#and just absorbed it into myself like a given. like the sun will rise wind will blow and i will be tired forever

[wildchives4]

tw for food, eating, idk

i failed to eat enough calories yesterday, i don't know if that's why but i'm extremely sleepy today. i'm frustrated because eating enough causes me to crash in the short term and i can't focus; possibly not eating enough causes me to crash the next day and i can't focus. i got a journal to start actually tracking things so i can roughly tell how much i'm eating daily and how i feel the next day or after a week of a certain amount of daily calories.

i keep thinking of, like, i think i was 12 years old or something and i asked my mom if the little bit of fat i had on my belly was still "baby fat," i guess i remember her referring to it as that when i was younger (like.. trying to justify why i wasn't skin & bones. lmfao. i'd kill myself if i treated my child this way), and she got quiet and her eyes got wide, pursed her lips, shook her head, "no. it's not." like i asked if i'd done something horrendous to somebody, it's the face she makes/way she acts when she's describing something very grave. keep in mind, my whole life the #1 comment from people around me, including at this time, was how skinny i was. i would KILL MYSELF if i treated my child like that.

e keeps leaving his food unattended and the dog eats it. obviously i should be intervening more and being more watchful, training the dog, etc. but any intervention on my part pisses me off, like, it's one more thing i'd be doing by myself that i really should not be. not to be cringe and angsty but what else am i ever on here tbf, literally i feel like despite all my rage i am still just a rat in a cage lol. i have no way out, i am lucky if i get my 1-hour walk in a day to myself and the more frequently i do get time to myself, the greedier i feel for it, i guess because i had literally none of it for years; like, under 24 hours in a year to myself for 3 years. that's generous. it pisses me off on principle and practically, there is absolutely nothing i can do about it. anyway i'm constantly making food for e.

ironically moving back in with my mom at my dad's house until my brother sells it seems like the only thing that would possibly offer any relief as far as getting schoolwork done in a relatively peaceful environment (my mom can watch e for an hour here and there; he's active and she's disabled, she can't watch him for long, he could hurt her on accident or get away from her into an unsafe situation + i don't want him around secondhand smoke that long and she chain smokes like a mf), being able to find at least a part-time job (pay for a babysitter), and most ironically of all, eat enough with little effort - she doesn't make comments on my body anymore, even when i was at my heaviest bc of the drinking, presumably bc now i've earned having an imperfect body or something. tbf it's been a long time since she critiqued me that way. i think she stopped in high school when i got very thin bc i had no appetite from all the drugs. idk! not something i have any interest in discussing with her. anyway, she likes to cook and there would literally always be lentil stew. i mean, she would be significantly more helpful than m in most ways, it cannot be overstated. i would basically not be feeling stressed about childcare anymore.

the issue being that our concerns about living with her due to her drinking + the effect of that on my mental state and her chain smoking & compulsive lying are well-documented, i don't know how much antipathy m's mom still feels for me, and she is the most well-resourced party in this situation, so she may sue for custody or help m sue for custody in a way that could make me look very bad ("you brought your child to live with this person you obviously can't trust"). that's another important part of journaling, documenting the fact that i provide all of the childcare except incidental - the courts would favor me for custody, i think. not that i can afford court in any way, shape, or form, or afford debt.

And lately i just feel starved for connection, it's nuts. starved for connection and bored and lonely + completely distrustful of people. name a less productive duo

[mysterioh]

little things | b.b.

Pairing: Modern!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Weddings bring people together. It brought Bucky back to you. Problem is, you don’t want to see him.  

Requested by @anjali750​ !! Thank you so much for requesting and I hope that you like it!! I feel like I could’ve made this better but I didn’t want it to be too long. 

W/C: ~4080  

Prompt: “I was doing fine, really, and then you waltz back in like you didn’t break my heart.”

It’s funny how the little things about a person, things you once adored, turn into the things you now despise. 

When Bucky Barnes sauntered into the room, fashionably dressed in his absolute best, it was the little things about him that made you hate him. 

The smooth swipe of his fingers through his hair. The way his words danced with a chuckle when someone teased him. How his eyes twinkled under the light despite their cool visage. 

The little things you once loved about him were now something you looked on with contempt. 

How dare he show himself after so long? 

You had to admit. It wasn't really his fault. He was brought here into this room just as you were. 

In celebration of the engagement of the future Mr. and Mrs. Wilson. 

---

"I swear you're out to get me," you complained, slouching into the rattan chair in Natasha's apartment. "You hate me, don't you?" 

"I do not hate you," Natasha sighed, flipping through a magazine of wedding venues. "I wouldn't make you maid of honor at my wedding if I hated you." 

"But you just had to pick him, didn't you?" You sat straight up. 

"It's not my choice to make, Y/N," she replied, eyes still scanning her magazine. "It's Sam's and he chose Bucky. There's nothing I can do about that." 

“What about Steve?” you counter, “he exists!” 

“Steve just had a baby,” Nat retorted, turning the page. “Well not Steve but Sharon. Sam would’ve asked him but he felt like Steve’s busy with the baby. Bucky is his best friend too y’know.” 

“Likely story,” you grunt, turning your head away from her. “You’re all scheming against me.” 

“Oh for God’s sake, Y/N!” Nat drops the magazine onto her lap. “Would you stop being so cynical? Not everyone is out to get you,” she states. “Who knows? Maybe you’ll actually enjoy it..”

“Aha!” you point an accusatory finger at her. “I see what you’re trying to do here!” 

Nat groans audibly. “What? What am I trying to do?” she questions irritatedly. 

“You’re trying to get us both back together!” you exclaim. “Too bad sis! It ain’t gonna happen!” 

“You’ve gone mad,” she sighs, shaking her head. Nat stands up and walks around the coffee table and towards the hall. “Believe what you want. You’re my maid of honor. He’s the best man. Deal with it.” 

You grumble, sinking deeper into your chair. “If I see his ass anywhere near me, I’m drop kicking him,” you stated. 

“You will do no such thing!” 

---

Bucky tries his best to keep his focus on the conversation at hand, but his thoughts keep wandering, taking his eyes along with them to the opposite end of the room. 

You stood by the bar with a glass of alcohol as your only companion. Your form was turned slightly away from him, leaving the curve of bare back in perfect view for him to see. 

He watches shamelessly, his eyes drink you in, despite the fact that he thinks he’s ogling you—which he is. 

He shouldn’t be. He didn’t deserve to. 

But could he blame himself?

You look gorgeous. 

Your dress is a heavenly creamy off white, bejeweled with gold embroidery around the chest and hips. His eyes follow the long slit that runs along the side of your leg, trailing along the path of skin likened to smooth caramel, until cold blue clashes with warm hazel. 

Crap.

You freeze when your eyes lock with his. He’s halfway across the room and you still managed to gain his attention. You avert your gaze and place your glass on the counter gently before disappearing into the crowd. 

Bucky sulks when he sees you leave. 

You hate him. 

He knows that. 

But even so, he wishes he’d get a chance to make it alright. 

“Nat,” you tap on her shoulder from behind. 

The redhead turns from the guest she’s speaking with to find you agitated. Red cheeked and lip biting. 

“Everything alright?” 

“Uh, I think I’m going to call it a night,” you reply. 

“Already?” Nat asks. You nodded quickly. “Is this about—”

“Don’t,” you stop her. “Just let me go?” you ask softly. 

“Fine,” she sighs with a frown. She gives you a hug goodbye. “I’ll call you later, alright?” 

You nodded with a smile and made your way out the door. You fumble with your clutch to take out your keys. Not watching where you were going, you bump into someone.

“Oh, I’m sorry—” you pause, when your eyes meet his again. 

“Right now would be a good time for that dropkick,” The Jiminy Cricket in your head spoke.

“Hey, Y/N,” he smiles, voice lilting with his words like he’s happy to see you. 

“Oh, uh, hi, Bucky,” you stutter nervously.

“How have you been?” he asks.

No, don’t start a conversation with me. 

“I’ve been good,” you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, diverting your gaze to the right. You always did when you were nervous. “You?” 

“Great,” he replies, “it’s good to be back home.” 

Your eyes finally fall on him. He’s still the same old Bucky. That same sweet smile. The familiar scent of brisk cologne. Still the prettiest blue eyes you’ve ever seen. 

Stop staring, dumbass. 

“It’s been a while?” he breaks the awkward silence. 

Yeah, four years is quite a while. 

“Yeah, it has been,” you smiled softly, “back for the wedding?” 

Of course, he’s back for the wedding, moron. Stop acting so stupid. 

“No, for good.” 

What? No. No. No. No.  

“Wow! Really?” you asked with a nervous chuckle. “Finally got bored of travelling?” you blurted with a sharp twinge. 

That wasn’t supposed to come out the way it did. 

“Uh, yeah,” he chuckles in reply. “I guess I did." There's a bit of disappointment in his eyes. 

Good. 

"You’re leaving?” 

“Yeah, I’m going home,” you nodded. 

"Here, let me–" 

"No, it's fine," you interrupted. "I can walk by myself," you gave him an awkward smile, taking a few steps backward. "Besides I think Steve was looking for you." 

"Oh," he whispers disappointed. "I'll go see him then. It was nice seeing you again," he smiles warmly while turning. 

Shut the fuck up. 

"Good night," he wishes. 

"Yeah, you too," you said, before quickly turning and dashing out the door. 

Bucky sighs deeply. He knew you were lying. 

You always played with a strand of your hair when you lied. 

A little thing you thought he had forgotten. 

Months had passed since the engagement and life was thrown back into its normal routine. 

The awkward meeting with Bucky became one of those horrible memories that came up at three in the morning when sleep wouldn’t come. But other than that, he didn’t phase your thoughts. 

Four years ago, you loved Bucky. Enough for you to say you wanted to spend the rest of your life with him. 

But Bucky had other plans. He wanted to see the world. Places you’ve only seen on screensavers. He was ambitious and adventurous. An extrovert with a passion for the unknown. You were the opposite. An introvert cooped up in her room writing those very adventures he dreamed of. 

So when he got the chance to travel the world as a photographer, you didn’t stop him. You knew just how much it meant to him. It was his dream. But it hurt how his one dream never had a picture of you in it. 

He never asked if you wanted to come with him. Instead he wanted to break it off. 

It became clear to you that the three years you spent together meant nothing to him. Three years worth of fights and reconciliation, of understanding and appreciation, of promises professed as whispers underneath a glassed moonlit sky, meant nothing to him. 

You learned the minute he walked out the door, ticket in one hand and suitcase in the other, that sometimes a love given in full was not one fully returned. 

It took time, but you got over him. With tubs of ice cream and supportive friends, you made it through and came out stronger than ever. You earned yourself a great book deal with a well-known publisher, and were even lauded as a rising star in literary circles across the nation. You were set on a path to succeed, to live the life you dreamed for yourself. And there was no sight of Bucky Barnes in that dream at all. 

Until you stepped foot onto the ancient cobblestone paths of the island of Crete. The shore was a graceful arc of sand, glittering under the July sun, a perfect place for a placid ocean to lap. The waves rolled in a soothing sound, the salty waters a brief flurry of sand. 

The warm caress of an afternoon breeze from the briny waves of the Aegean Sea felt like heaven against your skin. Even with the sun burning onto the bare skin not hidden by your sundress, you can’t help but absorb the serenity that radiates from the shore of Elafonisi. 

“Y/N!” Nat’s voice pierces through the sweet silence as her head sticks out of the car. Red hair flowing in the wind wildly just like the hand that’s waving to you. 

You smile sheepishly, waving at her from your spot in front of the airport. She jumps out of the car the minute it stops and hugs you. “You made it!” she exclaims. 

“Of course I’d make it,” you reply with a laugh. “Why wouldn’t I?” 

“Nat started freaking out when you said your flight got delayed,” Sam replied, walking up to you and giving you a hug. 

“I was not!” she retorts. “I was completely calm.” 

“You and calm are two things that could never be put together,” a voice comes from behind and it makes you want to scream. Bucky walks up to the crowd of three and Nat hits him on the shoulder, earning a chuckle from him. 

“Hey, Y/N,” he greets with a smile. 

“Hi, Bucky,” your voice is plain. 

“Had a nice flight?” 

“Yeah.” 

You glare at Natasha but she pretends as if you aren’t. 

“Here let me take your bags,” Bucky offers, reaching forward. 

“No, that’s fine,” you replied, but he doesn’t have it and takes them anyway. 

“Hey, Sammy, unlock the trunk for me, will ya?” Bucky asks, walking to the back of the car. 

Sam nods, walking around to him. 

You take Nat’s hand by the wrist and squeeze tightly, making her look directly at you. 

“Why did you bring him?” you whisper harshly. 

“He wanted to come,” she replies in the same manner. “I couldn’t say no.” 

“You could have.” 

“Why don’t you give the guy a chance?” 

“How about no?” 

Nat rolls her eyes. “Do what you want,” she walks away, you pull her back. 

“You’re sitting in the back with me,” you ordered. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” she groans, placing her hand on her hip. 

“Do I look like I am?” 

She yanks her hand from yours. “Fine,” she sighs, opening the door to the car. 

---

Bucky looks at you from the corner of his eye. You leaned against the car door, arm propped up to hold your chin, sun hat resting on your lap. As you watched the passing scenery, the wind from the opened window blew through your hair. 

It’s a bit shorter this time. 

It looks nice. 

Your lips are pulled down into a disgruntled expression as Nat rambles on about the wedding schedule. 

You’re not listening, completely submerged into your thoughts. 

Bucky chuckles quietly to himself. 

Always the daydreamer. 

“Y/N, are you even listening?” Natasha asks. 

“Hmm?” you turn towards her.

“You’ve bored her to death, Nat,” Bucky replies for you, turning his back so he could get a real look at you. “She likes adventure novels.” 

“Actually I was listening,” you retorted sharply. “She said we have practice at the church at ten tomorrow. Don’t be late, Barnes.” You turn back to your window gazing, leaving the three completely silent. 

Sam snorts, unable to keep his amusement inside. Bucky slaps him on the arm then turns back into his seat with a loud thud. A smirk creeps its way onto your face. 

Home : 1

Guest: 0

“Good Morning, Y/N,” Bucky greets cheerfully. 

Suddenly, your orange juice tastes sour in your mouth. You turn towards him with a horribly forced, sweet smile. 

“Good Morning, Bucky.” 

“It’s 9:58,” he points to his watch, “so that means I’m not late.” 

You look at him blankly, tired of hiding your distaste of him. “Congratulations, I could honestly care less.” 

“You should care,” he points with a mock frown like he’s teasing you. 

I’m about to start swinging. 

“Where there’s no you, there’s no me. Where there’s no me, there’s no you.” 

How fucking poetic. 

“We’re an integral part of this wedding, L/N,” he chuckles. 

“I see your horrible sense of humor hasn’t changed,” you bite. 

“And you still have that snarky twist to yours,” he retorts, leaning against the wall of the church hall, eyes straight on you. 

Stop admiring her, dumbass. 

You cross your arms and divert your gaze from him as if you’re ashamed. 

“I don’t mean it in a bad way,” he quickly corrects himself, standing straight. “It’s a good thing, I’ve missed it,” he confesses. 

Your head whips towards him, shocked eyes meeting his. A scarlet red scatters on your cheeks the same way they do on his. 

The tips of his ears burn the brightest hue of red that only happened when he was extremely nervous or embarrassed. 

A little piece of information your brain cared to remember. 

“Uhm, uh, what I meant was—” he starts to stutter. 

You look away again, not wanting to hear another word. You catch Yelena walking by with a few baskets of decorations in her hands. You quickly walk towards her, leaving Bucky in the dust. 

“Here, Yelena, let me help you,” you place your hands on the baskets she was holding. 

“Oh, it’s okay, Y/N, I can handle—”

“No,” you tug on the basket. “please let me help,” you strained through gritted teeth. Yelena raises a brow and looks over your shoulder to see an awkwardly placed Bucky standing behind you. 

“Oh! Yes, please help me!” she yells handing you a basket. “These are oh so heavy!” she laughs. 

Taking the basket from her, you follow here out of the hall and into the sanctuary. 

All Bucky wishes is that you’d look back at him one time. Just once. 

But why would you?

He never turned back when he left. Not even once. 

---

“The Best Man and the Maid of Honor will come out together,” the coordinator stated. 

You grumble quietly, giving a glance in Bucky’s direction. He catches you looking and gives you a wink paired with a smile. You turn away quickly and keep your eyes strictly on the coordinator as she verbally listed the instructions of the procession. 

After a painstaking thirty minutes of instructions and tips, the wedding party lined up in order of entrance. Bucky and you were placed right before the flower girl and the ring bearer and after the bridesmaids and groomsmen. Allowing Bucky to make trivial conversation. You were literally linked with him with your arm hooked in his. 

He rambles on about something stupid. Or at least you think it’s something stupid. You’re not really listening so you couldn’t really tell. 

“You know I’ve read your book,” he states. 

“What?” 

“There you go daydreaming again,” he shakes his head with a chuckle, taking a step forward. 

You huff at him. “I was not.” 

“You haven’t listened to a word I’ve said in the past ten minutes.” 

“Not my fault you’re boring,” you hurl at him, taking another step forward, coming closer to your turn. 

Bucky frowns playfully. “Ouch, so mean,” he whines. 

The couple in front of you begins to walk down the aisle, leaving Bucky and you at the doors. 

“Good luck, guys!” Nat cheers from the back. 

You turn with the biggest scowl on your face which she received with a wide smile and thumbs up.

The two of you get the signal to walk and proceed with even steps. 

“I said that I read your book,” Bucky recalls. 

You turn your head to look up at him. “You—you did?” you stuttered. 

He nodded with a smile. “Yeah, I got stuck at the airport in Berlin cause of a delay and saw your book in the window of a bookstore, so I bought it. I read it in one sitting.”

Your heart beats wildly and palms grow wet. “Um thank you,” you whisper sheepishly. 

“No, thank you,” he chuckles. “I enjoyed it very much. You did an amazing job.” 

You smile small in appreciation of his words, but quickly harden your heart. “You don’t have to be so nice,” you reply, letting go of his arm just as you reach the end of the aisle. 

Bucky couldn’t tell what made chills run down his spine. The cold tone of your voice or the way you let go of him so easily.

“Who’s the cutest baby in the world?” Steve cooes. The little girl in his hands giggles at her father’s words. “You are! You’re the cutest baby in the world. Ah, look at those eyes,” he fawns, “just as pretty as mama’s.” 

Bucky groans loudly, slouching into the chair in the hotel room. 

“What’s with you?” Steve diverts his attention to Bucky. 

“Nothing,” he mumbles. 

“It’s Y/N, isn’t it?” he drops it on him like a bomb. 

An embarrassingly red blush creeps on his cheeks. “I never said that!” 

“I don’t know who you’re trying to fool, but it’s not working,” Steve retorts, bouncing the baby on his knee. 

“I just—I don’t know why she hates me,” Bucky says. 

Steve gives him a look as if he’s in The Office. “You don’t know why she hates you?” he asks incredulously. 

“No,” he shakes his head. “I know why she hates me,” he sighs. “I just don’t know how to make it up to her. I want to fix things, but what’s the point if she won’t even give me a chance to speak two words to her.” 

Steve covers his little girl’s ears. “How about you stop being a whiny bitch and stop beating around the bush? Stop the whole nice guy act and just come clean to her. Give her the raw feelings and not this flowery, teasing bullshit you’ve got going on. You’re a fucking adult for crying out loud. Start acting like one.” 

Bucky opens his mouth to speak, but he doesn’t have any words. Steve had a point, but he didn’t have to say it the way he did. 

“I’m telling Sharon you said that in front of Sarah.” 

“You tell her anything and you’re gonna be walking down the aisle with a missing tooth.” 

Elafonisi was just as beautiful at night as it was in the day. The waters danced underneath the moonlight. The stars sparkled in the sky. You marvelled in the simplicity of the beach. No towering skyscrapers and bustling crowds. No flashing screens and odd smells. 

