older woman. “What?” She asked again. Without warning, Polly cupped her left breast. Ella jumped and tried to bat her hand away. “Oi! I don’t go ‘round grabbing your tits without fucking asking!”

           She let go after a moment but only to do the sign of the cross. “Lord help me, you’re pregnant.”

           Michael nearly began to choke on the piece of chocolate he’d bitten off. “Fucking what?” He wheezed.

           Ella froze and stared blankly at her aunt. “No…”

           Never liking her intelligence second-guessed, Polly raised an eyebrow. “When’s the last time you bled?”

           “Could you have this conversation elsewhere?” Michael pled. If he wasn’t being held together by stitches then he certainly would’ve gotten up and left.

           “Hush.” His mother scolded him. “Ella Laura Shelby, you answer me this instant.”

           “Ella Solomons not Shelby.” She mumbled defiantly. “And I don’t remember. I left my diary in London. Didn’t have a chance to take it with me.”

           “Well, you’ll be having twins then.” Polly dug into her purse for a cigarette. “Boy and a girl.”

           Ella let out a hysterical little laugh and fell into a chair, a hand over her forehead in disbelief. “Fuck off! You said Frances Lee was going to have twins and she just had one.”

           “She had Irish twins.” Polly rolled her eyes. “I was fucking close enough.”

           “I’m not pregnant.”

           “Do we even have other twins in the family? Isn’t it a genetic thing?” Michael wondered. If he had to be in the room for the conversation, he was going to listen.

           “No, must be from Alfie’s side.” Polly shrugged. “Can’t recall having any twins in the immediate family. Maybe some distant cousins but none very close.”

           “I’m not pregnant!”

           “Tommy’ll have a fit,” Michael remarked, ignoring his cousin’s interjections just as much as his mother was.

           “He’ll be fine.” Polly brushed off the concern. “I think he’s got other things to be concerned about. Maybe children will settle some of the dust.”

           “I’m not fucking pregnant!” Ella snapped and stood up. “And you two better not go running ‘round blabbing that I am. This conversation doesn’t fucking leave this room.” She jabbed a finger at both of them. “It ends here and now because, and fuck me if I have to repeat myself again, I’m. Not. Pregnant.”

           Polly looked vaguely amused as she smoked. “Fine, just don’t come whining to me when you’ve gone into labor. I’ll deliver the babies but only after you’ve apologized.”          

           Her niece let out a frustrated noise and stormed out of the hospital room.

~~~~~~~~~~~

         Alfie was not fond of Small Heath. There were plenty of reasons why but the one that stuck out the most, aside from the persistent smell of coal, was how small it felt. Not to mention it wasn’t the place he wanted to spend the first year married. Ella, in his opinion, deserved much more. After consulting with Tommy about what in the hell he planned to do, Alfie returned back to Watery Lane.

           Ella was sitting by a gramophone. No music played, she was holding two records in either hand, her eyes flicking back and forth between them. It appeared she was trying to decide what to play, but Alfie could see she was wrestling with something much bigger.

           “How you doing, love?” He slipped off his hat and coat. “Thinking ‘bout your brother?”

           She didn’t look up from the records. Simply a soft hum answered him.

           “Right, well…these things take time. Jews, yeah, we have a particularly long mourning period.” He lowered himself down on the sofa beside her. Cyril came trotting over to place his head in Alfie’s lap. “Thirty days at least. Then for parents, it’s a full fucking year.” She didn’t say anything in response, simply made another noise of acknowledgment. Her eyes were gazing out into space, staring at the songs listed on the record. “Me mum died when I was in the war. Sorta when I started to grow me beard. Not supposed to shave or anything for that time. Just so happened it covered up my scar.” He chuckled weakly and rubbed the back of his neck.

           “Your mum…” Ella finally spoke.

           He glanced at her. “Yeah…what about her?”

           Her eyes snapped up from the record, fixing instead on the wall across from them. “Did you have any twins in your family?”

           It seemed like a sharp detour from the conversation Alfie was having with himself. And such a strange question. He blinked and gathered his surprise. “Erm…yeah.” He said. “Me mum had twin sisters. One died in Russia while they were tryna escape.”

           Ella’s breathing became shallower and the room spun. Polly was right. She had to be, when was her aunt ever wrong? Dark spots danced in her sight and Ella swayed to the side.

           “El, what on Earth has gotten into you? You’ve gone pale!” Alfie touched the back of his hand to her forehead to see if she was running a fever. “Love, talk to me.” He coaxed.

           “I uh-” It was as if the words were lodged in Ella’s throat. She couldn’t even fathom getting them out. Letting them sit in the open air between them. “I think you need to call my aunt.” She whispered.

           “Polly? Why?” His worry peaked. It wasn’t the time to brush off concern. Something had clearly spooked his wife. Had the Italians gotten to her? Had they sent her a message while he was absent?

           “Just, please call her.”

           His brow furrowed but he stood and went straight to the phone to dial Polly’s number.

           “Gray residence.”

           “D’you know why me wife’s gone catatonic?” Alfie asked gruffly.

           “And hello to you, Alfie.” Polly didn’t sound at all worried. Of course, she knew her niece was stunned. She’d gotten some very stunning news that she was no doubt still trying to deny.

           “Do you know or not?”

           “She’s asked you to break the news?”

           Alfie threw his hand up. The way Shelbys were so vague sometimes made him want to scream. He much preferred it when people were blunt. “What news!?”

           Polly assumed that Ella had granted her permission. That or she couldn’t say it out loud without throwing up. “She’s pregnant.”

           He felt a massive shockwave tremor from the Earth. His jaw fell and a hand lifted to his mouth. It felt like hours until he heard Polly speak again. For a long while, it felt like the rest of the world had fallen away.

           “Did you fall over?”

           “No.” The word slipped out without volition. It didn't even feel like he was the one speaking.  

           “Talk to her. I’m sure you’re both a bit scared. But it is a wonderful thing. A gift to a marriage.” Polly’s voice was soft. It would be something to have a new life brought into the family after such a devastating loss.

           “Yeah…right…okay.” He mumbled and slowly hung up the phone. Dazed, he wandered back into the parlor.

           Ella was still waiting on the couch, her eyes wide with apprehension. It was obvious that Polly had broken the news but she was still hellbent on denying it. “I’m not pregnant.” She whispered.

           Alfie couldn’t help the scoff of disbelief. “Then why’d Polly tell me you fucking were?”

           Immediately, tears began to form in her eyes. She crumpled into herself, tucking her knees up to her chest.

           He sighed and walked over to her. “I’m sorry. I just…I was caught off guard.” His voice softened and he gathered her into his arms.

           “I’m not…she’s wrong.”

           Alfie wanted to tread carefully. The last thing he wanted was to make her feel worse or make her think he was angry with her. She buried her face into his chest and cried softly. “Love…” He sighed away some stress and held her close. “You sure ‘bout that?”

           She sniffled and shrugged.

           He puffed out his cheeks before exhaling heavily. “If you are…ain’t saying you are. But if you are, I think that’d be all right. Don’t you think?” If anything, he felt a little daft for never discussing the idea of children with his wife. He had thought about it, what husband hadn’t? Had noticed Ella’s gaze lingering at the prams that passed by on the street. Saw how well she handled her friend’s children when she watched after them. He was also well aware that the Shelbys typically had larger families. It was uncannily Jewish. Get married and see how many kids you could pop out before you dried up and hoped that at least one of them would be grateful enough to care for you in your elderly years.

           But perhaps it was the secretive way they’d wed. A brief ceremony at the council. Afterward, they held a dinner with friends and family who rejoiced over the news but were disappointed they’d been robbed of a large Jewish wedding. Most of them assumed that when it came to the unlikely couple’s marriage, Ella would convert. That way the wedding could be legal and Godly. Plus it would allow their future children to be raised in a fully Jewish household.

           And yet, maybe they should’ve considered how unorthodox the whole thing was. It seemed Alfie and Ella couldn’t have cared less whether or not they’d be accepted by anyone. Not even God.

           “Alfie this is the worst possible time for me to be pregnant.” Ella reminded him. “If you forgot, we’re being hunted.”

           “I mean…” He ran a hand over his eyes and stifled a groan. “Did you not want kids? Know we never discussed it…sorta just figured.”

           Ella let her head fall backward. “I dunno I can’t even think straight right now.”

           “El, look at me.” Alfie guided her eyes to him. “This is gonna be alright. I want a family with you. And this stuff with the Italians, it ain’t gonna ruin us.”

           She dabbed at her eyes with her sleeve. “I’m just scared.”

           It wasn’t fair to lie to her, he knew that. She was in a fragile state and the last thing she needed was false hope. But she’d been hit with such a streak of bad luck, as had the rest of the Shelby family. And Alfie hoped that maybe this one glimmer of good news would change things. Make her see that there was some good in the world. Make her smile again like she used to in Camden. He would see them through this, that’s all he could do. But it killed him inside to see her so bitter and angry. So much so that she couldn’t even be happy about the news of her own pregnancy.

           “I’m scared too, love.” Alfie murmured and stroked her hair back. “Fucking scared to have two newborns at the same time. D’you think they’ll be nice to us and stay on the same schedule?”

           She furrowed her brow. “What?”

           The corner of his lips tugged into a smile. “I mean, we’re absolutely fucked if they got our stubbornness. One’ll wanna go to bed and the other’ll be up screaming all night.”

           Ella couldn’t help but picture the scene. Alfie trying to lull a baby who was in full temper tantrum mode. Maybe he’d be singing softly, or rocking the babe back and forth. Maybe Anthea and Cyril would pitch in and start howling. Perhaps the other twin was fast asleep in the crib. Or maybe both babies were wide awake and crying. One in each of Alfie’s arms.

           “Guess we’ll hafta take shifts then.” Alfie sighed. “’Course it’ll be worth it. Won’t it? Having two little ‘uns with your blue eyes.”      

           Finally, his wife began to smile. “I suppose.”

           “Figure we can get a good routine going. Kids like routines? Like Cyril does? I have no fucking clue.”

           “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

           He chuckled and ran a hand through his hair. The realization that he would be a father soon was still setting in. “Maybe they’ll be easy, won’t cry too much. I mean, s’alright if they do. But it’d be nice to have an uninterrupted sleep schedule.”

           Ella couldn’t help but laugh. “You think two kids with Shelby and Solomons traits are going to be perfect angels?” She asked with a raised eyebrow. “I’ll have you know, each and every one of us were absolute terrors. Just ask Pol.”

           “Shit.” He faked a grimace. “Well…too late I s’pose. Will hafta make with what we’ve got.”

           She sighed and cuddled close to him. “You’re something else, Mr. Solomons.” She murmured.

           “Well, you married me, Mrs. Solomons. So you must like that ‘something else’.” He replied cheekily.

           “I like you alright.” Ella kissed his cheek and rested against his shoulder. “I guess I’ve got to tell everyone before Polly and Michael let it slip.” She mumbled begrudgingly.

           “If they have a fucking issue with it, then they can speak with me.” Alfie responded protectively. “Ain’t nothing wrong with a husband and wife starting a family together.”

           He made it sound so simple. As if there wasn’t a war raging around them. They were simply a man and a woman planning for the arrival of twins. It comforted Ella for just a moment. But she couldn’t forget where they were or what they were up against.

~~~~~~~~~~~

           Tommy let his head fall to the desk not caring when his forehead hitting the wood surface. Pregnant. His baby sister was bloody pregnant with Alfie Solomons. No matter what he did, he couldn’t catch a break. Surely God was punishing him for his long line of sin.

Fine. That was fine.

           Ella stood in front of the desk; her arms crossed over her chest. Alfie stood beside her; a bit on edge. Either Tommy took it well, or the Shelby man took it poorly and jumped over the desk to strangle Alfie.

           “Can I get one fucking moment of peace from you two?” Tommy demanded, lifting his head. His eyes flicking from his sister to his, for Christ’s sake, brother-in-law.

           Ella pulled a face. “Oh, I’m sorry, everyone else in this family is allowed to have as many fucking kids as they want, but I can’t? Even though I’m happily married.”

           The word made her brother cringe. It would admittedly take some getting used to. “That’s not what I fucking meant,” Tommy grumbled and rubbed his eyes. “Who else knows?” He asked.

           “Polly and Michael,” Alfie answered. “Haven’t told anyone else.”

           “Keep it that way.” Tommy asserted firmly. “That’s all who needs to know right now. Me, Polly, and Michael. Don’t go talking about it to everyone in Birmingham.” He looked pointedly at his sister. “We don’t need this news getting out. After this is settled, you can go tell everyone who’ll listen.”

           “Oh, well, thank fucking God for your permission, Thomas,” Ella replied sharply. “I don’t see why it’s such an issue that our family knows.”

           “I agree with Tommy,” Alfie spoke up. “Best it’s kept quiet until we can trust the people ‘round us.”

           His wife looked annoyed that he’d agreed with Tommy but relented. “Fine. No one else will know.”

           “Good.” Tommy found it odd that Alfie was helping him win battles with his sister. Odd, but slightly gratifying. At least the two weren’t teaming up against him. He pointed his cigarette at Alfie. “I’ve heard your nephew fights in the ring.”

           “Goliath? Yeah, fucking Southern County’s Welterweight champion. Fucking animal, that lad is. Ain’t got no soul.” Alfie nodded. “Why’d you ask?”

           “Think I’ve got a worthy opponent for him.”

           Ella narrowed her eyes. “You’re talking about having a boxing match? Now of all times? What, so I can’t tell people I’m fucking pregnant but you can have some show?”

           “We’re not hiding in tunnels, Eloise,” Tommy replied. The migraine that had been plaguing him all morning was really starting to do a number on him.

           Ella rested her hands on the desk and leaned towards her brother. “What the fuck did you just call me?” She hissed.

           “Your name.” Tommy retorted deadpan.

           Alfie frowned. “Hang on, is Ella short for Eloise?” He looked puzzled.

           “No, it’s the name of our bastard father’s mother. And I do not go by it. Ever.” She glared at Tommy. “Are you trying to get a rise outta me, Thomas?”

           “You’re pregnant, El, not good to get all worked up.”

           “Men.” She spat and grit her teeth. “Fucking Shelby men who think their world is theirs to own. Think they can get away with fucking anything.” She threw her hands up and stalked out of the room, deciding it wasn’t worth a screaming match.

           Alfie went to follow her but paused. “So, I’m to assume that if I ever called her Eloise, I’d get me cock chopped off.”

           “Only if she’s got a knife in her hand, Alfie.”

            “Right, got it.” He gave a curt nod before leaving the office.

