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thiswreckageivebecome · 5 years ago

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The Winter Soldier is Still Here (Part 27- “Still A Victim?”) (Bucky/Winter Soldier x Fem!reader)

Word Count: 5185

Warnings: Language, violence, emotional trauma

Author’s Note: This one was a bit of an emotional rollercoaster for me and it literally brought tension to my mind and body, so maybe try and prepare yourself? Or it may just do that for me, who knows? Either way, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it!

Masterlist

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BUCKY POV

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"What has he taken from you?" I ventured asking T'Challa after an extended period of silence, my eyes still on (Y/n). He acted as though he didn't want to answer and I could see the pain he held.

"It's a long story."

"Well, I don't recall Africa being that close to D.C. so I'd think we'd have some time. But hey, if you don't want to ta-"

"My father and the love of my life. He is responsible for their deaths. He is the reason I now hold the mantle of king."

"I'm sorry to hear that. How did it happen?" T'Challa took a visible deep breath before continuing.

"He has been working with a man named Klaue. You see, in Wakanda we hold a very precious element and there are multitudes of it. Many in the world search after it. It's called Vibranium."

"Isn't that what Steve's sh-" I began to ask and he nodded.

"Captain America's shield, yes. Your arm, also. It's a powerful element as you well know. Its power can be harnessed for many purposes and used in a large number of ways. Some, like Klaue and Charscovsky, want to steal it to use it for weapons that will only bring more harm to the world than there already is. As you can imagine, we don't want this and are attempting to defend it in the best ways we know how."

"I'm sorry for your losses."

"Thank you, Mr. Barnes. When the explosion first occurred, I couldn't even comprehend what was happening. One of my sister's labs contained a new experiment that would not only strengthen the vibranium but turn it into a transparent liquid, as well as giving it the opportunity to turn it into a gaseous form. My sister was working on this so that they could be utilized for medicinal and manufacturing purposes, however, Klaue and HYDRA want it to make new weapons."

"That sounds like HYDRA," I looked over at (Y/n). She was still unconscious but she seemed as though she was resting. I recalled what my resting was like while in Cryostasis, though, and that thought almost dropped me to my knees, thinking of what could be going through (Y/n)'s mind. I placed my hand on the wall of the aircraft for support. T'Challa noticed.

"She's the love of your life, yes?" I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

"Yes, yes I think she is."

READER POV

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Flashes of memories that weren't my own blazed across my mind. I felt cold but I could not awaken. I felt as though there was a transparent, yet impenetrable cloud covering my entire body as I lay and watch as if it was the projection screen of someone else's life. I watched as people were murdered in the most horrid of ways. I watched, I attempted to scream but no sound escaped my throat. I saw police cars and ambulances blow by as I, or who ever's eyes I was viewing this through, sat in wait and patience, and I could feel pleasure, while conflicted, flood my veins. I could feel success but there was something else scratching at that success. It felt like regret, disgusting regret, and sorrow. I could see myself move from the window and across the bare room of what seemed an empty apartment in order to get a better view. I could see medical services and camera crews, running after the Continental. I could feel the smile spread across my lips and the threatening regret bubbling inside attempting to pull those lips down.

The scene changed. I saw flashes of a man one who seemed a friend, one who seemed to be by my side. He smiled over at me, grabbed me on the shoulder encouragingly. This man had strong cheekbones and medium bronze brown hair. His jaw tightened in a flash and his eyes grew vile and all signs of life left them. The surrounding light flickered off and when the light resumed, I watched as he was tossed into a vertical tube and he went under Cryostasis. I felt someone grab the back of my arm and guide me to my own tube. Everything went black.

I sat in darkness for what seemed an eternity. I attempted to scream. I couldn't see where I was but I felt as though I was in a coffin. I attempted to scream, to kick, to fight my way out of the darkness but it was as if none of my efforts were making any difference. I couldn't sleep. Adrenaline pulsed through my system at lightning speeds and while my efforts seemingly did nothing, I could feel the strength of my own hands, arms, and legs reinforcing and growing stronger throughout the fight.

Out of nowhere came a burst of light and I found myself standing under a lampost. I felt a similar conflict but this time, it was anxiety and determination. I was waiting for someone, someone I would do irreparable harm to, but I couldn't recall who or why; I suppose because these weren't my own memories, but someone else's, and I couldn't figure out who just yet. I began to walk forward, at a gradual pace so that I could take in the sight of the bar, yet walk by undetected. I saw him and he appeared familiar yet sick. I continued to walk forward once he was in my sights. I positioned myself just inside the opening of the dark alley so that I could be hidden yet I could see. I waited and the tension inside my chest continued to build. As I waited, the street was quiet, all but the few drunken strangers leaving the bar and the addicts doing business. Those who were lucky enough to stay off drugs while on the street steered clear of places like this, I practically heard this person say in their mind, so I won't have to worry about sober witnesses. The man I was waiting for stumbled out of the bar. I stepped out of the darkness by only a few inches so that my identity would remain unknown to my incognizant victim. I heard myself say:

"Hey, Jack."

The man turned, apparently whose name was Jack. Across his face were surprise and just a hint of recognition before he collapsed from the bullet wound I put in his chest. I felt the pain in my own chest as I opened Jack's vehicle trunk and stuffed his body inside. I got in the vehicle and drove off before, yet again, everything went black.

I laid there in the opaque nothing-ness. I felt tears stream down my cheeks. That Jack was the same man who had appeared in the prior vision. I may not have the memories to connect every dot, but I could feel the connection in the very depths of my soul that this man, this Jack person, had been a friend, a confidante, someone whom I had been proud of, someone who was like a kid brother to me. I saw the bleakness in his eyes that mirrored my own pain and self-destruction, whoever's eyes I was seeing through. I saw the desolation in his pupils as he exited that bar and I knew we had suffered similar demons, both in our imagination and out in the world. As I felt a sob crawling its way out of my chest, an explosion of black smoke, orange sparks, and flying debris dashed across my eyes and threw shadows across my face.

After the smoke cleared, I, myself, not the memories of the person I was watching, I saw someone standing in front of me with blood across their face, as well as blood stains from bullet wounds I could sense this person's memories I was watching had inflicted. I recognized the person immediately. Steve, Steve was standing in front of me, in front of this person, and with the sorrow in Steve's eyes, I knew immediately whose memories I had been living: Bucky's. My sweet Bucky, I was watching the deeds that haunted him. My vision jumped as did my body. I heard Bucky, myself seemingly, say "You're my mission," and I could feel the tension inside his chest, in my own, grow until I thought my own chest would erupt and gush forth the tearing and contradicting emotions filling it. I could feel the pressure of the metal hitting skin, cheekbone, and skull. I could feel splatters of blood hitting my face as I raised my arm multiple times until I felt something stop me and I heard Steve's words.

"Then finish it. 'Cause I'm with you 'til the end of the line."

Traversing across my vision there were scenes of Steve and I walking up steps and I could feel the anguish in Bucky's chest, unsure how exactly to help Steve in whatever was going on. Then I figured from the discussion that it must have been when Steve's mom passed and he had no one left. I came back to the present with Bucky. I could sense the recognition set in. Bucky finally knew him. He knew his best friend, Steven Rogers.

BUCKY POV

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I could sense an immediate halt in conversation and for it, I was grateful. I walked to the other end of the aircraft and sat beside the table (Y/n) lay upon. I watched her for a few moments until I knew the tears would overflow and be seen by watchful eyes. I chose instead to drop my head and let the tears fall to the floor.

"Shit," I thought. " Now I'll have to wipe them up somehow or someone could fall. (Y/n) could fall if something happened and she awoke before we exited the aircraft. I attempted to wipe my eyes as I brushed back my hair, lifting my head. I decided what I would do would be to sit on the floor of the craft in hopes that no one would realize why and they'd only think I was slightly odder than they originally thought.

I began to shift to the floor but just as I was about to sit and slide over the petite puddle it seemed to disappear. What kind of place were these people from? I returned to where I had been sitting and it wasn't long before I heard Okoye announce:

"We're here."

I saw a holographic shield open that wouldn't be seen by the naked eye and soon enough we were landing inside a mountain. It reminded me just slightly of the way Hydra had hidden within the mountains in the Alps. I pushed the thought from my mind quickly. These people had done nothing but help me, help us, thus far. I would remain observant, but I would not object to their assistance for (Y/n)'s sake. When we landed and the door opened, a young woman approached us in white garb that looked like a youthful twist on a doctor's coat and uniform.

"Mr. Barnes," it is a pleasure to meet you. She stretched forth her hand in a friendly notion. I took it and shook lightly. Her petite frame appeared fragile.

"This is my sister, Shuri," T'Challa introduced her. "She is the one who will be assisting in the process of reversing what both you and (Y/n) are the victim of."

"But (Y/n), first," I couldn't help but interrupt, my breathing accelerating to a pace it hadn't reached in quite some time, teeming with worry and anxiety. "I don't care about me, but she has to be better. She didn't deserve this. She has-" T'Challa placed a light hand on my shoulder to halt my words.

"Yes, we'll do all that we can for her, Mr. Barnes. You have my word. We will help her."

Once they saw that I was calming down again, Shuri turned to Okoye.

"Will you escort Mr. Charscovsky to the prisoner's quarters? However, before you do," she pulled a syringe out of the beads on her wrist while speaking to Okoye, "he will need another dose of this unless you're wanting to question him now, brother?" T'Challa shook his head no.

"We will help Ms. (Y/L/n) first. Go ahead and dose him."

"Where did that come from?" I asked, jarred from the technology, something that seemed more like magic, that was being operated before my very eyes. Shuri ignored my question and stuck the syringe in Charscovsky before turning to T'Challa and myself and telling us to follow her. She led the way down the corridor to wherever the next step awaited in this mission I was on to save the woman I loved. I tried not to think of how she would probably never be mine again after this, but I would forever love her and do everything in my power to save her from this hell I had inadvertently put her in.

READER POV

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Everything faded to black. I felt the remorse in my own chest and I began screaming for Bucky, not for him to rescue me, but for his pain. I never had any true clue as to what he had gone through. These glimpses into parts of his past affected me more than any concept I thought I had previously had of him. After some time of screaming for him, screaming "NO!" BUCKY! NO!" I realized that I could hear my screams. They were no longer silent. I didn't know what had changed. Everything was still pitch black, but I could scream and that made me stop in my tracks, puzzled. I began to listen to the silence and somewhere I heard the faintest of voices, and a voice that I didn't recognize said:

"She's waking up. We need to dose her again."

"No, not again, no," I thought, every nerve in my body shaking in fear and I attempted to push myself out of the darkness.

"No, hold her down. I've got to get the syringe in the other arm, where the previous wound is not," I heard a female voice. I felt cold metal on my arm and across my chest. The opaque blackness was shifting to just the darkest shade of gray and I could feel myself progressively breaking through the dark and back into the world. I couldn't let them keep doing this to me. I had to get to Bucky. I had to hold him, apologize to him for never fully realizing. I didn't care how much my body burned. I didn't care how painful it was to move or how far I had to go to get back to him. I had to. I felt the pinch of the needle enter my arm and before I could fight it, everything went black again. My voice was lost and my body went numb. My mind was the only thing left awake. Just as the last grey spot in the cloud exited I heard a sob and somewhere within my bones, I knew it was Bucky's and once again the tears flowed freely.

After some time, I thought my mind had fallen asleep. Yet, once again, I began to see memories and they weren't my own...but I saw myself in them. I saw plums and I saw myself chowing down on a snack. I approached myself and I realized something: this was the day Bucky and I met. This was one of his memories? All of the memories I had witnessed thus far had been horrid. What did that mean for this one?

I saw myself quickly become flustered and embarrassed by Bucky sneaking up on me. I heard myself tell him he'd have to teach me his ways...and then I heard his thoughts:

My ways? My ways are callously learned. My ways were learned through torture. My ways come through atrocious lessons and from detestable people if one could even call them that. They made me into this abhorrent monstrosity called the Winter Soldier. My ways were learned through memory loss, leaving me unable to even remember the closest thing to a brother I've ever had.