It’s like paradise. 

A cool ocean breeze brushes against your skin like kisses from the divine. The air was thick with a cacophony of aroma. Pungents smells of rosemary, thyme, and lemon trees mix with the faint smell of slowly roasted meat coming from inside the hotel. 

It’s been a long day of practice and preparation. You’ve been around way too many people than you normally enjoyed and decided to take a break from it all. And you couldn’t find a better place than being hidden on the canopied balcony that jutted out of the building. 

Peace and quiet. Just the way you liked it. 

“I thought I’d find you out here.” Bucky approaches you on the balcony. 

Of fucking course. 

“I wish you didn’t,” you murmured. 

“What was that?” 

“Nothing.” 

Bucky comes to stand next to you, he rests his forearms on the stone fence. “It’s nice here,” he says, “I came here about two years ago, but it feels like the first. Crete is a beauty.”

“I’ve seen the pictures.” 

“Hmm?” 

“The pictures you took,” you explained. “I’ve seen them all.” 

Bucky’s heart flips at your words. A lazy smile tugs at his lips as he turns towards you. “Have you been stalking my Instagram?” 

“No! Nat showed me.” you yell at him, hoping he couldn’t see the blush on your cheeks. Anger rushes through your veins. “You’re so full of yourself,” you snarl, turning on your heel you walk away only for him to catch you by the wrist. 

“Y/N, I was just joking,” he said, pulling you closer.

You tug your arm out of his grasp. “Stop joking with me,” you hiss. “Stop pretending to be my friend. Stop acting like everything’s completely fine between us when it’s not!”

“Y/N, let me explain,” he pleads.

“No,” you deny. “I don’t want your explanation. It’s too late for that now. I’ve spent four years without a good one and I don’t need one now. I was doing fine, really, and then you waltz back in like you didn’t break my heart,” you choke out. 

Tears brim at the corner of your eyes, threatening to fall if you said another word. You’re not going to cry in front of him. You didn’t back then and you sure as hell weren’t going to now. 

“Just please do me a favor and leave me alone?” you ask quietly. 

“I can’t,” he shakes his head. “I can’t leave you alone. I did that once before and it was the biggest mistake of my life,” he confesses. “I was young. I was foolish and I thought what I wanted was out there somewhere but in reality it was always right next to me. It was always just you.” 

His eyes tell the truth and that was what truly angered you. Even after four years, he still had a way of breaking through your hard exterior.

“Then why didn’t you come back?” you asked, voice straining, eyes holding back the tears. 

Bucky looks down at his feet. The crash of the ocean waves in distance calms him, letting the feelings he harbored for so many years flow out of his mouth. 

“Because I was ashamed. Because I felt like you wouldn’t want me back after how much I’ve hurt you,” he looks up nervously. 

“When I saw you at the engagement party I knew I had to at least try to get you back,” he says, hoarsely.  “You know I suck at confrontation, it freaks me out,” he chuckles awkwardly, keeping his own tears at bay. He swallows deep then sniffles. “But I’m here now and all I’m asking for is one chance? One chance to make it alright?” 

“I can’t,” you shake your head and it makes his heart fall. “I don’t think I’m ready.” 

“We don’t have to start where we left off,” he quickly replies, pleading for his case. “We can start over if that’s what you want. We can take it slow.” 

You look at him, quietly thinking about his proposition. He’s willing to fix things. Even if it meant starting over from scratch so he could rebuild the foundation of trust he had foolishly destroyed. He’s willing to put in the extra hours. So who were you to say no?

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t think about being with him again. 

Bucky was still the one you wanted to spend your life with. He always was and always will be. 

“Baby steps?” you whisper.

Bucky’s lips curve into a half smile. A small chuckle escapes them. “Yeah, anything you want sweetheart.” 

Your lips follow his. “I want to start again.” 

Bucky smiles, brighter than the moon. He takes your hand gently in his and kisses the back of it with a nod. 

It was the little things about him. The little things you wanted to believe you hated. The feel of his lips against your skin. The warmth in his eyes that he only showed you. 

The little things you once loved about him and continued to, even after so long, gave you the surety that a love given in full can be given fully in return. Sometimes it just takes a little time. 

FIN

[cultureisdarkbeer]

We Will Remember; From Out of the Ashes

From my Rooted in Friendship series, this is Mulder on 9/11/2001

It was September.  Mulder had spent the summer wandering aimlessly.  Using the identities The Lone Gunman had given him he roamed from one menial job to the other in one town to the next.  Every day was spent looking over his shoulder and every night dreaming of Scully and William.  Hesitant to make contact, he hadn’t even checked his email for fear of a trace.   It didn’t even matter.  There was nothing for him to say that wasn’t already said.  He wanted to come home.  To be with them again.  The only positive, if there was any, was that he was meeting different people from all kinds of backgrounds and philosophies.  There were more people out there that believed than he had realized.  Some circles had even mentioned him by name as a crusader. If they only knew.  If he was on a crusade it was to return to his family.  The only way to do that would be to discover what destroyed human replacements and stop them before it was too late.

Mulder opened one eye and squinted at the time.  He thought it read 10:37.  He was thinking that it must be A.M. as there was sunlight shining into the window.  Sometimes it was an arduous task to simply discern one day to the next.  Today was Tuesday.  He knew this since his last day at the mill had been yesterday and the guys had gathered at the local bar for a going away bash.  The last thing he remembered was being dropped onto the couch by Randy after having too many drinks to maintain the ability to walk let alone drive a car.  His head was still buzzing, but he did recall crying into a beer or two over Scully. He slowly rolled into a sitting position on the most recent couch he called home.  Rubbing his neck, the stiffness reminded him that he needed to buy a pillow.  Thinking of stiffness, he stared down at ol’ reliable standing at his usual attention.  Not that he had much use for it.  The times he did partake he usually ended up in a worse depression than before and he wasn’t in the mood for tears today.  He rubbed his face and the scruff that had formed cut into his calloused hands.  Blindly, he turned on the small picture tube in the room and went to the bathroom to empty his bladder.  When he returned he had a toothbrush hanging from his mouth and disbelief in his eyes.  The news showed smoke rising from where the World Trade Center once stood.  There had been an attack on the Pentagon as well and in Pennsylvania.  The next couple hours he spent glued to the television absorbing everything in front of him.  His first instinct was to contact Scully, but he knew he couldn’t. The FBI had to be heavily involved at this point.  Thoughts of human replacement involvement crossed his mind although most evil didn’t land from the sky, but that from within.  It was then he decided his next destination would be east to NYC. If nothing else, they could use his help.

As he got dressed he accidentally glanced at himself in the mirror.  He usually avoided mirrors as they reflected his heartache.  Today he looked at himself as if from afar.  It was the first time in a while he felt he might have a purpose again. Tanned from working in the sun, his skin glowed golden and his abs had a harder cut to them than usual.  The muscles in his arms and chest were wider.  Scully would be impressed he thought as he ran his hand over his chest. The pain of her absence began to culminate in his heart and he quickly resumed getting dressed frantically trying to push his mind onto another track.  Any thoughts of Scully resulted with tears, anger and unending sadness.  He walked outside and flung his bags into the back of an old Buick sedan he had purchased for a couple hundred dollars.  The plates and registration were phonies Skinner had retrieved from FBI storage, but they got him wheels.  He sat the picture Scully had given him in the corner of the instrument panel wishing he had one of William as well.  Straightening his rear view mirror he gave the rural landscape one last look, put on his shades, and headed out.

 A few days had passed before he had reached New York traveling from Kansas.  He had stopped to visit Sheila and Holman.  At least there he got to share good memories, eat some home cooking, and be the proud papa as he told them about William.  He had given Holman a package to mail to Scully so she knew he was still alive and took off for New York. 

As he entered NJ, he took heed of the solemn atmosphere.  There was an eerie quiet looming.  When he finally pulled the car into a parking spot he was near Liberty State Park.  The air was cold, a frigid day with no wind, the only breeze being from the echoing of voices from the dead and the screaming hearts of the living.  He came upon a spot with candles burning.  Pictures and cards hung everywhere.  There were notebooks too.  He picked them up and read them.  Poems and prayers, wishes and requests, all to missing loved ones.  They were beautiful and he felt his anger rise up with the sadness. The monster inside him was winning.  He spun around when he felt a tap on his arm.  It was a woman with tears in her eyes.  She hugged him without words.  A total stranger holding him, greeting him like family.  They cried in each other’s arms for each of their losses without sharing words.  Others came to pray, share hugs and photos, and leave messages.  Everyone was leaning on the other.  Mulder had witnessed many things in his life, but such a beautiful reflection of humanity he never would have guessed to find in the vicinity of so much that was corrupt. 

“Hi. My name is Lauren.” A tall slender woman dressed in what might be considered hippy attire held out her hand for Mulder to shake.  “Do you have missing loved ones?”

“No… I, uh.  I came to help.” 

“Yes. It seems there are people from all over the country some from other parts of the world that have traveled to help.  I’m from Long Island myself.  There’s a group of us meeting here in a while to make the trek over into the city.  From there we will meet up with the firefighters.”

“What will we be doing?”

“You’ll see.”  She replied with a warm smile.

For lack of any ideas, Mulder wandered into the city with them.  The streets were covered in ash. What looked like snow was more ash falling from the sky.  A post-apocalyptic feel gripped at his fears.  This was not cruelty from an alien force, but only that capable of man.  They walked the streets. Lit candles covered every street corner accompanied by flowers, cards, letters, and poems.  The walls of every business and billboard filled with pictures of loved ones. 

Children, mothers, fathers, sons, daughters, friends, wandered the streets searching.  Some came as he did.  From a pull that they did not know.  From a pull to be together, for comfort from the sadness. To mourn the loss, embrace each other.  When they finally settled on a street corner they waited.  The firefighters were changing shifts.  The truck stopped at the corner and the firemen got out as others piled in.  They carried with them shovels and masks.  The news stated it was an attempt at a recovery mission, but Mulder knew better.  It was to dig up the dead.  To find evidence of who had died, to attempt proper funerals.  Most would remain where they died, their tombstone a memorial and another skyscraper to once again reach out to the heavens on the backs of their souls.  The returning firefighters had it all in their faces.  The people cheered them like superheroes upon their return.  Those people were there for one purpose.  To hug those men, to give them their strength back through their love.  Total strangers giving the only thing they had to give to the men that had lost so many of their brothers.  The firefighters in turn cried into the embrace.  Falling apart in their arms.  Real giants did exist and they walked the streets that day. It was the men in red and those in blue that ran towards their impending doom as others ran away.  To now be represented by those from all over sifting through the ashes, not giving up on a chance of resurrection.  If there was a place Mulder felt at home since leaving D.C. it was there among the mourning.  They gave him strength to go on.  To know that he was blessed to have Scully and William still alive waiting. 

After sharing handshakes, more prayers and kind words, he left as soft music played bouncing off the resilience of the tall standing buildings of downtown. The Empire State Building glowed red, white, and blue for all to see that we still stood tall. People had brought their instruments, boom boxes and whatever they had, playing the music throughout the night to let everyone know they were not alone.  The spotlights boomed into the sky like a signal to batman calling for a savior when the only one to answer was from inside.  Mulder continued to wander the streets, like he was searching, but for what he had yet to know.  He got to a large rock near central park and sat down.  His heart started to race as butterflies beat furiously in his stomach.  “Scully.”  He said to himself out loud.

“Mulder” Scully said as butterflies grew in her stomach at that familiar feeling. 

“What is it Dana?” Monica asked concerned at the upset look on her face.

“Nothing.  I… I just got a strange feeling like Mulder was here.”

“Maybe he was.”

“Maybe.  I miss him Monica.  Not a second goes by….”

“You have to stay positive.”

“I know.”

Scully and Monica were two blocks from Mulder’s rock in Central Park. They had come to see the tragedy with their own eyes and unknowingly came within steps of Mulder.  Monica waved down a cab and got in.  Scully paused for a second longer, the butterflies still beating in her stomach. “I know you’re out there Mulder. I hope you feel me too.” She whispered more to herself than anything else.  She joined Monica in the cab and they headed to the airport to return to D.C.

 Mulder got up from the rock looking for the subway to take him back to his motel room. A kid in his twenties in a gray hoodie came up behind Mulder and tapped him on the shoulder startling him.

“Excuse me.  You’re Fox Mulder!”

“What? No, I’m sorry you have the wrong person.” Mulder picked up his pace taking longer strides to get away from the attention this guy was bestowing upon him.  The kid only ran to keep up.

“No, I know you’re him.  You were friends with Max from NICAP.  I’m from NICAP too.” The kid said extending his hand to Mulder as they walked.  Mulder kept his hand in his pockets and didn’t slow his pace.

“Look I’m kind of undercover.  I’m not really able to talk right now it could compromise my position.”

The kid nodded, but didn’t back away. “My name is Josh.  We’re having a meeting tomorrow if you’re interested. The topic…  alien hybrid kryptonite.”

This stopped Mulder in his tracks. “You’ve figured out how to stop them?”

Josh looked hesitant. “Well that’s what the meeting is about.  We have reports that some of the members have seen them turn into one of those magnetic desk sculptures.  You know what I’m talking about?”

“Not exactly.  They might have thought they killed them, but these things rejuvenate.  I’ve seen them crushed into a tiny cube and come back to full capacity.” Mulder countered.

“According to our latest reports, this destroys them.  If you come to the meeting, you can speak with these men yourself. Ask all the questions you want.  It would be quite an honor to have you there.  You’re kind of a celebrity in our neck of the woods.”

Josh handed him a small NICAP business card with an address and time.  “See you then”

As Josh walked away, Mulder looked around nervously.  If I guy from NICAP could locate him, anyone could.  He wouldn’t be able to stay much longer.

After a restless night’s sleep in a rundown motel, Mulder went back over to ground zero and put in some hours helping with the recovery.  At a little after 7 he headed over to 8th avenue where he found a building with windows nailed shut by wooden planks covered in Broadway posters.  He went down a dark alley, down a flight of stairs to a locked door.  He knocked on the door and a 400 lb. man with a Spiderman t-shirt answered.  “It’s the second star to the right” He said to Mulder.  “And straight on ‘til morning” Mulder answered.

“Please turn around and expose your neck.” The heavy set man answered.   Mulder turned around and lowered his jacket so the man could observe the top of his spine.  He then handed Mulder an alcohol swab and a disposable blood lancet.  Mulder punctured his finger so the man could witness that his blood was red.  Lastly he ran a wand over him for evidence of weapons, tracking devices, or taps.  When he was satisfied that Mulder was clean he let him proceed. The man opened the door to let Mulder in. “It’s an honor to meet you Fox Mulder” the man winked and smiled. As Mulder looked around he realized he had found the greatest collection of outcasts the planet earth may have ever known.  Once everyone was checked in, the meeting commenced.  There was a lot of formalities, new business, old business until finally they got to eyewitness accounts.  Each person would go up front and speak of their experience. It was nothing new and all things Mulder had heard several times before.

“And now the moment we’ve been waiting for.” Said the meeting head.  “Eric will be reviewing his latest information on Hybrids.”

He started his speech telling of first accounts of hybrids being birthed from human mothers using mutated eggs.  He told of stories of embryo implants through abductions and contaminated water supplies. Most of it Mulder was aware and some seemed skewed or misguided.  Finally, he got to what Mulder really wanted to hear.  “We have some exciting news today.  It’s been confirmed.  We have dead hybrids.  They were turned into a metallic dust.  It happened at ground zero.  What we believe is that when the twin towers fell, they exposed the Manhattan bedrock which is millions of years old.  Folded into that bedrock is an iron ore, remnants of an old meteor.  We believe that if we could mine meteors that contain this same iron, we may be able to build a weapon to combat these hybrids.”

“So where do you find this iron and how are you going to test it?” Asked one of the members.

Eric turned on the projector.  “This is a Map of all the meteor dustings in the past two million years.  As you can see the largest concentration is in Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado, Utah, and Nevada.  This is where we should concentrate our efforts.”

“But how do you know this iron stuff will kill them?” Asked another member.

“Because we have it on video and we have the dust sample.”

The room became silent as he hooked up his video camera. 

The video took place after the first tower fell.  There was a considerable amount of smoke and it was apparent the video had been taken by someone in law enforcement.  Two men with FBI jackets were running into the smoke and the camera was shaking widly.  You could see them enter the building and go down steps where the mall once stood. Ash was everywhere and smoke filled the hallways.  It appeared they were in search of something inside the mall. Then one of the FBI agents froze like he was magnetized to the floor.  With tremendous force the two men crumbled as if from the inside out like a huge magnet drew them downward.  You see the man holding the camera yell and pick up their clothing which now contained only dust.  He let out a few expletives and the camera shut off.

Even this made Mulder miss Scully.  He wished she was there to witness the tape.  He wanted her opinion.  He also wanted some of that dust.  She would be able to dissect it in the lab and find the answer.  Not this time.  This time he would have to prove it on his own.

“What happened?  It was like terminator was struck with a light saber.” Shouted Josh, the kid he had met in the street.

“We don’t know.  This is all we have, but the rock that was scraped up from the site had a high concentration of a form of magnetite.  If we could fashion a weapon, we may be able to use if against them.”

 Walking back to the motel Mulder didn’t know what to make of any of it.  Was there a way to stop them? There had to be.  Nothing was invincible.  Except maybe Scully.  He went to put the key in the door and it creaked open with a push.  Someone had already been there.  The place had been ransacked, but from what he saw nothing was taken.  His first instinct was to ensure the intruders had left, but they were gone.  His suitcase full of cash was still intact. He searched his luggage finding a tracer.  He also found a bug inside the lamp on the nightstand.  They had located him.  His time in NY had run out. He grabbed his stuff, packed it into the car, placed the picture back on the instrument panel, and headed west in search of magnetite and an old friend.

Read more here

[thetranquilteal]

The Gift [AO3] by @thetranquilteal​

Jamie has spent almost every night of his deployment yearning to be with his wife and newborn child. When he is given the opportunity to be home for Brianna's first Christmas, however, he unexpectedly finds himself torn between the past, present and future. 

A modern day short story inspired by @thelallybrochlibrary Holiday Prompt: "Soldier Jamie returns from his deployment in time for Brianna’s first Christmas” submitted by @becc127.

Part I: Home For Christmas

Jamie looked down at the photograph resting in the palm of his hand. 

There sat his beautiful wife, their brand new wean resting in her arms. The stark contrast between Claire’s dark and unruly curls lightly brushing their daughter’s red tuft was only highlighted by Claire’s dark blouse and the cream coloured crochet blanket she had wrapped Brianna in. 

He chuckled to himself and raised his eyes as if to follow the sound carrying away with the wind into the mountains lit only by moonlight shining through sparse clouds.

He could still remember the moment Claire had announced her name over the phone.

“Brianna,” the mouthed to himself and smiled again. He had made a fuss at the time but it had been token, half-hearted at most, as he hadn't truly minded. How could he? After what had happened with Faith -

He shook his head quickly in an attempt to dispel the thought.

He loved Faith. A Dhia, he loved her. So much so that it hurt to think of her - their first, a daughter born too early, too silent and too still - let alone speak of her out loud and, truthfully, he could only deal with so much heartache on a dark night like this, where stars were dulled by lingering clouds and death curled around them like unwelcome hot breath. 

His hold on the photograph tightened as his throat constricted and heart thumped in his chest. 

It had been a standard patrol. Standard. There was a scoff bubbling up from within but he hadn’t enough energy to dispel it, instead opting to let it simmer in the barely controlled but well-concealed anger that had been plaguing him for hours. It was supposed to be standard, damn it! Instead, they had stumbled across an IED. 

Unmarked. Unexpected. Deadly.

Now, instead of continuing their assignment as planned, they would be departing at first light to escort Angus' body home. 

Christ, how he wished he could speak to Claire. Touch her. Feel her. Wrap his arms around and just hold her. 