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Masterpost

Masterlist 

[dustedmagazine]

Listed: Dr. Pete Larson

Dr. Pete Larson runs Dagoretti Records now, he’s gotten there by an unusually long and winding road. Earlier in his career, Larson fronted 25 Suaves and Couch and ran BULB records. He also trained as an epidemiologist and spent time in Kenya studying the transmission of malaria. While in Kenya, he developed an interest in a lute-like eight-stringed instrument called a nyatiti and studied it with the master player Oduor Nyagweno. All these interests collide in a striking first album from Dr. Pete Larson and His Cytotoxic Nyatiti Band, where the nyatiti “cuts through a haze of electric rock distortion, pinging rhythmically and restlessly against floating euphorias of ululating vocals,” per Jennifer Kelly’s review. Here he lists some favorites from several continents.

I have been asked to create one of these lists for Dusted and here’s what I came up with. Making these lists is kind of difficult. I have a hard time remembering what I’ve been listening to at any moment, but here is a collection of old and new that get frequent airplay in my home. I play a Kenyan lyre, so this heavily leans toward lyre and harps and East African music in general, with some other choice cuts thrown in.

Musicians Of The National Dance Company Of Cambodia — Homrong (Real World Records)

I think I got this record (CD) back in the early 90s when I was selling music to Caroline Records. A friend sent me a box of CD promos, most of which wasn’t very interesting, but fortunately, this one was included. I don’t really know anything about Cambodian music, but for some reason, this collection of mid-tempo Cambodian court jamz plays every couple of months. Lots of weird sort of lurching rhythms and chorus singing with an erhu like instrument over it. A great listen.

Maleem Mahmoud Ghania w/ Pharoah Sanders — Trance of the Seven Colors

The Trance Of Seven Colors by Maleem Mahmoud Ghania w/ Pharoah Sanders

Trance inducing this is. Maleem Mahmoud Ghania is (was) one of the 20th century masters of Moroccan Gnawa music, a sort of spiritual, bass-heavy, rolling kind of music of Morocco. Any recording by Maleem Mahmoud is going to impress, but this mash of up of Gnawa with the great Pharoah Sanders is another level. If you are familiar with Gnawa music, it is a little disorienting to hear Sanders howl over the slow burn trance jamz but you are quickly drawn into what a perfect matchup this ended up being. Released on CD in the 90s, it fortunately has finally gotten a proper vinyl release.

Momoyama Harue — “Lullaby for the mother demon’s baby” (桃山晴衣* ‎– 鬼の女の子守唄)

I was playing the shamisen for a while (a three stringed lute from Japan) and found Momoyama Harue as part of my research. Shamisen is kind of a folky instrument for drinking parlors and entertainment of old Japan. The instrument and the music was nearly dead but saw a revival in the 1960s, similar to folk revivals in the US that brought the banjo back. Momoyama, however, was kind of an outlier, more arty than folky, and more poetry than song. Rather than box the music in an imagined past or try to hopelessly smash it into amplified rock music, she pushed it forward, blending it with ambient synth along with Indian and Middle Eastern musics. One of her best collaborations was with the great Egyptian oud player Hamza el Din that was nearly dead until the 1960s. All of the songs on this record are haunting (as the title suggests), but these tracks with el Din are truly singular. I have been searching for a vinyl copy of this record for years; one day I’ll get lucky.

Lucas Odote — “J. Oreng”

Nyatiti Singles Volume 1 by Lucas Odote

I spent several years in Kenya learning to play the nyatiti, an eight stringed lyre historically played by a group of people in an area around Lake Victoria. I also spent time collecting records, searching for hours in dusty boxes for Kenyan traditional music records. One of my best finds was at Jimmy’s Records in Kenyatta Markets, this record by the great Nairobi based nyatiti player Lucas Odote. Most nyatiti records are just a guy playing solo and more ethno than funky. But this one seems to be Lucas teaming up with what I think to be Nairobi funksters, the Loki Toki Tok band. At least that’s what I can guess. My copy is beat to hell. It took some doing to get some sound out of it, but this is one of my faves in my collection.

Siti Muharam — Siti of Unguja (Romance Revolution On Zanzibar)

Siti of Unguja (Romance Revolution On Zanzibar) by Siti Muharam

I swear I saw Siti Muharam sing on the deck of a hotel bar while vacation in Zanzibar several years ago. I can’t be certain, but I am pretty sure it was her singing for the band I saw. The traditional form of Taarab music is something to be experienced. Taarab music comes from the Arab coast of East Africa, and is this fantastic mix of local feel and Arab sounds, overlapped with heart wrenching songs of lost love and longing. I think there are some foreigners involved in this production, but this is an excellent document of Taarab music at its best.

Grandmaster Masese — “Orogena rwa Baba”

Grandmaster Masese: New African Soundz Singles No.1 by Grandmaster Masese

It might be gauche to put records from your own label on a list like this, but I am first a music fan and second a musician and third a music seller… so this one stays. G-master is a friend of mine from Kenya and one of the best humans I know. One of just a handful of people who play the Obokano, a giant 8 stringed lyre that emits an unforgettable sub-bass buzzing sound and this was his first release in the US and one of my favorite records ever. We recorded this in his kitchen in Nairobi with just a couple of mics over dinner. G is a cool guy. You should listen to his music.

Yagi Michiyo — Seventeen

Yagi is another Japanese musician who specializes in what one would think is a “traditional” instrument, but who brings much more to the table than one would expect. Yagi is a koto player by training. You have probably heard koto in the background music for scenes of Japan in American movies. The version you hear there is mostly lifeless and flat, kind of like a plastic chair in the corner. Yagi, however, plays the 17 string bass koto, invented in the 1920s or so, to try and give new life to the instrument. Yagi creates weird percussive, dissonant music that I can’t really get enough of.

Asnakech Worku (featuring Hailu Mergia) — Asnakech

Asnakech by Asnakech Worku

Asnakech Worku was a lot of things; pioneer, actress, but most notably a female Krar player. Certainly there might have been other female Krar players in Ethiopia at the time, but Krar players are mostly men. The Krar is a lyre from Ethiopia, mostly played with one hand, though there are several playing styles out there. Worku plays haunting sounds on her Krar on this record, backed up by famous Ethiopian keyboardist Hailu Mergia, who really needs no intro.

Ogola Opot — “Domtila Ogola”

This will probably be the only 78 on this list. Ogola Opot is considered the grandfather of the Kenyan nyatiti, coming to prominence in the 1960s and 70s, and creating the genre we know as Siaya style “traditional nyatiti.” If someone asks me what nyatiti music sounds like, this is probably where I would have people start. I include this first because it is a great record and second because it was my holy grail for a while (though I always have new holy grails) and managed to find a pristine copy for sale from a place in France recently. I am not going to say how much I paid for it.

Sosena Gebre Eyesus — S/T (Little Axe Records)

Sosena Gebre Eyesus by Sosena Gebre Eyesus

I bought this record off the net because I am a huge fan of Begena music, this haunting, trance inducing music from Ethiopia that appears to be the go-to for Ethiopian Christians… but this record explained nothing of that. Just a picture of a lady with a begena and no other info…. It took me a while to put together what the record was and where it came from, but the sounds contained within are impeccable. Just 40 minutes of weird undersea tones on a giant bass lyre.

[mrsunderhill678]

Hehe, guess who wrote more shit? Well, it’s not shit, but uhhh... Yeet

“Hope for the future is just optimism based in dead realities.” - West Von Sparrow

“He's claimed me as a butcher would a carcass, he's bled me dry and left me ta hang on this hook. I have been flayed of my soul, of my flesh, of my fucking humanity, guess I should'a learned he who rolls against the house, never holds the damn die.” - West Von Sparrow

“You may be a monster, but I'm just a little less than human, and that's what makes me, dangerous." - West Von Sparrow

“It's the break of a new dawn, and though the dusk took my last sunrise, I ain't giving in, cause after all, the sun doesn't rise only once. So when the night comes, just remember, bravery gets you through the night, love gets you through the day.” - Delilah Coraline

“It's beautiful, isn't it? When you find someone to share your world with?” - Evangeline Frights

“Guess I'm an oaf that's seen some shit, but so long as I'm her oaf, I bet I'll be fine.” - Crane Hemmington

“I haven't been in the trenches, but blood spilled is a war in of itself, thing is, you become the enemy.” - Crane Hemmington

“Everything that is yours, can just as easily be mine, possession of self is all you have, and even that can be taken.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“Life is the most precious thing to steal, is it not? Not only do you steal a life, but the joy the memories of the poor bloke you slew held in those who loved him's mind.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“Greed is such a twisted thing, and I suppose that is why I am tangled.” - Ballith Greedpaw

“If you want to speak in the language of what haunts you the most, you'll find yourself speaking the tongue of your mind.” - Damon Watkinson

“I, can do whatever I want, cause in a game with no consequences, why would I choose to lose? You don't reach the end of the checkerboard without the words, "King me," rolling off your tongue. You don't trap the other player's King without saying "Checkmate," so why would I get this far just to say, "Sorry?" - Damon Watkinson

“I have seen the truth, and a thousand lies, and perhaps, I am nothing more than one of the thousand.” - Damon Watkinson

“Our love is magical in the sense that it is beautiful in all it's simplicity and complexity.” - Gracie Hangers

“Life's been a struggle, of black eyes and bloody knuckles, the betrayal of false love and hopes, but whenever my heart falters and threatens to stop, I look into the eyes of my children, and find a reason to fight.” - Camille Trueblood

“I thought I fell in love, when all I really did was tumble off the fucking cliffside. God, I dived into those waters so willingly, drowned for a man who doesn't God damn care. All he's ever been is a false promise, and I guess those hurt more than lies, don't they? Lies are so easy to catch, but a false promise of love is so seductive, especially for a girl with... Nothing. All I had was my heart, and I guess he took that too.” - Jenna Coleburg

“The sun always fades into the night, you're guaranteed to spend some of your days in darkness, but that ain't what matters. What matters, is that you fight through it, and come out God damn smiling. It's what I did, ain't the strongest man of all, the one that comes out of hell still smiling? Or perhaps, the one who walks into hell, smiling.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“I was swung from the gallows for sumthin' I never would'a done.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“Just because something is damaged, don't mean it can't deal some.” - Carter Gariah-Smith

“Funny, huh, how in these thirty odd years of mine, I knew her for three, and if you think about it, those were the only three years I lived.” - Avelice Bevelriks

“I lost everythin', really, Sandy, my darling wife, she was my rope, and I guess ever since she snapped I just been floatin. It's cold in these hands of mine, these memories of her. I'm tryin' so desperately ta hold onta em, but they're slippin, they are. Her smile, her laugh, it's all faded. Don't even remember the sound of her heart no more. Though... I can still see her, in my daughter. Her eyes, her laugh, hell, even her smile or the way she sits. Sometimes it's hard lookin' at my daughter, some days it's like I'm lookin' back at Sandy's ghost.” - Casimiro Boeheken

“I've seen the devil's dreams, where young men die by young men's hands, where boys turn ta men and mothers ta widows.” - Casimiro Boeheken

 “Got a noose round my neck, and the floorboards are creakin' underneath me. Either I can cut the rope, or let them floorboards give way, cause either way, I'm free.” - Casimiro Boeheken

“Everything we do has a song, a melody, a voice. And I can hear the song in his smile, harps and echoes of angels, but I can hear the tinge of pain that haunts him.” Marinda Weathers

“I live to love, I live to lift up those around me and tell them, "You're strong, you're brave, and God, are you beautiful, live life like a butterfly, flutter those wings and fly. Because life is short, and you, are loved." - Marinda Weathers

“Day in day out, I fight, I win, and I move on. That's life, these days. Days pass, but I don't.” - Garret Weathers

“Everyone loves the angel with broken wings, huh? Cause they fight the hardest to get their wings back, only to realize, they're the savior of nothing, and they're ripping their own damn wings.” - Garret Weathers

“We can fight the dark, punch it square in the jaw and tell it to back off, cause the dark's only got place in our life when it's lightin' up the stars, and we ain't here to stay in the shade.” - Bob Weathers

“He who won't accept all of ya, don't accept ya at all. The bravest thing you can ever do is be you in the face of the man who hates ya.” - Bob Weathers

“My lullaby sings of secrets I cannot possibly understand, and my heart plucks the chords of joys forgotten and tragedies resurfaced, such a melancholy tune, this melody of my scars.” - Beatrice

“It's like Amethyst and Wanda are my lighthouse, constantly guiding me home. Even if I'm drowning I can see their light from underneath the waves.” - Gracie Ace

“Perhaps I ain't got no stars leadin' the way, but I got my heart givin' me direction. Sure, it's scarred, and God is it battered, but it's flutterin' them wings with everythin' it's got, and me? I'm still pumpin', blood's still coursin' through my veins, so I'm alive, and by every God, I'm fuckin' kickin.” - Crystal Bones

“It's kill or be killed, and I guess we just ain't dyin.” - Alfred Godsel

“In the eyes of many, I'm a hero, but in my eyes, all I see is a man with a gun, who pulled a trigger, and ended a life, but still somehow managed to make the most egregious of sins look like a hero's doin. How the hell did we manage to make spillin' blood somethin' noble?” - Alfred Godsel

“I've lost a lot, but I'll save my grievin' for the livin', for those who've managed to die before they ever hit the dirt.” - Alfred Godsel

“They say dead men tell no tales, but when I come knocking, oh, you'll be wishing that was true, you can pray to every god you know, but that won't save you, no one can. Because he who you silenced, have ripped the stitches from their mouth and out tumbled your secrets, right into my ear.” - Celestia Cloven

“At first I thought it a curse, the whispers of the dead, but not anymore... Not anymore. They speak to me their secrets only so they may find rest, and so he who wrought him demise, may be brought what they deserve. And I, am what they deserve.” - Celestia Cloven

“Belief can be either beautiful, or oppressive, it's up to the morals of the man who believes to create the damn definition.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“Until the fires of this revolution swallow us whole we will shout, we will cry and weep, cause freedom ain't so quietly taken away.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“You wanna kill us, go ahead? Show us just exactly who, you, are. Cause we already know, all yer doin' by killin' us, is provin' us God damn right.” - Jakobi Warcoat

“I've been running all night, trying to find myself, but sometimes I feel... Lost. But maybe that's not a bad thing, you know? The lost boys found a purpose in Neverland, after all.” - Gayle Flint

“I've got scars, and God do they show, the markings of a lonely child lie on my wrist, and they hardly compare to the ones in my heart and my mind.” - Emma Flockheart

 “If a warrior isn't a woman who's been through hell but came out a better person, than I don't know what is.” - Emma Flockheart

“My father was the one who built the crumbling pillars of my heart anew, but now, without him, I'm crumbling, God, I'm crumbling.” - Juno

“Some days, I feel perfectly comfortable in my body, and other days it feels like a cage and I wish I could just scratch at my skin until I tore my way out.” - Juno

 “No matter where you run, or where you hide, your mind gives you up to your demons every fucking time.” - Juno