This must have been why his face had turned to stone at that moment. Things I had witnessed, and things I had not, as I had been traveling through his memories flashed quickly through my mind. I heard his screams of anguish and pain. I heard the bullet rounds, I heard the stabs into flesh. I began to come to even more of a realization how his mind worked and it broke everything within me.

"Why isn't she afraid?" I heard his mind say.

He wanted me to be afraid? Expected me to be afraid? Why? Well, knowing what I knew now, seeing what he had gone through, some of the things he had done while under the control of HYDRA, I suppose I can see now why he'd expect that. However much like when we first met, instead of fear, compassion, and sorrow were the only emotions produced within me and now realizing more in-depth his suffering, those feelings only grew in magnitude. Somehow it was as if the memory began to whiz away with wind that passed my eyes and next it was night and there were strings of lights everywhere: flashing lights, solid lights, white lights, multi-colored lights, and the sounds of whirring machines, kids shouts, and the smell of funnel cakes filled my mind. It was the carnival; our first non-date, date.

I watched myself argue with Bucky about going on the Ferris wheel. I heard him calling me doll and saw myself blush. I also could feel the anxiety growing in Bucky's bones as he realized what he said. I could practically feel the nerves kick in and the butterflies attack his stomach. I could sense Bucky's hesitation about sitting so close to me on the ride with his left arm brushing against my own. I felt him attempt to keep it close to his body so that it wouldn't touch me, but when the cart jerked to a stop, I felt his breath all but halt when he realized I had grabbed his hand. I felt the conflict and tension in his chest as he thought about my willingness to hold his hand, the murder weapon he hated so much, and then the weightlessness that came with accepting the kindness he was receiving and his choosing to live in the moment. I felt the rare joy that enveloped him as he listened to my stories, eyeing me carefully, and attempting to hold in laughter at my irrational fears.

Everything glinted again and I could feel hot anger in my chest, Bucky's chest as Steve stepped to him.

"Buck, what the hell was that?" Bucky attempted to deny everything, pretend there was nothing between us but Steve wouldn't let it go. "Why are you pushing her away?"

"Why am I pushing her away? Why am I pushing her away?" I heard Bucky say as he stalked away from Steve angrily before turning back to him at a threatening speed. "I could never forgive myself if I hurt her. That's why! You know as well as anyone else that I can't forgive myself for a lot of things, but dammit, none of that would come close to how much I'd hate myself if I ever hurt her. She's this amazing, happy, and considerate person. She deserves someone who isn't half-crazy, bipolar, oh, and I don't know, someone who doesn't have a murder weapon attached to them, Steve!"

The environment changed again and I was in The Muse, well Bucky was. Maggie was standing in front of him, and Rebecca sat in front of him on the table.

"Can you just do me a favor?" Maggie asked. "Please don't hurt her. She is one of the kindest people I have ever known, not to mention she is probably one of the hardest working people I've ever had to work for me. She deserves the happiness I saw on her face today. She deserves someone who will treat her well. She doesn't need to be hurt in any way by anyone. Please don't be one of those people who will inevitably hurt her." I immediately perceived the pain growing inside him, the indecision, the conflict. I was beginning to think that there wasn't a day that ever came to pass that he didn't feel internal conflict. I was beginning to think it was officially a part of him that he would never be rid of. I felt him take a deep breath and then respond with a simple answer:

"Not hurting her is what I care most about." He sat at the table a moment until Maggie retreated to the back and he bolted out the door. I could feel hot tears stinging his eyes and spilling over onto his cheeks as he ran throughout the Wyndhurst district. He ran out the side of the shop and quickly crossed over onto Goldenrod Place before changing course and turning left on Margate. He continued to run. I felt the books, memory journals, Rebecca, To Kill A Mockingbird, Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children, Kindred, and a couple of other books he had bought at the local bookstore after my recommending them before, bouncing around violently in the book bag he carried on his back. He looked for an open spot when he reached the end of Margate so he ran across Northwynd Circle and it brought him back by Wyndhurst Villas and before he knew it, he reached trees and nothing but. He ran forward in them a while, finding himself stepping into the outfield of a baseball diamond. He took a right onto the gravel path and slowed to a walk, mind racing. I sensed the anxiety within him grow by the second.

"What the hell am I supposed to do," he shouted at no one but the frigid night air surrounding him. He walked the path slowly, deep in thought, conflicting thought, trying to weigh out the pros and cons of the two decisions he could make.

"I could leave. She'd be okay. Sure, she would be sad for a bit, but she would be better off without me. Sure, she isn't guaranteed to always be safe because that isn't real life but at least there wouldn't be any harm that would come to her by my hand or the Winter Soldiers. She'll realize that she's better off without me and the constant questioning of my stability and identity," I heard him say to himself.

"Or...I could stay. I could love her with everything I am and everything I have, more than I already do. I could stay and try to find some semblance of happiness with her. We could go out to the farm and I could help her pick on the weekends, we could spend our weekends at The Muse, sipping coffee, and discussing literature. I could encourage her as she sits up for hours on end studying and writing for her education," he continued. Then I heard Maggie's request reverberate in his mind over and over and over again.

"Please don't hurt her."

He took the path through the trees, coming into people's backyards, attempting to get back to his vehicle. He took Beverly Hills circle and once again came to trees, but he recognized the villas he had passed and walked through the wooded area. He retraced his steps. Once he reached his Jeep, he hopped in and shut the door with a force I was surprised didn't break the window out of it. I watched through his eyes as trees, storefronts, gas stations, and closed, run-down bars flew by. I watched as he merged onto Lynchburg Expressway and the trees and exits flew by. He surely was speeding and I wanted to shout at him to slow down. It didn't matter to me that this was in the past. I would always be concerned for his safety. He got off the exit for downtown. He was headed to Midpoint I realized. I watched as he pulled into the parking lot and parked but didn't head into the apartments as I thought he would. Instead, he started walking the opposite way and back down Jefferson. He surprised me by choosing to walk into Bootleggers. It was as if he wasn't even thinking about what he was doing or where he was going. His mind seemed blank. He sat down at the bar and ordered beer, after beer, after beer, knowing good and well his alcohol tolerance was off the charts. After about ten beers, he switched to whiskey. I could see the bartender's confusion, not seeing the alcohol have any effect on Bucky. After serving him three whiskeys neat, he finally listened to his thoughts.

"Man, I have to cut you off. I'm sorry. You're way past the legal limit."

I could feel the heat and fury rising within Bucky. I felt it so strongly, I questioned for a moment whether it was my own anger, but I had no reason to be angry, therefore, I knew it was his alone. I felt the body I was trapped in stand. I felt as the arm took the bartender by the collar.

"You're cutting me off," flashing the vibranium arm so the bartender would know just who he was. The bartender's fear resonated with Bucky and he let him go harshly.

"Fine." He spat. "Give me those bottles of Tequila, and I don't mean the cheap shit either. Give me that top-shelf stuff." The bartender viewed him incredulously.

"Sir," he stuttered almost in a whisper, "I can't sell them to you." Bucky dropped his voice low and lethally responded in the calmest manner imaginable, stepping in close so that the bartender wouldn't miss a word.

"If you value your life and every life in this bar, you will sell me those bottles now. I've killed many more for much less." The bartender did as he was ordered. Bucky nodded with a malicious grin. "Thank you," and he walked out of the bar. I watched the bottle be uncapped in whatever way Bucky saw fit and lifted forcefully to his lips. I felt the burning in his throat with each long drink. Before he had reached the apartment, he had chugged three bottles and still had four bottles remaining. He climbed the stairs and it seemed with every two or three flights he had another bottle downed. I watched as he unlocked his apartment door. I had to watch as he sat the bottles on the kitchen counter and went to his room, trashing it, and then returning back for the alcohol. I watched as he opened another bottle and sat down on the couch and then I heard a knock at the door.

I watched and when he opened the door, I took in the look of fear and horror on my face that I quickly attempted to hide. I had failed miserably and I could sense Bucky had seen and recognized it as well. I felt him turn, ignoring my words and returning to the alcohol. The whole scene flashed by and I only got glimpses of the event. Apparently, the alcohol eventually did affect him but as I watched myself grab for his wrist, I physically experienced the change Bucky had from the Bucky I knew to the Winter Soldier. Everything human shut down. Everything went cold, went blank, there was no emotion, no feeling, no conscious, nothing but the process of doing harm. I saw him grip me and toss me to the floor. The anger erupted as the sound of Steve's call came across the icy environment, but there was still just barely a part of Bucky still there because he recognized what was happening, but I knew he wouldn't win out. The Winter Soldier would. I watched as I attempted to stand. I felt the sparks from the wall socket hit my skin and burn the hairs there as I pulled the tv from the stand, and threw it. I felt the volcano inside explode at the words:

"Bucky, please..."

Then just like that, I was in the Winter Soldier's mind and the Winter Soldier alone. Bucky had been ultimately smudged out. I watched and I saw the hair pulling the scalp up as he had grabbed me and began to throw me against the wall. I watched as my head had met the wall with such force that I was immediately unconscious. I watched as we continued to tear the apartment down, destroying everything in our path. The next thing I felt was a pinch in my neck and everything went black.

BUCKY POV

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They kept her under for a while but all I wanted them to do was wake her because I was frightened by what she was dealing with in her sleep. I always suffered the worst nightmares, reliving all the terrible things I had done in my life, over, and over, and over. When Tony came into the picture, with his treatments, those nightmares were sometimes broken up by the happy time I had experienced with (Y/n), but not often.

"Mr. Barnes," T'Challa quietly approached.

"Just call me Bucky," I replied.

"Okay, Bucky. Look, we're going to keep her under for a little while longer while Shuri finishes up a concoction to help her. However, she'd like to start working with you."

"No. I appreciate it, but no. I want to make sure (Y/n) is okay first." T'Challa remained silent for a moment, debating his next words carefully.

"Mr...Bucky, you're not doing her any good sitting here stressing for her. We will do everything we can for her, I promise. If you're not going to accept any treatment at this time, at least please retreat to one of the prepared rooms we have for you and get some rest. Sitting here and torturing yourself helps no one. I promise that we will bring you to her as soon as there is a development." He sensed I was going to object once again. "My sister would like to return here and work some in the meantime but she doesn't let outsiders be present. She doesn't even allow me when she is working like this." He attempted humor to lighten the moment. I could sense myself giving in, mainly because I didn't want to inconvenience them after they were attempting to help her. I took a deep breath, stood, and walked to her. I leaned down, placing the lightest kiss I could to each eyelid before pulling the back of her hand gingerly to my lips.

"I'll be right back. I'm here (Y/n). I'll leave whenever you want, but for now, I'm here and I love you. I'll be right back," I whispered to her. I returned to my full height, turning and finally facing T'Challa with bloodshot eyes. "Lead the way."

#bucky barnes #winter soldier #marvel #fanfiction #ao3 #bucky barnes x reader #marvel fanfiction #winter soldier x reader #ao3fic #ao3 fanfic #sebastian stan #bucky fic #wakanda #black panther #okoye #shuri #hydra

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harrys-oh-anna · 6 years ago

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So Tired. Part 2.

Part 1

Warnings: None, just Harry being normal again. Bit of fluff and just imagine Harry hugging you as tight as seen above, when you meet him (My feels again!)

Plot: After you have left his hotel room, Harry finally comes back to senses and tries to find you.

“Harry, it’s 1am. What do you want?” Mitch yawned, while leaning on the doorframe of his hotel room, only dressed in his boxers and a white shirt.

“Did you see Y/N? Has she told you where she’s heading?” Harry instantly blurted out.

Mitch crossed his arms, frowning “What? No, I don’t. Isn’t she in your hotel room?”

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Harry’s P.o.v.