During her time as a Combat Medical Technician, she had been on two tours of her own and had seen such violent harm up close and intimately more times than he would wish upon any soul. Unlike any other Tech here in this God-forsaken desert, however, she had the ability to heal a lot more than just physical wounds. She had hands that wove stories across the skin, lips that formed words to heal the soul, and a heart more loving than anyone - including he - could ever deserve.

From the very first, when she had come and laid a hand on him to reset a dislocated shoulder, he had known - she was everything. 

Everything he knew he wanted.

Everything he hadn’t known he needed. 

Leaving her, just weeks pregnant with their second bairn, to go on this tour had been one of the hardest things he had ever done and news of a happy and healthy daughter had provided incredible relief. For a moment in time, he was devoid of the burden that had been tying him down ever since he had step foot on the aircraft and the weightlessness had left him giddy with the feeling he could do anything - achieve anything.

But all too soon that feeling had been replaced with something new. A yearning, almost.

A calling. 

On nights he managed more than an hour or two of solid sleep, he would dream of Brianna. Shifting within her swaddle, asleep in her crib. Small fingers wrapped tight around one of Claire's. Crying out blindly in hunger only to be soothed by her mother’s scent shifting closer. 

The following day the images would linger, there in the background of his mind, as they cleaned their rifles and organised equipment, long after shifts changed and there were no words to fill the silence that fell down upon them, and every time they paused to take refuge from the hot sun beating down upon them. 

Despite their continued occurrence, he resisted speaking of them out loud, too afraid that the sound might interrupt the ethereal connection that existed between the two of them. That he might be left even more alone than he already was. 

The mere thought made him grit his teeth. 

In his youth loneliness hadn’t bothered him - if anything he had welcomed it. First, it was the solitude that came with working in the Highland fields as a teenager and, then, the freedom that came with being an entry-level soldier travelling between various stations and training grounds, never staying anywhere long enough to put down roots or form any serious relationships outside of work.

Then he had met Claire. 

While, from that point onward, he had spent his days afield eagerly awaiting their next reunion, their intimate relationship had had very little impact on life in the Armed Forces. It was one that the two of them were used to and one that continued on even after they had wed. When Claire, pregnant and suffering from terrible morning sickness, was released from active duty, however, things changed. It was then he had come to truly understand what it meant to be ‘away’. Away from his wife. His family. His home. And now, another daughter. 

One that would be there when he returned. 

The thought gave him hope - a small flicker somewhere deep down beneath the bone-weary exhaustion and budding sense of desperation.

The sound of worn boots upon dusty gravel grew nearer and he turned slightly, more so due to a long instilled need to keep anything and everything within his line of vision than simple curiosity. 

He shifted again as Murtagh sat down next to him and waited. 

It wasn’t uncommon for the two to sit side by side in comfortable silence from time to time but he knew the man, both godfather and superior, had sought him out with purpose. 

"Received confirmation from Stuart - schedule remains unchanged,” Murtagh stated casually. “Dougal's putting together the last of the equipment. Thought it would be best to leave Rupert be fer now."

Jamie nodded his approval. While Rupert had not been severely injured by the blast, he remained in the medic station for a long while before making his way to Angus' cot to start packing his best friend's belongings and it had been second nature for the team to unofficially take the man off rotation, wordlessly absorbing any and all remaining jobs between them. 

"I should double-check the paperwork's been lodged," Jamie replied though he made no move to stand and Murtagh did the same, having obviously decided it was his own turn to wait. Minutes went by unchecked until he finally said aloud, “I always thought this job couldnae get any harder,” the words spontaneous and providing little to no detail for their use. 

Still, his Godfather understood.

“Tomorrow may be harder than most, aye," Murtagh brushed a hand over his bearded chin and then waved it towards Jamie’s own, "but at the end of it, you’ll be home. In time fer the bairn’s first Christmas, no less.”

"Christmas," Jamie echoed, mostly to himself, nodding his head slowly before looking back down at the photograph. “I'll be home for Christmas.”

When Murtagh put a hand on his shoulder and stood, he dipped his head in acknowledgement but continued looking a moment longer, before tucking it back into his chest pocket and rising himself. He rolled his shoulders and stretched his neck - a long practised method used to replace the battered armour he had worn for far, far too long but destined to wear a little while longer yet. 

He would be home for Christmas but until that day came, he reminded himself, he had a job to do. And a promise to keep.

A/N: For a lot of people, Christmas is not a time of joy but of sadness, anxiety and distress. There can be an overwhelming sense of pressure to be happy and this underlying notion that expressing anything different is not only inappropriate but harmful to those around us. It leaves many - like Jamie in this AU and myself in real life - conflicted, confused and, at times, hopeless and lost. This story is dedicated not only to all service-men, -women and their families but to all of those who struggle during the holiday season. Please know that I am thinking of you and hope that you, like Jamie towards the end of this story, are blessed with a sense of inner peace and many restful nights. A x

[universitybookstore]

THE GRAVEYARD BY THE SEA

This quiet roof, where dove-sails saunter by, Between the pines, the tombs, throbs visibly. Impartial noon patterns the sea in flame -- That sea forever starting and re-starting. When thought has had its hour, oh how rewarding Are the long vistas of celestial calm! What grace of light, what pure toil goes to form The manifold diamond of the elusive foam! What peace I feel begotten at that source! When sunlight rests upon a profound sea, Time's air is sparkling, dream is certainty -- Pure artifice both of an eternal Cause. Sure treasure, simple shrine to intelligence, Palpable calm, visible reticence, Proud-lidded water, Eye wherein there wells Under a film of fire such depth of sleep -- O silence! . . . Mansion in my soul, you slope Of gold, roof of a myriad golden tiles. Temple of time, within a brief sigh bounded, To this rare height inured I climb, surrounded By the horizons of a sea-girt eye. And, like my supreme offering to the gods, That peaceful coruscation only breeds A loftier indifference on the sky. Even as a fruit's absorbed in the enjoying, Even as within the mouth its body dying Changes into delight through dissolution, So to my melted soul the heavens declare All bounds transfigured into a boundless air, And I breathe now my future's emanation. Beautiful heaven, true heaven, look how I change! After such arrogance, after so much strange Idleness -- strange, yet full of potency -- I am all open to these shining spaces; Over the homes of the dead my shadow passes, Ghosting along -- a ghost subduing me. My soul laid bare to your midsummer fire, O just, impartial light whom I admire, Whose arms are merciless, you have I stayed And give back, pure, to your original place. Look at yourself . . . But to give light implies No less a somber moiety of shade. Oh, for myself alone, mine, deep within At the heart's quick, the poem's fount, between The void and its pure issue, I beseech The intimations of my secret power. O bitter, dark, and echoing reservoir Speaking of depths always beyond my reach. But know you -- feigning prisoner of the boughs, Gulf which cats up their slender prison-bars, Secret which dazzles though mine eyes are closed -- What body drags me to its lingering end, What mind draws it to this bone-peopled ground? A star broods there on all that I have lost. Closed, hallowed, full of insubstantial fire, Morsel of earth to heaven's light given o'er -- This plot, ruled by its flambeaux, pleases me -- A place all gold, stone, and dark wood, where shudders So much marble above so many shadows: And on my tombs, asleep, the faithful sea. Keep off the idolaters, bright watch-dog, while -- A solitary with the shepherd's smile -- I pasture long my sheep, my mysteries, My snow-white flock of undisturbed graves! Drive far away from here the careful doves, The vain daydreams, the angels' questioning eyes! Now present here, the future takes its time. The brittle insect scrapes at the dry loam; All is burnt up, used up, drawn up in air To some ineffably rarefied solution . . . Life is enlarged, drunk with annihilation, And bitterness is sweet, and the spirit clear. The dead lie easy, hidden in earth where they Are warmed and have their mysteries burnt away. Motionless noon, noon aloft in the blue Broods on itself -- a self-sufficient theme. O rounded dome and perfect diadem, I am what's changing secretly in you. I am the only medium for your fears. My penitence, my doubts, my baulked desires -- These are the flaw within your diamond pride . . . But in their heavy night, cumbered with marble, Under the roots of trees a shadow people Has slowly now come over to your side. To an impervious nothingness they're thinned, For the red clay has swallowed the white kind; Into the flowers that gift of life has passed. Where are the dead? -- their homely turns of speech, The personal grace, the soul informing each? Grubs thread their way where tears were once composed. The bird-sharp cries of girls whom love is teasing, The eyes, the teeth, the eyelids moistly closing, The pretty breast that gambles with the flame, The crimson blood shining when lips are yielded, The last gift, and the fingers that would shield it -- All go to earth, go back into the game. And you, great soul, is there yet hope in you To find some dream without the lying hue That gold or wave offers to fleshly eyes? Will you be singing still when you're thin air? All perishes. A thing of flesh and pore Am I. Divine impatience also dies. Lean immortality, all crêpe and gold, Laurelled consoler frightening to behold, Death is a womb, a mother's breast, you feign The fine illusion, oh the pious trick! Who does not know them, and is not made sick That empty skull, that everlasting grin? Ancestors deep down there, 0 derelict heads Whom such a weight of spaded earth o'erspreads, Who are the earth, in whom our steps are lost, The real flesh-eater, worm unanswerable Is not for you that sleep under the table: Life is his meat, and I am still his host. 'Love,' shall we call him? 'Hatred of self,' maybe? His secret tooth is so intimate with me That any name would suit him well enough, Enough that he can see, will, daydream, touch -- My flesh delights him, even upon my couch I live but as a morsel of his life. Zeno, Zeno, cruel philosopher Zeno, Have you then pierced me with your feathered arrow That hums and flies, yet does not fly! The sounding Shaft gives me life, the arrow kills. Oh, sun! -- Oh, what a tortoise-shadow to outrun My soul, Achilles' giant stride left standing! No, no! Arise! The future years unfold. Shatter, O body, meditation's mould! And, O my breast, drink in the wind's reviving! A freshness, exhalation of the sea, Restores my soul . . . Salt-breathing potency! Let's run at the waves and be hurled back to living! Yes, mighty sea with such wild frenzies gifted (The panther skin and the rent chlamys), sifted All over with sun-images that glisten, Creature supreme, drunk on your own blue flesh, Who in a tumult like the deepest hush Bite at your sequin-glittering tail -- yes, listen! The wind is rising! . . . We must try to live! The huge air opens and shuts my book: the wave Dares to explode out of the rocks in reeking Spray. Fly away, my sun-bewildered pages! Break, waves! Break up with your rejoicing surges This quiet roof where sails like doves were pecking. Original French Text Le cimetière marin Translation by C. Day Lewis The French text and English translation side by side Ce toit tranquille, où marchent des colombes, Entre les pins palpite, entre les tombes; Midi le juste y compose de feux La mer, la mer, toujours recommencee O récompense après une pensée Qu'un long regard sur le calme des dieux! Quel pur travail de fins éclairs consume Maint diamant d'imperceptible écume, Et quelle paix semble se concevoir! Quand sur l'abîme un soleil se repose, Ouvrages purs d'une éternelle cause, Le temps scintille et le songe est savoir. Stable trésor, temple simple à Minerve, Masse de calme, et visible réserve, Eau sourcilleuse, Oeil qui gardes en toi Tant de sommeil sous une voile de flamme, O mon silence! . . . Édifice dans l'ame, Mais comble d'or aux mille tuiles, Toit! Temple du Temps, qu'un seul soupir résume, À ce point pur je monte et m'accoutume, Tout entouré de mon regard marin; Et comme aux dieux mon offrande suprême, La scintillation sereine sème Sur l'altitude un dédain souverain. Comme le fruit se fond en jouissance, Comme en délice il change son absence Dans une bouche où sa forme se meurt, Je hume ici ma future fumée, Et le ciel chante à l'âme consumée Le changement des rives en rumeur. Beau ciel, vrai ciel, regarde-moi qui change! Après tant d'orgueil, après tant d'étrange Oisiveté, mais pleine de pouvoir, Je m'abandonne à ce brillant espace, Sur les maisons des morts mon ombre passe Qui m'apprivoise à son frêle mouvoir. L'âme exposée aux torches du solstice, Je te soutiens, admirable justice De la lumière aux armes sans pitié! Je te tends pure à ta place première, Regarde-toi! . . . Mais rendre la lumière Suppose d'ombre une morne moitié. O pour moi seul, à moi seul, en moi-même, Auprès d'un coeur, aux sources du poème, Entre le vide et l'événement pur, J'attends l'écho de ma grandeur interne, Amère, sombre, et sonore citerne, Sonnant dans l'âme un creux toujours futur! Sais-tu, fausse captive des feuillages, Golfe mangeur de ces maigres grillages, Sur mes yeux clos, secrets éblouissants, Quel corps me traîne à sa fin paresseuse, Quel front l'attire à cette terre osseuse? Une étincelle y pense à mes absents. Fermé, sacré, plein d'un feu sans matière, Fragment terrestre offert à la lumière, Ce lieu me plaît, dominé de flambeaux, Composé d'or, de pierre et d'arbres sombres, Où tant de marbre est tremblant sur tant d'ombres; La mer fidèle y dort sur mes tombeaux! Chienne splendide, écarte l'idolâtre! Quand solitaire au sourire de pâtre, Je pais longtemps, moutons mystérieux, Le blanc troupeau de mes tranquilles tombes, Éloignes-en les prudentes colombes, Les songes vains, les anges curieux! Ici venu, l'avenir est paresse. L'insecte net gratte la sécheresse; Tout est brûlé, défait, reçu dans l'air A je ne sais quelle sévère essence . . . La vie est vaste, étant ivre d'absence, Et l'amertume est douce, et l'esprit clair. Les morts cachés sont bien dans cette terre Qui les réchauffe et sèche leur mystère. Midi là-haut, Midi sans mouvement En soi se pense et convient à soi-même Tête complète et parfait diadème, Je suis en toi le secret changement. Tu n'as que moi pour contenir tes craintes! Mes repentirs, mes doutes, mes contraintes Sont le défaut de ton grand diamant! . . . Mais dans leur nuit toute lourde de marbres, Un peuple vague aux racines des arbres A pris déjà ton parti lentement. Ils ont fondu dans une absence épaisse, L'argile rouge a bu la blanche espèce, Le don de vivre a passé dans les fleurs! Où sont des morts les phrases familières, L'art personnel, les âmes singulières? La larve file où se formaient les pleurs. Les cris aigus des filles chatouillées, Les yeux, les dents, les paupières mouillées, Le sein charmant qui joue avec le feu, Le sang qui brille aux lèvres qui se rendent, Les derniers dons, les doigts qui les défendent, Tout va sous terre et rentre dans le jeu! Et vous, grande âme, espérez-vous un songe Qui n'aura plus ces couleurs de mensonge Qu'aux yeux de chair l'onde et l'or font ici? Chanterez-vous quand serez vaporeuse? Allez! Tout fuit! Ma présence est poreuse, La sainte impatience meurt aussi! Maigre immortalité noire et dorée, Consolatrice affreusement laurée, Qui de la mort fais un sein maternel, Le beau mensonge et la pieuse ruse! Qui ne connaît, et qui ne les refuse, Ce crâne vide et ce rire éternel! Pères profonds, têtes inhabitées, Qui sous le poids de tant de pelletées, Êtes la terre et confondez nos pas, Le vrai rongeur, le ver irréfutable N'est point pour vous qui dormez sous la table, Il vit de vie, il ne me quitte pas! Amour, peut-être, ou de moi-même haine? Sa dent secrète est de moi si prochaine Que tous les noms lui peuvent convenir! Qu'importe! Il voit, il veut, il songe, il touche! Ma chair lui plaît, et jusque sur ma couche, À ce vivant je vis d'appartenir! Zénon! Cruel Zénon! Zénon d'Êlée! M'as-tu percé de cette flèche ailée Qui vibre, vole, et qui ne vole pas! Le son m'enfante et la flèche me tue! Ah! le soleil . . . Quelle ombre de tortue Pour l'âme, Achille immobile à grands pas! Non, non! . . . Debout! Dans l'ère successive! Brisez, mon corps, cette forme pensive! Buvez, mon sein, la naissance du vent! Une fraîcheur, de la mer exhalée, Me rend mon âme . . . O puissance salée! Courons à l'onde en rejaillir vivant. Oui! grande mer de delires douée, Peau de panthère et chlamyde trouée, De mille et mille idoles du soleil, Hydre absolue, ivre de ta chair bleue, Qui te remords l'étincelante queue Dans un tumulte au silence pareil Le vent se lève! . . . il faut tenter de vivre! L'air immense ouvre et referme mon livre, La vague en poudre ose jaillir des rocs! Envolez-vous, pages tout éblouies! Rompez, vagues! Rompez d'eaux rejouies Ce toit tranquille où picoraient des focs!

Paul Valery, died July 20, 1945.

[laurelsofhighever]

The Falcon and the Rose Ch.30 - The Reaper

Chapter 1 on AO3 This chapter on AO3 Masterpost here 

Thirteenth day of Justinian, 9:32 Dragon

Alistair decided he must be getting used to travelling by boat. Until someone ran shouting over his head and left a fine stream of dust trickling down through the deck planking onto his face, he had been content to lie and doze in the ambience of calling sailors and the steady rise-and-roll of the Siren’s Call on the Waking Sea. The ‘cabin’ given to him was little more than a cupboard squeezed between two bulkheads normally reserved for cargo. It smelled of rich spices and straw, undercut by a faint echo of animal dung drifting from deeper in the hold. He tried to stretch and turn over, eager for a few more moments of sleep, but his toes knocked against the end of the narrow cot and sent a jolt of pain through his foot. He cursed; it was clearly a sign.

Groping for his clothes in the near-blackness of his cubbyhole, he let himself absorb the sounds of the surrounding ship. Over the groan of timber and the steady, ever-present rush of the sea, the stirring of life aboard ship let him know he was the last to be up and about. He wriggled into his second boot and stood, fighting back a yawn as he pulled back the privacy curtain and nodded a greeting to the guard standing watch over his and Rosslyn’s sleeping quarters. Her alcove was empty, the blankets rumpled beneath an empty breakfast tray.

“What time is it?” he asked his watcher.

“Not ten bells, Highness,” came the reply. “Her Ladyship left only a little while ago, said to let you sleep.”

“Thanks, I suppose I should be –”

“Your Highness!” It was his valet, fresh-faced and eager in a way Alistair still didn’t quite know how to handle, carrying a bowl of shaving water and an outfit entirely unsuitable for the hot weather.

“Are you sure the doublet is necessary?” he asked as Marten sat him back on his cot and began applying foam to his chin.

“Brantis says your position shouldn’t be compromised just because we’re not on land anymore,” came the apologetic reply. “Just in case we should come across someone worth being introduced to.”

“Oh hang what Brantis thinks,” Alistair snapped. “I’ve had it up to here with etiquette this and propriety that. Can’t I just enjoy myself? For once?”

“As you say, Your Highness.” Marten sharpened the razor on the block and brought it to Alistair’s face. “Just the same, I’ll assume you still want a fresh shirt, rather than the one you slept in?”

“That – you’re right, Marten. Thank you. I don’t know how I managed without you.”

“Neither do I, Ser.”

Shaved, in a fresh shirt, and having already dodged Brantis and his drills on manners that would be impossible to remember anyway, Alistair paused at the top of the gangway, smiling as he took a deep, grateful gulp of fresh air. They had been delayed two days by the storm that had closed over them at Invermathy, a biting tempest they might have weathered at sea but which would have dashed them to matchsticks against the harbour wall had they tried to leave. Now, with the sun returned, they pushed north under blue skies, with brisk wind carrying them forwards like an afterthought to the fluffy white clouds that drifted overhead. The evening before, they had still been hemmed in by the cliffs of the channel, surrounded by the grimy smell of seaweed and the call of gulls, but during the night they must have made good speed, because when Alistair looked he found nothing but blue on every quarter.

The captain stood on his right, poring over maps with her quartermaster. 