“You can't explain love, just feel it, and trust it.” - Lynsey Aldallen

“You have the strength of a thousand lions, you shed your mane, and traded it for the hunt, and as you were always meant to, you led the pride, with your claws and your strength, the remnants of your mane fluttering behind you. And that's beautiful, to be brave and vulnerable all at once.” - Lynsey Aldallen (For context, she’s talking about her sister, who’s trans)

“My mother rescued me, I rescued her, she's my hero, but sometimes, we have to fight for our heroes, because their strength falters. And when it does, it's up to us to save them.” - Lexie Rebhan

“I'm already swingin', I reckon, these gallows were made for selfish men like me, I imagine everyone'll cheer. All hail! All hail! The wicked man is dead, strung by his neck, payin' for his sins with the devil. It's damn well the fate a man like me deserves.” - Ron Jameson

“So oh gravedigger, vengeful angel of death, put me down as you would a wolf wearin' the single dead sheep's wool in the flock, watch me bleed. Cause that's what I did to you. I caused you're pain, I caused mine, just be lucky you don't have to live with me... Cause I do.” - Ron Jameson

 “I was born to be damned, as they say, they speak of me in such terrible ways, history is written by the victors, the patrons, the saints, never by she who made it.” - Selena Wolfmoon

“All who burned me at the stake only had to live with themselves, but I, I have to live with the actions of every single one of them, and, worst of all, I have to live with my death. The scalding of my flesh and the charring of my bones, the screams of my two daughters still haunt me. They way Eldridge begged and howled, or how Autumn cursed at those who damned her. And all I could do was howl in grief as we burned away, but I imagine we were lost, just as tears in the rain or stars upon the waking of the sun.” - Selena Wolfmoon

“I like to say I'm tough, but it ain't because 'a what I look like on the outside, but who I am on the inside. You could be strong as all shit and still be a weak man. All you ever gotta do ta be weak, is push another down, and all it takes ta be strong, is helpin' a man up.” - Elwood Sparrvitz

“I 'ave been made anew by the love I been showed and given, my heart no longer beats 'a regret and pain, but for my lovely wife and children. Cause if your heart don't beat for no one, what's life worth?” - Elwood Sparrvitz

“To be completely divine is as inhuman as it is to be entirely damned, entirely broken or whole, we are never one hundred percent, we are many pieces, smelling of ash and smoke, and the fire that created it.” - Diaze Calico

“Savagery suits her like a well tailored suit, or a ball gown on the most royal of queens. She is savagery, she wears blood like wine on her teeth, and your pain like the finest of shawls, and in the end, she shall wear that shawl of your scars and dance before you in it, she shall make a mockery of your death, for that's all you ever were.” - Diaze Calico

“You can believe that hell is not where you'll go, but that's the greatest lie the devil ever spun, that there was an option other than her, that there was a loving God watching us.” - Diaze Calico

“The wicked doth not sleep, they doth not live, only breathe this blood on their breath.” - Diaze Calico

“Out of all this pain I've been through, I've found that even if bullets had flown that day, and planes had been torn from the sky on burning wings, it was in my sleep, when my mind was at rest, that I felt the most bloody chaos.” - Duke Benson

“I should've died the day a bullet pierced me fucking skull, but all that's left is this scar on the Earth known as Duke bloody Benson.” - Duke Benson

“I'd ask for a prayer or an amen if I thought it'd saved our damned souls, but a single prayer won't save a man who's sinned.” - Duke Benson

“A prayer won't save a man who's lost his fucking faith.” - Duke Benson

“With a foe as cruel as myself, I was bound to bloody lose.” - Duke Benson

“Bury me six feet deep, mate, deeper if you can, because I am a soldier, a sinner, a beast, not a bloody man.” - Duke Benson

“Reckon me 'ands are as stained as the soil wifin' da trenches.” - Angel Benson

“Inside me is a boilin' angah, at da world, at dis pain, myself and anyone in point blank range. I imagine me angah's shot me point blank, left the man I was fokin' bleedin', dead from a single shot.” - Angel Benson

“I've always condemned what I can't fokin' understand. So if I fear meself, wot does that make me, aye?” - Angel Benson

“You know wot's fokin' funny? You don't 'ave ta fight in it, ta be bloody broken by it. You could be livin' untarnished boi it, next thing you know, a soldier's knockin' on your fokin' door. War breaks all. They who fight, and they who bloody don't.” - Angel Benson

“Raise a glass ta da sinner full 'a anger, raise a glass for the poor bastards and blokes war touched, cause all who 'ave known her embrace 'ave known pain no loving God could create. But never, mate, NEVER, raise a glass, to the bloody Bensons.” - Angel Benson

“When I'm finally in da dirt, where I belong, da world will keep spinnin', the sun will rise again, as it shall sink, and though it may rain, da world won't weep a single fuckin' tear, for da man known as Jerry Benson, cause mate, why should it?” - Jerry Benson

“Us soldiers, we're cheered for, celebrated, but dey care only for da actions, not for da man.” - Jerry Benson

“As I've learned, 'e who tastes death will find dat da aftertaste is an eternal stain on one's tongue. Da tang of iron and blood is all dey'll ever fuckin' know.” - Jerry Benson

“God created us to love 'im, and expected us ta be more selfless den he.” - Jerry Benson

“War don't change a man, no, it kills him, and replaces the soldier with itself.” - Mordakai Benson

“He who runs with the wolves is bound ta be ripped inta the moment he stops runnin', no wonder there's blood on my teeth.” - Mordakai Benson

“War don't give a damn who you are, what kinda pain you been through, it'll putcha through more while promisin' glory! That's the picture they paint. Soldiers woopin' for victory and glory for all who fight, but they always forget he who catches the fuckin' bullet.” - Mordakai Benson

“The only thing you and I got in common is that we were made by God, difference is, I was forgotten by him.” - Mordakai Benson

“Don't raise no glass for this soldier, don't pour no wine on my casket, cause I'm the lamb that strayed from the flock, only ta learn he always wore a wolf's fur.” - Mordakai Benson

“I’m one dead dream away from blasphemy.” - Calliger Cougar  

“They say life is short, Tommy, that it goes by in the blink of an eye, so why ain't we fucking dead yet? I blinked a hundred times, and I'll blink a hundred times more. Cause no matter what they say, it don't go by in the span of a blink, or like a bullet speedin' through the air. It's slow, and God damn miserable, this here ward is proof of that.” - Ben Stilts

[berlysbandcamp]

Force Majeure is an uplifting suite of real, soulful comfort music – an album that cathartically encapsulates an all-too-familiar human experience of 2020. Featuring 11 pieces performed by bassist Dezron Douglas & harpist Brandee Younger across a series of live-streamed shows from their living room in Harlem, NY, the album was self-recorded by the duo using just a single microphone. The same day Governor Andrew Cuomo shut down “non-essential” businesses throughout the state of New York, Douglas & Younger set up a window to the world that would prevail as a weekly musical reprieve over the devastating weeks and months to come. As the early effects of covid-19 plagued the citizens of New York City, Douglas & Younger did as we were all ordered to do — shelter-in-place. From their apartment in Harlem, their reflex as players and community-builders was immediate. Broadcasting via social media and spreading the word to friends and family, the duo hosted “Force Majeure: Brunch in the Crib with Brandee & Dezron,” a Friday morning live stream where they performed songs, said “hi” to friends tuning in, and passed a digital tip jar. The name “force majeure” — known to diligent contract-readers as a seldom-invoked bit of legalese that voids commitments in event of “extraordinary circumstances” — was, for Douglas & Younger, a reference to the sudden loss of livelihood that they and their musician peers suffered in the wake of covid-19. “We vowed to become a part of the resiliency of this city,” says Douglas. “You can take the work away, but you can’t stop musicians from being creative. Live streaming is just a part of it. The world as a whole saw that arts & entertainment is an integral and vital part of this ‘service’ city. We, musicians and creatives, are as essential to this city as the MTA is. The NYC community responded with love and honesty on a high level. Expression became vital for people to make it through the day and, at the same time, listening and watching expression became vital.” The success of Douglas & Younger’s initial live streams turned their series into an ongoing weekly ritual for a fast-growing audience of supporters. For most, it was a momentary musical break that helped ease the stressful weeks of lockdown, even as the weeks turned into months and the re-opening date extended further and further into the future. In late May, as the country erupted over the compounded murders of Ahmaud Arbery, Breonna Taylor, George Floyd, and countless other Black Americans, Douglas & Younger continued to connect from their Friday morning platform, uniting with more and more people through the healing power of playing, sharing, and listening. The series got attention from NPR, The Wall Street Journal, Boiler Room, Downbeat, and others; but regardless, finding the creative energy to devote to the project was a regular challenge for the two musicians. “Sometimes it was hard to be creative because the mood in the world was so dark, but every Friday we felt compelled to give back and allow GOD to heal through vibration,” says Douglas. Not only was the human connection vital, the duo felt a responsibility as stewards of music’s future. “Whatever the next thing is, I will make it a point to be involved because Music saved my life, saves lives, and must be taken care of.” The repertoire that Douglas & Younger performed began with standards they knew and music they wanted to learn (or “get inside of,” as Douglas often said), but evolved on a week-to-week basis to incorporate shifting emotions, milestones, and special requests from friends and family. Younger recalls: “In choosing the repertoire we played, it was definitely more organic and personal. When we realized a birthday of a certain artist or holiday was coming, we'd do something in dedication… Sometimes we'd pick the rep based on our mood. On those very dark days that Dez mentioned, we'd play “Sing" to perk up the mood. Something about that song just brings smiles all around. It was very hard to fake when the mood was dark, though. Marvin Gaye helped us out a lot during that time, as did some spirituals.” With what became their brunch staples they covered a broad range of memories and sounds, including classics by The Stylistics, The Jackson 5, Alice & John Coltrane, Pharoah Sanders, Kate Bush, Sting, and The Carpenters, as well as a co-written original composition with which they ended every set, “Toilet Paper Romance.” From the earliest sessions, the duo worked alongside International Anthem to review the weekly recordings; together they compiled, edited, and eventually arrived at the stream-to-songbook of Force Majeure. Between the choicest takes of tunes chosen for the final album sequence, they put excerpts of their sometimes cute or comedic, often profound banter. Notably Douglas’s voice ends both side A and side B with off-the-cuff variations of: “Black Music cannot be replicated, it can only be expressed.” Like poetic bookends for Force Majeure, his words could also serve as foundational principles for the work, underscoring the importance of authenticity and integrity in music. Douglas elaborates: “Black Music, no matter what genre, is exactly what it is — Music created by Black Musicians for the sake of vibrating on our own frequencies of understanding and empathy. I love all music, but I also recognize that music is a cultural and regional vibration. You don’t have to be Black to play Black music, but if you are out here making money off of Black Culture and have no empathy for the People and the Culture then you are even more part of the problem. Black Lives Matter because for a long time our lives didn’t matter and it was Normal — normal to society and normal to us as Black humans. What’s different between then and now is the fact that the Virus has given people time to focus on the current social media platform used to document evil in this world. The filming and documentation of the loss of human life to evil is more powerful than Politics and Government. It’s LIFE showing us how Inhumane we are as a Human Race. Yet we still haven’t figured it out yet. Let’s hope we aren’t the catalyst for this planet to implode. That would be unfortunate considering we have the chance to fix it. We have the chance to do right by Mother Nature and we have the chance to do right by each other. We always have a chance. Change is inevitable, but is evil and selfishness and self-righteousness a part of change? Certainly! Is Love and Empathy and Humanity a part of change? Most definitely! What side are you on? We are on the side of Love.” Douglas & Younger understand that the revolution begins with a transformation of the heart. And for the heart to be transformed, it must be lifted up. “This album is a testament to the power of music to uplift us through the most challenging times,” says friend, collaborator, and fellow International Anthem recording artist, Makaya McCraven. Force Majeure is an uplifting suite of real, soulful comfort music – a spiritual salve, emanating warmth from the hearth of a Harlem sanctuary. - bio by Joe Darling & Scott McNiece - Bassist, composer, bandleader, and educator Dezron Douglas has established himself as a major force in contemporary creative music. A protégé of the great Jackie McLean, the Downbeat Magazine 2019 Rising Star is known for his work with Pharoah Sanders, Ravi Coltrane, Cyrus Chestnut, David Murray, Louis Hayes, and also with piano legends George Cables, Eric Reed, Mulgrew Miller and Benny Green. Douglas has recorded on more than 100 albums, contributing to the artistry of numerous bandleaders and maintaining an integral presence in the sounds of his peers, which include Keyon Harrold, Jonathan Blake, Melanie Charles, and Makaya McCraven. He is an active music educator, currently on the Jazz Studies faculty at NYU Steinhardt. He has released 6 albums as a lead artist and maintains a variety of projects that he uses as platforms for his compositions. His band, Black Lion, released their latest single “COBRA” in October of 2020. Harpist, composer, educator, and concert curator Brandee Younger is known for her work with Ravi Coltrane, Moses Sumney, Lauryn Hill and producer Salaam Remi. The New Yorker has described her instrumental craft as “radiant playing ... as cogent on hip-hop and R&B albums as it is set against classical and jazz backdrops.” Her work often extends to illustrious heights, featured by Beyoncé in Netflix’s concert documentary Beyoncé: Homecoming as well as Quincy Jones and Steve McQueen in 2019’s “Soundtrack of America” series. She recently joined the harp faculty at NYU Steinhardt and the New School in Manhattan. When Alice Coltrane passed away in 2007, her son Ravi Coltrane asked Younger to perform at the memorial. Her performance “moved me and everyone in attendance from the first glissando,” Coltrane told the New York Times. “No harpist thus far has been more capable of combining all of the modern harp traditions — from Salzedo, through Dorothy Ashby, through Alice Coltrane — with such strength, grace and commitment.” Younger recently signed to Impulse! Records, with whom she has a new album planned for release in 2021. Douglas & Younger are long-time companions in life and in music. The two East Coast natives met early in life and have accompanied each other, personally and professionally, through equally prolific careers. “Brandee and I met in college, University of Hartford, Hartt School of Music, back in 2001,” remembers Douglas. “Her practice room was across the hall from mine. We began a friendship instantly through music and Black culture. We would jam a lot in college when she wanted to practice ‘Jazz.’ She was a Classical Harp and Music Business double major and she was heavily influenced by Jazz and Black Music so I sort of became an outlet for her to walk on the wild side in the eyes of University and Classical politics.” To this day, Douglas and Younger often accompany each other in the ensembles they lead, respectively. The two have played together in the Ravi Coltrane Quartet, with The Baylor Project, and in sessions for Makaya McCraven’s 2018 release Universal Beings, on which they are both featured artists. Force Majeure is their first release as a duo.