Harry was devasted. No, even more than devasted, he was broken. As you walked out the door he couldn’t move, not one bit. He watched as you walked out of his life and he couldn’t do anything about it. He was paralysed. All he felt was a big lump in his throat. He knew he had no right to drown himself in self-pity, being the one who had caused this whole mess, but he still felt this way. He wasn’t sure when you left the room. Time stopped ticking for him. Maybe one hour has passed since the final words were thrown into the room, maybe only a few minutes. Never had he ever thought you would leave him this way. Because of him yelling nasty words at you. Because of him pushing you away. But here he is, facing his biggest fear. He couldn’t blame you. He would have left as well. Hell, he would have left long ago if he was treated this disrespectful by you. As he laid down on your side of the bed, burying his face into your still wet pillow, smelling the familiar scent of your vanilla shampoo, his self-pity changed into something else. Into hate towards himself. He loved you. He really did. He loved you since he first laid his eyes on you when Niall had introduced you both at his birthday party. His tears started to stream down his face as he remembered how pretty you were that night and how your eyes were sparkling as you looked up into his. You were radiant, and he didn’t have a chance. He fell for you. And damn it, he fell hard. Your eyes were always vivid and told him how you felt, mirroring your inner soul. But lately your sparkling orbs, in which he could drown, have been dull and were never able to hold his gaze. His cold gaze, he might have to add. He knew that he was acting like a proper dick all along. He was able to see the hurt in your face and eyes. He knew you well and so he had a special knowledge of which words would sting in your chest. And he used it against you. He chuckled ironically. Why was he so evil towards you? He didn’t understand. He’s a stranger to himself. Why should he treat someone he loves so much, so bad? His mother would be disappointed in him, she raised him better than that. But deep down in his heart is an ache which revealed him exactly why he behaved so rudely. He was hurt and scared. Hurt because you didn’t agree to join him on his Australian-Leg. He asked you one cosy morning, the day before you two headed off to kickstart the European-Leg, and you said “No, I don’t have time for that.” His hand, which played with your hair while both your legs were intertwined, halted as you spoke out these seven cruel words. He expected you to be euphorically and out of you mind while assuring him, that “Yes, you indeed would love to join him”. But instead you just brushed it of with an easy “No”. He felt silent for a second as he watched your relaxed face snuggling even further into his neck, pecking his ear gently. He quarrelled with himself if he should dig deeper and ask you why you didn’t feel like spending extra time with him- Why it wasn’t important enough to free yourself from your tight schedule to come along. After rolling the questions around in his head for a few more minutes, he decided to blurt it out and you told him that you must do your finals while he’s performing in Australia. He had no right to be angry with her for being sensible, but he had felt a little, let’s say, hurt, that she seemed to have no problem with him being gone for a month. And the next thing he felt was fear. He was scared, because suddenly a tiny little voice in the very back of his head whispered, “Maybe she doesn’t need you as much as you need her”. At first, he locked this unreasonable sentence up, far away. But as your last day at home continued and he finished packing his bags, he took a glimpse of your books and essays you have written for Uni, which were laying on his desk and the tightness in his chest re-appeared. You were an independent woman, who only strived for the best and always gave her best as well. Your life motto has been “Go hard or Go home” for ages and you lived it to the fullest. You were one of the bests of your class and he has read more than once in the tabloids that you two were the new power couple arising. You were his Amal to his George Clooney and quite often he was intimidated by that. He didn’t go to university and didn’t have the necessary motivation to always be up to date with political and economical news, you were though. Which lead up to the not unusual situation of him feeling left out. When you two had a night out with friends and some political statements came up, he was used to take some notes in the back of his mind, so he could ask you later what this all was about, while you were already way too deep into the discussion and standing your ground. He adored these moments though and he admired you for having such a big field of knowledge. Watching you attentively, soaking in every word that left your lips. Sometimes he chuckled to himself that you were so excited about the topic that you were muddling from time to time and he couldn’t withdraw the need to give you a kiss. At least, so he tries. But with you being so wrapped up in the conversation you don’t really notice him, and he ends up with giving you a little peck to the corner of your mouth, while you ramble on as he’s strengthening his grip around your waist, pulling you closer to his chest. All these moments flash across Harry’s mind while he sees your papers. It’s stupid, he knew it back then, but you can’t change what you feel, right? Suddenly the conviction hit him, that you would leave him one day, because you would find someone who had studied as well and was as educated as you. Someone whom you didn’t have to explain what a “Bearish spread” is or that “Blue chips” had nothing to do with potatoes. You didn’t need him, you could stand on your own two feet. You were fierce enough to stand your ground, but gentle enough to look right into people’s hearts. Harry felt stupid. He couldn’t live without you, not one single day and he also didn’t want to. He loved you and you were the one for him. But was he the one for you? Back that day he wasn’t so sure about it anymore. Otherwise of doing what his mother had taught him when he was little “Speak up about what bothers you, so every little problem can be sorted out”- It always worked out and he was known to be talker but somehow, he decided against it and did the worst thing possible. He closed himself up. He built a great big wall around him with no door or window for Y/N. It was one of his bad character traits and he really tried working on it but sometimes he couldn’t help it and fell back into old patterns and ignored people when he was really hurt. He didn’t intend to shut her out in such a bad way. He just wanted to proof himself that he could indeed live and do things without her. That he still had friends who were his friends and not their friends, in case Y/N would leave him anytime soon. Looking back this didn’t even make sense at all. But he did what he did, and he can’t change that he got carried away with it. Harry simply had to accept the fact that he was the reason why Y/N left him

.He breathed in deep and turned his head to the alarm clock, which showed him that it was already past 1 am, which makes him wonder where Y/N went. She left about an hour ago, but where to? She told him that her plane would take off tomorrow morning. She wouldn’t spend the night at the airport, would she? An urgency to find you packed Harry. This whole thing couldn’t be over yet, not like this. He needed to find you and really talk it through. He would not lose you over such a stupid mindset of him. He sat up, bending over to his side of the bed to fish around for his mobile phone. Maybe he could reach you. But as he expected it deep inside, yours was turned off. He tried it a few more times though, while thinking about where you could be. Booking yourself another hotel room in here wasn’t an option since it was booked out for his privacy. A totally different hotel then? Maybe, but you wouldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Mitch, Adam, Sarah or Clare. So either you already did or you would tomorrow before your flight. On the other hand, you wouldn’t leave without telling anyone where you were in case of an emergency. You must have told someone. Harry got up, determined to knock on every tour members door until someone would speak about you. And so he started banging at the door of his good friend Mitch, who wasn’t too pleased

.“Harry, it’s 1am. What do you want?” Mitch yawned, while leaning on the doorframe of his hotel room, only dressed in his boxers and a white shirt.

“Did you see Y/N? Has she told you where she’s heading?” Harry instantly blurted out.

Mitch crossed his arms, frowning “What? No, I don’t. Isn’t she in your hotel room?”

“She was, but then we had a fight and she left. I just need to find her.” He breathed out.

A sleepy Sarah suddenly appeared behind Mitch. “Harry? What are you doing here?”

“He’s looking for Y/N. She has left.” Mitch explained, before Harry got the chance to. He just stood there, looking expectantly at his best mate’s girlfriend, hoping for any information.

Sarah shook her head slowly “She’s with Clare. You better work this out, Harry. She’s a keeper.”

Harry didn’t even thank Sarah, just nodding his head as he hurried off to the other end of the corridor to Clare’s room. Knocking on it like crazy. He knocked once, twice, but no one opened the door. He was able to make out a muffled voice and someone cursing inside though. He put his fist up towards the cold wood to knocked for the fifth time, determined to get an answer no matter what. The door opened slowly, revealing a very tired Clare behind it, eyeing him through puffy eyes like he was a criminal.

“What do you want?” she whisper-hissed at him.

“I need to talk to Y/N”

“No, you don’t. You’ve already said enough for tonight.” Clare shot back, being totally ignored by Harry. He tried to look through the small gap between Clare and the door into the darkness of her room, in hope to catch a sight of Y/N. As he recognised that Clare wanted to shut the door right at his face, he was fast to grab her wrist, pulling her out onto the corridor where he stood.

“Harry! Are you out of your mind? Stop it!” Clare squealed quietly, quickly picking up the room key from inside before the door shut with a thud.

“I really need to see Y/N” he repeated himself, running a hand through his messy hair.

“Well, she doesn’t want to talk to you, Harry. It’s the other way around now.” She spoke out, crossing her arms in front of her.

“I know that what I did was terrible. Just give me the room card so I can make it up to her, alright?” Harry sighed.

“No, she’s sleeping right now. You only will scream at her like you did before, we all heard it.

”Harry’s head snapped up “You all heard?��

“Yeah, we did. The walls are the opposite of thick here, they’re paper thin.”

Harry just nodded in embarrassment. He didn’t intend to raise his voice that loud on his girlfriend earlier tonight. He was known for his calm being, it was so unlike him to be so undisciplined with his anger. Furthermore, all his friends had to witness how he screamed all these hurtful things to your head, which made you cry and weren’t even true. He can only imagine how humiliating this must have felt for Y/N.

Clare spoke up again as she saw the dark creases under Harry’s reddened eyes and his lips pressed into a thin line. He looked exhausted. And although she was angry with him, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him as well. Standing in front of her with his slouched shoulders and pale face, he seemed more like little boy, than a grown-up man who sold out venues in no time. She saw him as her little brother, someone she was responsible for, someone who needed a helping hand. She sighed.

“Listen, Harry. I know, it really isn’t my place to stir in other people’s relationships, but I do care a lot about Y/N and I do care a lot about you. I can see how you both are hurting, and I can see how much you both love and need each other. You two belong together, okay? The way you look at her. So full of love. It’s so cheesy, but heart warming at the same time. And at the end of the day this is the only thing that really matters. She needs you, you need her. Even if you’re both angry and hurt. Alright?”

Harry nods slowly, taking in the words of his bandmate, which became his friend a long time ago and who he learned to value a lot. “I didn’t cheat on her, you know. She assumes it. But I never could. I love her.” He whispered.

“I know you didn’t. She knows it, too. We all know it.Treat people with kindness and respect, remember?” she chuckled lowly because of the bad joke she made to lighten up the heavy mood around them. They both felt silent again, lost in their own thoughts.

“Clare, can you may do me a favour?” Harry broke through the silence. “Let me stay with Y/N tonight. I miss her, and I need to see her. You can sleep in my room. Just, let me be with her.”

Clare nodded, handing Harry the key card while hugging him tight.

“Sleep well, Harry” is the last thing he hears as he sneaks through the door to his love.

---

Y/N’s P.o.v

You were laying in Clare’s bed. You decided to head to her room after you left Harry. Where else should you go? She was eager to keep you with her, not wanting you to leave the tour at all. You told her about the fight and how you were so done with everything, but still loved him, which probably was the worst part of it. You couldn’t understand how you were capable of loving him after all he did to you. Clare sat beside you as you were pouring out your heart, nodding her head from time to time and giving your hand an assuring squeeze when you needed it. Later she told you how she didn’t believe Harry would ever cheat on you and if you were honest with yourself you kind of knew it as well. It wasn’t the first time that the media portrayed Harry as a womanizer. It wasn’t the first time that they have written down things that weren’t true at all. They were manipulating pictures all the time, giving them a different meaning than there was. So why should it be different now. She should have giving him the benefit of doubt. After quite a time of talking, exhaustion took over you both and you were glad that Clare left you one side of her hotel bed. The heavy blanket felt comfortable and gave you a feeling of secureness as you drifted of to sleep instantly.

You weren’t sleeping for long though as you were woken up by the feeling of the cushion dipping down a bit next to you. Like someone would be crawling onto it. You were a little confused since Clare fell asleep next to you earlier, maybe she had to use the bathroom. But as you suddenly felt a strong familiar arm sneaking around your waist, pulling you close to an even more familiar chest, you knew that this wasn’t Clare at all.

“Harry?” you squealed out, sleepiness still covering your voice. You didn’t get a real answer to that, just a little rough “Mhm”. You couldn’t believe it, after everything you have been through he really had the decency to turn up here and act as nothing has happened. As if he never ignored you, he wouldn’t have hurt you at all and as if you wouldn’t have told him that you were leaving him an hour ago.

“Harry, are you serious right now?” you tried to get out of his hold, but he only tightened it, not having in mind to let go of you soon. “Yeah.” Was his only statement. No, no, no. You sure weren’t in the mood for this, you wanted to sleep. Alone, without him.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” you asked him once again.

“I’m cuddling my girlfriend, that’s all.” He nuzzled his face closer into your neck. Inhaling your scent. Damn, did he miss that.

“Stop it, you don’t have the right to do that. Not after what happened. Do you really think cuddling me and giving me attention for like five minutes will make me forget what you did and even forgive you?”