“... and with all this weight we’re carrying, we’d best keep to the seaward edge and go down from the north with the current. I don’t fancy facing the stramash.” She glanced up, as if catching his regard, but he cleared his throat and turned away before she could so much as wink at him. Her proposition had been one of the more awkward portions of the journey so far, made worse by her delight when she included Rosslyn in the offer and left him floundering like a landed fish.

He scanned along the deck. With the journey well in hand, the sailors occupied themselves with routine tasks, laughing and joking with each other as they did so. Rosslyn, dressed down in a simple tunic and breeches, had tucked herself into the bows, as out of the way as possible given the gigantic war hound lounging on her feet, so absorbed in her task she didn’t see him when he tried to catch her eye. Chuckling, he started forward, and barely rounded the foremast when someone collided with his chest.

“Careful with those!” the bo’sun snapped from the other side of the deck.

It was Tabris, her arms weighted with coils of tarred rope.

“Watch out,” Alistair joked, reaching out to steady her.

She ducked away from his grip and scowled as she tramped away.

“You’re lucky she didn’t bite your hand off.”

He frowned at the amusement carrying in Rosslyn’s voice. “She’s not a rabid dog.”

“Not rabid, maybe,” she replied, “but one that’s learned to be wary.”

“She’s not a dog at all.”

Rosslyn sighed and shifted on her seat to make room for him as he approached. Her sword clanked against the cleaning kit balanced on her knees, catching on stray wisps of hair that fell gleaming over one shoulder.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said as he squeezed down next to her.

“How then?” 

“She’s an elf, and you’re the king’s brother.” She turned her attention back to her blade, and the whetstone she had dabbed with oil before his arrival.

“What, and it’s not proper to associate?”

The whetstone scraped up the length of the steel. “I know it might come as a shock, but I listen to my servants, and human men aren’t exactly famed for their gallant treatment of elven women.” She paused, flicked her thumb across the edge to test its sharpness. “Vaughan was… worse than most.” 

“If you knew,” Alistair asked, “why didn’t anyone ever do anything?”

“Leave her be.”

The curt tone brooked no argument, and silence fell between them, punctuated only by the steady scrape of the whetstone along the blade. He studied her out of the corner of his eye, trying to discern the reason for the furrow in her brow and the way her mouth pulled down at the corner.

“Where’s your sword?” he asked.

Her shoulders stiffened. “This is my sword.”

“I meant your other sword. Your sword. That’s the one Cailan gave you, isn’t it?” He swallowed, reaching out to touch her shoulder. “Did something happen to it?”

“It’s safe below,” she answered shortly. “And safe is where it will stay. It’s... bad luck to break a promise, especially to break the same one twice.” She glanced out over the horizon, her expression distant as if she, too, were thinking back to their argument before West Roth.

“Rosslyn –”

“Don’t.” She shook herself and fished in her bag for a whetstone with a finer grain, ignoring the blush that rode high in her cheeks. “I just wish this one would hold an edge.”

“You’re not expecting to go into battle, are you?” he tried, uneasy at the sudden tension between them. “Because I’m not sure that’s what Cailan had in mind.”

“It never hurts to be prepared,” she replied. “Besides, it keeps my mind off other things.”

He frowned. “Like what?”

“Like the knowledge that the only thing between us and the endless, fathomless depths of the ocean is a few tempered planks held together with tar and wooden pegs.” The wry smile faded, falling in on itself as the hand gripping the hilt of the sword went white at the knuckles. “I fell through the ice on the Donmarl when I was little. It was cold, and dark, and if my father hadn’t dived in after me the current would have pulled me away. It’s… not an experience I like to remember.”

Alistair wrapped her hand in his. “I didn’t know. Is – is there anything I can do?”

“Thank you for the offer, but I should be fine if I keep busy – you know, don’t let myself dwell on it.” She gave his fingers a squeeze. “Don’t worry about it. Anyway, I never asked, what are you doing up here? I saw Brantis already shuffling his notes when this one –” she nudged Cuno with the toe of her boot “– decided to have an argument with the ship’s cat at five bells and woke me up early.”

Cuno, clearly awake enough to know he was being maligned, groaned and rolled onto his side as if he had been dealt a mortal wound.

“He did try to corner me.” A grin. “It took all my cunning to escape up here, to much more agreeable company.”

“You pretended you were seasick, didn’t you?”

“That maaay have been an element of my fiendish plan, yes.” There was little room on their perch to flop dramatically, but he tried nonetheless – though not so hard as to let go of Rosslyn’s hand. It was the only anchor left to him now that the subject of his impending diplomatic debut had surfaced in his mind. “If I have to take another ten-minute lecture on the proper etiquette for what to do if I sneeze, I’m going to go insane. I’m already nervous enough as it is. I’m going to say the wrong thing or use the wrong bow, or drop the wrong fork at dinner, or –”

Rosslyn brought his hand further into her lap, pressing it between both of hers in a way that distracted him for an entirely different reason. “We’re going to Dunedyn, not Val Royeaux,” she reminded him, and rolled her eyes when he returned her reassurance with a disbelieving stare. “The Clayne are sea people, they don’t have time for complex formalities, at least not often, and the Storm Giant values honesty and integrity. He’ll appreciate the fact that you didn’t grow up a spoiled brat like me.”

“You were never spoiled, were you?” he asked, sitting up again.

She gave him her lopsided smirk. “You didn’t know me when I was a brat.”

He leaned closer, conspiratorial. “I’ll bet you were adorable.”

She had to turn away, unable to quite hide the smile ruining the stern cant of her brows, even behind a curtain of hair. He reached up to tuck it behind her ear, enjoying the blush on her cheeks and the way she bit her lip to keep the grin from spreading.

“Plan it like you would a battle,” she said once she had mastered herself again. “Know your strengths, and your opponent’s weaknesses, then find a way to match the two together in your favour.” She shrugged. “And then expect everything to go like spilled marbles within five minutes of engagement.”

“That’s not helping,” he huffed. “You know I’m hopeless with details.”

“You’re not as bad as you keep insisting, you know. But if you need someone to keep reminding you that you can do this, then I suppose it’s a good thing I’m here, isn’t it?”

He glanced down at their hands, still joined in her lap. “I’d certainly say so.”

A gentle elbow to the ribs told him to stop teasing, though he noticed the brief flicker her eyes made towards his mouth before she turned back to cleaning the sword. Letting her have her hand back, he trailed his touch up her arm instead, letting it play with the ends of her hair, raven-black silk against his calloused skin. Warmth radiated through the thin fabric of her tunic, and from where the full length of her thigh pressed against his, and for that moment he couldn’t care less that someone might be watching, judging them.

She paused her work.

“About the Storm Giant –” she started, and bit her lip. “There’s something you should probably know, and I’m not sure how it’ll affect our mission, but... it might.” 

“What is it?”

The soft, amused expression from a moment before had vanished, clouded over with the worry he recognised from every time she thought to blame herself for some wrong she did not do. He leaned closer, hating the way her hands fidgeted on her knees and how she looked out over the horizon, trying to distance herself from him and from whatever terrible news she was about to impart.

“It can’t be that bad, surely?” he pressed.

“No – not in itself. It’s more...” A sigh. “It’s not exactly a secret, but it’s not something most people think to mention, since I’m a Cousland. But you should be prepared. The Storm Giant is –”

A blaring noise like the grinding of heavy gears ripped through the air. The dog was awake and on his feet in an instant, barking, every hair mantling along his spine. Rosslyn’s face drained of colour.

“Was – was that a dragon?”

She shook her head as the sound tore across them again. “Worse.”

Without another word she stood, sword in hand, the cleaning kit forgotten at her feet as she dashed after Cuno towards the stern. The rest of the ship buzzed like a kicked ants’ nest. Captain Isabela hollered for quarters, the sailors raced to load crossbows, armed themselves with cutlasses. Some scurried up the masts and took positions on the yards, balancing on the ropes as they unfurled every spare sheet to try and catch the last scrap of wind. Alistair was drawn along the deck. Mind ringing with the panic around him, he wondered if he should find a sword. And then the noise came again.

“What is that?” He leaned out over the rail next to Rosslyn. Her hair whipped back over her shoulders despite her haste to tie it into a braid out of the way, her sword stuffed through her belt for the moment, eyes keen and watering as she squinted back along the glittering horizon. There was a vessel there, leaping along the waves towards them. The sound echoed from it, chilling in its strangeness.

“Out of my way, princeling,” one of the sailors snapped – Casavir. He dropped a rope over the side. “Time!”

The man next to him flipped a small hourglass, his expression intense as he watched the sand run down. “Hold!”

“Twelve knots, Captain!” Casavir called. “It’s no good, we’re carrying too much weight to make speed. And not that it’s going to matter in a little while, Your Highness,” he added to Alistair as he hauled in the line, “but that racket you’re hearing is a carnyx. Bastard pirates put brass trumpets in their figureheads to scare the living shit out of any fool as thinks they’ll get free passage across the sea. And since we can’t outrun them...”

“She’s a cutter, Captain!” someone yelled from the crow’s nest. “Harpoons mounted, coming up starboard quarter!”

“Colours?” Rosslyn called up.

“None that I can see.”

Isabella kicked the wheel. “Brasca.” She turned to the crew. “Starboard quarter! Make fast and brace for boarders! Time to see if all your shields are worth their weight, Your Highness.”

The next moments were held in eager silence. The Siren’s Call steered a course that took full advantage of the wind, but Isabela’s skill for sailing was matched by their pursuers, and the distant blot of the enemy ship grew steadily against the horizon. Grim-faced, the guard waited with weapons bared, their ranks bolstered by others of their company: Wade brandishing a smithing hammer; Tabris, knuckles white on a pair of daggers; even Leliana with a compact bow and a quiver that bristled with arrows.

“Your sword, Your Highness.” Marten pushed his way to the rail, his eyes skittering over the assembled guard and the weapons bared in their hands. “The others are taking refuge in the hold.”

“Thank you.” Alistair eyed the longknife strapped to his valet’s waist. “You should go and join them.”

“But –”

“Let us handle this.”

Wynne emerged from the gangway. Her face betrayed none of the alarm that thrummed through the rest of the crew. “Would someone tell me what is happening up here?”

Casavir pounced. “You, mage! How are you with wind power?”

 “I am a healer, ser.”

“So no chance you could fill these sails up a bit, then?” Isabela checked. “Fantastic. Caught in the open with a bellyful of treasure and we don’t even have a weather witch to speed us along.”

For almost two hours they waited, gathered at the stern, until Rosslyn’s voice rang in the silence. “Give me that glass.”

“You see something?” Casavir asked as he passed her the spyglass.

“I don’t think it’s a Raider,” she replied, still squinting at the approaching ship. She pressed the glass to her eye, lips pursed, holding the attention of everyone around her.

“Wonders never cease… I should have known.”

“What is it?” Alistair asked. “What does that mean?”

“It’s not a Raider.” She turned to Isabela. “I know that ship, and the captain – it’s not an attack.”

The captain snorted. “And sneaking up on us is meant to be a friendly greeting, is it? If it’s all the same, Your Ladyship, I’d rather not take the chance.”

The ship closed the distance quickly, a great hulking shadow that close-to revealed elegant lines and a swift run through the water, the name Reaper painted in white letters along the forecastle. Alistair’s attention was caught by the bows. Unlike the Siren’s Call, with its fine angles and forward-facing eyes, the keel of the incoming vessel reared upward in a sinuous arc, the smoothness of the beam giving way to carved, painted scales that drew the eye upwards towards a figurehead in the likeness of a snarling dragon, terrifying in its attention to detail. A sailor crouched below the head blew into a brass tube, and the carnyx roared again, deafening, an unearthly sound made stranger by the brass rattle of the dragon’s tongue against its teeth. 

“Oi!” Rosslyn leaned out over the rail, next to her dog, who bayed for all he was worth to drown out the awful sound of the carnyx. “What in the Void are you lot playing at?” she demanded. “Where’s your captain?”  

“A ken yae’ll be looking fer me, lass?” A broad, wild-looking man with a plaid sash over his barrel chest hauled himself up the rigging to stand on the rail. “It’s been a while.”

“You!” She let loose a string of angry Clayne, gesticulating wildly, her voice straining from the necessity of having to pitch her voice across the twenty feet of open water that separated the two vessels. Behind her, the crew of the Siren’s Call shifted nervously, unwilling to provoke the anger of a bigger, better armed ship, but not quite sure how to stop the tirade. Alistair, however, saw the grin fighting beneath the bluster, so was not surprised when the Reaper’s captain threw back his head and roared with laughter. 

“A ‘nighean mar a mathair!” he cried, in a surprisingly mellow voice. “Being Seawolf’s daughter doesnae give you clear straits tae insult my ship – ye’ll hurt her feelings.”

“It’s a glorified tugboat, and you know it,” Rosslyn shot back. All traces of her usual reserve had vanished, rolling back the months to a time when she had been nothing more than a noble’s daughter certain of herself without a worry in the world.

“Ye’ve a cruel tongue fer so bonny a face, lass!”

She returned the jab with an ostentatious, mocking bow.

“So you do know these people then?” Alistair prompted, placing a somewhat protective hand on her elbow.

She chuckled. “Of course. This is my dear cousin, Eoin Mac Eanraig.” 

“Ach, nae fancy titles?” Eoin chided with an expansive wave of his hand. “I’m a captain and yer introducing me tae a prince, oh An-Seabhag an Dunmara.” He added something else in Clayne, his smile smug, and laughed at Rosslyn’s startled response, the nervous glance she passed to Alistair and the colour furious in her cheeks.

Isabela cleared her throat loudly. “You’re not the only captain here, love, and my hands don’t appreciate the knicker-wetting you gave them.” 

“Fancy a pint from the high table tae make up fer it?” the Reaper’s captain offered with a broad smile.

“Make it a full barrel, and you’ve got a deal.”

Rosslyn leaned further over the side. “You’re going to Dunedyn?”

“Aye,” came the reply. “Me an’ all the Mac Eanraig, wi’ all the clan lords being called fer the Moot – Big Yin’s’s ordered in Tantervale merlot, an’ we wouldnae miss that.”

“Oh?” Her smile faded a little at the edges. “If that’s so, why are you hanging back here with us?”

“Well, I couldnae miss paying due respect tae two such legends i’ their own time.” He waved a courtly salute to her and Alistair, heedless of the drop to the ocean below, and ruined the effect with a wink. “Even if it is piss-easy fighting on land.” He barked an order in Clayne to the sailors at his back, and the Reaper pulled forward as the wind once more filled her sails. “See ye on the beach, couz. I’ll make sure there’s a dram or two left i’ the cask tae steady yer sea legs for when ye finally get there!”

“Only because you’ll be passed out drunk by then!” Rosslyn called good-naturedly, keeping pace along the rail as the other ship pulled away. Each step fell heavier on the deck as the distance increased, her shoulders slumping, until the last of the buoyant façade fell away completely and she was left in the bows, dejected as a torn spiderweb drifting in the wind.

“Brasca.”

Alistair tore his eyes away and turned to the captain. “What’s wrong?”

“‘What’s wrong’ he says.” Isabela rolled her eyes. “You don’t think they just happened on us, do you? That was a warning, as if pissing off the King of Ferelden and the Storm Giant both is worth whatever trinkets you’ve got in those fancy boxes. It’s not worth my profits to steal from you.”

“I see.”

“Don’t mind me – go and see to your sweetheart over there.”

“She’s not my –” he started, but gave up in the face of the captain’s unimpressed stare. Truthfully, he didn’t know what he and Rosslyn were to each other anymore, after the night they spent with Flemeth, and the days of preparation in Redcliffe, and the conversation they shared only days ago, when she held his hand and told him she was glad they met. He rolled the word ‘sweetheart’ on his tongue, testing it, but found it wanting. Many things could be said of Rosslyn, but she wasn’t sweet – the iron in her bones left no place for such softness, for the coy, simpering acquiescence that had been his experience of most of the noblewomen he had met. 

“Hey,” he said, not wanting to startle her as he approached.

The smile she gave him was brief. She went back to packing up the cleaning kit she had been using before the carnyx sounded.

“So,” he tried. “That was your cousin?”

“The one and only Eoin. It seems you’ll meet the rest when we get to Dunedyn.”

“You don’t seem particularly eager to see them,” he pointed out.

She straightened, her expression falling once more into a frown. “I was trying to tell you before. My mother was Clayne. The Storm Giant is... well, he’s my grandfather. My mother was his only daughter. I haven’t seen him in years – haven’t heard from him since...”

He understood. Even after all this time, despite everything, she still blamed herself for what happened at Highever. 

“Rosslyn -”

“Now you know. No more surprises.” With half a shrug she pushed past him, headed below deck, leaving him lost, still with one arm outstretched, and only the blank horizon to hear the words of comfort that had scrambled on his tongue. 

[sweetsweetnathan]

A Dialogue About a Teapot

Evadaro: “Hey Robyn.”

Robyn: “What’s up?”

Evadaro: “Why is Ul’dah a big, hot desert, while Limsa Lominsa is a pretty beach?”

Robyn: “A number of reasons. The minerals in the ground for one thing.”

Evadaro: “Mm. What’s the minerals in the ground got to do with it?”

Robyn: “There are less nutrients for plant life. Additionally, the lighter colored sand reflects more sunlight. Less heat being absorbed into the ground means more heat being absorbed into the air. Too much heat and it doesn’t rain. Where it doesn’t rain, there are deserts.”

Evadaro: “Huh. So you’re telling me that if the sand in Ul’dah was a different color, it wouldn’t be a desert?”

Robyn: “That’s the jist of it. Though there are other factors obviously. Meteorological factors.”

Evadaro: “Uh-huh.”

Robyn: “Winds are constantly shifting from the north, to the south, and back again. 

Evadaro: “Uh-huh.”

Robyn: “But no matter which way they blow, they’ll never be cold enough once they reach Ul’dah.”

Evadaro: “Uh-huh. Hey Robyn.”

Robyn: “...What is it Evadaro?”

Evadaro: “Why does the sun rise in the east and set in the west?”

Robyn: “You’ve gotta be kidding me. You grew up near sailors, how do you not know this?”

Evadaro: “Hey, screw you. Not everyone had your fancy-lad education. I’m just asking a question.”

Robyn: “Right, sorry. I was just surprised. The sun doesn’t exactly ‘rise’ really. The planet we live on is a... Ball. It travels around another ball, made of fire, that we call the ‘sun’.”

Evadaro: “And travelling around this great ball of fire is what makes day and night?”

Robyn: “Oh, no. We’re spinning at the same time we’re traveling around the ball. The spinning makes day and night.”

Evadaro: “What’s traveling around the ball of fire do?”

Robyn: “It keeps us from flying off into space.”

Evadaro: “Uh-huh... Hey Robyn.”

Robyn: “Yes?”

Evadaro: “I heard that the world is one great plane being held up by four giant elephants.”

Robyn: “...Do you believe that?”

Evadaro: “Makes about as much sense to me as your big ball of fire.”

Robyn: “Come on, you’re smarter than that. You see the great ball of fire every day. Have you ever seen one of these ‘giant elephants’? Have you seen the edge of this ‘great plane’?”

Evadaro: “No. But that doesn’t mean they’re not there.”

Robyn: “That’s not very scientific.”

Evadaro: “And what the heck does that mean?”

Robyn: “That means that it makes no sense to believe in something that you can’t see just because you can’t prove it’s not there. It only makes sense to believe in something that you can prove is there.”

Evadaro: “Uh-huh. Why?”

Robyn: “Imagine I told you that there was a teapot flying up in the sky. It’s so high up that it can’t be seen, but it’s there. I promise you it’s there.”

Evadaro: “Alright, so there’s a teapot.”

Robyn: “Is there? It doesn’t have any effect on you. Whether I’m lying, telling the truth, or just plain wrong doesn’t make any difference. A teapot that can’t be seen, touched, or have any other effect on the world might as well not exist, even if it incidentally does exist.”