[purplesurveys]

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“ar_”

ARB Have you ever had strawberry rhubarb pie? Do you like it? I have not. I’m afraid I don’t even entirely know what rhubarb is; I wouldn’t call it a part of Filipino culture. I don’t know if I would like this kind of pie; I prefer my pies more savory than fruity. Do you like carbs a little too much? Yes ma’am. I can’t exist without heaps of rice in every meal. Last garb you wore? The last fancy/formal thing I wore was my business casual look for last Thursday’s interview. I felt a little overdressed arriving at the office because the other applicants just wore a shirt and jeans...but ultimately I think it was better that I looked more prepared than they did lol. Do you know anyone named Barb? There’s a teacher in my old school named Barbie but the other teachers call her Barb. ARC Would you like to see the Arc de Triumphe? Sure.

Are you a narc? That’s not a common slang where I live, but I’m gonna say no. ARD Have you ever read “The Tales of the Beetle and the Bard”? Nope, I’ve never heard of it. Do you have a credit or debit card? Debit. I don’t exactly know how credit cards work just yet, so my dad has kept me from getting one hahahaha. What’s the last card you received? For which holiday? We don’t really exchange cards over here. We tend to go ahead and give physical gifts, no matter how simple it is. I think the last one I received was a birthday card from Athenna, five years ago. That was a different time. What’s something that is hard for you? Letting go. I have serious issues with abandonment and I always feel like it’s the end of the world when someone leaves my life or something I’ve been accustomed to abruptly ends. I’ve never been good at handling all of that. Do you ever feel like a tub of lard? I am almost positive that I’ve never felt like one before. What is in your front yard? How is it landscaped? Just a few plants and a tree that my grandpa planted for my mom shortly before he passed. Last piece of meat that you’ve charred? I’ll get back to this question in a few years where I’ve hopefully learned how to cook a few things, including meat. Have you ever lived with barred windows? No. That sounds awful. Is it easy for you to let your guard down? Just with the right people. Otherwise I prefer keeping a wall up; no one else needs to know who I am behind closed doors. Have you ever cut yourself on a shard of glass? No. Again, sounds like my worst nightmare. This happened to my mom a year ago and I remember being unable to help her because I would’ve proceeded to just faint anyway lmao Favorite barnyard animal? Cows. What do you like to do in your backyard? Cooper loves our backyard, so I bring him there to play and run. He loves staying there so much more than actually walking around the neighborhood, which is a little confusing but still endearing. What do you think of people who use the word “retard”? They’re stuck in the late 2000s and early 2010s and need to be schooled on Twitter as soon as possible lol. Last person you sent warm regards to? The HR person who hooked me up with my internship. What do you tend to disregard? Fake news or people who routinely share fake news, for obvious reasons. Have you ever worn a leotard before? For what? I’ve worn a swimsuit as a leotard, but I’ve never owned a leotard that was meant to be that.

ARF Last time you barfed? I kept hurling last week when I did a lot of crying and had a few breakdowns, but nothing ever came up. The last time I puked would be over a year ago when I was at Pop-Up with friends. Last food you scarfed down? My mom’s burger from last night. Do you rock a fashion scarf? Nah, not really my article of choice. What does your winter scarf look like? I don’t own one. ARK What pair of animals would you like to bring on Noah’s ark? I would try to save as many of them as possible; but in the cruel circumstance that I only have limited choices, I would prioritize stray cats and dogs first as well as cats and dogs in animal shelters. Did you used to watch Arthur the aardvark? I did not watch the show – I’m not sure if they ever aired it here – but I liked reading Arthur books. Those were one of my favorites to read at the library. Have you ever been to a ballpark? No. Well baseball is not a popular sport here so it’s not like we’ve got lots of those, and the few that we have are a little dilapidated due to a lack of interest or support in the sport...we do have a field in my old school that’s designated for our softball games, but it’s hardly a legit softball field. Is your bark worse than your bite? If this is a saying or slang, I don’t know what it means. What’s a personal benchmark of yours? Hmm I know what a benchmark refers to, but I’m not exactly sure of the context in this question. Where is your birthmark? My most distinguishable birthmark is on the upper left region of my back, but I also have one by my butt. I used to have one on my right arm that was green-blue when I was an infant, but now it’s nothing more than a super slight discoloration that is only noticeable if you look hard enough. Do you fold book pages over, or use a bookmark? I remember the page number. I don’t like the gaps that bookmarks create, and I like keeping the pages of my book pristine. Are you afraid of the dark? Only if the context is meant to be scary, like how abandoned houses or forests are dark. I like the dark when I’m trying to fall asleep though. Do you prefer dark or light colors? I prefer neither extreme. I like muted and pastel tones. Last time you disembarked a ship? 2016. Last time you embarked on an adventure? End of February, 2020. Do you celebrate any of the hallmark holidays? Some of them, but I take them seriously a lot less than the actual holidays. I celebrate them primarily because I have people in my life who value those Hallmark holidays, so I greet them so they don’t feel forgotten, like greeting my parents on Mother’s/Father’s Day. If I had it my way I’d ignore those holidays completely, though. Do you watch the Hallmark channel? No. I don’t think we even have that channel here. Do you like the song “Hark The Herald Angels Sing”? I have nothing against it. Which landmark would you like to visit? The pyramids at Giza. Last mark you made on a paper? I made random scribbles because I was just checking if my pen had ink. Do you know anyone named Mark? I don’t think so. No Marks are coming to mind. Have you ever heard a lark sing? Nope. Do you know how to parallel park? Yeah but I’m kind of cheating a bit because I own a really tiny car that fits nearly anywhere ha. What’s your favorite activity to do at the park? We don’t have any public parks...if we did, I imagine I’d have picnics and take my dogs there for long walks. Last postmarked piece of mail you received? I don’t really receive mail of my own. Last person you left a remark for? Idk maybe my dad when I remarked how spicy the sisig he made for dinner was. Do you speak with a lot of snark? Only in private or with my closest friends. I try not to be snarky with workmates. Do you ever have the Baby Shark song stuck in your head? That does happen sometimes, yes. Until today ha. Last time you went around your house stark naked? Oof, I never walk around the entire house naked. I only do so in the bathroom and within my own room. What’s your signature trademark? Everyone knows me as loving Paramore, so maybe that. Does it bother you when there’s a watermark on an image that you want to use? Sometimes yes, sometimes I realize someone took effort for that image and probably just needs to earn a little bit for it. ARL Who did you snarl at last? I don’t snarl a lot these days. Are your fingers gnarled? No. I don’t actually know what this means but my fingers are pretty healthy so I’m guessing it’s not whatever gnarled is. ARM Have you ever broken an arm? Nopes. Do you keep people at an arm’s length? In some ways, like how I refuse to talk about the things I’m going through and I don’t like showing most people that I struggle.

Last time you went to a farm? I’m not sure if I’ve been to one. We drive through fields and farms all the time, in the provinice; but we’ve never actually stopped over and went to a farm. Do you self-harm? Yes. Surprisingly, I haven’t done so this month. But yes, I have in general. What time is your alarm set for? For a while it wasn’t set to anything but now that I have an internship I’ll probably need to set it to at least around 8 AM. Do you own any firearms? No thanks. Would you get a tattoo on your forearm? Sure. Do you have a certain charm about you? Don’t you kind of have to ask other people when it comes to possessing charm? I certainly wouldn’t endorse this myself, lol. Do you need to be disarmed? I have nothing on me, so no. ARN Were you raised in a barn? I was not. I grew up in a house in a suburban-ish neighborhood. Do you use “damn” or “darn” more often? Damn. I’ve never used darn...or if I have, it would’ve been well over a decade ago. Do you knit or crochet with yarn? I don’t crochet or knit. ARP Have you ever caught a carp while fishing? No, I’ve never gone fishing before actually.

Do you like harp seals? I’ve never heard of them until now but it’s an automatic yes for me because they are animals. Would you like to learn how to play the harp? Sure. Name something in your house that is sharp? Keys. Is anything you own covered by a tarp? No. ART Last time you fell apart? This morning. Well, it’s 2 AM now so it’s more accurate to say yesterday morning. Are you good at any sort of art forms? Not at all. I like coloring and painting, but with painting I like those that come with paint-by-number guides. I’m not very creative myself and don’t know for the life of me what colors work together and I’m terrible at creating images. Last place you used a shopping cart? Grocery store, ages ago. Have you ever created a chart in Microsoft Excel? Yes but it’s not my favorite thing in the world to do. Who is your other counterpart? I dunno if I have anyone. Angela, I guess. Do you like to play darts? I’ve never played it but it looks fun and I’m always up for a friendly game. Who’s the last person you departed from? My family, when I left the living room where we were all staying at to go back to my bedroom to resign for the evening. How often do you fart? Never. I don’t like the sensation and if I feel one coming I suppress it lol. No one has heard me do it before, and I don’t plan on making it heard hahahaha How’s your heart been feeling lately? Not well. Is there a K-Mart or a PetSmart where you live? No. Is it easy for you to outsmart a child? Idk man, they can be a little surprise at times. Where is the part in your hair? It’s on the left side. Have you ever gotten a part in a play? No, because I’ve never auditioned for one. Not interested in that kind of activity, either. Last time you had to restart your computer? It’s been a while. Would you consider yourself to be smart? In some ways, like in academics. What trend would you like to start? I don’t feel like starting one. Do you like tarts?     Not very much, but my old school has this trademark tart that I love so much. [a-zebra-is-a-striped-horse]

[roman-writing]

A Study in Hospitality (4/?)

Fandom: Fire Emblem Three Houses / Percy Jackson and the Olympians

Pairing: Hilda Valentine Goneril / Marianne von Edmund

Rating: T

Wordcount: 8,418

Summary: There’s a new student at camp half-blood. Hilda, daughter of Aphrodite, has been tasked with showing her around. A Percy Jackson and the Olympians AU

read it below the cut, or you can read it here on AO3

The weird dream didn't go away. Which was really inconvenient, to be honest. Hilda liked sleeping as much as any other person, and these nightmares were starting to get on her nerves. Her only consolation was that they didn't happen every night. Only sometimes. But that was more than enough, thank you very much.

In her dream, her mother would offer to kill her a different way every time. Knives. Magic. Swords. Magic swords. Breaking her neck. Pulling the last breath right out of her lungs. Being hung by a diamond necklace from a myrtle tree in full summer’s bloom. And every time, Aphrodite never finished saying what was so important for Hilda to remember. 

That was, hands down, the worst part. Even worse than the dying part. Honestly, the dying part was annoying, but it got old real fast. But not getting to know why this was even happening in the first place? Abso-fucking-lutely maddening. Aphrodite would lean forward and whisper in her ear, and Hilda would wake up before she could finish delivering her warning. 

Every. Damn. Time. 

"Why are we even learning about this?" Hilda grumbled. She wore a spare set of sunglasses to try and cover the dark rings beneath her eyes. “It’s dumb. This is dumb.”

They were standing by the edge of a field, learning hunting techniques from one of the forest nymphs, who took the appearance of a young girl with the name Flayn. She was shy and willowy, with green hair and greener eyes. She was also purportedly Seteth's daughter, though Hilda couldn’t imagine which oreiad could’ve been desperate enough to get it on with a joyless busybody like Seteth. 

Beside Hilda, Claude was idly thrumming his bowstring as though it were a harp. He even managed to get a few different notes out of it somehow, though Hilda was stumped as to how he accomplished it. She didn't have any musical talent to speak of, apart from her ability to dance to anything that had a half decent tempo. 

He shrugged, only lending half an ear to what Flayn was saying to the gathered group of campers. "Supposedly it's to teach us how to tackle life's problems." 

"Um? When am I ever going to need to use this -" Hilda gestured to her bronze axe, which she was leaning upon. "-in the real world? Not that I don’t love swinging this bad boy around, but also: people are civilised now or whatever. When am I going to walk down the street and need an axe to fend off monsters?” 

Claude pointed to the axe. "Hey, I thought you lost your axe in the lake." 

"Yeah, I did. This is just one of the boring old replacements from the armoury." 

"Why didn't you equip your own axe with the return feature?" To make his point, Claude gave his bow a flick, and it transformed back into a headband. He then tossed it over his shoulder. It immediately reappeared back in his hand not a second later. "It's pretty useful." 

Hilda grumbled something under her breath. 

"What was that?" Claude asked, cupping a hand around his ear as though he hadn't heard, even though he definitely would have. 

Glowering, Hilda said, "It was either customise the sunglasses, or take the return feature." 

"And of course you chose to customise the sunglasses." 

"The original design had reflective lenses! The horrible blue-green kind that looks like a beetle shell! I couldn’t have that!" 

Claude nodded solemnly. "Tragic." 

"Oh, shut up," she snapped. She leaned back on the replacement axe, and turned her glare back upon Flayn, who was now explaining various tracking techniques. "What the hell is a 'hind' anyway? Is it a direction?"

On her other side, a soft familiar voice answered, "It's a stag." 

Hilda tossed up a hand in exasperation. "Well, why can't she just say 'stag'? And how do you know that?" 

Marianne was seated on the ground to Hilda's left. Her chin was resting atop her knees. She was holding her ankles in her hands, folded upon herself like an accordion. The eye almost seemed to skip over her, as though Marianne did not want to be seen. "I don't know. I just do." 

Claude leaned around Hilda, and asked, "Do you like hunting? Do you do it often?" 

He had to hide a grunt when Hilda elbowed him in the abdomen. Which was what he deserved for being so damn obvious. 

Still, Marianne only blinked languidly up at them. Her face gave away nothing. "Not really." 

"I've never seen you use a bow before. Want to try mine?" Claude continued, ignoring the way Hilda was now stepping on his foot. 

"Oh. Uh -" Marianne glanced towards Flayn, who was still pointing to a few broken leaves on the ground like it was actually supposed to mean something. "I think we're going to be doing that soon anyway." 

Indeed, there were a series of targets erected on the far end of the field behind Flayn. They were made of straw, and painted exactly the way Hilda would have expected targets to be painted. 

"I think I'll just throw this instead." Hilda kicked the flat side of her new axe. 

"Is that allowed?" Marianne asked. 

Hilda shrugged, and made an 'I don't know' noise. 

"At least it will come back this time," Claude said. He prodded at Hilda's shoulder with a grin. "Remember capture the flag last year?" 

Rolling her eyes, Hilda said, "That was one time." 

"And two years ago when you lost your axe to the Hippocampus that came out of the lake?" 

"A blip. A complete coincidence," Hilda insisted primly. She had taken out a small handheld mirror and was pretending to check that her lipstick was still as pristinely applied as ever. "And why is it always horse creatures that hate me? Did my mom piss off Poseidon or something?" 

"You should really just stick with the return feature on your axe, you know." 

Hilda tilted her head back and forth to inspect herself in the mirror. "And you should really cut off that braid. You’ve had it since you were - what? Eighteen?" 

Claude's hand flew to the distinctive little braid that had been woven on one side of his head. "Don't be mean to the braid, Hilda." 

Hilda snapped the mirror shut. "If you don't want to take fashion advice from a daughter of Aphrodite, that's your business. But you should know that it's a dumb business." 