He scoffed. “No, I don’t and that’s not my intention. I miss you, even though you probably won’t believe me. I really do, and I feel sorry and stupid. Shouldn’t have treated you in the way I did. There is no excuse for it, all I can do is trying to explain it to you.”

I shook my head, turning my body around, so I could face him. “Go ahead then, tell me what made you behave like a total asshole. Make me understand, because I truly don’t.”

His eyes bored into mine as he took a deep breath before he told me how he felt insecure about himself and how he let it build a wall around him and how stupid he feels for having done that but that his pride was in his way, not being able to tell me that he made a mistake. I listened attentively as I could see tears starting to form in his eyes.

“Well and now all I can think about is you leaving me and how much I love you and how no matter what I’ll do, I won’t be able to make it up to you. I didn’t cheat on you, I never would. She tried that morning to persuade me to leave you, so I could be with her instead. She said it as a joke at first and so I laughed it off but then she put it our there again and I’ve got angry with her for thinking that I really would do that. I told her about how much I loved you and that no matter what she will do, she will never be as smart, pretty or witty as you. You’re pretty from the inside and outside. You have such a generous and big heart, Y/N. You have no clue how rare this is in this world. She will never be able to hold a candle to you, simply because she isn’t you. No one can, Y/N. And I told her all that before I payed and left.” He paused his rambling and leaned into my hand, while I stroke his cheeks gently. He opened up to me, totally without any guards. “And sometimes I get scared. I won’t deny it anymore. Sometimes I get scared, because I love you so much and I know you’re the one for me. I want to marry you one day, and I want to have little children looking like you and me running around our garden. But it scares me because I know how serious our relationship is for me and what if you’ll find someone else. What if you’ll wake up one day, realising that you don’t love me anymore. I’d rather die than to hear you say these words. I just can’t bear—”

I silenced him with a soft kiss onto his lips, barley even touching. His eyes fluttered shut and he didn’t move, just breathing in and out slowly through his mouth as I started to speak.

“Harry, don’t. I love you, alright? Every little aspect of you and I won’t stop, and I won’t leave you because of someone else. You’re perfect for me. I don’t want anyone else, I Want you.” You poked the spot where his dimple usually would appear. “You’ve hurt me, but we can work on it. Just promise me that you will never ever do that again. Never treat me like that again.” I whispered. He nodded his head eagerly, bringing you even closer to him and pressing you into his chest, while putting his head on top of yours.

“I promise.”

And as you were laying there in Harry’s arms, which feel like home. Hearing his heart beating rhythmically and steady as he pampered you with kisses across your whole face. Assuring you every other second how much he loved you and that he will never shut you out again. You knew that you were right were you belonged. You knew that you would follow him no matter where, if it meant that he would be by standing next to you. Holding your hand tight. You knew that he loved you and you knew that you loved him, even if you were fighting. And at the end of the day this is the only thing that really matters.

A/N: Well, here we are. Firtst of all I want to thank you all for your kind words. I never imagined it to get that big amount of love for ‘So. Tired’ and I think that Part 2 wont come quite close to the first one, but I still hope you’re happy with it.

Leave me a message if you want to and remember to Treat People with kindness. Lots of love, Anna x

#Harry Styles #harry styles imagine #harry styles blurb #harry styles one shot #harry styles angst #one direction #one direction imagines #one direction one shot #harry styles happy ending

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imbicuriousyeah · 6 years ago

Text

princess bride: chapter three

pairing: Jiyong/reader

genre: angst/drama/fantasy

word count: 11.5k

The great square of Florin city was filled as never before, awaiting the introduction of Prince Seungri’s bride-to-be, Princess Y/N of Meath. The crowd had begun forming some forty hours earlier, but up to twenty-four hours before, there were still fewer than one thousand. But then, as the moment of introduction grew nearer, from across the country the people came. None had ever seen the Princess, but rumors of your beauty were continual and each was less possible than the one before.

At noontime, Prince Seungri appeared at the balcony of his father’s castle and raised his arms. The crowd, which by now was at the danger size, slowly quieted. There were stories that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he had been dead long since, that he was fine.

“My people, my beloveds, from whom we draw our strength, today is a day of greeting. As you must have heard, my honored father’s health is not what it once was. He is, of course, ninety-seven, so who can ask more. As you also know, Florin needs a male heir.”

The crowd began to stir now—it was to be this lady they had heard so much about.

“In three months, our country celebrates its five hundredth anniversary. To celebrate that celebration, I shall, on that sundown, take for my wife the Princess Y/N of Meath. You do not know her yet. But you will meet her now,” and he made a sweeping gesture and the balcony doors swung open and you moved out beside him on the balcony.

And the crowd, quite literally, gasped.

The twenty-one-year-old Princess far surpassed the eighteen-year-old mourner. Your figure faults were gone, the too bony elbow having fleshed out nicely; the opposite pudgy wrist could not have been trimmer. Your hair, which was once the color of autumn, was still the color of autumn, except that before, you had tended it yourself, whereas now you had five full-time hairdressers who managed things for you. (This was long after hairdressers; in truth, ever since there have been women, there have been hairdressers, Adam being the first, though the King James scholars do their very best to muddy this point.) Your skin was still wintry cream, but now, with two handmaidens assigned to each appendage and four for the rest of you, it actually, in certain lights, seemed to provide you with a gentle, continually shimmering as you moved, glow.

Prince Seungri took your hand and held it high and the crowd cheered. “That’s enough, mustn’t risk overexposure,” the Prince said, and he started back in toward the castle.

“They have waited, some of them, so long,” you answered. “I would like to walk among them.”

“We do not walk among commoners unless it is unavoidable,” the Prince said.

“I have known more than a few commoners in my time,” you told him. “They will not, I think, harm me.”

And with that you left the balcony, reappeared a moment later on the great steps of the castle and, quite alone, walked open-armed down into the crowd.

Wherever you went, the people parted. You crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of you, the people swept apart to let you pass. You continued, moving slowly and smiling, alone, like some land messiah.

Most of the people there would never forget that day. None of them, of course, had ever been so close to perfection, and the great majority adored you instantly. There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting you were pleasing enough, were withholding judgment as to your quality as a queen. And, of course, there were some more who were frankly jealous. Very few of them hated you.

And only three of them were planning to murder you.

You, naturally, knew none of this. You were smiling, and when people wanted to touch your gown, well, let them, and when they wanted to brush their skin against yours, well, let them do that too. You had studied hard to do things royally, and you wanted very much to succeed, so you kept your posture erect and your smile gentle, and that your death was so close would have only made you laugh, if someone had told you. But—

—in the farthest corner of the Great Square—

—in the highest building in the land—

—deep in the deepest shadow—

—the man in black stood waiting.

His boots were black and leather. His pants were black and his shirt. His mask was black, blacker than raven. But blackest of all were his flashing eyes.

Flashing and cruel and deadly…

You were more than a little weary after your triumph. The touching of the crowds had exhausted you, so you rested a bit, and then, toward midafternoon, you changed into your riding clothes and went to fetch Horse. This was the one aspect of your life that had not changed in the years preceding. You still loved to ride, and every afternoon, weather permitting or not, you rode alone for several hours in the wild land beyond the castle.

You did your best thinking then.

Not that your best thinking ever expanded horizons. Still, you told yourself, you were not a dummy either, so as long as you kept your thoughts to yourself, well, where was the harm?

As you rode through woods and streams and heather, your brain was awhirl. The walk through the crowds had moved you, and in a way most strange. For even though you had done nothing for three years now but train to be a princess and a queen, today was the first day you actually understood that it was all soon to be a reality.

And I just don’t like Seungri, you thought. It’s not that I hate him or anything. I just never see him; he’s always off someplace or playing in the Zoo of Death.

To your way of thinking, there were two main problems: (1) was it wrong to marry without like, and (2) if it was, was it too late to do anything about it.

The answers, to your way of thinking, as you rode along, were: (1) no and (2) yes.

It wasn’t wrong to marry someone you didn’t like, it just wasn’t right either. If the whole world did it, that wouldn’t be so great, what with everybody kind of grunting at everybody else as the years went by. But, of course, not everybody did it; so forget about that. The answer to (2) was even easier: you had given your word you would marry; that would have to be enough. True, he had told you quite honestly that if you said “no” he would have to have you disposed of, in order to keep respect for the Crown at its proper level; still, you could have, had you so chosen, said “no.”

Everyone had told you, since you became a princess-in-training, that you was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now you were going to be the richest and most powerful as well.

Don’t expect too much from life, you told herself as you rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have.

Dusk was closing in when you crested the hill. You were perhaps half an hour from the castle, and your daily ride was three-quarters done. Suddenly you reined Horse, for standing in the dimness beyond was the strangest trio you had ever seen.

The man in front was dark, Sicilian perhaps, with the gentlest face, almost angelic. He moved forward toward you with surprising speed and nimbleness. The other two remained rooted. The second, also dark, probably from Busan, was as erect and slender as the blade of steel that was attached to his side. The third man, mustachioed, perhaps a Turk, was easily the biggest human being you had ever ever seen.

“A word?” the Sicilian said, raising his arms. His smile was more angelic than his face.

You halted. “Speak.”

“We are but poor circus performers,” the Sicilian explained. “It is dark and we are lost. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills.”

“You were misinformed,” you told him. “There is no one, not for many miles.”

“Then there will be no one to hear you scream,” the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward your face.

That was all that you remembered. Perhaps you did scream, but if you did it was more from terror than anything else, because certainly there was no pain. His hands expertly touched places on your neck, and unconsciousness came.

You awoke to the lapping of water.

You were wrapped in a blanket and the giant Turk was putting you in the bottom of a boat. For a moment you were about to talk, but then when they began talking, you thought it better to listen. And after you had listened for a moment, it got harder and harder to hear. Because of the terrible pounding of your heart.

“I think you should kill her now,” the Turk said.

“The less you think, the happier I’ll be,” the Sicilian answered.

There was the sound of ripping cloth.

“What is that?” the Korean asked.

“The same as I attached to her saddle,” the Sicilian replied. “Fabric from the uniform of an officer of Guilder.”

“I still think—” the Turk began.

“She must be found dead on the Guilder frontier or we will not be paid the remainder of our fee. Is that clear enough for you?”

“I just feel better when I know what’s going on, that’s all,” the Turk mumbled. “People are always thinking I’m so stupid because I’m big and strong and sometimes drool a little when I get excited.”

“The reason people think you’re so stupid,” the Sicilian said, “is because you are so stupid. It has nothing to do with your drooling.”

There came the sound of a flapping of sail. “Watch your heads,” the Korean cautioned, and then the boat was moving. “The people of Florin will not take her death well, I shouldn’t think. She has become beloved.”

“There will be war,” the Sicilian agreed. “We have been paid to start it. It’s a fine line of work to be expert in. If we do this perfectly, there will be a continual demand for our services.”

“Well I don’t like it all that much,” the Korean said. “Frankly, I wish you had refused.”

“The offer was too high.”

“I don’t like killing a girl,” the Korean said.

“God does it all the time; if it doesn’t bother Him, don’t let it worry you.”

Through all this, you had not moved.

The Korean said, “Let’s just tell her we’re taking her away for ransom.”

The Turk agreed. “She’s so beautiful and she’d go all crazy if she knew.”

“She knows already,” the Sicilian said. “She’s been awake for every word of this.”

You lay under the blanket, not moving. How could he have known that, you wondered.

“How can you be sure?” the Korean asked.

“The Sicilian senses all,” the Sicilian said.

Conceited, you thought.

“Yes, very conceited,” the Sicilian said.

He must be a mind reader, you thought.

“Are you giving it full sail?” the Sicilian said.

“As much as is safe,” the Korean answered from the tiller.

“We have an hour on them, so no risks yet. It will take her horse perhaps twenty-seven minutes to reach the castle, a few minutes more for them to figure out what happened and, since we left an obvious trail, they should be after us within an hour. We should reach the Cliffs in fifteen minutes more and, with any luck at all, the Guilder frontier at dawn, when she dies. Her body should be quite warm when the Prince reaches her mutilated form. I only wish we could stay for his grief—it should be Homeric.”

Why does he let me know his plans, you wondered.