Evadaro: “Alrighty. So if the teapot does something for me, it exists?”

Robyn: “Well that’s... If it doesn’t exist, how can it do anything for you?”

Evadaro: “I dunno. But if I pray to it, think about it, get hope from it, it’s doing something for me, right?”

Robyn: “In a manner of speaking, yes. It exists as a thought in your mind.”

Evadaro: “Uh-huh. Just like your ball of fire exists in my mind.”

Robyn: “The ball of fire affects your life every day.”

Evadaro: “Not in any way I’m aware of.”

Robyn: “Just because you’re not aware of it doesn’t make it any less real.”

Evadaro: “So your ball of fire that I don’t understand and can’t measure for myself is more real than the prayers I say? More real than the feelings I feel?”

Robyn: “I am not saying your feelings aren’t real. What I am saying is that anyone can measure the existence of the ball of fire given the right tools.”

Evadaro: “Is there a tool for measuring the thoughts in another person’s head?”

Robyn: “What?”

Evadaro: “Can you measure my feelings, find out if they’re real?”

Robyn: “No.”

Evadaro: “So then my feelings aren’t real, right?”

Robyn: “Not to a certainty. I choose to believe they’re real.”

Evadaro: “Is that more or less ‘scientific’ than my belief in the teapot in the sky?”

Robyn: “...It is exactly as scientific.”

Evadaro: “Uh-huh. Interesting.”

Robyn: “Interesting indeed.”

[altaieu]

please refrain from reb/0gging

as im watching the dark skies shift to blues, the sun is rising on a household with one less kitten in it today. i can see no stars out.

amber died yesterday.

we took her home on friday, neck tube in and accompanied by medicine, after a 9 day stay in the hospital. we were going to try our hardest to help her get get better. we’d been making plans the entire time what we’d do with her when she was healthy again; that we’d definitely let them out next more next summer and make certain the garden had no places for pests, that i’d play with them even more than i did now, that we’d get them all health insurance. we bought her the cat bed we’d been lingering over at the store to make sure she had a very comfy spot to recover in. i’d woken up late on friday but i helped my sister with feeding her, giving her medicine. i was prepared to stay up all day saturday to help.

but she hadn’t closed here eyes since she’d come home, and what my sister thought was her sleeping - nictitating membranes half closed, paws twitching like she was dreaming - maybe have been a seizure in retrospect. though she took everything well, at 7 am she was having breathing problems. she was laying sideways on the floor with her little tongue sticking out, eyes half closed. we woke everyone up. we rushed her back to the hospital immediately. we talked about putting her down, and i’m sad we didn’t in retrospect, but we had never lost a cat before and we were so hopeful she could still turn around - twice while she was at the hospital she’d perked up and looked for all intents and purposes that she was recovering. she was such a strong, healthy cat before all this happened, it was hard to think she could just go like that, but as it happened it was just complication after complication that hit her. so we held off to give her the weekend, said if she didn’t look better, we’d be back to sign the papers.

it was not even 5 hours after we’d left her there that we got the call, around 1:30 pm. she’d nosedived suddenly and they tried to resuscitate her to no success - something my sister had said yes to out of reflex, but was going to phone tomorrow to say not to do, to just let her go. we went back and saw her little body. my sister cradled her in her arms, and every time she shifted in her seat amber’s fuzzy ears swayed just a bit and i kept expecting her to shake it off, wake up, blink up at us with those big, warm, adoring eyes she always had. her head was as cold as the wind outside when i pet her and i feel as if the chill hasn’t left my hand.

now my brain keeps playing that still face against those late night/early morning memories of her jumping up on my bed and my desk, smiling at me with that big wide happy mouth, bumping her head against mine and against the curtain until i’d open it and she could look out and she’d wiggle her big fluffy butt right between me and my monitor. her tail would always be straight up as she watched the shifting shadows beyond the glass and she purred like an orchestra. then she’d sit on my lap and make the cutest face at me, and i’d pet her a little, but because she always seemed to do this when i was absorbed in writing or art i’d pat her butt until she got annoyed and leapt off, skittering out of my room and down the stairs with the noise of a horse. i’d always felt a little guilty after that, and last time, in damn november, i’d made the promise to myself that next time she came to visit i’d let her sit on me and cuddle up as long as she wanted. it’s been barely 15 hours and already i miss seeing that fuzzy face pop up from behind my desk, that fluffy butt jogging out of my room. amber, i’m so sorry i booted you away when you were lonely in the mornings and just wanted to give and receive love from me.

there’s so many things i wish we did in retrospect (in retrospect, in retrospect). i wish i had pushed harder for a vet appointment when i first saw her so listless, but i always differ to my sister and she said she had no money for it. i wish we’d gotten all our cats health insurance so it wouldn’t have been as big of a cost as it was, that we wouldn’t have been so hesitant about a vet appointment in the first place. i wish i had convinced my sis to put her down when we were there in the mornning so she could have passed away in the arms of someone she loved surrounded by people she cared about instead of laying her head against the side of a small metal cage because we were too scared to let go of her. i’m so sorry amber, we did you so wrong.

when we were there in the morning a man came in after us, an old old man who looked to be in his eighties or so. he was there about a cremation for his african grey parrot who’d passed away the night before. he had a south african accent, and i heard him talking about how he’d been with the bird for forty seven years, that he’d found it abandoned by someone else. i saw him and an old woman bawling in the parking lot afterwards. looking back i should have taken it as an omen.

when we got back to the house the first time, around 11:30 in the morning, the cats were going crazy. all three were trying to get into my room. i wanted nora to stay out so she could comfort my sister, but maggie stood on my desk for 15 minutes staring with that kitty love face and headbutting me before she fell asleep on the bed by my feet. sassy, meanwhile, was absolutely losing it, running around the house and yelling with her unique, loud “mryow” sounding vocalization, eyes wide. should have taken it as an omen.

its weird to wake up at 3 am today to three cats. a time in the morning when i know amber would’ve come to visit, given her health back. its weird to walk down and not see her stretch her big fuzzy yellow belly into a croissant shape. i miss running around the house with the knotted shoelace and having her run after me at top speed, catching it and then running along with me as its in her mouth. i miss her closing eyes as you brushed her mane. i miss that little orange spot she wore on her head like a jewel.

i don’t think i can do anything downstairs without getting choked up about how she’d lie across my legs as i did anything. i don’t think i can get back to playing spyro or watching xfiles since she was there like that the whole time for those. i don’t think i can pick up arkham knight or aco again since i’d sit out in the middle of the floor for those and she’d come up behind me and bump my back, sit on my blanket, lay across one of my legs as i played.

i worry about my sister who cannot even lie in her bed without remembering amber there, sleeping on a pillow beside her, hugging her with all her legs. that cat got her through an abusive relationship and countless depressive episodes and the inherent trauma of being trans in a world that really doesn’t want you to live.

but like whether she’s in kitty heaven as my parents would prefer to think, or she’s my sister’s little spirit guardian now, or if there’s a kitten born on this day that might cross our paths again and bump our legs and look up, i hope she’s doing good. she deserves that at least, she was the sweetest cat i ever met and she should have got more than we could give her.

i feel bad for the hospital staff too. in her stay there she charmed everyone who crossed her path and they were all rooting so hard for her to pull through. one of the vets had her out in her office walking around for exercise on one of the days she was very perky, seemingly recovering. the one we interacted with yesterday was too kind, waiving the fees for the resuscitation attempts and refunding us the 700 we put down for the next few days of care that wouldn’t come to pass. i mean, we’d already dropped 9k on her and were fully prepared to spend 1k more for that fighting chance of a weekend - and of all the things we regret that is not one of them, even if i know a thousand people who’d call us fucking idiots for it. no cent spent trying to keep her alive was a waste. between all of us, even if we had to go into debt, it was the least we could do. we put aside those hopeful dreams of actually owning a house for her, and all my daydreams of introducing them to the new place.

but that 9k could have been reduced to 4.5k (over the 8 years, putting into it each month) if we’d had health insurance on her. as much as that is, it’s tiny compared to what we just spent and would have given us the reassurance to take her to the vet the moment she got sick instead of worrying about money. please, if you have pets you care about, get them health insurance. here it’s 50 a month but that is nothing compared to the cost of vet bills even for routine checkups which it will cover 90% of, and it will give you the peace of mind that you can go to the vet whenever. the moment a pet starts acting unusual you should take them. even if its nothing, its better safe than sorry. complications can hit so fast and pile up.

i’ll be watching the other cats much more closely after this and - after i have my energy back, hopefully - i’ll follow through on that promise and pay them even more attention and get them even more toys. we’re gping to get them health insurance in january and we’re gonna spent the spring cleaning up the backyard to make it safer for the cats, just in case. when they get into the backyard in the summer, oh, its gonna be real fuckin strange not to see amber’s cute sandy coloured face under the lilac tree by the little pond. i still have photos of her from last summer and remember vividly making myself stupid in the grass to get those upward shots of her.

goodnight little lion. you had all the colours of the desert in you and all the love of the sweetest little earth angel, eager to share it. i wish we could have given you so many more years of care, eight was not enough and eleven is much too young for a kitty to go, but i hope you are warm and basking in sunlight wherever you are.

i could see no stars out until i looked behind the house. there, despite the heavy cloud cover on this overcast day, there is a single star shining brighter than i’ve ever seen before, right above us, right at the door.

[lordprofdrnovesha]

Chapter One

Naruto regained himself. He was still groggy from being knocked out and the icky damp in the air didn’t help. There was a stinging metallic taste and his skin crawled as cold sweat trickled down his back. He groaned, spluttering through some phlegm. He was sitting down; they’d given him that luxury, whoever they were. Everything was grey, green and dark in the single light bulb’s feeble illumination. Dramatic effect, of course. He was in a cell of some kind. No - too big to be a cell. Perhaps a holding cell. There was s deep, distant but pounding murmur around him. Underground? Something about the air pressure felt off. By now, he could make out shapes, make out the corners of the room. Behind the light, a shadow stared at him. And it spoke:

 “It’s been a long time, Naruto.”

 He knew that voice; a voice like the eye in a storm. It couldn’t be. The shadow stepped into the edge of the light. Naruto saw him.

 “I should’ve known you were behind this, Batman.”

 “That’s no way to greet an old war buddy.”

 “Save it. You’re no buddy of mine.”

 “Naruto. I invited you here so we could talk.”

 Naruto erupted to a stand. “Invited? That’s what you call knocking me out and kidnapping me?”

 “I needed to show you something. I knew you’d say no otherwise.”

 “Hey! I’m retired. The war’s over and you’re not my commander anymore. I don’t have to take orders from you.”

 “Excuse me.” There was someone else here. A switch ticked and the light went off. Dark. Then another tick and the whole room went up. Naruto winced as his eyes stung. Grimacing, he peeked around and made out the figure better. A woman. She was wearing a lab coat. This must be some kind of secret R&D facility. Government? Or another of the Crusader’s pet projects. She was looking at him, patiently.

 “Who are you?”

 “I’m Dr Irene Adler. I’m the chief of ASAHI’s medical staff.”

 “ASAHI?” asked Naruto.

 Batman explained. “After the war ended, most of the former rebellious samurai were absorbed into Japan’s new government. The others established a republic in the north, in Hokkaido. ASAHI was created with the purpose of rooting out the remaining ronins, to stamp out the old order; hence, the Rising Sun.”

 “I’ve heard about you. You kill ninjas too. I didn’t believe it. So many of my old friends went missing. Missing or forced to become civilians. Told there was no need for ninjas in the new world. That we were an embarrassment.” Naruto paused. He turned to the doctor. “And you? Are you military?”

 “No,” she said. “Civilian. Part of the new CDC, a department founded by the US Government. I’m part of the US’ expedition here, to help modernise the new government here.”

 “Modernise?”

 “Yes. The Emperor has been clear in his aims. The past four years have seen small waves of Western diplomats to help inform government policy. With them have come a not insignificant task force of scientists, engineers, doctors, pedagogists and military officers to help the Emperor as he establishes a more centralised government.”

 “I can’t believe it. You’re taking over, aren’t you?”

 Batman assured him. “That’s not why we’re here, Naruto. We’re here on a mission. That’s why I brought you here.”

 “And where am I? Just where in the hell even am I?” Naruto bellowed.

 “A Kasatka class submarine, fifty miles off the coast of the Ryu Kyu archipelago.”

 “Kasatka?”

 “If it comes to the worst case scenario, we can’t have this being traced back to us.”

 “I see. You’re doing the government’s dirty work. Working in the shadows. A ninja killing ninjas. I can’t believe it.”

 “I don’t have time for this. We have a mission and you’re the only one who can do it.”

 “Why me? I’m not American.”

 “You fought with us once before.”

 “That was different. I didn’t know what we were fighting for, what the real goal was. I never would’ve joined you if I’d known.”

 “That’s still the goal. Officially, the war’s over but I haven’t hung up my cape just yet. The Five Kages were corrupt, Naruto. Deliberately instigating conflicts between daimyos to drive up demand for their services. The corruption was systemic. War was our last resort, believe me.”

 Naruto said nothing. He suddenly desperately needed to smell fresh air. To run somewhere.

 Batman continued. “There’s another reason I chose you.” Naruto looked up. “Terrorists have taken control of the ruins of the Hidden Leaf Village. They hijacked a US Marines tanker, headed for Tokyo for inspection. That tanker held a top-secret weapon that in the wrong hands could mean chaos for the whole region.”

 “Top-secret?”

 “I’ll explain this part,” said Dr. Adler. “During the war, The White House said that it would give its unfailing support to the Emperor in quelling the rebellion. But as it drew on, several generals expressed concern that perhaps we had backed the wrong horse. So, they developed a contingency plan in case the Shogunate won: a new, highly-advanced revolutionary form of artillery. A sixteen-cannon barrage, it could fire missiles up to heights just below the stratosphere. Armed with a hyperintelligent processing unit, the machine could take into account wind patterns, varying atmospheric pressure and seismic activity thereby calculating its trajectory with a margin of error of a mere twenty metres. In short, a weapon that allowed its user to attack without giving away its position. We called it . . . Metal Gear.

Low-level testing was already under way as the war was coming to a close. We’ve actually never got to see it operate at its full capabilities. If we did, outside of a conflict scenario - that many missiles? It’d surely make international news.”

 Batman joked, “If it were that many missiles, it’d make the weather report.”

 Silence. Dr Adler didn’t appreciate his attempt at humour.

 “Never mind that,” continued Batman. “Naruto, this weapon can’t be in the hands of a rogue nation.”

 Naruto frowned. He couldn’t. The old order might have been over but he still had his ninja code. He couldn’t refuse.

 Batman added, “There’s another reason why we asked you.”

 “Huh?”

 “The terrorists have an army of ronins and renegade ninjas. If this were a rag-tag group of mercenaries with a grudge, it wouldn’t be much of a problem. But they’ve been disciplined by their new leaders into a professional army, aiming to establish a nation-state not just for themselves but with the aims to reconquer Japan.”

 “New leaders?”

 “Yes. That’s another reason why we brought you. The people in charge of this whole affair are some of the most capable warriors from the old era. Light Yagami, with his powerful supernatural abilities. Bayonetta, the beautiful and deadly berserker. Mario, master of disguise. Mecha Godzilla, giant and humanity’s nemesis. And sans from Undertale, specialist in interrogation and a formidable gunslinger.”

 “Helluva misfit gang. I’ve met better. Too bad we’ll be meeting under these circumstances.”

 “One more thing: the person in charge of them, the sqaud leader . . . you might know her by her codename: Sailor Moon.”

 “My sister!?”

 “Yes, and you’re the only person who can stand against her.”

 “. . . She disappeared. All those years ago.”

 “Yes. She’s been AWOL for twelve years. Surprised me as well.”

 “No-one really knows her as well you do,” said Dr Adler. “You’re the only who can figure out what she really plans to do.”

 “What do you mean?” asked Naruto.

 Batman interjected. “There’s another reason we need you. The terrorists haven’t just hijacked Metal Gear. They’re also demanding two thousand tonnes of gold-”

 “Two thousand tonnes of gold?”

 “Yes. They’re also asking for the remains of a certain someone.”

 “The remains of a certain someone?”

 “Yes. The late Barack Obama.”

 “What!?”

 “That’s why we need you on this mission,” said Dr Adler again. “You have the skills, the knowledge, and the only one who can understand what she’s thinking.”

 “Huh.” What the hell was this, he thought. He hadn’t fully recovered but his head was sufficiently calibrated by now for him to see how crazy this all was. Had he missed something? He’d spent so long wandering after the Leaf Village was destroyed. Had the world changed that much while he was away? “Alright,” he moaned. “Alright. I’ll do it.”

 “I’m glad,” said Batman. “There’s . . . another reason I chose you.”

 “Another reason?”

 “When the terrorists first took over the ruins, the governor dispatched special forces to investigate. Half of them were wiped out. The other, captured. One of the hostages is my niece.”

 “Niece?”

 “Yes. The daughter of an old friend of mine. Her name’s Lyra. You’re the only one I trust to rescue her.”

 Naruto shook his head. His voice turned raspier than usual. “I’m . . . rusty. Spent too long wandering around. I’m not the ninja I used to be.”

 Batman clasped his shoulder, his face fully in the light, his eyes clear. “You are, Naruto. I believe in you.”

 Naruto looked away. “Okay,” he finally resolved. “One thing though.”

 “What’s that?”

 “I need scissors.”

 “Why do you need that?” asked Dr Adler.

 “Just gonna clean myself up a little. I don’t wanna be mistaken for the leader of the terrorists.”

[kind-red-ghosts]

Ocean Talks

Attack on Titan. Levihan. Angst. Humour. Fluff. 2996 words.

You can also read it here.

Summary: (Takes place after chapter 90). It's been a year since the majority of the survey corp were wiped out in Shiganshina and Levi used the injection to save Armin and Erwin died. Now they've finally reached the ocean. Despite the celebration, a sobering truth hangs above them: many people have died to get them this far. That night the survey corp camps outside the walls for the first time. Hanji and Levi have the heart-to-heart that they have evaded since the injection on the roof. A surprising guest interrupts their conversation.

Ocean Talks

Gathered inside a ring of stones sticks and dry grasses were gathered. They were charred black and the remaining embers glowed against an inky sky dotted with twinkling stars. The moon hanging in the sky provided the only light and cast the ocean in a ghostly tinge. The whispered conversations had long burned out as the campfire did. The constant drumming of the waves rising and falling along the shoreline lulled the survey corp members lying by the fire to sleep.

However, Levi was wide awake and couldn’t sleep. He laid on a blanket covering the ground, arms propped underneath his head as he listened to the breathing of the kids around him: Mikasa slept like a soldier, rigid and quiet. Connie talked in his sleep and Levi could have sworn he heard him call out to his mother at one point. Eren and Jean snored – even while sleeping they seemed to be in competition with each other. However, lately the spark had left Eren’s eyes and it wasn’t as easy to rile him up as before. Everything was hitting him really hard.

It was hitting everyone hard.  All the kids had been through so much – too much.

A lot had happened in a year. The survey corp had culled all the titans and had reached the ocean. It was a victory hard won, but the cost was huge. Nearly the entire military had been lost in that one battle. New recruits, veterans, Hanji’s assistant Moblit, and the Commander of the Survey Corps: Erwin. To top it off, after reaching the basement, they learned that unknown enemies lay across the ocean. The cage was bigger than they thought. And they were in more danger than they had ever imagined.

A gentle breeze carried the salt from the ocean in the air to Levi, which made his nose wrinkle. He looked over to where Hanji was perched on a rock, boots removed with her feet dangling in the water. It was her idea that they take shifts to keep watch in the case an abnormal titan found them that they might have missed during their purge.

Although he could not see her face, he could tell by the arch of her back and the way she leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees, that she was deep in thought.

Mindful not to disturb the sleeping bodies he maneuvered between them, pushing arms through the sleeves of his jacket. His boots kicked up rocks as he approached the rock.