"You should focus more on making sure you don't lose your third axe in three years, and less on my rakish good looks." 

Reaching up, Hilda pinched his cheek. "But just think: you could look even better." 

He gave her a lopsided grin, but did not pull his head away. "Impossible." 

"Careful," Hilda lowered her hand, only to wag her finger at him. "Or you might not be able to fit into that headband anymore." 

"Oh, ha ha." 

From the ground, Marianne watched their banter in silence. She pointed between the two of them. “Are you two -” she fished around for the right word, “- courting?”

Claude and Hilda looked at each other. And then they started laughing. 

"Oh gods." Claude leaned on his knees. "Oh, my stomach hurts."

Meanwhile Hilda leaned her elbow on his hunched back, and pushed her sunglasses up to wipe at the tears forming in her eyes. "Courting!" she repeated.

It sent them into another spiral of wheezing laughter. Marianne stared at them in utter bewilderment. "Is that -" she hazarded, "- is that not the right term?"

"No, no!" Claude straightened. "It's perfect."

"Then -?"

"We're not," he said, at the same time Hilda said, "No way."

"I mean -" Claude gave Hilda a leering once-over.

She shoved his shoulder. "Stop that."

"Remember that one time four years ago behind the armoury?"

"I would rather not." Hilda readjusted her sunglasses, and turned her attention to Marianne. "We're not dating. We have never dated. We will never date."

"You wound me," said Claude.

"No, but I will."

"Not even if I cut off the braid?"

"Not even if you let me give you a full makeover," Hilda said. Then, her face brightened, and she looked at Marianne. "Speaking of makeovers -"

"Oh no," Claude said. He began gesturing to Marianne, making a slicing motion across his throat. "Run, Marianne! Save yourself!" 

In answer, Marianne gazed up at them both in confusion. "What?" 

"My brother told me that your package is finally on the way."

Marianne blinked up at her. "Package?"

"Remember? You needed some new clothes, so I gave you mine, and ordered you some others?" She waved at Marianne's clothes, which were actually her own clothes and not Marianne's at all. 

Between thumb and forefinger, Marainne worried the long sleeve of the shirt she wore. "Yes. I remember. I didn't think you were going to so much trouble to help me."

"Trouble?" Hilda blew a raspberry. "Trust me. Getting someone a new wardrobe is never trouble. It's basically my hobby."

"It really is," Claude said with a solemn nod.

"I see," said Marianne. "Thank you. I've never had much need for clothes like these in the past."

"Did you live in a hole in the ground before coming here, or something?" Hilda asked. When Marianne did not answer, Hilda hurried to correct herself. "Not that that's bad. I mean, it's fine! Completely - uh - normal." She lowered her voice and hissed. "Claude, help me."

Thankfully, he did. "I liked your dresses. But I agree with Hilda that they would be difficult to wear while performing athletic tasks at camp."

"Tasks which still don't make any sense, I would like to add," said Hilda. To prove her point, she tilted her head towards Flayn, who had moved on to the lovely topic of how to best skin wild animals and monsters, and wear their hides. Hilda made a face. "Blech. Fur is definitely not in this season."

"The skin of some creatures can have magical properties that ward the wearer from death's eyes," Marianne said. Then, realising what that sounded like, she ducked her head, and mumbled, "So I've heard."

"Again, when are we ever going to need to 'ward ourselves from death's eyes'?" Hilda asked.

"What if our parents give us a hero's task? They do that sometimes, you know," Claude countered. "What we learn here could be helpful."

Hilda snorted derisively, "Oh. Yeah. Sure. The heroic task of canoeing across a lake. Remind me: did Hercules accomplish that daunting feat of derring-do before or after he wrestled Cerberus? My memory is a little rusty."

Claude stretched the colourful headband between his hands, and put it on. "I think the canoeing part is just for fun. The monster hunting on the other hand -" he fixed his hair so that the small braid hung just so over the headband, until he looked delightfully tousled. "- probably just good practice in coordination and cooperation."

"Look," Hilda said, "I appreciate that -- I really do -- but if not for this camp, I never would've ever met any of you. Which would've been a shame, I know. But also, the majority of us could've just lived our lives with our powers among mortals, and not had any problems." 

"I don't know about you, but I don't particularly enjoy the idea of being discovered and dissected because I'm a demigod."

"Then don't join the Olympic archery team, and you'll be fine."

Claude snapped his fingers as if coming to a sudden realisation. "Right. I’ll be sure to remember that next time I’m on the run for being the freak whose car-crash injuries heal overnight, when the collision killed everyone else involved.”

Silence stretched between them for a very long, very uncomfortable moment. 

"I'm sorry," Hilda said with a grimace. "I didn't mean -"

But he merely waved her away. "I know you didn't."

Hilda's stomach twisted with guilt. It was an unpleasant feeling, like she had swallowed a nest of live snakes. "I just don't see how learning all of this could have even helped. What could you have done differently then with the skills you have now? Shot an arrow at the other car?"

He shrugged. His arms were crossed, and he favoured studying Flayn rather than look in Hilda's direction. "Maybe. I'll never know. But I like to think this is somehow worth while. Why else would so many immortals put so much time and effort into training us, unless there was a purpose?"

"To keep us out of mischief?" Hilda said, trying to wheedle a smile out of him. "I wasn't lying when I said it would've been a shame not knowing everyone. I do like you guys. I mean -" she corrected herself, "-not enough to, like, throw myself in front of a dragon for you. But I'll be your wingman!"

A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of Claude's mouth. He looked at her askance. "To think I was prepared to die heroically for you, and you wouldn't do the same," he drawled.

Hilda scoffed. "Dying for someone else is dumb. It defeats the whole point."

And then from the sidelines, Marianne said, "Death isn't so bad."

Hilda turned to look at Marianne with an incredulous grin. "And you know that because you've died sooo many times, right?"

For a moment Marianne did not respond, until finally she mumbled, "No. Not exactly."

Hilda held out her arms as though to an audience. "I rest my case."

The other campers were starting to mill about now. Claude nudged Hilda with his elbow, and jerked his head towards the targets. "Looks like it's time for archery. Mind if I take over?"

In answer, Hilda plopped down beside Marianne, and leaned back on her elbows. "An opportunity for me to not do anything? Like you even need to ask."

"Great." Claude took off his headband. With an expert twist of his wrist, it extended into an elegantly curved bow. The surface had been carved with all manner of hunting motifs and scenes from ancient mythology. He held out the bow to Marianne with an encouraging smile. "Would you do me the honours?"

Still curled up on the ground, Marianne glanced over at Hilda in a silent question.

"Why are you looking at me?" Hilda asked.

"Well, I -" Marianne's voice trailed off. "I don't know."

Rather than lift her arm, Hilda gestured with her foot towards Claude and the targets. "It's your choice. You don't have to shoot if you don't want to. But -- and I don't say this lightly -- he is really very good with the bow. So, if you want lessons, he's the guy."

Claude swept a hand over his heart as though in fealty. "I swear I will only be the utmost gentleman."

While Hilda rolled her eyes, Marianne seemed convinced. "Alright."

Marianne unfolded herself. She patted off bits of grass stuck to her long track pants when she stood, and allowed herself to be led a few strides away. Hilda crossed her legs at the ankles, and watched.

Claude handed Marianne his bow, which she took gingerly, as though afraid she might break it. When she stepped up to the line drawn onto the grass however, she held the bow with an unquestionable familiarity. Other pairs were doing the same all along the line, while Flayn strode behind them, keeping watch with that gentle gaze of hers.

From this distance, Hilda could just overhear Claude's instructions. He directed Marianne with a mix of clarity and humour. At one point, he even managed to get her to make that soft choked noise at the back of her throat, which meant she was trying to stop herself from laughing aloud. He handed her an arrow. When Marianne drew it smoothly back to her cheek, he held up his hands for her to hold that position. 

Hilda's eyebrows shot up over the rim of her sunglasses, as she watched Claude touch Marianne's elbow to reposition her arm slightly. Even more shockingly, Marianne did not flinch away, or tell him to stop. Though her shoulders tensed, and her dark eyes flickered like a nervous animal backed into a corner. 

Sensing her discomfort, he stepped away, and made a gesture for her to fire. Marianne released the arrow.  It streaked across the pitch, and buried itself firmly in the target. Not in the bullseye or anything flashy like that. But still. On the target. Which was better than Hilda could have done. 

Claude clapped effusively. Cheeks pink, Marianne lowered the bow. Hilda could hear her making demurring noises, insisting that the praise was Claude's for being a patient teacher and expert marksman. 

Raising her voice, Hilda said, "Accept the praise, Marianne!"

At that, Marianne ducked her head. She glanced over her shoulder. If Hilda didn't know better, she might have thought she saw a slight smile on Marianne's face. As though she were secretly pleased with herself, but didn't want anyone to notice. 

Which, of course, was an open invitation for Hilda to offer even more raucous praise when Marianne hit the target again. 

"Miss Goneril," said a voice to the side.

Shielding her face from the sun with the flat of her hand, Hilda looked up to find Flayn standing over her. "Yo! What's up?"

Flayn held herself with a poise that Hilda could only dream of; the perks of being fully immortal, probably. Her voice was light and deceptively girlish. It was an uncanny contrast to her eyes, which were ancient in the same way her father's were. "Is there some reason why you're not also participating?"

Hilda took off her sunglasses so that more of her face could be seen as she widened her eyes, and said plaintively, "There's an odd number of people today, and I don't have a partner. I was just waiting to trade off with Claude and Marianne."

Charmspeak wove itself in the air like an invisible tapestry, each strand hung from Hilda's words. It settled like a net over Flayn, who blinked. Briefly her expression slackened, only for her to shake her head as though she had just walked into a spider's web. Her brows drew down in a disapproving slant. "That is quite distracting, you know."

"Sorry," Hilda made a face. "Force of habit. Did it almost work though?"

"Almost," Flayn smiled gently. Hilda had never known her to ever actually get mad before. 

"Do you think if I practice more, it will work on your dad?"

Flayn laughed, and the sound was like a breeze over the first buds of spring. "That would be a lot of practice, I think."

Swinging her sunglasses around between her fingers, Hilda smirked. "Want to help?"

"I don't see why charmspeak is even necessary. You have already successfully distracted me from scolding you for being lazy."

Hilda pouted, lacing the air with magic again. "Please?"

Flayn had to shake the charmspeak off before she relented. "Oh, very well." She sat beside Hilda, her feet neatly tucked up beneath her legs. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "But don't tell my father. He would be so cross."

Hilda made a locking motion with her hand, as if twisting a key at her mouth. 

While the other students practised archery, Hilda spent the next hour or so trying to charm a dryad older than the mountains. By the end, Marianne was consistently hitting near the bullseye, and Hilda had just about convinced Flayn the sky was pink. It was almost a lesson that Hilda didn't want to end so soon. Almost.

"Well, I must admit," Flayn said, rising gracefully to her feet and smiling at Hilda. "This has been very entertaining."

"Will you tell your dad about how amazingly hospitable I am?" Hilda asked.

Flayn hummed thoughtfully. "I think he already knows." She tilted her head back to study the scattering of puffy white clouds above them. "Still blue. But I think there's a rosy hue. Keep up the good work."

And with that, she started walking off, lifting her voice to deliver instructions to the group on cleaning up for the afternoon. Hilda put her sunglasses back on just as Claude and Marianne were returning to her spot. Claude was resting his hand on Marianne's shoulder, and she only seemed timid rather than tense at the contact. 

"Well, well, well," Hilda tilted her head to the side to study their approach. "Aren't you two getting on like a house on fire."

Claude winked at her, then lowered his hand after giving Marianne's shoulder a friendly squeeze. "She's a natural. If I didn't know better, I'd say she was a daughter of Apollo."

Rather than contest that idea, Marianne handed the bow back to him. "I'm sorry again. I didn't mean to -"

Claude took the bow, and tapped his tongue against the back of his teeth in an admonishing manner. “I told you, I actually kind of like it this way.” 

The smooth bone-carved handle gleamed. What had once been pale ashen bone was now streaked with gold in the shape of a handprint, as though Marianne had gripped it too hard and it had bled gold. 

With a gesture, he turned the bow back into the garishly coloured headband, except now it had a broad length of cloth-of-gold running through the fabric like splotches of paint. He put it on, then turned to Hilda, and pretended to pose as though for a camera. “What do you think? Pretty good, right?”

She hummed thoughtfully, and tapped at her chin. “Actually, I have to admit: it is a bit of an improvement.”

Marianne ducked her head, mumbled some excuse about wanting to get lunch even though Hilda rarely ever saw her actually eat, thanked Claude again, apologised (again), and then drifted off in the exact opposite direction of the dining pavilion. Claude watched her go. He waved jovially, but something keen glinted in his eyes, like he had just recognised a person on the street.

Hilda waited until Marianne was well and truly out of earshot, before asking, "Why do you look so smug?"

But Claude merely smiled. "Oh, no reason. No reason at all." His smile broadened. “See you at capture the flag tomorrow.”

--

The day of capture the flag, the sky was dark with summer rain. Hilda held her blue-crested helm between her hands, and stared up at the sky. 

"It's going to rain. This sucks," she whined, then repeated more emphatically, "This sucks."

Marianne hummed in agreement, which was more than she had done even a week ago. A week ago, she would have just stood there in complete silence, letting Hilda fill up every nook and cranny of space. Now, she made herself known with small comments and gestures and noises. She even attempted to smile, when Lysithea handed over a helmet that was identical to everyone else on their team. 

Turning over the helmet in her hands, Marianne asked, "If we are expecting a battle, why don't we wear other armour."

"It's more to just tell the two teams apart," Lysithea explained. She put her own helmet on, the blue crest of horse-hair nodding as she did so. "We don't actually hurt each other."

"Usually," Hilda added. 

"Usually," Lysithea agreed. 

Still, Marianne did not put the helmet on. Neither did Hilda, to be fair. But Hilda was avoiding the dreaded helmet hair that would accompany it. 

The two teams were gathered at the edge of the forest, where Seteth, Flayn, Manuela, and Hanneman all waited for them. Hilda spied Claude on the other team, already wearing his red-crested helm, and taking point from Dimitri, who addressed the Ares-led group. Claude spotted her watching him, and he winked. Hilda made a rude gesture with her fingers, which only made him laugh.

"Can we please refrain from fraternising with the enemy until after the competition?" said Edelgard at the fore of their own team. 

"Sorry," said Hilda, not sorry at all.

With a sigh, Edelgard shook her head. Then, she lifted her voice, and addressed the Athena-led team. "All of you know the rules, so -"

Marianne raised her hand.

"Yes?" said Edelgard.

Marianne lowered her hand, and said, "I don't know the rules."

"Hilda didn't explain them to you?"

When Marianne shook her head, Hilda did her best to look sheepish. It wasn't difficult. She felt rather sheepish, to be perfectly honest. 