“You are going back to sleep now, my lady,” the Korean said, and his fingers suddenly were touching your temple, your shoulder, your neck, and you were unconscious again…

You did not know how long you were out, but they were still in the boat when you blinked, the blanket shielding you. And this time, without daring to think—the Sicilian would have known it somehow—you threw the blanket aside and dove deep into Florin Channel.

You stayed under for as long as you dared and then surfaced, starting to swim across the moonless water with every ounce of strength remaining to you. Behind you in the darkness there were cries.

“Go in, go in!” from the Sicilian.

“I only dog paddle,” from the Turk.

“You’re better than I am,” from the Korean.

You continued to leave them behind you. Your arms ached from effort but you gave them no rest. Your legs kicked and your heart pounded.

“I can hear her kicking,” the Sicilian said. “Veer left.”

You went into your breast stroke, silently swimming away.

“Where is she?” shrieked the Sicilian.

“The sharks will get her, don’t worry,” cautioned the Korean.

Oh dear, I wish you hadn’t mentioned that, you thought.

“Princess,” the Sicilian called, “do you know what happens to sharks when they smell blood in the water? They go mad. There is no controlling their wildness. They rip and shred and chew and devour, and I’m in a boat, Princess, and there isn’t any blood in the water now, so we’re both quite safe, but there is a knife in my hand, my lady, and if you don’t come back I’ll cut my arms and I’ll cut my legs and I’ll catch the blood in a cup and I’ll fling it as far as I can and sharks can smell blood in the water for miles and you won’t be beautiful for long.”

You hesitated, silently treading water. Around you now, although it was surely your imagination, you seemed to be hearing the swish of giant tails.

“Come back and come back now. There will be no other warning.”

You thought, If I come back, they’ll kill me anyway, so what’s the difference?

“The difference is—”

There he goes doing that again, you thought. He really is a mind reader.

“—if you come back now,” the Sicilian went on, “I give you my word as a gentleman and assassin that you will die totally without pain. I assure you, you will get no such promise from the sharks.”

The fish sounds in the night were closer now.

You began to tremble with fear. You were terribly ashamed of herself but there it was. You only wished you could see for a minute if there really were sharks and if he really would cut himself.

The Sicilian winced out loud.

“He just cut his arm, lady,” the Turk called out. “He’s catching the blood in a cup now. There must be a half-inch of blood on the bottom.”

The Sicilian winced again.

“He cut his leg this time,” the Turk went on. “The cup’s getting full.”

I don’t believe them, you thought. There are no sharks in the water and there is no blood in his cup.

“My arm is back to throw,” the Sicilian said. “Call out your location or not, the choice is yours.”

I’m not making a peep, you decided.

��Farewell,” from the Sicilian.

There was the splashing sound of liquid landing on liquid.

Then there came a pause.

Then the sharks went mad. All around you, you could hear them beeping and screaming and thrashing their mighty tails. Nothing can save me, you realized. I’m a dead cookie.

Fortunately for all concerned save the sharks, it was around this time that the moon came out.

“There she is,” shouted the Sicilian, and like lightning the Korean turned the boat and as the boat drew close the Turk reached out a giant arm and then you were back in the safety of your murderers while all around them the sharks bumped each other in wild frustration.

“Keep her warm,” the Korean said from the tiller, tossing his cloak to the Turk.

“Don’t catch cold,” the Turk said, wrapping you into the cloak’s folds.

“It doesn’t seem to matter all that much,” you answered, “seeing you’re killing me at dawn.”

“He’ll do the actual work,” the Turk said, indicating the Sicilian, who was wrapping cloth around his cuts. “We’ll just hold you.”

“Hold your stupid tongue,” the Sicilian commanded.

The Turk immediately hushed.

“I don’t think he’s so stupid,” you said. “And I don’t think you’re so smart either, with all your throwing blood in the water. That’s not what I would call grade-A thinking.”

“It worked, didn’t it? You’re back, aren’t you?” The Sicilian crossed toward her. “Once women are sufficiently frightened, they scream.”

“But I didn’t scream; the moon came out,” answered Y/N somewhat triumphantly.

The Sicilian struck her.

“Enough of that,” the Turk said then.

The Sicilian looked dead at the giant. “Do you want to fight me? I don’t think you do.”

“No, sir,” the Turk mumbled. “No. But don’t use force. Please. Force is mine. Strike me if you feel the need. I won’t care.”

The Sicilian returned to the other side of the boat. “She would have screamed,” he said. “She was about to cry out. My plan was ideal as all my plans are ideal. It was the moon’s ill timing that robbed me of perfection.” He scowled unforgivingly at the yellow wedge above them. Then he stared ahead. “There!” The Sicilian pointed. “The Cliffs of Insanity.”

And there they were. Rising straight and sheer from the water, a thousand feet into the night. They provided the most direct route between Florin and Guilder, but no one ever used them, sailing instead the long way, many miles around. Not that the Cliffs were impossible to scale; two men were known to have climbed them in the last century alone.

“Sail straight for the steepest part,” the Sicilian commanded.

The Korean said, “I was.”

You did not understand. Going up the Cliffs could hardly be done, you thought; and no one had ever mentioned secret passages through them. Yet here they were, sailing closer and closer to the mighty rocks, now surely less than a quarter-mile away.

For the first time the Sicilian allowed himself a smile. “All is well. I was afraid your little jaunt in the water was going to cost me too much time. I had allowed an hour of safety. There must still be fifty minutes of it left. We are miles ahead of anybody and safe, safe, safe.”

“No one could be following us yet?” the Korean asked.

“No one,” the Sicilian assured him. “It would be inconceivable.”

“Absolutely inconceivable?”

“Absolutely, totally, and, in all other ways, inconceivable,” the Sicilian reassured him. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” the Korean replied. “It’s only that I just happened to look back and something’s there.”

They all whirled.

Something was indeed there. Less than a mile behind them across the moonlight was another sailing boat, small, painted what looked like black, with a giant sail that billowed black in the night, and a single man at the tiller. A man in black.

The Korean looked at the Sicilian. “It must just be some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise alone at night through shark-infested waters.”

“There is probably a more logical explanation,” the Sicilian said. “But since no one in Guilder could know yet what we’ve done, and no one in Florin could have gotten here so quickly, he is definitely not, however much it may look like it, following us. It is coincidence and nothing more.”

“He’s gaining on us,” the Turk said.

“That is also inconceivable,” the Sicilian said. “Before I stole this boat we’re in, I made many inquiries as to what was the fastest ship on all of Florin Channel and everyone agreed it was this one.”

“You’re right,” the Turk agreed, staring back. “He isn’t gaining on us. He’s just getting closer, that’s all.”

“It is the angle we’re looking from and nothing more,” said the Sicilian.

You could not take your eyes from the great black sail. Surely the three men you were with frightened her. But somehow, for reasons you could never begin to explain, the man in black frightened you more.

“All right, look sharp,” the Sicilian said then, just a drop of edginess in his voice.

The Cliffs of Insanity were very close now.

The Korean maneuvered the craft expertly, which was not easy, and the waves were rolling in toward the rocks now and the spray was blinding. You shielded your eyes and put your head straight back, staring up into the darkness toward the top, which seemed shrouded and out of reach.

Then the Sicilian bounded forward, and as the ship reached the cliff face, he jumped up and suddenly there was a rope in his hand.

You stared in silent astonishment. The rope, thick and strong, seemed to travel all the way up the Cliffs. As you watched, the Sicilian pulled at the rope again and again and it held firm. It was attached to something at the top—a giant rock, a towY/Ng tree, something.

“Fast now,” the Sicilian ordered. “If he is following us, which of course is not within the realm of human experience, but if he is, we’ve got to reach the top and cut the rope off before he can climb up after us.”

“Climb?” You said. “I would never be able to—”

“Hush!” the Sicilian ordered you. “Get ready!” he ordered the Korean. “Sink it,” he ordered the Turk.

And then everyone got busy. The Korean took a rope, tied your hands and feet. The Turk raised a great leg and stomped down at the center of the boat, which gave way immediately and began to sink. Then the Turk went to the rope and took it in his hands.

“Load me,” the Turk said.

The Korean lifted you and draped your body around the Turk’s shoulders. Then he tied himself to the Turk’s waist. Then the Sicilian hopped, clung to the Turk’s neck.

“All aboard,” the Sicilian said. (This was before trains, but the expression comes originally from carpenters loading lumber, and this was well after carpenters.)

With that the Turk began to climb. It was at least a thousand feet and he was carrying the three, but he was not worried. When it came to power, nothing worried him. When it came to reading, he got knots in the middle of his stomach, and when it came to writing, he broke out in a cold sweat, and when addition was mentioned or, worse, long division, he always changed the subject right away.

But strength had never been his enemy. He could take the kick of a horse on his chest and not fall backward. He could take a hundred-pound flour sack between his legs and scissor it open without thinking. He had once held an elephant aloft using only the muscles in his back.

But his real might lay in his arms. There had never, not in a thousand years, been arms to match Jungkook’s. (For that was his name.) The arms were not only gargantuan and totally obedient and surprisingly quick, but they were also, and this is why he never worried, tireless. If you gave him an ax and told him to chop down a forest, his legs might give out from having to support so much weight for so long, or the ax might shatter from the punishment of killing so many trees, but Jungkook’s arms would be as fresh tomorrow as today.

And so, even with the Sicilian on his neck and the Princess around his shoulders and the Korean at his waist, Jungkook did not feel in the least bit put upon. He was actually quite happy, because it was only when he was requested to use his might that he felt he wasn’t a bother to everybody.

Up he climbed, arm over arm, arm over arm, two hundred feet now above the water, eight hundred feet now to go.

More than any of them, the Sicilian was afraid of heights. All of his nightmares, and they were never far from him when he slept, dealt with falling. So this terrifying ascension was most difficult for him, perched as he was on the neck of the giant. Or should have been most difficult.

But he would not allow it.

From the beginning, when as a child he realized his body would never conquer worlds, he relied on his mind. He trained it, fought it, brought it to heel. So now, three hundred feet in the night and rising higher, while he should have been trembling, he was not.

Instead he was thinking of the man in black.

There was no way anyone could have been quick enough to follow them. And yet from some devil’s world that billowing black sail had appeared. How? How? The Sicilian flogged his mind to find an answer, but he found only failure. In wild frustration he took a deep breath and, in spite of his terrible fears, he looked back down toward the dark water.

The man in black was still there, sailing like lightning toward the Cliffs. He could not have been more than a quarter-mile from them now.

“Faster!” the Sicilian commanded.

“I’m sorry,” the Turk answered meekly. “I thought I was going faster.”

“Lazy, lazy,” spurred the Sicilian.

“I’ll never improve,” the Turk answered, but his arms began to move faster than before. “I cannot see too well because your feet are locked around my face,” he went on, “so could you tell me please if we’re halfway yet?”

“A little over, I should think,” said the Korean from his position around the giant’s waist. “You’re doing wonderfully, Jungkook.”

“Thank you,” said the giant.

“And he’s closing on the Cliffs,” added the Korean.

No one had to ask who “he” was.

Six hundred feet now. The arms continued to pull, over and over. Six hundred and twenty feet. Six hundred and fifty. Now faster than ever. Seven hundred.

“He’s left his boat behind,” the Korean said. “He’s jumped onto our rope. He’s starting up after us.”

“I can feel him,” Jungkook said. “His body weight on the rope.”

“He’ll never catch up!” the Sicilian cried. “Inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word!” the Korean snapped. “I don’t think it means what you think it does.”

“How fast is he at climbing?” Jungkook said.

“I’m frightened,” was the Korean’s reply.

The Sicilian gathered his courage again and looked down.

The man in black seemed almost to be flying. Already he had cut their lead a hundred feet. Perhaps more.

“I thought you were supposed to be so strong!” the Sicilian shouted. “I thought you were this great mighty thing and yet he gains.”

“I’m carrying three people,” Jungkook explained. “He has only himself and—”

“Excuses are the refuge of cowards,” the Sicilian interrupted. He looked down again. The man in black had gained another hundred feet. He looked up now. The cliff tops were beginning to come into view. Perhaps a hundred and fifty feet more and they were safe.

Tied hand and foot, sick with fear, you weren’t sure what you wanted to happen. Except this much you knew: you didn’t want to go through anything like it again.