Hanji heard him come up behind her, but didn’t lift her head or meet his gaze. She already knew what expression his features would be wearing.

Levi stood directly behind looking at her back. He folded his arms. “If someone had told me last year that we would be sleeping outside the walls by the ocean tonight I would have told them they were full of titan excrement”.

Hanji nodded. Her eye trained on the horizon where the sun had sunk behind the edge of the water hours before. “They’re all sleeping soundly I take it?”

Levi grunted in confirmation.

Hanji moved her feet in circles watching the water ripple around her ankles.

Levi clicked his tongue. “Stop overthinking things. I can tell you’re holding all the responsibility on your shoulders.”

She straightened her spine. Those eyes always saw right through her. Levi never wasted any time getting straight to the point, but that was one of the things she liked about him after all. Still, she went for a casual tone in response:

“Carrying all the responsibility comes with the territory of the job I’m afraid.” Hanji tugged on the crest that hung around her neck that signified her position as Commander and allowed it to fall to her chest again.

“As stubborn an asshole he was, Erwin always had someone to talk to even if I had to kick down a locked door just to get him to tell me what was going through his mind.”

Hanji half grunted, half laughed. “Fine.” She shook her head, but still kept her back to Levi.

The emotionally charged scene on the roof came flooding back to her: The traitor Bertolt laying with his limbs reduced to steaming stumps as he cried for his life, pleading not to be eaten. Armin burned so badly he was unrecognizable as charred skin flaked off in the slightest breeze. His wheezing was burned into her memory. Erwin, her leader, and dear friend miraculously returned to the roof on the back of the new recruit but barely breathing. Somewhere inside his chest his heart still beating. Then there was Levi looking like a corpse himself: covered in dirt, sweat, and evaporating titan blood. In his hand, was the injection that could save one person’s life.

Hanji took off her goggles and combed her fingers through her hair before resting them beside her. She finally turned to face Levi, her voice low, pensive. “Why?”

“Why.” He repeated.

Levi knew what she was asking. It had been a year and they had never talked about what happened. Since that day, a tension slowly wedged between them, making it so they hadn’t talked like before. Before her presence was big and loud and the space at his side belonged to her. Since the roof, they looked the other way when their eyes met, and preoccupied themselves when they were in the same room. The quiet had been draining him. And he hadn’t even noticed. It was empty and pointless without her going on long winded tangents. Or fiddling with some trinket. Or reading a book, her mouth moving just as fast as the pages flipped by.

Hanji continued, ripping Levi from his thoughts. “Erwin trusted you with the injection, so by default I did – do.” Hanji pressed a palm into her good eye. “I trust your decision. I do. But because of that, I haven’t allowed myself to question it, but…” Hanji looked up and held his eyes and for the first time in a year, he couldn’t avert his gaze. Levi could only remember one other time when she looked like that – when she had told him about how titans had ruined her life – killed her family and her best friends.

“I know I need to hear ‘why’ from you.”

On that roof, he had made a decision that she hadn’t agreed with. She had never hidden her opinion and even told Armin she believed Erwin should have been saved. He hadn’t saved one of her last friends. And right after losing her entire squad and Moblit. Could she ever forgive him?

Of course he knew why he had saved Armin instead of Erwin. Every day since it happened the whole situation had played over and over in his mind until it was raw. His choice. Why he didn’t regret it. He had to have a reason because on restless nights Erwin’s ghost wordlessly asked him the same question with unblinking eyes. Yet, confronted with Hanji’s question hanging in the air it was hard to articulate an answer, and all he had done so far was stall. So, he opened his mouth.

“You are completely right. Erwin,” the named weighed heavily on his tongue, “was a great leader and no one can replace him. Shit, I would have followed that man into the jaws of a titan if he ordered me to do it for the good of humanity.”

Levi’s mouth dried up, making his tongue stick to the roof of his mouth. Words came out in scrambled spurts.

“Erwin was tired, broken and because of that he wasn’t laying his heart down for humanity. To fulfill his old man’s dreams, Erwin wanted to reach the basement no matter the cost-” Levi paused, as words abruptly left him. They always did. He adjusted his sleeve cuff. “That bastard was a great Commander and deserved to pursue selfish desires more than anyone else.”

Levi intimidated people: his eyes too sharp, his words too rigid. But no matter how strict, crude, or uncaring he came off Hanji always understood exactly what he meant. Levi was completely exposed in front of her no matter what he said. So right now, he wouldn’t hide anything from her.

“In the last moments, I convinced him to give up his selfishness and give his heart once more to humanity. He died as valiantly as he led the Survey Corps.”

Ocean waves crested on the beach. Hanji’s hair blew about her face.

“Hanji, seeing him there on the roof, I saw an opportunity for him to escape all this. It was my. Fucking. Selfish. Desire. To finally let him rest in peace. I couldn’t bring him back to the front of this war. This shithole. To give him that burden again.”

“Fuck it all.” Levi had no idea if he made any sense, even in his own mind his words seemed convoluted, jumbled trains of thought.

Levi looked back at the campsite. He could make out the individual lumps of bodies that slept. “Armin is not a fighter, but he has given his heart for humanity. He has laid his life on the line many times. Erwin saw the potential in him to be a leader and I see it too. His brain, his intuition, and his dedication can be given in service to humanity.”

Hanji turned around to face the ocean, absorbing everything Levi had said. She thanked him, her heart lighter than it had been in a long time.

“No,” Levi thought back to the past year of them avoiding each other, “I should have talked to you about this sooner.”

“It’s alright Levi, I’m sorry about avoi-”

She heard a squeak, then a thud.

She swiveled around to see Levi meters away from the spot he was standing in mere seconds ago, a rock poised in his hand and aimed at that spot on the ground. She followed his narrowed eyes. In the sand, a small creature’s spindly legs poked out of a shell. Beside it was a rock lodged in the sand that she now realized was the source of the thud, which meant that the squeak had been…

“Levi! Was that sound you?”

His eyes wide he said, “it crawled over my foot!”

“It won’t hurt you! It’s only a horseshoe crab!”

“EXCUSE ME!? You’ve already named it?” His head jerked between Hanji and the vermin. He had never seen this creature before in his life, and neither had she.

Hanji burst out laughing then slapped hands across her mouth, he didn’t want to wake the kids. Between waves of giggles, she managed to say, “it had the nerve, no the audacity to touch Humanity’s Strongest!?”

“Are you shitting me right now shitty glasses? First, you are willing to touch those slugs that came out of the water, and now you’re naming these ugly things?”

By this point, Hanji had lost control of her laughing but eventually invited Levi onto the rock. “Come up. They can’t climb.”

“No way! I’m going back to stoke the fire, that’ll keep these water bastards away!"

Hanji sucked her bottom lip, “Levi, in your hand.”

The so-called rock he was holding sprouted legs and was wiggling. Levi dropped it faster than Hanji had ever seen the grown man move before. He leapt onto the rock.

“Welcome!”

Propped up on one knee, Levi leered over the edges. “Fuck, I’m stuck here now.” He narrowed his eyes, “They’re watching me.”

Laughter was bubbling within her again, but she pushed it away, instead she said, “they’re probably thinking that you’re their long-lost land cousin – you’re short enough.”

Levi’s features knit themselves into a full-fledged scowl aimed right at Hanji. He reached his hand towards his hip only to remember he wasn’t wearing his gear. “Hanji.”

“Yeah?” He was so serious, she could barely keep from bursting out laughing again.

“Kill them for me.”

“I would never!” She said feigning a gasp.

“Then throw them back into the ocean, or put that thing back where it came from, or so help me!”

She shook her head, sure to exaggerate. “I’m your overarching leader now. You actually take orders from me.”

Levi wasn’t listening. He was spiraling. “That water is fucking nasty, and the things you and the kids were pulling out of it! You all just jumped right in, splashing around! What if you contracted some disease?” His voice pitched on the last word.

“If that happens then I’ll just have you take care of me.”

“There’s something seriously rotten in your brain if you think that would ever happen.”

Hanji tapped the crest.

His mouth dropped. “That’s a blatant abuse of power.”

Another roar of laughter erupted from her and Hanji fell back on the rock, her hair splayed out about her face.

“What’s with that loopy grin plastered on your face?” Levi said into his knee as he drew one towards his chest.

And just like that. They slipped back into their usual rhythm. It was as if the past year hadn’t been spent evading one another or dodging conversations. It came easy as if that wedge of tension had never been there. Her smile was infectious, and the corners of his mouth pulled towards the sky as if controlled by strings held by her. Again, the space beside him was filled with her boisterous presence.

She was much more relaxed now, and it wasn’t like he had done anything for her, in fact-

“Hanji, I’m sorry about -  everything.”

She boosted herself on her arms. “I trust you Levi. I always have. Always will.”

Levi’s eyes were trained forward, on the same horizon she had been looking at before.

“We’ll never know which choice was better,” she said. “You can only make a choice you will not regret. Isn’t that what you say all the time?”

Levi turned his head. She had forgiven him.

“Armin and the kids are the future.” She continued, “We have to do everything we can to make sure they see that future.”

The future. “What about the 13 year ultimatum for shifters?”

“I’ll figure out a way to reverse it. I have to.” She leaned forward.

Levi thought back to the night before the mission to Shiganshina to visit Eren’s basement. He overheard Armin, Eren, and Mikasa talking. They were filled with hope and love for one another. A makeshift family he didn’t want to see broken up.

“Those three.” Hanji poked his side gently. “Eren, Armin, Mikasa…they remind you of a similar trio?”

“Farlan and Isabel.” Levi unconsciously rubbed where she had poked, “I miss them."

Hanji touched Levi’s hand. “I do too.”

Levi gently wrapped his hand around her fingers and brought them to his face. He pressed her fingertips against his lips. Hanji reached forward with her free hand and traced her knuckles softly against the side of his face.

“You miss people too.” Levi breathed. He was still holding her hand.

Hanji shifted in her spot and rested her head on his shoulder.

She pointed at the stars. “My father told me that people we love watch us from the stars. As a woman of science, I don’t believe it true. But on days like this, I want it to be.”

“Why can’t it be?” His chin was lifted towards the sky.

Hanji stretched her hands out, releasing a kink in her back. “You’re right. They are watching us from the stars. Farlan, Isabel…” She pointed to a pair of shimmering silver stars.

“…Moblit…” Levi nodded in the direction of the brightest of stars.

“Pastor Nick.” Hanji pointed to a star that was surrounded by a cluster of others.

Levi scanned above. A light streaked across the night sky.

“Erwin.” They both said in unison.

Levi squeezed her hand.

Hanji nudged his neck with her forehead. He moved his free hand to hold her head against him and brushed fleeting lips to her forehead.

Hanji breathed in deeply his scent. His smell was one she never wanted to forget.

“You’re peculiar.” He said, his face stoic.

Into the dark hours of the night, Hanji and Levi named fallen comrades, family, and friends while pointing to stars that they must be watching from.

---

Hanji opened her eyes, the sun was coming up behind them. She had fallen asleep and her head was in Levi’s lap where he was absentmindedly working fingers through her hair undoing the knots then braiding strands together while watching the waves churn in the ocean.

Over the edge of the tall rock, she could see a swarm of crabs.

“They must like you.”

Without as much as a glance in the sea creature’s direction, Levi responded with his classic glare.

Hanji rolled her body and slid off the rock to move the crabs. She didn’t miss Levi’s look of repulsion and smiled to herself in spite of it. She stood before him as he sat on the rock eyes following her. Positioned like this he was a little taller.

“I removed all the unsightlies from your sight.” She took a shallow bow, “am I your knight in shining armor?” Levi responded by places the goggles back on her head.

“Screwball scientist matches you better.”

“I don’t know about that, I think Knight in-”

He leaned down to kiss her.

His lips tasted like the salt air. “Will we be ok?” Hanji spoke against his lips. They had promised each other to take care of the kids’ future, but what about theirs’?

“We will protect each other.”

Hanji kissed him back.

Hanji offered him a hand off the rock. He ignored it and landed on the sand beside her.

The sun was spilling pinks and oranges over the landscape when they walked back to camp, where everyone else was beginning to stir and greet the day.

A/N

Chapter 90 took a headshot at my emotions! It was so bittersweet, beautiful, and awful. That one-year time skip leaves a lot to be imagined until we get a chapter focusing on the main cast again.

Now that they have reached the ocean we can finally have canon based fics with romantic walks on the beach and I'm excited for the cheesiness that opportunity brings!

[zacekova]

Jealousy

For those of you who actually care about this ridiculously cracky rare pair... 

SUMMARY:  “Mr. Mitsuhide sure is popular,” Shirayuki said, a little in awe of the attention said man was receiving. “Well, I suppose that’s true,” Zen smirked, trying not to laugh at his distressed knight. “When he first came to the castle, all the maids were after him.” In which I create an entire fic around a single, throwaway line. 

The First Installment 

The curtains billowed in gentle waves from the breeze coming in through the windows, casting ripples of shadows across the floor. The parchment crinkled under the wind's curious, reaching fingers and the corners of a few pages rose in salute before sinking back to the wood surface of his desk. Warm sunlight spilled in to the room carrying the chirping of a dozen tiny sparrows in its wake.

Such a peaceful afternoon.

“That new aid of Prince Zen’s has been causing quite the stir,” Zakura said.

The scritch of his pen against dry parchment stuttered for a moment before taking on a distinctly harsh quality, black ink splattering beneath the quill. He had to work to keep his voice calm and composed, slightly bitter that even the mention of a certain knight affected him so. “Oh?” he asked.

“Mmm,” Zakura hummed, shuffling through the stack of papers in his arms and handing him another document. Was there a glint in his eye? “Apparently he’s quite handsome.”

“Is that so?” he asked, forcing himself to sound calm and indifferent.

Zakura hummed again, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Yes, your Highness. I hear he has had quite a number of offers already.”

The pen creaked in protest from between his fingers and he grit his teeth. “Offers?”

“A few marriage proposals, supposedly,” Zakura explained, “but from what I hear it’s mostly offers for... nighttime companionship.”

The pen snapped. The sound echoed in the corners of the room, bouncing off the walls as it dissipated like an apologizing servant backing away.

He stood, ignoring Zakura’s smirk as the chair legs screeched against the polished floor. “I find myself in need of some fresh air. I shall return shortly.” He strode across the room, keeping his pace measured despite how much his legs tried to rush. His behavior just now was already damning enough, he did not need to add fuel to the flame.

~~~

Zen’s office was empty, and the pharmacy and the training grounds were likewise void of a certain prince and his aides. An hour of wandering the palace was more than he could justify when he had no official concerns to address; he heaved a sigh and turned around.

The air in his office was no less stuffy upon his return and his irritation still simmered; it was going to be a long day.

~~~

It was dim under the canopy, the late sun barely filtering its way to the center of the forest. The birds had begun to quiet, their feathers rustling up in the shifting leaves accompanied by the whispering of a light breeze through the branches.

His brother’s knight was silent in his approach but Izana sensed him coming anyway. He kept his gaze on the sky, watching the last glowing embers of sunlight fade from the clouds they had lit ablaze while he waited.

A pair of arms wrapped around his waist and a chin rested on his shoulder. “Hey.”

He grunted, resisting the urge to lean back into that strong chest.

“I heard you were looking for us earlier. Did you need something from Zen?”

“If I had, do you think I would have given up?” Izana asked.

Mitsuhide hummed and when Izana felt the cheek pressed against his own curve into a smile he realized he had said more than he should have. “I see. So you were looking for me?”

Damn. He closed his eyes and scrambled for an escape, anything to divert the flow of the conversation. “How do you even know I was looking for anyone at all?”

Mitsuhide chuckled. “I thought you knew, Izana - the maids see everything.”

“And what business did you have with the maids, I wonder?” he spat out, the anger leaving a bitter taste in his mouth.

Mitsuhide recoiled. He shifted after a moment, moving around to get a better look at Izana’s face, his own pinched in concern. “What’s gotten into you?”

He had already given away too much, had revealed more of what he felt than he had ever intended to and he needed to keep his mouth shut. But those earnest eyes were damning him, the marker for the grave he had already dug for himself, and he couldn't lie, not to Mitsuhide. “Zakura told me you’ve been receiving the... attentions of the palace staff since your arrival,” Izana said, letting him make of that what he would.

Mitsuhide’s brow furrowed before he turned a truly impressive shade of red. “I- well, yes but that’s not-” He paused, stumbling for a moment before his eyes lit up and he rounded on Izana with a glare. “It’s not like I return their attentions.”

Izana started to relax, the fumbling and righteous indignation more reassuring than anything else could be. He should never have been worried; no one was more loyal than the Knight of Sereg. His ire was gone and his mood improved, but Izana's lover was so much fun to tease and he couldn’t resist poking a little longer. “Perhaps not,” he smirked, “but you do not reject them either. Some might think you are trying to, how do the commoners say it, ‘keep your options open?’”

The glare deepened and Mitsuhide stepped away, staring him down and searching his face. He deflated, expression falling. “Do you really I would do something like that?” he asked, quiet and hurt.

Izana’s eyes widened and his hand shot forward to grab Mitsuhide's wrist and tug him close, arms caging him against his chest. Damnit. He'd hurt him again.

Mitsuhide was looking at him curiously, calmer after Izana’s reaction but the hurt still lingered in his eyes. That wouldn't do.

He pressed his lips to Mitsuhide’s forehead and wrapped an arm around his shoulders. “I apologize. I keep forgetting that you do not play games as I and the other nobles do and I should not tease you like that. And I have no reason to distrust you. Forgive me.”

Mitsuhide remained stiff for a moment, absorbing his words, before melting into Izana’s chest with a quiet chuckle. “Yeah, well. I keep forgetting what most of the relationships in your life are like. And how you choose to flirt, sometimes. I think I overreacted.”

Izana tightened his hold and the two stood quietly in the growing twilight. The stars began to wink into existence up in the sky and the forest to stir with the rising of nocturnal creatures. Fireflies drifted past and an owl hooted somewhere nearby.

And then Mitsuhide reared back, eyes wide and mouth agape. “Wait, were you jealous?”

Izana blinked.

“That’s what all that was about, wasn’t it?” Mitsuhide asked, ryrd roving and beginning to grin at the increasingly-pinched expression that was likely gracing Izana's face. “You were, weren’t you?”

He looked away. “It’s getting late, don’t you think? We should head back to the palace.”

“Oh no you don’t!” Mitsuhide said, getting in front of him. His eyes were sparkling. “You were jealous,” he said again, no longer questioning.

“And if I was?” Izana asked, crossing his arms and trying to school his expression into something neutral.

Mitsuhide smirked and stepped closer. “I would say that that’s the most you’ve ever revealed of how you really feel about me.”

His eyes narrowed. “And how do I feel about you?”

Mitsuhide stepped into his space, so close their noses brushed, and smiled slyly, eyes glittering. “Why don’t you tell me?”

His breath caught in his throat and he couldn't resist. He leaned in that last inch and pressed their lips together. Mitsuhide’s quiet intake of breath made a shiver run down his spine, the slow drag of their lips leaving his skin tingling.

He needed more.

He wrapped his hands around Mitsuhide's hips and pulled, slotting them together from knee to chest. He swiped his tongue along Mitushide's bottom lip, coaxing his mouth open and diving in. Mitsuhide groaned, fingertips digging into the flesh of his shoulders and a hand slid up and cupped his neck, thumb grazing his jaw. Heat pooled low in his belly and he gripped Mitsuhide’s sides, backing them into the nearest tree with a gentle shove.

Mitsuhide huffed, the air leaving his lungs on a laugh and he tore his mouth away to look up at Izana in amusement. “Ow.”  

He shrugged. “Oops.”

Mitsuhide chuckled. “Yeah, that was believable.” He shifted, caught between Izana’s chest and the tree, but he didn’t try to free himself. “You know,” he said, and his voice dropped, tone low and sultry. “There are more comfortable places to be doing this.”

Izana raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

“Mmm. Like in a room, behind closed doors.” His eyes were burning coals, hot and piercing. “On my bed.”