"Sorry," said Hilda.

With one last glare in Hilda's direction, Edelgard said to Marianne, "Don't let the opposing team take our flag. Try to take the opposing team’s flag. Use any reasonable force necessary, but try not to kill anyone. Stick to your group, and stick to the plan. And for all our sakes, stick to the range as set out by Seteth and the others. The professors will be the judges.They’ll be walking around key boundaries. Don't go wandering too far into the forest. Remember what happened last time?"

At that, a disgruntled murmur spread throughout the large group of campers. 

"What happened last time?" Marianne asked Hilda in a low voice.

"Some idiot stumbled across a dragon's lair. It went badly." Hilda said, inspecting her eyeliner in the mirror shine of her helm. "That's how Dimitri lost his eye. Poor bastard."

Indeed, Dimitri still wore a patch over said eye. Magic and ambrosia could only do so much. Especially against wounds inflicted by other magical creatures and beasts.  

"Any other questions?" Edelgard looked at Marianne, who shook her head. "Excellent. And good luck out there. Just remember -" and her lilac gaze went hard as iron. "- defeat is not an option."

As the group began to split up and head into the forest, Hilda sighed. "Sometimes I worry about that girl. Like, doesn't she get that this is a game?"

"Is it?" Marianne asked quietly.

"Well -" Hilda hesitated. She thought about it, then decided she really didn't want to think about it. Instead, she finally shoved the helmet onto her head. "Anyway. Let's go."

Marianne followed suit. She put her helm on. Hilda had been right. Blue did look good on her. In the track pants and long-sleeved shirt however, the helm looked a bit silly.

As they crossed the first row of trees, Hilda could feel a set of eyes upon her. She glanced over her shoulder to find Seteth watching her intently. She flashed him a grin, but received nothing in return. For someone acting as one of the judges in this competition, his dedication to impartiality was admirable. But really, did he have to be so damn stiff? Relax. Live a little. 

Between Edelgard and Seteth, Hilda had to shrug off a bad feeling about this competition. To add insult to injury, she could have sworn she felt the first speck of rain. 

"Which way are we going?" Marianne asked.

Drawing her axe, which had been disguised as a boring old pen in her pocket, Hilda used it to point. "That way. Us two are guarding the flag, while everyone else does whatever Edelgard and Lysithea told them to do."

"Alright." 

It did not take long for the other groups to be swallowed up by the woods. The trees clustered thickly all around. The air was darker and heavier here, and grew even more so the further they pushed ahead. 

After a while of tramping along, Marianne had another question, "Why us?"

"Hmm?" 

"Guarding the flag is important, right? I'm assuming Edelgard had a reason for picking us."

Hilda shrugged. "Probably. I don't think we'll ever really know why Edelgard does what she does. Maybe we're the best suited for the job. Maybe there are only two people allowed to guard the flag at any one point in time. Maybe she doesn't know where to put you in a bigger team, because you're new here. Or maybe I just complain if I get put out into the field to do more work. Who knows." 

"It sounds like you know."

"It's a mystery," Hilda insisted. 

"I really don't think it is."

They reached a clearing in the trees, surrounded by dense underbrush. Here, the vegetation gave way to a near perfect circle that extended nearly twenty meters in every direction. The area was demarcated by a ring of white-capped mushrooms. Hilda was very careful not to step on one as she entered the clearing. She could almost taste the nature magic emanating off of them. 

In the centre of the clearing, a bronze spear had been stuck in the ground, and a blue flag trailed from it like a military standard. On the flag had been stitched the insignia of every cabin on their team. 

Immediately, Hilda crossed over to it. At the base of the spear, she slammed her axe into the ground so that the head was half buried and would remain upright on its own. Then she flopped onto the ground beside it. She sprawled her legs, and sighed up at the sky.

"The rest of the forest won't get any rain, except for us. Figures," she grumbled.

Marianne drifted closer. In her own hand, she held a basic armour sword of Celestial bronze, not unlike Hilda's own weapon. "Aren't we supposed to be guarding the flag?"

Hilda gestured towards the flag, which hung just over her head. "Here's the flag. And here we are. It's guarded."

Uncertain, Marianne glanced towards the edge of the clearing. "What if someone comes?"

"Then we tell them to go away."

"Hilda, be serious."

"I am being serious!"

"I have never known you to be serious."

"Now, that's just rude. I bet I'm the most serious person you've ever met."

At that, Marianne bit down on her lower lip to keep from laughing. She turned her head aside to hide a smile.

"What?" Hilda asked, placing a hand over her heart as though insulted. "You don't believe me? Name someone with more gravitas."

Marianne's voice sounded strained, as though she were trying to keep it level. "I can think of a few people."

When Marianne couldn't stop the corner of her mouth curling up in a smile, Hilda grinned at her. "That's more like it." She patted the ground beside her. "Come on. Sit. Relax."

Folding her legs, Marianne crouched down so that they sat, side by side. They were close enough that when Hilda leaned back, her arm brushed against the fabric of Mariann's sleeve. A week ago Marianne would have shuffled away. Now, she stayed put. 

Hilda cocked her head. "Are you having fun?"

That seemed to puzzle Marianne. "The forest is nice, I guess."

"No, I mean -- are you enjoying camp half-blood?"

"Oh." Marianne used the tip of her sword to draw patterns in the soft earth. She took a while to think about her answer, before she said, "Yes. I think so. It's nicer than home in many ways."

"What's home like?"

Marianne went very quiet. She continued to sketch shapes in the dirt with her sword. Little swirls and peaks, like mountains. Or perhaps flames. "It's full of people," she finally said. "But it's lonely. Not like here."

"Do you miss it?"

Marianne shrugged. "Sometimes."

Humming contemplatively, Hilda said, "I felt that way when I first came here." When Marianne shot her an incredulous look over her shoulder, Hilda insisted, "It's true! I mean, I'm great at making friends and getting to know people, but it still takes time. You only warmed up to me after a few weeks, and I was already friends with people. Think of how long it would've taken me to make friends in a place where I knew absolutely nobody."

"A few hours, I imagine," Marianne replied dryly.

"At least!"

Marianne snorted. Then her head jerked up; she frowned in the direction of the trees. "Someone's coming."

Hilda did not move. A few fat raindrops began to fall intermittently from the sky. It wouldn't be long now until it started to rain in earnest. A warm summer rain. With lightning most likely. Hilda almost wished she had packed a poncho, if ponchos weren't so awful to look at.

"Hilda -?"

"I heard you," Hilda said. She rose to her feet, brushing a few leaves from her legs. Just as she tugged her axe free from the ground, she heard voices through the underbrush.

Marianne stood as well. She remained a step behind Hilda, letting her take point. The voices grew a bit louder, and a minute later, three people wearing red-crested helms stepped into the clearing. 

Shouldering her axe, Hilda waved. "Hey, Caspar! Raphael! Ignatz! So good of you to join us!"

The three approached, Caspar leading the other two. He grinned, and gave a mocking salute with one hand. "Hi, Hilda! We've got you outnumbered. Want to make this easy, and just hand over that flag there?"

"Oh, you mean this?" Hilda jerked her thumb over her shoulder towards the flag. The drops of rain had strengthened into a drizzle. Hilda tapped at her chin as though thinking very hard about a complicated maths problem, until she said in a cheery tone, "Nope! I have a much better idea."

Ignatz had stopped at the edge of the clearing, but Raphael and Caspar continued their advance. Raphael's knuckles were sheathed in bronze gauntlets with wicked talons on the ends, while Caspar carried an axe even larger than Hilda's. 

If anything Caspar's smile only widened at the prospect of a fight. "Oh, yeah? What's the plan?"

Behind him, Ignatz was nocking an arrow into his bow. Hilda tsked, shaking her head, and wagged a finger in his direction. "Down, boy."

Charmspeak laced through the air. Without hesitation, Ignatz lowered his bow. 

Frowning, Caspar looked over his shoulder, then did a double take. "Ignatz! What are you doing? Shoot them!"

But Ignatz's eyes were glazed behind his thick round spectacles. He did not react to being addressed by his team leader. 

"Don’t be rude, Ignatz. You heard the man!" Hilda said. She pointed at Caspar and Raphael, and said, "Shoot them!"

Immediately, Ignatz drew his bow back, aiming at his friends. His arrow narrowly missed, deflected by Caspar’s axe. Both Caspar and Raphael whirled about, torn between who to face. They set their backs against one another. 

"Oh, would you look at that!" Hilda gasped in faux surprise. "You're outnumbered! And surrounded, I would like to add. So, hows about you just -" she snapped her fingers with a beaming smile, "- give up, and go away?"

Baring his teeth, Caspar lowered his stance. "I still like my odds."

"Don't worry. I'll fix that, too." Hilda looked at the hulking man at his side. "Oh, Raphael!" she said in a sing-song tone.

Caspar whirled around to his only remaining teammate. "Plug your ears, Raphael! Don't listen to her!"

Hilda continued to speak over him, weaving a tapestry of charmspeak with every syllable. "Raphael, doesn’t an early dinner sound just too amazing to resist?”

Raphael’s tawny eyes went unfocused. Slowly, he lowered his fists, his broad shoulders relaxing. “Yeah,” he said in a dazed tone. “Yeah, food sounds really good right now.”

“You know,” Hilda said, “If everyone else is out here in the woods, then there’s nobody in line at the dining pavilion!”

His expression brightened, and he started heading towards the treeline. 

“Don’t forget to take Ignatz with you!” Hilda called after him.

In response, Raphael picked up Ignatz -- who was still pointing an arrow at Caspar -- and carried him away. 

Hilda waved after them until the rain and trees obscured their figures, then turned her bright smile upon Caspar. “You’re so cute when you’re mad.”

Furious, Caspar took out his frustrations by chopping at a nearby tree trunk with his axe a few times. Typical child of Ares behaviour. Hilda inspected her nails while she waited for his little tantrum to be finished. She had a microscopic chip in her nailpolish. She would need to repaint them this evening. 

Finally Caspar rounded on her. His face was bright red and streaked with rain. “Fight me anyway!”

“Mmmm…Nah,” said Hilda, still inspecting her nails. 

“Is this a good idea?” Marianne asked at her side. “He looks really angry.”

“See, now, that’s the thing.” Hilda waggled her fingers towards Marianne’s sword. “If you fight him, then he wins. Even when he loses, he wins.”

“I don’t think I understand.”

“Stop talking about me like I’m not here!” Caspar shouted.

Which, of course, meant Hilda kept talking about him like he wasn’t there. “Caspar loves fighting, but he won’t fight you unless you fight him. So, the only way to win is to not fight at all.” She pretended to lower her voice to a whisper, knowing full well that he could still hear her. “He hates it so much.” 

At that, Caspar kicked at the ground, sending a spray of dirt towards them. With a great, wordless cry of frustration, he stomped off after Raphael and Ignatz. 

Hilda called after him, “Hey! Tell Dimitri to send someone good next time!” 

“Fuck you, Hilda!” 

“Maybe later! Bye bye, now!” 

When Caspar, too, had left, Marianne turned to Hilda. “I see now why Edelgard puts you in charge of guarding the flag.”

“You’re here, too,” Hilda pointed out. 

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Sure you did. You have the most important job of all!”

Marianne’s expression was dubious. “Which is -?”

“Making sure I don’t get bored, and abandon my post in favour of going to the arts and crafts centre. Which I may have done in past years. I refuse to incriminate myself.” 

Something rustled in the trees again. Hilda squinted through the rain. She had to wipe at the brim of the helmet, clearing the drizzle that unspooled in front of her face. Beside her Marianne peered in the same direction, though where Hilda hefted her axe, Marianne's hand remained slack around the hilt of her sword of Celestial bronze. 

Hilda raised her voice to call out, "We know you're out there! How about you make it easy for everyone, and just lay down your weapons! Or maybe just go away! That would be really great! Thanks!" 

More shuffling. The low branches and foliage of the shrubbery wavered back and forth. Then, a deer burst through the trees. Hilda yelped in surprise, and the deer bounded away. She clutched at her chest with one hand to calm the racing of her heart. 

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she grumbled after the deer. 

"It wasn't alone," Marianne said softly. 

Marianne nodded towards the trees where the deer had appeared. This time, there was absolute silence. No shuffling or rustling at all. And yet, Claude stepped into the clearing as though he were out on an evening stroll in his garish gold-streaked headband, and bright yellow t-shirt. His bow was in his hands. He glanced in their direction. When Hilda opened her mouth to speak, he raised a single finger to his lips, and shook his head. 

Instead of speaking, Hilda rolled her eyes and mouthed at him, "What are you doing?"

In answer, Claude gestured for her to come over to him. He then pointed to where the deer had vanished into the woods. Hilda did not move. She watched that place. And watched. And watched. 

Nothing happened. 

This time, she spoke aloud, "Alright, if this is some kind of trap, I am not falling for it." 

He made a slicing motion at his neck for her to be quiet, then strung his bow with a bronze-tipped arrow, backing away. 

“Yeah. Still not falling for it.”

"Hilda -" 

"Not now, Marianne. He's trying to trick us into abandoning the flag, or something. I mean, it's a stupid trick. Which is weird. He's normally cleverer than that, but -" 

Marianne grasped her arm, and that was enough for Hilda to fall silent. She looked over only to find that Claude had vanished from the clearing. Meanwhile, the place he had pointed to was growing dark. As though night were falling before its time. Shadows gathered beneath the boughs and between the trees, and not even the rain could pierce it. 

And then one of the shadows stepped forward. 

Marianne's hand tightened on Hilda's arm. Her face looked even more pale. She took a trembling step back. "Is that supposed to be here?"

“No. No it definitely isn’t.” 

The shadow sloped slowly forward with the grace of a great cat. It stepped on one of the mushrooms, crushing it and its magic underfoot. It had too many legs. Its eyes burned a dull coal-red, and smoke slithered in its footsteps. No sooner had it emerged, than another followed in its wake. And another. And another. Their muzzles dripped with something other than rain. One of them still carried in its jaws the haunch of the deer, which it dropped at the edge of the clearing. 

"Oh," Hilda breathed, "shit." 

Marianne had let go of Hilda's arm and taken another step back, and Hilda was right there with her. The pack followed them with lidless eyes, each enormous head turning to watch their retreat. Every fibre of Hilda's bones -- down to the marrows -- was screaming for her to run, to turn tail and sprint until her lungs burned and her legs gave way. Until the sun could wash over the land, and burn away the foul stench of sulphur that preceded the shadows like a fog. 

Hilda shoved that tiny screaming miniature version of herself away, and instead tightened her grip upon her axe. Her hands were sweaty upon the hilt. The distance between her, Marianne, and the shadows was shrinking, but at a certain point the shadows stopped approaching. Darkness swirled all around the edges of the clearing like mist. 

"Whatever you do," Marianne murmured, and her voice trembled slightly, "don't look away from them." 