“Fly, Jungkook!” the Sicilian screamed. “A hundred feet to go.”

Jungkook flew. He cleared his mind of everything but ropes and arms and fingers, and his arms pulled and his fingers gripped and the rope held taut and-

“He’s over halfway,” the Korean said.

“Halfway to doom is where he is,” the Sicilian said. “We’re fifty feet from safety, and once we’re there and I untie the rope…” He allowed himself to laugh.

Forty feet.

Jungkook pulled.

Twenty.

Ten.

It was over. Jungkook had done it. They had reached the top of the Cliffs, and first the Sicilian jumped off and then the Turk removed the Princess, and as the Korean untied himself, he looked back over the Cliffs.

The man in black was no more than three hundred feet away.

“It seems a shame,” the Turk said, looking down alongside the Korean. “Such a climber deserves better than—” He stopped talking then.

The Sicilian had untied the rope from its knots around an oak. The rope seemed almost alive, the greatest of all water serpents heading at last for home. It whipped across the cliff tops, spiraled into the moonlit Channel.

The Sicilian was roaring now, and he kept at it until the Korean said, “He did it.”

“Did what?” The Sicilian came scurrying to the cliff edge.

“Released the rope in time,” the Korean said. “See?” He pointed down.

The man in black was hanging in space, clinging to the sheer rock face, seven hundred feet above the water.

The Sicilian watched, fascinated. “You know,” he said, “since I’ve made a study of death and dying and am a great expert, it might interest you to know that he will be dead long before he hits the water. The fall will do it, not the crash.”

The man in black dangled helpless in space, clinging to the Cliffs with both hands.

“Oh, how rude we’re being,” the Sicilian said then, turning to you. “I’m sure you’d like to watch.” He went to you and brought you, still tied hand and foot, so that you could watch the final pathetic struggle of the man in black three hundred feet below.

You closed your eyes, turned away.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” the Korean asked. “I thought you were telling us how important time was.”

“It is, it is,” the Sicilian nodded. “But I just can’t miss a death like this. If I could stage one of these every week and sell tickets, I could get out of the assassination business entirely. Look at him—do you think his life is passing before his eyes? That’s what the books say.”

“He has very strong arms,” Jungkook commented. “To hold on so long.”

“He can’t hold on much longer,” the Sicilian said. “He has to fall soon.”

It was at that moment that the man in black began to climb. Not quickly, of course. And not without great effort. But still, there was no doubt that he was, in spite of the sheerness of the Cliffs, heading in an upward direction.

“Inconceivable!” the Sicilian cried.

The Korean whirled on him. “Stop saying that word. It was inconceivable that anyone could follow us, but when we looked behind, there was the man in black. It was inconceivable that anyone could sail as fast as we could sail, and yet he gained on us. Now this too is inconceivable, but look—look—” and the Korean pointed down through the night. “See how he rises.”

The man in black was, indeed, rising. Somehow, in some almost miraculous way, his fingers were finding holds in the crevices, and he was now perhaps fifteen feet closer to the top, farther from death.

The Sicilian advanced on the Korean now, his wild eyes glittY/Ng at the insubordination. “I have the keenest mind that has ever been turned to unlawful pursuits,” he began, “so when I tell you something, it is not guesswork; it is fact! And the fact is that the man in black is not following us. A more logical explanation would be that he is simply an ordinary sailor who dabbles in mountain climbing as a hobby who happens to have the same general final destination as we do. That certainly satisfies me and I hope it satisfies you. In any case, we cannot take the risk of his seeing us with the Princess, and therefore one of you must kill him.”

“Shall I do it?” the Turk wondered.

The Sicilian shook his head. “No, Jungkook,” he said finally. “I need your strength to carry the girl. Pick her up now and let us hurry along.” He turned to the Korean. “We’ll be heading directly for the frontier of Guilder. Catch up as quickly as you can once he’s dead.”

The Korean nodded.

The Sicilian hobbled away.

The Turk hoisted the Princess, began following their leader. Just before he lost sight of the Korean he turned and hollered, “Catch up quickly.”

“Don’t I always?” The Korean waved. “Farewell, Jungkook.”

“Farewell, Jimin,” the Turk replied. And then he was gone, and the Korean was alone.

Jimin moved to the cliff edge and knelt with his customary quick grace. Two hundred and fifty feet below him now, the man in black continued his painful climb. Jimin lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber’s secret. For a long while, Jimin did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study. Finally, he realized that somehow, by some mystery, the man in black was making fists and jamming them into the rocks, and using them for support. Then he would reach up with his other hand, until he found a high split in the rock, and make another fist and jam it in. Whenever he could find support for his feet, he would use it, but mostly it was the jammed fists that made the climbing possible.

Jimin marveled. What a truly extraordinary adventurer this man in black must be. He was close enough now for Jimin to realize that the man was masked, a black hood covering all but his features. Another outlaw? Perhaps. Then why should they have to fight and for what? Jimin shook his head. It was a shame that such a fellow must die, but he had his orders, so there it was. Sometimes he did not like the Sicilian’s commands, but what could he do? Without the brains of the Sicilian, he, Jimin, would never be able to command jobs of this caliber. The Sicilian was a master planner. Jimin was a creature of the moment. The Sicilian said “kill him,” so why waste sympathy on the man in black. Someday someone would kill Jimin, and the world would not stop to mourn.

He stood now, quickly jumping to his feet, his blade-thin body ready. For action. Only, the man in black was still many feet away.

There was nothing to do but wait for him. Jimin hated waiting. So to make the time more pleasant, he pulled from the scabbard his great, his only, love:

The six-fingered sword.

How it danced in the moonlight. How glorious and true. Jimin brought it to his lips and with all the fervor in his great Korean heart kissed the metal…

Almost twenty years earlier

At the base of the mountains of Korea, set high in the hills, was the city of Busan. It was very small and the air was always clear. That was all you could say that was good about Busan: terrific air—you could see for miles.

But there was no work, the dogs overran the streets and there was never enough food. The air, clear enough, was also too hot in daylight, freezing at night. As to Jimin’s personal life, he was always just a trifle hungry, he had no brothers or sisters, and his mother had died in childbirth.

He was fantastically happy.

Because of his father. Park Youngbae was funny-looking and crotchety and impatient and absent-minded and never smiled.

Jimin loved him. Totally. Don’t ask why. There really wasn’t any one reason you could put your finger on. Oh, probably Youngbae loved him back, but love is many things, none of them logical.

Park Youngbae made swords. If you wanted a fabulous sword, did you go to Park Youngbae? If you wanted a great balanced piece of work, did you go to the mountains behind Toledo? If you wanted a masterpiece, a sword for the ages, was it Busan that your footsteps led you to?

Nope.

You went to Seoul; because Seoul was where lived the famous Yeste, and if you had the money and he had the time, you got your weapon. Yeste was fat and jovial and one of the richest and most honored men in the city. And he should have been. He made wonderful swords, and noblemen bragged to each other when they owned an original Yeste.

But sometimes—not often, mind you, maybe once a year, maybe less—a request would come in for a weapon that was more than even Yeste could make. When that happened, did Yeste say, “Alas, I am sorry, I cannot do it”?

Nope.

What he said was, “Of course, I’d be delighted, fifty per cent down payment please, the rest before delivery, come back in a year, thank you very much.”

The next day he would set out for the hills behind Toledo.

“So, Youngbae,” Yeste would call out when he reached Jimin’s father’s hut.

“So, Yeste,” Park Youngbae would return from the hut doorway.

Then the two men would embrace and Jimin would come running up and Yeste would rumple his hair and then Jimin would make tea while the two men talked.

“I need you,” Yeste would always begin.

Youngbae would grunt.

“This very week I have accepted a commission to make a sword for a member of the Italian nobility. It is to be jewel encrusted at the handle and the jewels are to spell out the name of his present mistress and—”

“No.”

That single word and that alone. But it was enough. When Park Youngbae said “no” it meant nothing else but.

Jimin, busy with the tea, knew what would happen now: Yeste would use his charm.

“No.”

Yeste would use his wealth.

“No.”

His wit, his wonderful gift for persuasion.

“No.”

He would beg, entreat, promise, pledge.

“No.”

Insults. Threats.

“No.”

Finally, genuine tears.

“No. More tea, Yeste?”

“Perhaps another cup, thank you—” Then, big: “WHY WON’T YOU?”

Jimin hurried to refill their cups so as never to miss a word. He knew they had been brought up together, had known each other sixty years, had never not loved one another deeply, and it thrilled him when he could hear them arguing. That was the strange thing: arguing was all they ever did.

“Why? My fat friend asks me why? He sits there on his world-class ass and has the nerve to ask me why? Yeste. Come to me sometime with a challenge. Once, just once, ride up and say, ‘Youngbae, I need a sword for an eighty-year-old man to fight a duel,’ and I would embrace you and cry ‘Yes!’ Because to make a sword for an eighty-year-old man to survive a duel, that would be something. Because the sword would have to be strong enough to win, yet light enough not to tire his weary arm. I would have to use my all to perhaps find an unknown metal, strong but very light, or devise a different formula for a known one, mix some bronze with some iron and some air in a way ignored for a thousand years. I would kiss your smelly feet for an opportunity like that, fat Yeste. But to make a stupid sword with stupid jewels in the form of stupid initials so some stupid Italian can thrill his stupid mistress, no. That, I will not do.”

“For the last time I ask you. Please.”

“For the last time I tell you, I am sorry. No.”

“I gave my word the sword would be made,” Yeste said. “I cannot make it. In all the world no one can but you, and you say no. Which means I have gone back on a commitment. Which means I have lost my honor. Which means that since honor is the only thing in the world I care about, and since I cannot live without it, I must die. And since you are my dearest friend, I may as well die now, with you, basking in the warmth of your affection.” And here Yeste would pull out a knife. It was a magnificent thing, a gift from Youngbae on Yeste’s wedding day.

“Good-by, little Jimin,” Yeste would say then. “God grant you your quota of smiles.”

It was forbidden for Jimin to interrupt.

“Good-by, little Youngbae,” Yeste would say then. “Although I die in your hut, and although it is your own stubborn fault that causes my ceasing, in other words, even though you are killing me, don’t think twice about it. I love you as I always have and God forbid your conscience should give you any trouble.” He pulled open his coat, brought the knife closer, closer. “The pain is worse than I imagined!” Yeste cried.

“How can it hurt when the point of the weapon is still an inch away from your belly?” Youngbae asked.

“I’m anticipating, don’t bother me, let me die unpestered.” He brought the point to his skin, pushed.

Youngbae grabbed the knife away. “Someday I won’t stop you,” he said. “Jimin, set an extra place for supper.”

“I was all set to kill myself, truly.”

“Enough dramatics.”

“What is on the menu for the evening?”

“The usual gruel.”

“Jimin, go check and see if there’s anything by chance in my carriage outside.”

There was always a feast waiting in the carriage.

And after the food and the stories would come the departure, and always, before the departure, would come the request. “We would be partners,” Yeste would say. “In Seoul. My name before yours on the sign, of course, but equal partners in all things.”

“No.”

“All right. Your name before mine. You are the greatest sword maker, you deserve to come first.”

“Have a good trip back.”

“WHY WON’T YOU?”

“Because, my friend Yeste, you are very famous and very rich, and so you should be, because you make wonderful weapons. But you must also make them for any fool who happens along. I am poor, and no one knows me in all the world except you and Jimin, but I do not have to suffer fools.”

“You are an artist,” Yeste said.

“No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer.”

Yeste entered his carriage. Youngbae approached the window, whispered; “I remind you only of this: when you get this jeweled initialed sword, claim it as your own. Tell no one of my involvement.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Embraces and waves. The carriage would leave. And that was the way of life before the six-fingered sword.

Jimin remembered exactly the moment it began. He was making lunch for them—his father always, from the time he was six, let him do the cooking—when a heavy knocking came on the hut door. “Inside there,” a voice boomed. “Be quick about it.”

Jimin’s father opened the door. “Your servant,” he said.

“You are a sword maker,” came the booming voice. “Of distinction. I have heard that this is true.”