Izana grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

[forsoothsayer]

The Graveyard By The Sea by Paul Valéry

This quiet roof, where dove-sails saunter by, Between the pines, the tombs, throbs visibly. Impartial noon patterns the sea in flame -- That sea forever starting and re-starting. When thought has had its hour, oh how rewarding Are the long vistas of celestial calm!

What grace of light, what pure toil goes to form The manifold diamond of the elusive foam! What peace I feel begotten at that source! When sunlight rests upon a profound sea, Time's air is sparkling, dream is certainty -- Pure artifice both of an eternal Cause.

Sure treasure, simple shrine to intelligence, Palpable calm, visible reticence, Proud-lidded water, Eye wherein there wells Under a film of fire such depth of sleep -- O silence! . . . Mansion in my soul, you slope Of gold, roof of a myriad golden tiles.

Temple of time, within a brief sigh bounded, To this rare height inured I climb, surrounded By the horizons of a sea-girt eye. And, like my supreme offering to the gods, That peaceful coruscation only breeds A loftier indifference on the sky.

Even as a fruit's absorbed in the enjoying, Even as within the mouth its body dying Changes into delight through dissolution, So to my melted soul the heavens declare All bounds transfigured into a boundless air, And I breathe now my future's emanation.

Beautiful heaven, true heaven, look how I change! After such arrogance, after so much strange Idleness -- strange, yet full of potency -- I am all open to these shining spaces; Over the homes of the dead my shadow passes, Ghosting along -- a ghost subduing me.

My soul laid bare to your midsummer fire, O just, impartial light whom I admire, Whose arms are merciless, you have I stayed And give back, pure, to your original place. Look at yourself . . . But to give light implies No less a somber moiety of shade.

Oh, for myself alone, mine, deep within At the heart's quick, the poem's fount, between The void and its pure issue, I beseech The intimations of my secret power. O bitter, dark, and echoing reservoir Speaking of depths always beyond my reach.

But know you -- feigning prisoner of the boughs, Gulf which cats up their slender prison-bars, Secret which dazzles though mine eyes are closed -- What body drags me to its lingering end, What mind draws it to this bone-peopled ground? A star broods there on all that I have lost.

Closed, hallowed, full of insubstantial fire, Morsel of earth to heaven's light given o'er -- This plot, ruled by its flambeaux, pleases me -- A place all gold, stone, and dark wood, where shudders So much marble above so many shadows: And on my tombs, asleep, the faithful sea.

Keep off the idolaters, bright watch-dog, while -- A solitary with the shepherd's smile -- I pasture long my sheep, my mysteries, My snow-white flock of undisturbed graves! Drive far away from here the careful doves, The vain daydreams, the angels' questioning eyes!

Now present here, the future takes its time. The brittle insect scrapes at the dry loam; All is burnt up, used up, drawn up in air To some ineffably rarefied solution . . . Life is enlarged, drunk with annihilation, And bitterness is sweet, and the spirit clear.

The dead lie easy, hidden in earth where they Are warmed and have their mysteries burnt away. Motionless noon, noon aloft in the blue Broods on itself -- a self-sufficient theme. O rounded dome and perfect diadem, I am what's changing secretly in you.

I am the only medium for your fears. My penitence, my doubts, my baulked desires -- These are the flaw within your diamond pride . . . But in their heavy night, cumbered with marble, Under the roots of trees a shadow people Has slowly now come over to your side.

To an impervious nothingness they're thinned, For the red clay has swallowed the white kind; Into the flowers that gift of life has passed. Where are the dead? -- their homely turns of speech, The personal grace, the soul informing each? Grubs thread their way where tears were once composed.

The bird-sharp cries of girls whom love is teasing, The eyes, the teeth, the eyelids moistly closing, The pretty breast that gambles with the flame, The crimson blood shining when lips are yielded, The last gift, and the fingers that would shield it -- All go to earth, go back into the game.

And you, great soul, is there yet hope in you To find some dream without the lying hue That gold or wave offers to fleshly eyes? Will you be singing still when you're thin air? All perishes. A thing of flesh and pore Am I. Divine impatience also dies.

Lean immortality, all crêpe and gold, Laurelled consoler frightening to behold, Death is a womb, a mother's breast, you feign The fine illusion, oh the pious trick! Who does not know them, and is not made sick That empty skull, that everlasting grin?

Ancestors deep down there, O derelict heads Whom such a weight of spaded earth o'erspreads, Who are the earth, in whom our steps are lost, The real flesh-eater, worm unanswerable Is not for you that sleep under the table: Life is his meat, and I am still his host.

'Love,' shall we call him? 'Hatred of self,' maybe? His secret tooth is so intimate with me That any name would suit him well enough, Enough that he can see, will, daydream, touch -- My flesh delights him, even upon my couch I live but as a morsel of his life.

Zeno, Zeno, cruel philosopher Zeno, Have you then pierced me with your feathered arrow That hums and flies, yet does not fly! The sounding Shaft gives me life, the arrow kills. Oh, sun! -- Oh, what a tortoise-shadow to outrun My soul, Achilles' giant stride left standing!

No, no! Arise! The future years unfold. Shatter, O body, meditation's mould! And, O my breast, drink in the wind's reviving! A freshness, exhalation of the sea, Restores my soul . . . Salt-breathing potency! Let's run at the waves and be hurled back to living!

Yes, mighty sea with such wild frenzies gifted (The panther skin and the rent chlamys), sifted All over with sun-images that glisten, Creature supreme, drunk on your own blue flesh, Who in a tumult like the deepest hush Bite at your sequin-glittering tail -- yes, listen!

The wind is rising! . . . We must try to live! The huge air opens and shuts my book: the wave Dares to explode out of the rocks in reeking Spray. Fly away, my sun-bewildered pages! Break, waves! Break up with your rejoicing surges This quiet roof where sails like doves were pecking.

[ab-cogitation]

I almost wanted to complain about how cold it is this morning, But I don’t have a reason to, because truthfully, I’m happy to be back home in Detroit.

Being here means to embrace all the Seasons and their temperament.

Sometimes the Sun shines and sometimes the Sun need a break, desiring hugs from Clouds. The Sun letting it’s many emotions eject as rain, lightning, snow or to simply seek refuge in the Cloud’s shadow.

See even the Sun knows when to be humble; to stand down, take a step back and be behind the scenes. Likely recharging, resurging then emerging from the night to lead the Moon back to her sanctury. Because the Sun knows that when it’s own inner glow is too bright, it too is blinded. Caught up in the lime lights and lemon drops that it rejects the idea of even lowering itself for recollections which indebted it’s riches. Riches being the fruit of it’s Spirit, its Light, it’s loathing and longing to be recognized beyond warming sensations.

Like how it kisses our skin, draws up sweat and get us in heat to BBQ, bike, bathing suits and seeing the details of one’s frame. A lust we often have no shame in sharing. It’s obvious with how we are staring. Hormones flaring. Emotions blaring like sirens. The kind of vibration that draws courage into hiding and on lookers to confiding with a God they often forget besides Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas. The inadvertently abuse emitted by the Sun is endless.

Which is why it often hide in Clouds us human call emotions.

Coming back home to Detroit has been just that; A Cloud of emotions. There’s a light in me that has been wired into us all, but quite frequently forgotten victories make us uncloth from our armor. Thus becoming susceptible to being sieged by every vice there is.

I learned this hard truth every time I handed out my still tattered Heart. Instead of bandaids and gauze pads with dressing, I opted to hold my Heart together using left over ribbon from holidays and coating it with Modge Podge and glitter.

I gift wrapped my shit, and stood back in the corner awaiting the receiver to be slapped with the element of surprise.

They thought I was perfect, because I’m pretty. Better yet they assumed that the tenderness in my words meant I would be hesitant to aim where it hurts— Accountability. Moreso towards myself, because people really believed the inner Peace I speak so freely of came without consequence. People really thought that I don’t go through things or make mistakes. Yes I’m prone to a fuck up or 10, but I view this shit as lessons given I choose to be a student.

Like….

Returning home to Detroit from Phoenix with the same amount of money I left with ($150) humbled the fuck out of me, but engulfed me to shame more than any feeling. I were under the impression that I were supposed to return with a lot more money and mantras they recited the spiritual journey I embarked on in the West Coast.

I were supposed to come back feeling like that bitch, but being broke to the point all of my mom friends had to join their coins together to get my ass back to Detroit. Which I’m grateful for that. Totally grateful. Super appreciative and thankful that they came through for me minutely, because I were days away from being put out of my apartment.

Why?

Love.

I thought I found Love in a man who was deep in a union with his childhood issues, manic anger and addiction to cigarettes and meth..

Yes… Meth.

But I tried to Love him anyway. I tried to support him anyway. I tried to make sure every morning was greeting with hot breakfast and sucking his dick on the whim so he’d never feel inclined to ask.

I tried to treat that nigga like a King. A God maybe. I saw beyond his conflicting ass flaws and sought a treaty with his Potential. I tried to nurse his symptoms from withdrawal by diving deep into studying herbs and tantric touches.

I tried to support his moves, no matter how mediocre, by investing in his aesthetics and trying to connect the many dots he failed to revisit.

I tried to Love this man. Be the mother he wished he had. Be the Lover he claimed never existed and be the light, the Sun to conquer his darkness.

I tried so damn hard to be what this man needed that the absence of reciprocity made me bitter. Damn near resentful, not vengeful, but definitely irrational from still keeping him around until he decided to leave cuz the well ran dry; both my pussy and pockets.

How about my sense of self worth?

I let the Sun in Phoenix illuminate a light in me to the degree I were blinded by my own insecurities.

How did I end up so desperate? Breaking my contract with Celibacy? I mean.. Ya girl was 1 year and 4 months in without dick. I were craving a booty rub, but what I wanted was Love. I wantrd to be celebrated and honored in the same fashion as our ancestors honored the Sun and now rever the Son of God named Jesus.

I felt saving this man would equal out our yolks as he unknowingly saved me from being lost in my own darkness. He saved me from loneliness just by being there. His company and conversation alone was enough until that shit became arguments, and drove me away from being at my own apartment— my name on the lease; my money paying the bills; my money putting in groceries; yet he somehow would get an attitude when I returned home too soon to MY place… A place that never felt like my own until he left.

That’s when the weight loss journey took place.

After walking my son to school in the morning, I would walk around the neighborhood with my headphones on. Taking in the scenic sunrise, the mountains and the buzz from busy commuters.

Hike, Hike, Hike

Hiking up North Mountain

Strolling around the water Basin on 10th St

I learned of parks and cool ass places in my neighborhood I didn’t know existed. I started testing out my photography skills. I tried my hand as running around the water basin and sitting on bare land with insects under trees.

I began to adopt the diet of the hummingbirds around me; seeds, nectar from flowers, berries and water.

I observed all the plants, trees and flowers around me. Absorbing their divine nature to get an organic understanding of how I want to be; rooted, budding and blossoming, letting the beauty of my essence be conceived.

Unsure of what this plant is, but it smells good as gawk!

More importantly, I cultivated a relationship with the Sun whom really shed light on who I AM.

Sunrise in North Phoenix

Taking the information downloaded home to create vision boards, a plant based diet and staying in the Rhythm with God through dance, yoga and prayer.

My vision board and cluster of craft supplies that I still regret leaving behind.

Introspection, solidarity and manifesting some shit.

It was through these regimens, practices and form of worship that enabled me to cope with being alone. I had to deal with heartbreak and anger. I had to master the emotions of grief and guilt. I had to really take the time to learn and LOVE ME.

Who I AM…

Phoenix was chosen as a healing space given that it was revealed in my name interpretation rendered by BlaqFire Nation. In my birth name, Ashley, rising from the ashes like the Phoenix is said to be apart of my story in this lifetime. Given that prior to my decision to flee Detroit I endured the death of my mother, were exposed on social media for something personal, and learning that I’ve been my baby daddy’s side bitch all these years, I were in a dire need to escape. And since I were too chicken to commit suicide after contemplating the shit over and over, relocating suited best.

And I dipped out Detroit with $150 and my son who was 4 years old at the time on a mentally excruciating three days on the Greyhound.

The rest is the journey of The Alchemist, which is also the title of a book recommended by a great friend of mine.

It was a parable that spoke to me, because much like the character, Santiago, I too were on a quest to find my treasure and love. I also communicated with the wind, the rain, the Clouds, and the Sun, which all led me to speaking with God.

That is when I learned that the treasure I dreamed of could only be discovered at home, in Detroit…

And I have located that treasure.

It was ME all along. It was ME that I found.

So while I don’t possess the material monetary shit that society says define who my status, I own something greater, more profound and infinite—It is the realization that I can only save myself. It’s a knowing that regardless of who or what I encounter, I only have control over me and that is more than manageable.

So while I wanted to complain about the cold weather, grey skies and the Sun playing hide n seek with a nigga after being spoiled in a city where the Sun shines boastfully 300 days a year, the coldest it get is 40 degrees at night during winter month (yes literally a month of cold), and no snow? I ALMOST wanted to regret returning.

You see what comparison does right? It generates a divide in the spectrum, thus taking away the Light that all is worthy of experiencing. Shit even the darkness want to be enveloped in the Sun’s grace.

The Sun… I’m so grateful for it’s solar power. It’s a star that’s assisted with my personal evolution. It’s been the formula to my countless issues. Being in the Sun, feeling the Sun; gazing at the Sun; it’s been my saving grace. Interesting how the simple things, most of which is taken for granted, become the epitome of our healing. Much gratitude to the TRUE SUN of GOD.

Had I not left Detroit, who knows where I’d be mentally…

Can’t ponder on the hypotheticals tho as they’ll strip away where I AM NOW.

Speaking of now… I went from 190 lbs to a solid one fiddy.

I had a great solo Hot Girl Summer. Bike riding, river running and being grounded by Mother Earth to be refined in feminine energy.

The journey continues….

#ABCogitation

Heartbreak and the Sun Saved Me: A Narrative on why I Returned to Detroit I almost wanted to complain about how cold it is this morning,But I don't have a reason to, because truthfully, I'm happy to be back home in Detroit.

[mx-liz]

I have a great deal of pity for the people who don’t feel like I do.

Waking in bed, on a warm spring morning. The first thing felt is the warmth of the sun shining through the window and the subtle softness of the mattress. The window was left open, and there is a faint breeze wafting through the bedroom. It’s a cold breeze, but when attention is given to it, one can feel warm energy, almost as if the wind itself is alive and carries with it a spirit. It brings with it sweetness, and if smells could have color this one would be of purples and crisp violets, cream-colored whites and soft beige. The lilac bushes in the neighborhood are in bloom. As the sweetness brushes against your cheek, it is easy to feel the moisture in the air, a sign of earlier rain. There are musky undertones of dirt and earth, dark hues of shrubbery and dense chlorophyll. As the attention drifts aside, the warmth of a companion can be felt opposite your blanket. A cat or a dog, reliant on your compassion and giving endlessly of their affection, breathing slowly beside you.

These are all details, bits and pieces of the world around me that I can feel before I even open my eyes. All around us, the world is telling us to “stop and smell the roses!” all while we pace back and forth endlessly, staring down at a phone or at a computer. I’ve always found the saying to feel empty. It’s more than a smell. Do you see them? Feel them? Taste? Where is the experience? The roses in your life, the fragments of beauty in nature or human creation all around you, when did you last really see them?

Finally dragging myself out of bed, I feel the subtle feeling of rest leaving my body. I walk – barefoot – outside to the garden. The grass scratches against the soles of my feet, and up to my ankles. It reminds me that it desires a trim. The dirt is wet from rain, and cold to touch. The sun stops shining on it, but it doesn’t bother me. The sky may be gray today, but it won’t last long. With each footstep, the earth finds its way up into my entire being. My bare feet connect with the ground that has existed here far longer than I could ever dream. It carries the dust and ash of life that has been long forgotten. People and creatures that have gone before me, as I slowly meander out to my strawberry patch. If you let it, the earth will share its secrets with you. The wind will whisper the stories. The life that the world, that society so desperately tries to take away from you will be returned to you tenfold.

The strawberry patch is in bloom. Clean, bright white flowers are scattered everywhere. The trees above drip with bits of rain that haven’t yet reached the ground. Where has that water been, and where is it going? It could be from rivers, lakes, or oceans far away. Perhaps it once sustained the life of our ancestors. Was it a tear or sweat, then purified for the satisfaction of the berry plants? The water that will now nourish my garden could have traveled hundreds of thousands, millions of miles, just for this simple cause. The garden will soon feed me and many others. Surely the rabbits will find some berries first. The squirrels and mice and birds may also feast upon them. I might get one or two before they’re gone. The fruit will surely be shared with friends and family. And just think, it was all nourished by a drop of water that crossed the globe for that very purpose.

The iris flowers are in bloom. Simple golds and pale yellow, mimicking the star that creates the day. When you watch closely, an ant may find its way into the bud to find a drink of water. The petals have their own “veins” that dance and find their way through, carrying sustenance and color and an elusive and delicate sweetness. It’s fronds dance with the breeze, choreographing their own intricate dance that can never be quite replicated. Their silky greens and silvers intermingling with the colors on the breeze – the yellows, orange and reds of the sun trying to shine, the purples and hint of lilacs, the chill of rain and the warmth of life. Can you feel it yet?

On the stove, a meal sizzles away. French toast, to be precise. A simple meal, with much that goes unappreciated. Eggs with dark golden, deep yolks that are nearly orange. The thick and creamy, savory yolks. Mix them with some vanilla, the sweetness, and bitterness of vanilla. Spicy cinnamon, earthy nutmeg, and delicately sweet sugar. Milk, rich and creamy, cold and refreshing. Whisk it all together and soak a couple slices of bread in it. It turns a dark brown as it absorbs the mixture. Think of the hours it took to make that bread. All the kneading, the waiting, the rising, the baking, the perfect mixture of ingredients coming together to make a base for a meal. Butter in the pan – the milking, the churning, the waiting, the cooling, hints of salt – sizzling. In goes the soaked bread. Frying. Mingling. Browning. Flip. Do it again. Cover with maple syrup. The tapping, filtering, bottling, pure sweetness from a tree (where did the water come from?) A simple meal, not so simple anymore. Deliciously feeding my body and soul.

To feel like this is part of who I am as a person. Not everyone is as blessed as I am to be able to observe, to be able to see like I can. The intricacies of everyday life go unnoticed by most. The little things, the details, I see them. I feel them down into the depths of my soul. They are a part of who I am. I consider myself one with the earth, with the spirit and energy of the things around me. My core resonates with them. I feel as if my very being goes unnoticed by the world, as the world goes by unnoticed by most. My identity as a nonbinary person reaches into this notion. There is so much more to the world than what society places value on. There is so much to connect to, to be able to feel and feel with. I am not simply defined because I am not simple. I am a part of the vastness of our universe. I am a part of the stars, the dust, the lilacs, the dirt. And you, my dear reader – are too. Pay attention.

[harryglom]

Last day of summer

I have the same trouble writing as I do in my relationships. I find some things too compelling not to say: I'm terrible at editing and keeping my mouth shut. I don't know how to distill anything to it's essence because in my essence I am fragmented, fickle, distracted and entirely too self absorbed to fully relate to or commit to anything. Except maybe that last sentence.

But who knows, maybe that will change too.

I suppose if if I was a good editor that paragraph would read, I am a flagrant narcissist but I like to intellectualise things for my own ego.

So here for you is something I wrote on the last day of summer.

It's incredibly self indulgent but hopefully amusingly so.

***

August 31st 2018:

The romance of floating above water in the Jesus position and the luxuriant option of return to this perfect state has expired. The crickets' hum has been replaced by the clack-clack of roughly handled suitcases. Contemplating gin and tonics turns to demanding early morning coffee in one cycle of moon and sun. A summer, even in its gorgeous final colours, burning brighter for the dwindling excess, has been unquestionably wanked away. I am Marie Antionette stuffed full of icing on the way to the guillotine, I am the plentiful lover shrivelled dry on the inside, I am Casanova after his wig was swept away in a storm.