Without thinking, Hilda glanced over her shoulder at Marianne. "What? Why -?" 

"No, don't -!" 

There was a flash of darkness that stirred the air, and when Hilda looked back around, one of the creatures loomed over her. It was not rearing back on its hind legs. It did not need to. It was massive enough that it could loom without trying. Hilda only jerked her axe up in time to knock the creature's head aside, so that she did not lose a limb. The Celestial bronze cut a pale glowing mark into the shadow, and it snarled in fury. 

"Fuck," Hilda swore. "Shit fuck." 

She staggered back with another wild swing, as teeth snapped near her head. This was bad. This was very bad. Her inner thoughts were a constant stream of frantic swearing, as she hacked and slashed with the best of her abilities. No sooner had she made one of the shadows back off, than another took its place. They circled around her with bared teeth like tarnished silver, snapping and growling, so that she could never quite get her bearings before she had to swing around once more to fend off another. 

"Hey, back off, already!" Hilda said, and her voice cracked in fear. The charmspeak rolled over them, and for a split second the creatures hesitated, only for their eyes to burn bright as though searing the very magic away. 

One of the shadows lunged. Cursing loudly, profusely, and elegantly, Hilda brought her axe down hard enough that it sliced through the thing's damn neck. The creature's head continued to shriek even as it dissolved on the ground at her feet. In horror, Hilda watched while the shadow twitched and swung its body back and forth as though merely blinded.

Another tried to bite her around the stomach, but from the trees there came a dart of bronze. The creature jerked back as a bronze-tipped arrow found its mark, sticking out of its eye and smoking there as though it were a white-hot iron. 

Hilda wrenched around. Claude waved at her from the safety of a nearby tree, then nocked another arrow. Hilda swung her axe at another shadow, and yelled at him, "If I die, I am going to be really pissed off, Claude!"  

His answer was another arrow sticking into the creature to her right. It snapped at her ankles, and she had to snatch her foot back to avoid losing it entirely. "Marianne, are you -?" 

But when Hilda looked around, Marianne was no longer beside her. The creatures had her completely surrounded and alone. In a panic, Hilda gave one of them a good smack with her axe, and it squealed like a kicked dog when one of its many legs was cut off. Still, it did not die. It only began to limp. But it meant that Hilda could actually see over it. 

Marianne was standing near the flag. Watching. Her shoulders were hunched. Her cheeks blanched. Her sword had been dropped to the ground as though discarded. 

Hilda swung her axe again to fend off another attack. She called out, "You can help me any day now!" 

Marianne's mouth moved, but no sound came out. She took a trembling step back, and shook her head. "I -" she choked out. "I can't. I'm sorry. I can't -" 

"What do you mean: you can’t?!" 

When one of the beasts clawed the air, Hilda was forced to stagger back or risk disembowelment, which was not high up on her to do list. It knocked her axe aside, so as to close its teeth around the hilt and wrench the weapon from her hands. She clung on for dear life, toppling sideways onto the ground, and landing in the disembodied head of the one she had decapitated.

Her hand fell right through the shadow as if it were made of liquid. Hilda continued to grapple over her axe, but stopped when she felt something cold begin to creep up her arm. 

Veins of shadow were branching towards her shoulder. Panic lanced through her, and her grip slackened on the axe enough for the beast to tear it from her hand. There were only three of the creatures still upright, their flanks protruding with a forest of arrows and gouges from Hilda's axe. The fourth had dissolved into a twitching mass of darkness on the ground. 

Panic quickly rose to terror. Hilda reached over with her free hand to squeeze her upper arm in an attempt to staunch the flow of icy shadow up her arm, while the remaining three beasts descended upon her. 

She closed her eyes, curled up into a ball on the ground, and waited for teeth and claws to tear into her. But that moment never came.

"Leave her alone."

Like a kid peering through their fingers at a horror film, Hilda slowly opened her eyes. Marianne was standing beside her. From this angle, Hilda could see the underside of her clenched jaw, and the way her fists shook. 

The beasts backed away a step. They seemed to be weighing their chances. They looked from Marianne to Hilda, and took a step forward. Obviously, they liked their odds. 

Something flickered across Marianne's face, like steel plates settling into place. With one hand she reached up to the pendant at her neck, and tugged it free from the white ribbon from which it was strung. As she extended her arm, it seemed that she was slowly drawing a sword from her chest. Its handle was bone. Its crossguard the golden shape of the original pendant. Its blade was curved and utterly, purely black. Black as a nightmare. 

In one smooth motion, Marianne swept the sword downward. It arced, and left behind the faint stench of burning ozone, as though its edge had cut through the very air molecules. She brought it down upon the nearest beast, as easily as if brushing aside a cobweb. 

Whereas the Celestial bronze of Hilda and Claude's weapons had bled the beasts a searing white, Marianne's blade left behind a cut that revealed nothing but darkness. The beast's hide split open, and a wind stirred. The blade absorbed the shadows within until not an inch of the creature remained. 

"LEAVE HER ALONE." 

Marianne's words were not loud; they were substantial. As though every letter she spoke were engraved upon stone, etched into a memorial that would weather the millennia beyond mortal ken. 

Immediately, the last two beasts stopped in their tracks. They lowered their heads and their great hulking shoulders, until they lay upon the ground before her. Like trained dogs. Hilda even swore she could see their ears flattened back, as though they had been admonished by an angry master. 

Slowly, Marianne turned. Hilda had to resist the urge to scramble back. Marianne's eyes had gone black. Black as night. Black as the blade in her grasp. Thunder rolled in the distance, but the rain seemed to melt away before ever reaching her. And over Marianne's head, a pale flame burned in the shape of a bident, curved like a broken halo, or perhaps like horns. She cast a shadow that blotted out the sky. Behind her the beasts awaited her command, twin hellhounds with eyes like a dying furnace. 

She knelt before Hilda, and held out her hand. This time when Marianne spoke, her voice sounded normal. Well, that wasn’t true. It sounded kind of echo-y. But more normal than before.

"May I -?"

It took Hilda a moment to realise what Marianne was referring to. The cold shadow had reached her shoulder, and was now winding its way up the side of her neck like a plague. Hilda nodded, but still she winced when Marianne took her infected hand in her own.

Her eyes were still black. She did not seem to need to blink. The air around her continued to hum with energy. It made a shiver race down Hilda's spine, as though someone had just walked across her grave. Marianne grasped her hand, and her touch drew the darkness out like a poison until nothing but pure, warm, unblemished skin was left behind. 

"I knew it."

Both Hilda and Marianne turned to look towards the edge of the clearing. Claude held their flag in one hand, and his bow in the other. He was beaming in triumph. 

“I’ve won. And now,” He gestured with the flag towards Marianne. “I also know what you are. You're not one of the Demeter kids. You’re a child of Hades. You're a daughter of Death." 

[boogiewrites]

Rosie & the Road Less Traveled

Characters: Declan Harp x Rosie Anderson (OFC)

Summary: Declan Harp 1970s Hippy/Roadtrip AU Rosie has made a bold decision and decided to leave her monotonous life. She sets out to create her own with a group of misfits traveling  across America, post-Vietnam during the 1970s. She breaks out of her shy and insecure, sheltered shelf to have an adventure where she learns the realities of life outside her former cookie-cutter existence. She experiences, a year of sex, drugs, and rock and roll as the group of ex-soldiers and free spirits change her worldview and show her another way. She meets the charming but damaged Declan who takes her under his wing. Will a budding romance for this blossoming Rose prove to be her gift from the universe for making the hard decision to be her own woman? 

Warnings/Tags: Talk of emotional abuse by family. 

Click on my screen name then go to Mobile Masterlist in my bio for my other works and chapters. Please leave a like, reblog or comment if you enjoyed this! It makes me want to write more of what you want if you let me know!

Rosie awoke in the same pink and frill filled bedroom she had every day of her life so far. She could smell the same coffee she wasn’t allowed to have. The scent filled up their Better Homes and Gardens modeled modest family home settled in a suburb full of pastel houses with the same pastel cars in their driveway. It was polished and performative, just like Rosie’s mother who was standing in her doorway looking like a copy of June Cleaver.

“You’ll be late for John to pick you up! Don’t keep a man waiting! A wife must be preemptive and pretty dear.” She exits as quickly as she’d entered. Rosie is left looking to her favorite childhood toy and only friend, Booger Bear, with a sigh before starting her day. Not much had changed in Rose Anderson’s life since she was a child. She was raised by older parents, very strict and traditional. Which would explain why they’d agreed to her engagement so fervently. She was 24 and unmarried and being a spinster was not an option according to them. So she was having yet another huge life decision made for her by someone else. She couldn’t remember the last time she had held her own opinion or made up her own mind. She had fear instilled within her from a young age that she was less than and this was used to keep her under control. Being different as she was with her ghostly white skin and pale blonde hair, her albinism stood out among her peers. She wore glasses and a constantly apologetic look on her face. Her childlike treatment was clear on her face as her features were baby round. A button nose and large light blue eyes with cheeks that always had a flush to them showed her softness unwillingly. She truly did look like a baby animal, naive, and easy prey.

This was a common theme among the treatment she’d had from men so far in her life. She didn’t expect any different. Her mother had cried tears of relief when George had asked for her hand. She would finally be able to tell her bridge club that her daughter had at least something normal going on about her. The cruel and belittling words she’d heard her whole life only made sense to continue hearing from this new person that would now be in charge of her she was told. If nothing had changed in her life up to this point, why would it ever?

The fact that George never showed didn’t surprise her. So when she went into town to run wedding errands on her own she wasn’t surprised. Wasn’t the first time, wouldn’t be the last. He usually disappears at night and not in the morning so that was unusual but she went through her day with the same polite smile she always did. A smile that said sorry for existing. She called her home from the library, offering to see if her mother needed anything for supper. She hadn’t but she had heard from George’s mother, and she hadn’t seen him either. So it was now Rosie’s job to find him, as they’d be married soon.

She sat defeated on a bench to rest as the sun started to set. She’d asked at the stores on the square and no one had seen him. Luckily for her, she’d sat down in front of the Beauty Parlour and it being a small town, everyone knows everyone, one of the ladies there knew who sweet little odd Rosie was and took pity on her.

“I know it’s not my place to say so baby but that man of yours is no count. You know that right?”

“I’m sorry ma'am?”

“You were in town all day today alone, doin' your dress and all that right? For the wedding?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“And he’s been across county lines getting drunk as a skunk.” She shakes her head. “Again.”

“Oh.” Rosie sighs and looks to the ground. “Do you know where he is?” She asks reluctantly.

“No where no sweet thing like you needs to be goin'.”

“I need to get him home. His mother’s worried.”

“She should be. Ain't your mama worried about you out here alone?”

“She said I have to do real women’s work and take care of George as best I can. He’s mine now and I better start acting like it and go… find him.”

The kind woman sighs and feels bad for the poor thing. But it wasn’t an uncommon story. “He’s out at the bar past the county line. Neon sign, bikes out front, can’t miss it. It’s on the right.” She says with a groan.

“Up 25E?” She asks already getting to her feet.

“Yes, baby now be careful. I’m only telling you this because someone’s gotta help you out, honey. Maybe it’s time you helped yourself huh?”

“I’m doing what any good wife and daughter would do ma'am.”

“Life’s not about being good for other people. You have to think about what’s good for you. What do you want? Do you want to marry George?”

“Ma'am what a silly question.”

“That’s not the enthusiastic YES I should be hearing from a bride to be is it?”

Rosie doesn’t know how to reply and just looks worried for a moment with her wide eyes.

“Go before it gets darker baby. Be careful. Take care of yourself.” She says as Rosie scurries across the square to the car.

She did love getting to drive around. Something she’d not been allowed to do until recently. So a trip out of town on a lovely evening was something that got her very excited.

She had held onto that moment of happiness as she drove out of town. A perfect evening with a chill after the sun went down. She could hear frogs and crickets as she left the roads full of cookie-cutter homes and drove into a more forested area.

She had a comfortable smile on her face until the trees cleared for a patch and showed a roadhouse. This had to be the place. She pulled in with a mix match of very nice and very beat down cars. Some buses and small caravans lined along the perimeter. She could hear music coming from inside the metal and wood walls. There were men three times her size all around. They were an odd mix of trendy sleazy men with feathered hair and grizzly biker men and they were all chain-smoking. Everyone looked as confused as she did as she entered the building. If she was polite and direct there was no reason these gentlemen had to give her any trouble. She’d heard about these sorts from her mother. Bikers, greasers, all sinners, and a dirty lot to associate with.

But Rosie had always seen glimpses of people in the magazines. The intense men on their bikes with a scantily clad woman who looked both elated and aroused clutched to his back as they rode through the great American Route 66. They looked like they were having fun, she thought. She thought they looked free and those were things she longed to know how they felt. But there was no room for these things in her life. So although she should be afraid to be around these people, she was actually quite excited. She fantasized with already blushed shy cheeks about striking up a conversation with one of them and finding out what they were really like.

“You lost sweetheart?” The man in glasses with his arms crossed at the door asks her.

“I’m here to fetch my husband- my fiancé.” She corrects herself.

“You with a man that comes to a place like this?”

“His name is George. He is a fan of a strong drink and a cigar. And apparently, his frequenting of this place is something everyone in the town knew about but me.” she admits freely as she wasn’t one to have any reason to hide bits of herself. Everyone could be a friend in her eyes. She entered every interaction with a genuine curiosity it was honestly a bit hard to be rude to her.

“Ah.” He nods and understands. “Go on in, sweetheart” he holds open the door for her and watches her stand and take it all in for a moment. He chuckles and then sighs, “Poor little thing.” he mutters.

Through an old western saloon style inner door she enters with a delighted smile. “How charming!” She says to herself. She walked into a rather large room full of gambling tables. A bar on one end and a stage on the other. Panning over to meet the stage last, she’s hit with a thump of bass in her chest by way of her feet. It rumbled into the floor as she tentatively approached. She’d never seen live music before. She supposed choir and church and talent shows didn’t really count. There were electric guitars and men with no shirts and girls without bras and she was enthralled. She had heard a few rock songs by way of sneaking into a poor reception radio station when she was left alone in the car. She loved it. But it was something only classless people were apart of. Or so she was told. But these people looked the same as those in the magazines. A very tall and dark man played the instrument causing her to experience a very pleasant vibration through her body. He was shirtless and sweating and had a large tattoo on his arm. A chain from his worn dark jeans that bounced with every pluck of his long fingers. Next to him a smaller man, pale and singing with delightfully large blonde curly hair. He sang beautifully she thought. He wore a shirt unbuttoned and tucked into pants so tight she could see a bulge that ripped her from her fantasy of being as cool and free as they were. She turns around quickly and moves towards the bar.