“If only it were,” Youngbae replied. “But I have no great skills. Mostly I do repair work. Perhaps if you had a dagger blade that was dulling, I might be able to please you. But anything more is beyond me.”

Jimin crept up behind his father and peeked out. The booming voice belonged to a powerful man with dark hair and broad shoulders who sat upon an elegant brown horse. A nobleman clearly, but Jimin could not tell the country.

“I desire to have made for me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”

“I hope your wishes are granted,” Youngbae said. “And now, if you please, our lunch is almost ready and—”

“I do not give you permission to move. You stay right exactly where you are or risk my wrath, which, I must tell you in advance, is considerable. My temper is murderous. Now, what were you saying about your lunch?”

“I was saying that it will be hours before it is ready; I have nothing to do and would not dream of budging.”

“There are rumors,” the nobleman said, “that deep in the hills behind Toledo lives a genius. The greatest sword maker in all the world.”

“He visits here sometimes—that must be your mistake. But his name is Yeste and he lives in Seoul.”

“I will pay five hundred pieces of gold for my desires,” said the big-shouldered noble.

“That is more money than all the men in all this village will earn in all their lives,” said Youngbae. “Truly, I would love to accept your offer. But I am not the man you seek.”

“These rumors lead me to believe that Park Youngbae would solve my problem.”

“What is your problem?”

“I am a great swordsman. But I cannot find a weapon to match my peculiarities, and therefore I am deprived of reaching my highest skills. If I had a weapon to match my peculiarities, there would be no one in all the world to equal me.”

“What are these peculiarities you speak of?”

The noble held up his right hand.

Youngbae began to grow excited.

The man had six fingers.

“You see?” the noble began.

“Of course,” Youngbae interrupted, “the balance of the sword is wrong for you because every balance has been conceived of for five. The grip of every handle cramps you, because it has been built for five. For an ordinary swordsman it would not matter, but a great swordsman, a master, would have eventual discomfort. And the greatest swordsman in the world must always be at ease. The grip of his weapon must be as natural as the blink of his eye, and cause him no more thought.”

“Clearly, you understand the difficulties—” the nobleman began again.

But Youngbae had traveled where others’ words could never reach him. Jimin had never seen his father so frenzied. “The measurements… of course… each finger and the circumference of the wrist, and the distance from the sixth nail to the index pad… so many measurements… and your preferences… Do you prefer to slash or cut? If you slash, do you prefer the right-to-left movement or perhaps the parallel?…When you cut, do you enjoy an upward thrust, and how much power do you wish to come from the shoulder, how much from the wrist?…And do you wish your point coated so as to enter more easily or do you enjoy seeing the opponent’s wince?…So much to be done, so much to be done…” and on and on he went until the noble dismounted and had to almost take him by the shoulders to quiet him.

“You are the man of the rumors.”

Youngbae nodded.

“And you will make me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”

“I will beat my body into ruins for you. Perhaps I will fail. But no one will try harder.”

“And payment?”

“When you get the sword, then payment. Now let me get to work measuring. Jimin—my instruments.”

Jimin scurried into the darkest corner of the hut.

“I insist on leaving something on account.”

“It is not necessary; I may fail.”

“I insist.”

“All right. One goldpiece. Leave that. But do not bother me with money when there is work that needs beginning.”

The noble took out one piece of gold.

Youngbae put it in a drawer and left it, without even a glance. “Feel your fingers now,” he commanded. “Rub your hands hard, shake your fingers—you will be excited when you duel and this handle must match your hand in that excitement; if I measured when you were relaxed, there would be a difference, as much as a thousandth of an inch and that would rob us of perfection. And that is what I seek. Perfection. I will not rest for less.”

The nobleman had to smile. “And how long will it take to reach it?”

“Come back in a year,” Youngbae said, and with that he set to work.

Such a year.

Youngbae slept only when he dropped from exhaustion. He ate only when Jimin would force him to. He studied, fretted, complained. He never should have taken the job; it was impossible. The next day he would be flying: he never should have taken the job; it was too simple to be worth his labors. Joy to despair, joy to despair, day to day, hour to hour. Sometimes Jimin would wake to find him weeping: “What is it, Father?” “It is that I cannot do it. I cannot make the sword. I cannot make my hands obey me. I would kill myself except what would you do then?” “Go to sleep, Father.” “No, I don’t need sleep. Failures don’t need sleep. Anyway, I slept yesterday.” “Please, Father, a little nap.” “All right; a few minutes; to keep you from nagging.”

Some nights Jimin would awake to see him dancing. “What is it, Father?” “It is that I have found my mistakes, corrected my misjudgments.” “Then it will be done soon, Father?” “It will be done tomorrow and it will be a miracle.” “You are wonderful, Father.” “I’m more wonderful than wonderful, how dare you insult me.”

But the next night, more tears. “What is it now, Father?” “The sword, the sword, I cannot make the sword.” “But last night, Father, you said you had found your mistakes.” “I was mistaken; tonight I found new ones, worse ones. I am the most wretched of creatures. Say you wouldn’t mind it if I killed myself so I could end this existence.” “But I would mind, Father. I love you and I would die if you stopped breathing.” “You don’t really love me; you’re only speaking pity.” “Who could pity the greatest sword maker in the history of the world?” “Thank you, Jimin.” “You’re welcome, Father.” “I love you back, Jimin.” “Sleep, Father.” “Yes. Sleep.”

A whole year of that. A year of the handle being right but the balance being wrong, of the balance being right, but the cutting edge too dull, of the cutting edge sharpened, but that threw the balance off again, of the balance returning, but now the point was fat, of the point regaining sharpness, only now the entire blade was too short and it all had to go, all had to be thrown out, all had to be done again. Again. Again. Youngbae’s health began to leave him. He was fevered always now, but he forced his frail shell on, because this had to be the finest since Excalibur. Youngbae was battling legend, and it was destroying him.

Such a year.

One night Jimin woke to find his father seated. Staring. Calm. Jimin followed the stare.

The six-fingered sword was done.

Even in the hut’s darkness, it glistened.

“At last,” Youngbae whispered. He could not take his eyes from the glory of the sword. “After a lifetime, Jimin. Jimin. I am an artist.”

The big-shouldered nobleman did not agree. When he returned to purchase the sword, he merely looked at it a moment. “Not worth waiting for,” he said.

Jimin stood in the corner of the hut, watching, holding his breath.

“You are disappointed?” Youngbae could scarcely get the words spoken.

“I’m not saying it’s trash, you understand,” the nobleman went on. “But it’s certainly not worth five hundred pieces of gold. I’ll give you ten; it’s probably worth that.”

“Wrong!” Youngbae cried. “It is not worth ten. It is not worth even one. Here.” And he threw open the drawer where the one goldpiece had lain untouched the year. “The gold is yours. All of it. You have lost nothing.” He took back the sword and turned away.

“I’ll take the sword,” the nobleman said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take it. I only said I would pay what it was worth.”

Youngbae whirled back, eyes bright. “You quibbled. You haggled. Art was involved and you saw only money. Beauty was here for the taking and you saw only your fat purse. You have lost nothing; there is no more reason for your remaining here. Please go.”

“The sword,” the noble said.

“The sword belongs to my son,” Youngbae said. “I give it to him now. It is forever his. Good-by.”

“You’re a peasant and a fool and I want my sword.”

“You’re an enemy of art and I pity your ignorance,” Youngbae said.

They were the last words he ever uttered.

The noble killed him then, with no warning; a flash of the nobleman’s sword and Youngbae’s heart was torn to pieces.

Jimin screamed. He could not believe it; it had not happened. He screamed again. His father was fine; soon they would have tea. He could not stop screaming.

The village heard. Twenty men were at the door. The nobleman pushed his way through them. “That man attacked me. See? He holds a sword. He attacked me and I defended myself. Now move from my way.”

It was lies, of course, and everyone knew it. But he was a noble so what was there to do? They parted, and the nobleman mounted his horse.

“Coward!”

The nobleman whirled.

“Pig!”

Again the crowd parted.

Jimin stood there, holding the six-fingered sword, repeating his words: “Coward. Pig. Killer.”

“Someone tend the babe before he oversteps himself,” the noble said to the crowd.

Jimin ran forward then, standing in front of the nobleman’s horse, blocking the nobleman’s path. He raised the six-fingered sword with both his hands and cried, “I, Park Jimin, do challenge you, coward, pig, killer, ass, fool, to battle.”

“Get him out of my way. Move the infant.”

“The infant is ten and he stays,” Jimin said.

“Enough of your family is dead for one day; be content,” said the noble.

“When you beg me for your breath, then I shall be contented. Now dismount!”

The nobleman dismounted.

“Draw your sword.”

The nobleman unsheathed his killing weapon.

“I dedicate your death to my father,” Jimin said. “Begin.”

They began.

It was no match, of course. Jimin was disarmed in less than a minute. But for the first fifteen seconds or so, the noble was uneasy. During those fifteen seconds, strange thoughts crossed his mind. For even at the age of ten, Jimin’s genius was there.

Disarmed, Jimin stood very straight. He said not a word, begged nothing.

“I’m not going to kill you,” the nobleman said. “Because you have talent and you’re brave. But you’re also lacking in manners, and that’s going to get you in trouble if you’re not careful. So I shall help you as you go through life, by leaving you with a reminder that bad manners are to be avoided.” And with that his blade flashed. Two times.

And Jimin’s face began to bleed. Two rivers of blood poured from his forehead to his chin, one crossing each cheek. Everyone watching knew it then: the boy was scarred for life.

Jimin would not fall. The world went white behind his eyes but he would not go to ground. The blood continued to pour. The nobleman replaced his sword, remounted, rode on.

It was only then that Jimin allowed the darkness to claim him.

He awoke to Yeste’s face.

“I was beaten,” Jimin whispered. “I failed him.”

Yeste could only say, “Sleep.”

Jimin slept. The bleeding stopped after a day and the pain stopped after a week. They buried Youngbae, and for the first and last time Jimin left Busan. His face bandaged, he rode in Yeste’s carriage to Seoul, where he lived in Yeste’s house, obeyed Yeste’s commands. After a month, the bandages were removed, but the scars were still deep red. Eventually, they softened some, but they always remained the chief features of Jimin’s face: the giant parallel scars running one on each side, from temple to chin. For two years, Yeste cared for him.

Then one morning, Jimin was gone. In his place were three words: “I must learn” on a note pinned to his pillow.

Learn? Learn what? What existed beyond Seoul that the child had to commit to memory? Yeste shrugged and sighed. It was beyond him. There was no understanding children any more. Everything was changing too fast and the young were different. Beyond him, beyond him, life was beyond him, the world was beyond him, you name it, it was beyond him. He was a fat man who made swords. That much he knew.

So he made more swords and he grew fatter and the years went by. As his figure spread, so did his fame. From all across the world they came, begging him for weapons, so he doubled his prices because he didn’t want to work too hard any more, he was getting old, but when he doubled his prices, when the news spread from duke to prince to king, they only wanted him the more desperately. Now the wait was two years for a sword and the line-up of royalty was unending and Yeste was growing tired, so he doubled his prices again, and when that didn’t stop them, he decided to triple his already doubled and redoubled prices and besides that, all work had to be paid for in jewels in advance and the wait was up to three years, but nothing would stop them. They had to have swords by Yeste or nothing, and even though the work on the finest was nowhere what it once was (Youngbae, after all, no longer could save him) the silly rich men didn’t notice. All they wanted was his weapons and they fell over each other with jewels for him.

Yeste grew very rich.

And very heavy.

Every part of his body sagged. He had the only fat thumbs in Seoul. Dressing took an hour, breakfast the same, everything went slowly.

But he could still make swords. And people still craved them. “I’m sorry,” he said to the young Korean who entered his shop one particular morning. “The wait is up to four years and even I am embarrassed to mention the price. Have your weapon made by another.”

“I have my weapon,” the Korean said.

And he threw the six-fingered sword across Yeste’s workbench.

Such embraces.

“Never leave again,” Yeste said. “I eat too much when I’m lonely.”

“I cannot stay,” Jimin told him. “I’m only here to ask you one question. As you know, I have spent the last ten years learning. Now I have come for you to tell me if I’m ready.”

“Ready? For what? What in the world have you been learning?”

“The sword.”