Sailing by, looking out from the car window, the lush valleys tussle for visibility. With each dip and turn through the dirt roads and unmarked shaley pathways, the hills rise and fall like waves in a thousand shades of green. Dotted like icing sugar, fragments of the oval domes and embellished archways of whitewash villas peer out through the trees. They are all spread out amongst the vast wilderness and not one single man talks to another. They all carve out their own piece of nowhere.

The birds chirp with curiosity and, by a flutter of sudden fear, fly out away from the sound of a chopping axe. The trees are coming down, the world has waved goodbye, we're the last to leave the funeral party.

My parents discuss the nature of familial love like it's a supernatural tether, whilst my mum calms down from a barking voice to her calm barking voice at father's suggestion. It's too early for severity you see: I suppose I should count myself lucky. Still a lecture comes. Today's improvised mantra is Protection not Perfection, "we want to protect you, not to perfect you", before launching a tirade of criticisms at the turn of 8am.

Mum explains with finality that I don't understand how much they love me, which is somehow framed as a criticism. Mum leaves off satisfied with her new parenting slogan-- protection not perfection (which I secretly wish was protection not correction)-- and dad gives me my Friday night blessing in advance-- we're shit Jews but Dad's carrying a hopeless team of pantomime believers.

The airport is painless for the most part. A million rows of cattle cue dividers makes me want to kill the closest responsible person and cause an uprising against the dull oppression of public spaces. But other than that, is how I would nonchalantly have carried on if that was what had happened. I'm sorry to say that this was written as I sailed past the empty rows of cattle cue dividers and thought all was well within the world besides its inherent banality. In retrospect, I was pretty happy then.

It turns out I haven't paid for my baggage and I will have to go to the customer service desk and get a further transfer flight directly to Dignitas if I'm to truly put my frustration to rest. I watch from the separated cue of easyJet customer service, feeling the unparalleled warmth of proximity to British people in the early morning. And I watch as those same cattle cue dividers fill up with the usual suspects: families having temper tantrums, pill-eyed party goers just coming to remember how sobriety feels after four or five days and those who, for their style or state of illness, look like Ibizan roadkill. The special treat arrives at the mentally-constipated attendant working at the UK desk.

I could skin them all alive for a coffee.

By the time I pass through security, I have almost lost my passport six times within two service interactions and as such I feel like a total cunt as well. It turns out I'm in good company. A mother tries the innovative parenting technique of desperately bargaining with a ruthless toddler. The middle aged tattooed Liverpudlian cops a feel of his wife's tit as she reads the newspaper. What can only be described as the ultimate twat brings what I deduce by smell to be the entire four-mile stretch of the central Marrakesh meat market condensed into a paper bag to our gate.

Our bus stalls at the foot of the plane. As such our beloved ultimate twat decides this is a great time to really get stuck into the meat-fest. He devours it in a way that suggests it's part of some kind of ceremonial ancient sacrifice from before people invented the concept of dignity. Everyone plays the "no eye contact game", which proves difficult in such close quarters. I could count your nose hairs and tell you whether you drank red or white wine last night from your breath but god forbid we look at each other for even a second. It's really quite impressive. If each player of the "no eye contact game" cast a bright green laser directly where they looked there wouldn't be a single space for Tom Cruise to acrobatically traverse through. He'd just be dismembered and presumably eaten fresh by the ultimate twat.

In silence, playing the "no eye contact game" like a true sport, I look out of the fragment of window I'm afforded. I observe the stewards ponce around on the top of the stairs, tapping about in their freedom and breathing fresh air, a step away from doing a full rendition of the Sound of Music. This rendition is complete with a faithful emulation of Naziism in the form of endless airport bureaucracy. The baggage attendants joyfully crush our possessions, somehow with both reckless abandon and a spiteful precision and determination. Me and my fellow passengers wait like a pile of bags in 30 degree heat crammed like cattle on a bus wanting to scream "IS THIS SOME KIND OF JOKE!?" and hopefully get yourself sectioned just to get moving somewhere. But no, nobody screams-- besides the same ruthless toddler-- and I admire our stoicism in the face of evil. Only English people can silently struggle and shrug off barbaric treatment with an awkward silence and an urge to be seen as polite. They are our greatest weapons, even as these double edged swords pierce our throats and slowly suffocate us with our own blood.

As I sit down on the plane, still half asleep, I almost feel bad about the skinning alive comment but as my eyes trace over the pale bodies, loud sneakers and signature grimaces of fellow Londoners and really begin to enjoy the rampant sense of superiority that surges through my bones but would never show in my face, I accept they'd all do the same to each other given the chance.

Usually I treat getting off a plane like a kind of race, one with an announcer bellowing juvenile insults at everyone I overtake, one with invisible short-cut markers, doing swift confident turns like you really have somewhere to be. You know, that manic fast walk to rival a meth-head's best goosestep impression whilst fantasising about pretending a disabled old woman is your grandma. Alas, today the wind is out of my sails. I only really wake up when I catch my sour reflection, which is not a surprise as this is the default face I seem to carry with me, in which my hair has flopped into a very Hitlerish style. As much as I dislike making conversations with people in public, this is not my preferred strategy to go about it.

I haven't felt like this in a while. This way of thinking is symptomatic of one thing. The summer is over and London's calling.

[thephotowalla1]

Momentum

I started to think of my first day of riding a motorcycle, rain had lashed the Himalayan valley throughout the night and I was scared to be completely alone in the world for the first time. The clouds sporadically sprinkled rain drops on me while I packed up the bike that morning. Thunderstorms had battered the mountains in the past days and I wondered if I was leaving on a wave of ambition rather than the calming thought of sensibility. It was the biggest decision of my life, to ride a motorcycle through a landscape so isolated that a moment alone here wondered if regret had ever really existed at all. I’ll never forget the moment when I kicked the bike over, gently eased it into first gear and rode off to a place where I wasn’t reliant on anything except the blurry line between my own truth and an ultimate destiny. I know now that to succumb to natures principles requires the humility of an unapologetic heart...

The sun peaked through the parting clouds as if the arms of comfort had engulfed me; I had found the person that I forgot to notice. I knew only one thing at that time, and that was everything from this point forward was based entirely on my decisions, my actions and my knowledge as a human being.

The morning was not too different than anything previous, a chia and a cigarette started the proceedings and with a little anxiety creeping in, a toilet break was definitely in order. I had packed my gear the night before, the new mode of travel meant that there was no particular time in which to be ready, no departure hour had infiltrated my thoughts, it was just me and my machine. A 1981 Royal Enfield motorcycle adorned my confidence, I didn't know it then but somehow she was going to become one of the truly great loves of my life.

A pair of old wooden doors lead out to the back garden, an extraordinary view welcomed my entry to the day as the Sun slightly bared its shine. My saddle bags were draped over my shoulder and I wondered where this day could possibly take me, what this decision in life could possibly show me. Then, it was just me, the world and a bike named Michelle.

The clouds had started to culminate into a darkness I was not prepared for, the water drizzled continuously throughout the early morning’s preparation, puddles already full from the days previous overflowed creating a less than ideal start. But for an instant, that thought was overshadowed by the immense beauty that inspired a conclusion that fear is only there to betray a foundation of faith in living the ultimate dream. I felt an overwhelming feeling of surrender come over me, here I was, a boy from a conservative blue collar town about to embark on the adventure of lifetime.

My mind was purely influenced by the quest for a liberation from restraint, unshackling a philosophy of contentment and a reliance on no other. My intelligence refused the invitation of a comfy room where the outside elements were forbidden to enter its tranquillity. I was packed and I was ready, ‘only God could stop me now’, I thought, negotiating the phrase several times to myself.

The condensation escapes my mouth with every breath, the high altitude keeps reminding me that life up here is at a much slower pace and it takes a couple of deep breaths before I kick over this splendid machine. The engine rolling over with its deep thumping sound fills me with anticipation, and sitting here any longer will only prolong the inevitable. The clutch is released, the engine beats its drum, the driveshaft crunches into gear and it all comes together as the romance of such a journey embellishes the moment. It is the beginning of another chapter in a life of living aimlessly.

Shouting words of exhilaration into this mountain expanse was now a regular feature of my vocal expression. The brisk air rushes in and around my helmet, the open face does not give any relief from the sprinkling rain that continuously perpetuates this moment of my entity. I look around at the mountain summits that rise sharply, disappearing suddenly into the dark and stormy clouds. It’s hard to concentrate, the beauty is unequal to anything I have ever witnessed.

It is a dry and desolate place where the earthly colours of the mountain ranges are only broken by the green cultivations of the valley floor and the glacial ice on the highest peaks mirror the bluest of skies. My fingers were numb as they gripped the handles of the 350 Bullet, venturing into the unknown was as pure as the crisp August air. Not in my wildest dreams could I have imagined that this day would turn into a six month, twenty thousand kilometre odyssey that would take me to the untamed reaches of the Indian Himalaya to the coconut fringed beaches of the Sub-Continents south. That day has changed my understanding of the freedoms within. The ice covered peaks materialise momentarily as the clouds part for a few seconds and summon my eyes to look deep into their stunning grandeur. The immense beauty that surrounds me of unexplainable beauty taunts my happiness to lose control momentarily.

The Indus river flows beside me as I rumble along the tarmac, the rain over the last few days has brought a level of flooding that makes me temporally question my decision and just as suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds and eases my anxiety to a point where my smile returns undefeated. “Those clouds look ominous up there”, thinking out loud as I see my first high mountain pass on this four hundred and fifty two kilometre pilgrimage. The road is not much more than a single lane track as it winds its way through the valley floor. From valleys of green agriculture to rock covered gorges the road sees no boundaries and my bike, although ageing, seems to caresses every corner with ultimate ease.

Ascending the Taglang La, a five thousand metre mountain pass is the first real feeling of aloneness, the wind howls through the rock strewn landscape, occasionally drowning out that deep thumping sound of this machine which reverberates hypnotically in the air around. ‘It’s getting really cold up here?’ The thought pondered for a while, I questioned if it was the fear of conquering such a mountain pass or the reality of the weather that had masked my judgment, but an answer comes quickly enough. It started to snow, with the warmth of my jacket the snow melted, only to freeze again in a matter of seconds. ‘It was definitely getting cold!’ my teeth suddenly chattering as the words spill from my mouth. I could see the gap between the giant peaks, at five thousand three hundred metres above sea level I wasn't expecting any miracles but I was hoping for a little respite from the snow. It wasn't heavy and it wasn't accumulating so this was a good sign that the ground had still not frozen and my fearfulness dissipated very quickly.

Prayer flags adorn the mountain vista, rippling wildly in the wind, I wondered how it was possible I had only found this now. The Himalayas spectacularly rise all around me, the snow had eased enough for me to park the bike up and feel the presence of mother nature circling the boundaries of myself that have yet to be uncovered. Valleys retreat into the distance from both sides of the pass and I find myself lost in a moment of discovery, falling slowly like the snow flakes around me I ease myself into this moments truth. My eyes closed softly and my head tilted back I let my existence be swept away as if another universe had emerged. I gradually made my way to the bike, glancing constantly and the environment around me I reluctantly let the journey continue.

The sweeping road cuts into the side of the mountain faces as I descend in the valley below. My heart beats heavily as I emerge into a place so astonishing that my emotions are swept through my body like the ocean meeting the land. I feel I am in some sort of dream state, a sub conscience kingdom welcoming me like Knight returning from battle. I hear a roar of energy echo off the valley floor dragging me deeper into fearlessness, I reach out and grab the heavens. My conscience returns and an understanding is revealed, its all real, I’m not dreaming, this is our home and I feel alive.

It was getting late, my goal was still many hours away and I wasn't sure whether to stay in the makeshift tent where I was drinking chai or have a crack at getting to my desired destination. It was then an Indian rider pulled up and give me the news. “Where are you trying to get to?” he said with a startled look in his eyes. “Pang”, I replied with a little cause for concern. Pang is also a tent city some 50kms form where I am “You can’t get there, mudslide last night and the road is blocked!”. “Oh what the Fuck!”, was my initial response as the thoughts of what to do feverishly began tearing holes in my brain. I asked what he was doing and he suggested that I return to Leh as quickly as possible! 

The chai was absorbed at break neck speed, the sun was shining her late afternoon light on the valley as I descended from the pass and with that came the knowledge of the approaching sunset. It was four o’clock in the afternoon, it had taken me six hours to get here and with only three hours of sunlight left my self imposed evacuation had to get underway immediately. By the time I had started to ascend the pass a dull light blanketed the mountainside, I knew that the retreating suns rays were all but consumed by the day.

Lost in as many thoughts as the mountain peaks around me, I had given up on the importance of concentration and I felt like I was floating in a dream. Crunch! It was the emptiness of the widening trench that gave my mind enough time to consider the options that were about to unfold, but not enough time to do anything about it. In the ensuing darkness I realised I couldn't see a bloody thing and the anxiety of trying to get back to the village of recommendation was fast becoming an overwhelming sensation. I was pushing more and more and then without a clue as to what I had cannoned into, I was airborne. I could only brace for the impact, willing the bike to fall softly like a feather drifting through the tranquil air. The end scenario was a far different story and by the time the dust settled had a bruised ego, broken chain and a luggage rack completely in bits.

The ideal place to break a bike was a long way away from where I was perched high on the dark side of the mountain. I found solace in the fact that the day could not be more unsympathetic to my cause and rather than contemplating in a zen like fashion, I freaked the fuck out and sweated balls for a good ten minutes. “Christ!”, I muttered to myself, ‘day one and I am already looking for my tool kit.’ Of course me being of outstanding intelligence packed the tools somewhere near the most inaccessible section on the bike. After virtually stripping the bike to get them, I found it. As I laid out the tool roll my eyes lit like a child in a lollie shop, I shouted to the gods “there you are, my savour!”.

I was regularly told from a friend of mine, always carry in your tool kit a spare spark plug, a few tools and a couple of exceptionally rolled joints. Why they have to be exceptional I wasn't sure at the time, but in that moment I understood those fine words of wisdom. Its when you see an exceptionally rolled number in a crisis then all the worries seem to disappear for a while. I lit the joint and drew back a long and tiresome breath, the stone hit me with a sudden wave of euphoria. Collapsing under the breathtaking scene my troubles had momentarily disappeared.

But eventually you need to come out of that delusional stupor and try and get back on the road. A couple of Indian men turned up in an old worn out jeep and give some advise, pointing fingers, giving orders. There were so many sets of hands grasping at things that I nearly passed out from the confusion. In the end I let them take care of it and prayed that their accomplishment be in my favour and I make it back to the journeys original departure point.

Twilight in the Himalayas is an extraordinary experience, by the time I made it back to the pass for the second time that day the sky had turned a deep orange, pink and purples splattered the evenings canvass as I was caught between the progressive motion of my motorcycle and this moments emotion thrown together by circumstance. The mountains lit up in a rainbow of colours with the hint of clouds still lingering in the distance. I was absolutely awestruck, again, I wasn't sure what to think anymore, seeing, feeling, experiencing all what I have had on this first day was a frightening sensation. “How am I going to deal with all this?”, was a very frequent question revolving in my head. But it was here, on this mountain pass I had started something special and still so very far from realising it.

A group of riders joined me on this spectacular afternoon, they were heading in the direction I had just come from. Formalities were exchanged and the conversation soon evolved into the present predicament. I told them about the story of the mudslide somewhere near Pang, I left them to deliberate their own scenario as I had a few more moments to lose my grip on reality once again.

I said my goodbyes and good-lucks, mounted my machine and headed back toward Leh. I was in a rhythm, concentrating on this evenings greatest excuse to ride like the wind. An over exaggeration I must say but at the time I felt like a surge of air holding tightly to this mountain road, cascading thoughts driven by its desire to combine an invincibility to the inevitability and all the while patrolling the outer edges of my boundaries spectrum.

By the time I reached the bottom of the valley, the riders I met on the Tanglang La had an undisputed ambition to get to Leh as fast as possible.They passed me before I could lift my eyes from the darkening road. The sunlight had all but disappeared into antiquity and with still many hours of riding ahead of me I decided to hold up in a small village that I had passed earlier in the day. The coolness in the air was substantial enough to abandon the thought of taking a cold shower and I unpacked my gear and collapsed onto my bed. Catching thoughts of an extremely tumultuous day my energy just seemed to disappear in an instant and with my eyes effectively closed, I knew I had to eat something before I drift off into another fantasy.

I walked through the corridors ducking in and out of rooms until I found the eating area. The electricity had been non existent for a while so the glow of candles were my only source of direction as I fumbled my way into the kitchen. ‘ Namaste’ I said softly, trying not to frighten the woman cooking over the gas fired stove. An older woman turned first, smiling as I asked about the possibility of food.

‘Namaste bhai, thali you want?’ The woman cooking replied and with very little time to draw breath I responded with a very hungry yes.

I wandered through to the eating area and come across the group of riders I had met on the Tanglang La only a few hours before. The initial surprise succumbed quickly to relief as I joined their discussion on the situation that had unfolded and we had found ourselves in.

The stillness of the night had already surrendered to the fast approaching storm, the lightning that flashed was a constant reminder that not everything goes to plan when riding through these unpredictable mountain valleys. But I was so drained that after the initial thoughts of the approaching storm were quickly overwhelmed by the tightening of my already starved stomach. The storm closed in, raindrops started pounding the straw covered ceiling and the feeling of a very long night had started to ease into my thoughts. By the time the food was finished and conversation done, a hardy weariness had gatecrashed our bodies and effectively ushered all of us to our awaiting beds.

The water rushed in, my saddle bags placed upon my mattress huddled around my body. The light bulb flickers anxiously above as the moisture from my breath is caught within the darkness that momentarily exists between the shimmering  glow.

The overflow of the lashing Himalayan thunder storm had not only caught me by surprise, I could see through a small gap in the mud and stone wall where the Ladahki family were also huddled together on an elevated surface. Making sure my kit was relatively dry I made my way through the ankle deep water. The candle light paved my vision as I stumbled to see if the situation could get any worse. They told me to stay away from the water and off the floor, afraid of being struck by lightening I was hurried back to my sleeping quarters. I was puzzled by their reaction but the language barrier had me not questioning their motives and I quickly stammered back to by bed and tried to sleep off the brutal storm.

The day had started with a nervous smile, it radiated to the world that this is the day I abandon all the trepidation that I had bestowed on myself and accepted the moment of infinite probabilities. The ghosty saturation of the flickering light and rumbling echo around me had me staring into the nights mystic. A perception of how I see myself had penetrated my thoughts, from within a place that awakens the real truth of who I am. My mind wanders as my heavy eyes close, brushing away realities and replacing them with reverie.

It’s the hardest thing of all, trying to see yourself from the inside rather than the outside. It seems that every time I step out of the last place I laid my head I put on a mask, a kind of false realisation that I think other people expect. Like the smile on the outside and a sadness within or that seemly grumpy attitude for a moment in the day will be perceived and judged by some as a weakness rather than a truthfulness. So I needed to put myself away from yesterday and ask myself if I have really connected with the truest form of my inner being, today. 

Riding alone on those days where nobody really knows where you are or who you are, just you and two wheels on some of the remotest, dangerous and exceptionally beautiful roads in the world and all you can do is talk with yourself, studying the reactions of the world outside, contemplating your deepest feelings because your whole world at that moment is on the finest of edges. You put yourself into another dimension, practicing every minute on your ability to communicate with yourself and the incredibleness around you. There are a million snapshots of life bombarding your brain at any one moment, not knowing if the next vision is going to kill you or going to save you. Then at the end of it all you make it, like another day in a perfectly normal life you only think of the bed that will lay your emotion filled body for at least this night. So as I pulled down the mosquito net on my bed that night and thought of the experience no one else has shared, I realised I am capable of doing almost anything that this life throws at me.