She finds George in his work clothes, the navy not being blotched by black oils and spills told her he also hadn’t been to work. She wears her disappointment in her face clearly for a moment before trying to put on that mask her mother taught her to wear. Never show him that you’re upset. Anger is unseemly on a lady. But this did make her angry. Her red face made it obvious she was holding in red hot emotion. Her smile was hollow and her eyes gave her away.

“Hello, George. I believe it’s time we got home.” She says with a hand to his shoulder.

“How’d you find me here?” He asks with a dramatic turn on his bar stool, and he was in true skunk form.

“A person in town suggested it. Your mother is worried about you. Can we please go home?”

“You can. I’m staying here.”

“Please George I have to get you home. Both our parents expect me to take care of you and that’s what I’m doing.”

“What if I don’t want you to take care of me? Huh? What if I don’t want anything to do with you?”

Her throat felt tight. She was not accustomed to being spoken to in such a way since she was bullied when she was young. The eyes she could feel on her from a growing audience he was causing made her feel all tingly and nervous. He looked at her with disgust and the shame she usually felt was quickly turning into anger in this new over-stimulating environment.

“Do you think I want to be here?”

“Huh?”

“Do you think I wanted to run all the errands myself today for my own wedding? And make excuses for your absence all day and have people look at me with pity. Because they knew you were here. Again from the looks of you.”

“Well, I’m only here because of YOU.” He spits back.

“Me?” She squeaks with growing confidence that makes her take a deep breath and steady herself. “I have been nothing but an ideal fiancé from the beginning of this. YOU asked for this. Not me.”

“I didn’t ask for it! You did!”

They both looked at each other confused. “I was told you asked for my hand.”

“Hell no my parents told me I had to say yes to your parents offer or they’d cut me off and send me to the army.”

They both blink at each other for a moment. “This is…” she takes a shaker breath. “I’m in an arranged marriage.” She whispers and feels a betrayal deep in her chest. She’d been lied to. Her parents lied, her fiancé lied, the whole town and only one person has the decency to tell her where George was. It hurt like a knife might she thought as her hands held fast to her stomach.

“Are you like...retarded too? Ugh geez. Of course, it is! Why would I want to be with a freak like you?”

It’s as if he’d culminated every fear she’d ever had into a single sentence. All her thoughts of not fitting in, of something being wrong with her. She’d been right all along. “Well, I don’t want to be with a mean drunk like you!” She says back with a face that showed her first real emotion in years.

“I am not a drunk.”

“Yes you are! The whole town gossips about it behind your back. Your parents threaten to send you off if you don’t start acting like an adult. You try to take advantage of ME when I’ve never been anything but nice to you! You are MEAN and you are a DRUNK!”

He moves fast and grabs hold of her arms tightly. Enough to make her cry out and wince. “You listen here you little freak of nature. If you’re gonna be with me you’re gonna respect me as a good wife would.”

“Is there a problem here?” The same tall man from the stage asks, towering over George.

“Buzz off bud. This is between me and my girl.”

“It’s not when you talk to her like that, loud enough for whole damn bar to hear and then put your hands on her.

“Why don’t you go and fuck your cousin, you dirty ass hippies.”

The man meets eyes with Rosie and he immediately knew he had to help her. She looked defeated, but a shine of hope that someone, anyone would ever help her out. He knew one of their kind when he saw that look. Just like the group of outcasts he’d gathered over the years since returning home.

“You’re a…” he glances to Rosie who beams innocence in such a way a man like him is forced to protect it. “Jerk.” He decides instead of saying words that might make the victim feel embarrassed.

“He’s an… asshole.” She spits out and feels a wave of rush over her as she curses.

George flinches to hit her and that was enough for the tall stranger. “Alright, you’re killing the vibe, man.” He wraps his neck in a headlock and drags him out of the bar with a shocked Rosie froze for a moment.

“‘Ello there, love.” The singer from before came in. With gentle hands to her shoulders. “You alright? Hurt?”

“N-no.” She stutters.

“Ya sure you’ve gone all rosy in the face.” He fans her with his hand.

“I always am.” She excuses quickly. “Sorry..I-“

“No apologies, let’s get you into the fresh air eh? Don’t worry I’m with the big guy what dragged off that unpleasant twat you were dealing with.”

“Okay.” She says breathily and a little dazed. “Thank you.”

——-

“Well, he’s gone.” The tall one says proudly, clapping his hands.

Rosie stands and looks at the spot where her car had sat. Now empty. “Did he take that yellow car?” She points to the space.

“Yeah, he headed right for it, had the keys.”

She nods and sighs. “I’m afraid that was my car he took.” She looks down the ground to figure out her next move from here, now stranded.

“Oh shit. Oh no, I’m sorry.” The tall man says putting his hands to his mouth. “Ah. Well fuck, honey I really screwed you there didn’t I “

She blinks with her large pale blue eyes at him with tears withheld. A cherub round face that struck a deep nerve as she tried to hide her upset. “You didn’t mean it. You were trying to help.” She says with a slow nod and inhales.

“Bad luck innit.” The other rubs her back comfortingly and she didn’t mind it. He seemed like such a nice man. They both were.

“Can you get a ride home? Call your parents or… something? Or did he just... steal your car?” He towers over her but she doesn’t feel afraid. He rubs his head in thought as he bit his lip.

“I’ll have to call my mother. He’ll go home to his mother I presume.” She nods. “I can retrieve my car tomorrow. Unless he crashes it.” She sighs. “He was terribly drunk.” Her shoulders sink in disappointment.

“Look, we’ll get ya home...what’s your name love?”

“Rose.”

“Oh, that’s a beautiful name innit? For a beautiful girl.” He holds no ill will as he says it and the compliment hits her hard in her emotionally unstable state. Tears well up for someone, a man, a nice man to be so kind to her to say such a nice thing. “Oh no, don’t cry. We'll get you a cab home. It’s no trouble love. Don’t worry ya pretty little head about it eh?”

“You’re so nice.” The tears fall fat over her flushed cheeks.

“Now there’s a good girl.” He brings her in for a hug. “Go call her a car, mate.” He nods away the other fellow.

“I’m so sorry. I’m not usually like this. I’ve had such a bad day.”

“Now let’s sit down here and you can tell Danny all about it now little Rosie.” He shoos some men off a nearby bench to sit her down.

“That your name?” She sniffles

“It is. I’m Danny and that big man was Declan. You’ll be safe with us. Don’t worry. We are protectors of the oppressed.” He chuckles as he puts an arm on her shoulder as she hides her face from the eyes watching.

“Oppressed?”

“Yeah. You know, women… people that are... various beautiful shades of brown, black yellow..." he spoke dramatically with an outstretched hand that captivated her " … homosexuals. You know how it goes, the bad ones yeah? The rebels, the outcasts,  lost children who come across our path.”

“You’re making us sound like a cult man. Don’t scare her.” Declan laughs and stands guard at her other side. “Taxi’ll be here within the hour.” He gives her a warm smile that crinkles around his eyes. Half of it coverd in a beard that was pointed and a bit fuzzy. His hair was like a dark lions mane around his face and shoulders.

Rosie contemplated as she looked up at him and wondered if she’d ever seen a man so tall before.

“He only looks scary,” Danny assures her. “Declan this is Rosie.”

“Pretty name for a pretty girl.” He gives a gentle nod down at her.

“Almost exactly what I told her.” Danny beams.

“Hey Rosie, I’m Declan. Nice to meet you.” He spoke softly and gently as if she might startle if he spoke too loudly at her. “We’re in a band. We travel around. Play music and just...living life y’know. Being free with the life we’ve got.” He spoke proudly as he explained. “We’ve heard a lot of stories. So you aren’t going to tell us anything we’ll judge you for.” He laughs.

“We’ve all done far worse than whatever spot you’ve got yourself in angel.” Danny joins in the laugh.

“I’m sorry to cry I’m just feeling a bit overwhelmed.” She wipes her cheeks. “As I was telling Danny I’ve had a very bad day.”

“Tells us about it then love. Let the evil out.” He motions with his hands as if he were vomiting and it makes her have a soft little giggle. “There she is.” He pushes her chin up gently. “Go on then…”

Her blubbering story hurt them both as she told of isolation and now betrayal and forced marriage to a terrible man. They’d seen it and heard it before, many in their group had a similar past.

“You deserve so much better Rosie love,” Danny says with a broadly shaking head. “You are clearly such a bright and lovely girl with a pure heart and you deserve the same given back to you.”

“I do!” She whines.

“You can change it all. You’ve got the power. They tell us we don’t. That we can’t. But it’s because they’re afraid of us. Afraid that if we knew what power we had as a collective, as they’ve made us all feel so isolated you see? You can have whatever sort of life you want Rosie. You just have to take it.” Dany speaks intently to her with unwavering eye contact.

“Take it?” she sniffles.

“Make the hard choices. You want things to stay like this forever or you want to take a chance and be your own person?” Declan asks with high brows. He had the tougher approach and Danny handled the whimsy of things, it suited their personalities.

“Like...refuse to marry him?”

“Not just that. You can refuse to stay with your parents.”

Rosie laughs as if he’s joking.

“I’m serious. You could go and live anywhere you wanted. Did you even know that?”

“No. I thought….”

“You can make your own choices Rosie,” Declan says as he sees the cab arrive. “You could see the world. Meet anyone. Do anything. ”

“That… sounds too good to be true.” she looks down at the ground as they walk her towards the car.

“It’s what we did,” Declan turns to face her. “We didn’t like our lives so we just...changed them. I wanted music and freedom and to be around people who understood me.”

“We eventually found each other. And our little family has grown ever since.” Danny holds his home like an adoring mum seeing away their daughter on the bus.

“Family?”

“We’re just a bunch of misfits that are trying to find our place in this crazy world.” Danny shrugs. “Some of us play music and some just follow us in the summertime to escape their lives. Some just like life on the road. We’ve got all sorts. Certainly had a few girls with stories like yours.”

“Really?” she rubs her cheeks.

“We aren’t saying you have to join us. We’re just saying you can make your own choices... have whatever sort of life you want. That’s all. You seemed like you could use the help.”

“I could.” she lets out a heavy, thoughtful sigh. “Thank you. Both. You were very helpful. I can’t really repay you.”

“Start making YOURSELF happy Rosie. That’ll be payment enough. You deserve it, pet.” Danny waves her goodbye.

“Don’t let the man get you down little Rosie.” Declan Nods her way as she gets in the cab to head home.

—————

The cab drive home was the most peace she was going to know for the next 24 hours. It started with the cops being at her house when she got there. George had been arrested after being taken to the hospital for injuries from wrecking her car. He was being held and charged and poor Rosie thought she might pass out.

George’s mother paced and shouted in their house late into the night. Wailing about her “poor” son. What did she do to him to make him behave in such a way? Denial was not just a river she'd read about in the encyclopedias she'd gotten for Christmas.

Her own mother joined in, what did she do? How was she going to fix this? Why didn’t she have the money to bail him out? She raised her better than this.

Rosie sat and took it. But each biting remark only made that funny feeling in her stomach grow as each verbally slapped her over and over.

“Did you ever consider you’re yelling at the wrong person?” She finally says back quietly.

“For god's sake girl don’t mumble and slouch! It’s ugly!”

She had been told she was pretty tonight and told she could be and do whatever she wanted. Things she’d never heard before. There were people out there that wouldn’t treat her like this. This isn’t what she wanted. She wouldn’t survive a life like this, it would hollow her out into a shell of who she really was.

“I said, Did you ever consider you’re yelling at the wrong person?” Her brow was now creased and a rare sight it was. “Did you ever consider your son is a drunk? A hateful loser who has been breastfed too long by his mother?!” She sass’s with balled fists in the meanest and most insulting thing she’d ever said came out of her mouth confidently. “And you! I don’t have any money because you won’t let me work! You won’t let me leave! Or even LIVE!” She throws her arms up in the air. “You’re being bullies when I’m the ONLY one that tried to DO something and HELP him. And this is what I get? No. No more. I don’t have to put up with this...this… BOLOGNA!” She yells and stomps to her room, slamming the door and leaving a room of shocked faces behind. Her father in the kitchen almost choked on the beer he was trying to secretly down to deal with the situation. It was beer and not even liquor what was he becoming?

Rosie falls to her bed and cries and hits the pillows as her door is quickly bombarded with screeches on the other side. Demands of her to come out and apologize and she just kept shouting “NO!” Over and over to their requests. She took all of her suitcases and laid them on the bed, the voices on the other side growing tired and falling quieter and they tried to listen to what she was doing. She threw her life into those cases. All her favorite things, things she might need, she stuffed them full and sat on them to get them to shut. She angrily pens a letter. Telling them she was tired of being oppressed and lied to and she was going to make herself happy and never see them again. She still signed it with a heart.

She gets out of her bedroom window and makes her way to the car with the dented fender and busted windows the cops had returned to them. She throws in her bags and whispers a prayer it will start. Someone was looking out for her. She could see the sources of the yelling running out of the house behind her as she headed out of the subdivision. She’d never felt more alive.

She practically drifted into the gravel parking lot at the roadhouse and held tears of joy from her escape and the fact that the buses and vans were still in sight. The bus was headed out of the parking lot. She leaves the car with the keys in the ignition and straps her bags and suitcases up and runs as fast as her feet will carry her toward the van left in the line.

“WAIT!” She shouts and pants. “PLEASE WAIT!!” She lets out a scream she didn’t know she had in her. Her lungs burned and her blood pumped faster than it ever had as the van door rolled open. “I’m coming with you!”

“Is that?” Declan snorts out an amused sound

“Well fuck me it’s that little girl again.” Danny muses as he looks out the door. “Slow down mate, we got a castaway.”

“Being. Chased. Keep going.”

“Chased?” Danny laughs. “By who?” The thought of someone being in pursuit of this tiny white field mouse amused him to no end.

“I RAN AWAY!” she laughs as she throws her bags to the filled van and is ran full force as the van gets to the highway and she’s yanked inside. The door slams shut behind her and she’s left wheezing and trying to fix her dress and hair.

“Come now little bird, have a seat.” Danny pulls her down on the bean bag he’s sat on.

“I. Ran.” She pants out and Danny and Declan laugh but the other eyes in the van are looking at her confused.

“From the cops?” Someone asks concerned

“No.” She clears her throat and takes a deep breath as she calms down. “From my house.”

“Was it as bad as you thought it was gonna be?” Danny pushes back her hair.

“Worse.” She lets out a nervous laugh. “I can... I can come with you guys right?” She says with puppy eyes.

“Welcome to our merry little crew Rosie bug.” Danny beams.

“I ran away too.” Another girl with long beautiful wavy hair says from her spot in the open-backed van, now crowded full. “Husband? Parents?”

“Both.” Rosie nods and they share a sympathetic nod of understanding.

“I’m glad you came Rosie.” the girl's eyes showed strong empathy and it made Rosie certain she'd made the right decision.

“I am too.” She finally catches her breath. “So…” she primps for a moment to gather herself. “Where are we off to first?”

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