“Madness,” said Yeste. “You have spent ten entire years just learning to fence?”

“No, not just learning to fence,” Jimin answered. “I did many other things as well.”

“Tell me.”

“Well,” Jimin began, “ten years is what? About thirty-six hundred days. And that’s about—I figured this out once, so I remember pretty well—about eighty-six thousand hours. Well, I always made it a point to get four hours sleep per night. That’s fourteen thousand hours right there, leaving me perhaps seventy-two thousand hours to account for.”

“You slept. I’m with you. What else?”

“Well, I squeezed rocks.”

“I’m sorry, my hearing sometimes fails me; it sounded like you said you squeezed rocks.”

“To make my wrists strong. So I could control the sword. Rocks like apples. That size. I would squeeze them in each hand for perhaps two hours a day. And I would spend another two hours a day in skipping and dodging and moving quickly, so that my feet would be able to get me into position to deliver properly the thrust of the sword. That’s another fourteen thousand hours. I’m down to fifty-eight thousand now. Well, I always sprinted two hours each day as fast as I could, so my legs, as well as being quick, would also be strong. And that gets me down to about fifty thousand hours.”

Yeste examined the young man before him. Blade thin, six feet in height, straight as a sapling, bright eyed, taut; even motionless he seemed whippet quick. “And these last fifty thousand hours? These have been spent studying the sword?”

Jimin nodded.

“Where?”

“Wherever I could find a master. Venice, Bruges, Budapest.”

“I could have taught you here?”

“True. But you care for me. You would not have been ruthless. You would have said, ‘Excellent parry, Jimin, now that’s enough for one day; let’s have supper.’”

“That does sound like me,” Yeste admitted. “But why was it so important? Why was it worth so much of your life?”

“Because I could not fail him again.”

“Fail who?”

“My father. I have spent all these years preparing to find the six-fingered man and kill him in a duel. But he is a master, Yeste. He said as much and I saw the way his sword flew at Youngbae. I must not lose that duel when I find him, so now I have come to you. You know swords and swordsmen. You must not lie. Am I ready? If you say I am, I will seek him through the world. If you say no, I will spend another ten years and another ten after that, if that is needed.”

So they went to Yeste’s courtyard. It was late morning. Hot. Yeste put his body in a chair and the chair in the shade. Jimin stood waiting in the sunshine. “We need not test desire and we know you have sufficient motive to deliver the death blow,” Yeste said.

“Therefore we need only probe your knowledge and speed and stamina. We need no enemy for this. The enemy is always in the mind. Visualize him.”

Jimin drew his sword.

“The six-fingered man taunts you,” Yeste called. “Do what you can.”

Jimin began to leap around the courtyard, the great blade flashing.

“He uses the Agrippa defense,” Yeste shouted.

Immediately, Jimin shifted position, increased the speed of his sword.

“Now he surprises you with Bonetti’s attack.”

But Jimin was not surprised for long. Again his feet shifted; he moved his body a different way. Perspiration was pouring down his thin frame now and the great blade was blinding. Yeste continued to shout. Jimin continued to shift. The blade never stopped.

At three in the afternoon, Yeste said, “Enough. I am exhausted from the watching.”

Jimin sheathed the six-fingered sword and waited.

“You wish to know if I feel you are ready to duel to the death a man ruthless enough to kill your father, rich enough to buy protection, older and more experienced, an acknowledged master.”

Jimin nodded.

“I’ll tell you the truth, and it’s up to you to live with it. First, there has never been a master as young as you. Thirty years at least before that rank has yet been reached, and you are barely twenty-two. Well, the truth is you are an impetuous boy driven by madness and you are not now and you will never be a master.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Jimin said. “I must tell you I had hoped for better news. I find it very hard to speak just now, so if you’ll please excuse me, I’ll be on my—”

“I had not finished,” Yeste said.

“What else is there to say?”

“I loved your father very dearly, that you know, but this you did not know: when we were very young, not yet twenty, we saw, with our own eyes, an exhibition by the Corsican Wizard, Bastia.”

“I know of no wizards.”

“It is the rank beyond master in swordsmanship,” Yeste said. “Bastia was the last man so designated. Long before your birth, he died at sea. There have been no wizards since, and you would never in this world have beaten him. But I tell you this: he would never in this world have beaten you.”

Jimin stood silent for a long time. “I am ready then.”

“I would not enjoy being the six-fingered man,” was all Yeste replied.

The next morning, Jimin began the track-down. He had it all carefully prepared in his mind. He would find the six-fingered man. He would go up to him. He would say simply, “Hello, my name is Park Jimin, you killed my father, prepare to die,” and then, oh then, the duel.

It was a lovely plan really. Simple, direct. No frills. In the beginning, Jimin had all kinds of wild vengeance notions, but gradually, simplicity had seemed the better way. Originally, he had all kinds of little plays worked out in his mind—the enemy would weep and beg, the enemy would cringe and cry, the enemy would bribe and slobber and act in every way unmanly. But eventually, these too gave way in his mind to simplicity: the enemy would simply say, “Oh, yes, I remember killing him; I’ll be only too delighted to kill you too.”

Jimin had only one problem: he could not find the enemy.

It never occurred to him there would be the least difficulty. After all, how many noblemen were there with six fingers on their right hands? Surely, it would be the talk of whatever his vicinity happened to be. A few questions: “Pardon, I’m not crazy, but have you seen any six-fingered noblemen lately?” and surely, sooner or later, there would be an answering “yes.”

But it didn’t come sooner.

And later wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to hold your breath for either.

The first month wasn’t all that discouraging. Jimin criss-crossed Spain and Portugal. The second month he moved to France and spent the rest of the year there. The year following that was his Italian year, and then came Germany and the whole of Switzerland.

It was only after five solid years of failure that he began to worry. By then he had seen all of the Balkans and most of Scandinavia and had visited the Florinese and the natives of Guilder and into Mother Russia and down step by step around the entire Mediterranean.

By then he knew what had happened: ten years learning was ten years too long; too much had been allowed to happen. The six-fingered man was probably crusading in Asia. Or getting rich in America. Or a hermit in the East Indies. Or… or…

Dead?

Jimin, at the age of twenty-seven, began having a few extra glasses of wine at night, to help him get to sleep. At twenty-eight, he was having a few extra glasses to help him digest his lunch. At twenty-nine, the wine was essential to wake him in the morning. His world was collapsing around him. Not only was he living in daily failure, something almost as dreadful was beginning to happen:

Fencing was beginning to bore him.

He was simply too good. He would make his living during his travels by finding the local champion wherever he happened to be, and they would duel, and Jimin would disarm him and accept whatever they happened to bet. And with his winnings he would pay for his food and his lodging and his wine.

But the local champions were nothing. Even in the big cities, the local experts were nothing. Even in the capital cities, the local masters were nothing. There was no competition, nothing to help him keep an edge. His life began to seem pointless, his quest pointless, everything, everything, without reason.

At thirty he gave up the ghost. He stopped his search, forgot to eat, slept only on occasion. He had his wine for company and that was enough.

He was a shell. The greatest fencing machine since the Corsican Wizard was barely even practicing the sword.

He was in that condition when the Sicilian found him.

At first the little Sicilian only supplied him with stronger wine. But then, through a combination of praise and nudging, the Sicilian began to get him off the bottle. Because the Sicilian had a dream: with his guile plus the Turk’s strength plus the Korean’s sword, they might become the most effective criminal organization in the civilized world.

Which is precisely what they became.

In dark places, their names whipped sharper than fear; everyone had needs that were hard to fulfill. The Sicilian Crowd (two was company, three a crowd, even then) became more and more famous and more and more rich. Nothing was beyond or beneath them. Jimin’s blade was flashing again, more than ever like lightning. The Turk’s strength grew more prodigious with the months.

But the Sicilian was the leader. There was never doubt. Without him, Jimin knew where he would be: on his back begging wine in some alley entrance. The Sicilian’s word was not just law, it was gospel.

So when he said, “Kill the man in black,” all other possibilities ceased to exist. The man in black had to die…

masterpost

#kwritersworldnet #jiyong fic #jiyong fanfic #kwon jiyong #bigbang fic #bts fic #park jimin #lee seunghyun #jiyong princess bride #jiyong westley #sylvanwriting #gdragon fic #long post #idk what to tag thisssss #introducing my weird versions of jimin and kook since they seemed to fit fezzik and inigo the best

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kaedeayumu · 5 years ago

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Low Carb Diets Simplified - Just How They Function So Well

Why do low carbohydrate diet plans work so well for many people? For many years we've been informed that the only way to lose weight is to eat much less fat, a percentage of healthy protein and a limitless quantity of carbs. In addition to some workout, this ought to have been the secret to slimming down. Never, in our wildest dreams, might we have actually thought that by eating 80% fats and healthy protein and just 20% carbohydrates, we can lose far more weight than if we eliminated as much fat as feasible. Well, it's true and the object of this discussion is to discuss specifically how that works. You can also get yours low carb food online

If you've been on a low-carbohydrate diet regimen and had extreme success, as I have, you have actually seen the fantastic outcomes as well as are probably a huge follower in the diet, however, what most individuals do not comprehend is that the low-carb diet plan is not just a short term diet plan to shed a couple of pounds however instead a total lifestyle modification in which one changes not just the food that they consume, but their entire metabolism is modified for much better health and wellness and longer life. To begin the low carb diet plan, one have to have a lot of discipline due to the fact that the adjustments that happen in the first two weeks to one month are usually challenging to take care of however, if one can make it with the very first phase of the diet, the staying real "energetic" diet time is conveniently dealt with. Let's take a look.

The low-carb diet is recognized by lots of names. There are variants of the diet that each variant's developer relabels, usually for simply the marketing's purpose. Essentially, the active part of the diet regimen coincides. A couple of examples of diets that make use of the low-carb theory are the Area and the South Coastline diet plans. Both are variants of the original concept which was developed as well as published by Dr. Robert C. Atkins in the mid-1990s and for whom the initial diet is called.

Dr. Atkins researched exactly how the food digestion of foods functions, what enzymes and also hormones are involved in the process and what the outcomes of particular experiments were. He after that established a concept that, ultimately, showed to be precise and absolutely convenient, specifically if specific activities were required to protect against issues. Those activities were simple, easily performed movements such as alcohol consumption 64 ounces of water every day as well as taking an all-natural laxative if needed. He likewise encouraged making use of daily workout to boost weight-loss and also tone the body. What complies with is a streamlined description of Dr. Atkins's major theory which revolves around the decrease in carbohydrate usage while, at the same time raising the usage of fats and protein. All variations of his original strategy utilize this very same theory but with modifications in quantities, workout and also the addition of some specific types of carbohydrates in the later stages of the program.

The Concept

There are 2 hormones that the body launches in response to eating. There are additionally many enzymes as well as acids involved in the food digestion process yet the two hormonal agents that we are interested in as well as will focus on are insulin and glucagon. Though many people associate a decrease in insulin with the condition diabetes, the hormone likewise plays a large duty in the storage space of extra fat in our body systems. Glucagon, though not nearly too known, also plays a huge function however only when insulin is removed from the picture. We'll start with insulin and after that will normally flow to the subject of glucagon as we proceed. In this manner it will certainly be much easier to understand how the procedure functions.

Insulin

Insulin is a wonderful hormonal agent that is produced in our pancreatic, in a location called the Islands of Langerhans. This tiny location has actually most likely created more troubles than any other location in the body throughout the existence of people. When something goes wrong with it and also it can not create adequate insulin, poor things happen to the body. Typically, insulin acts as what I like to call a going along with hormonal agent. All of the cells in the body need some type of power. The most convenient item for the body to exchange power is carbs. When carbohydrates are broken down right into their different sugars, they are enabled to swim as well as drift about in the blood stream. When sugar is drifting about in the blood stream due to the fact that you've eaten a carb, it will certainly remain to just drift about in the blood stream unless it makes pals with insulin. This insulin "pal" has a pass into the "Cell Club". Without insulin, sugar can not get into the cell club where it is instantly exchanged power (which is the best honor for a sugar). With each other, sugar and insulin, as partners, get sugar right into the cell as well as sugar is then converted to a type of power utilized by the cell. That is the gist of exactly how insulin is used. Whenever someone consumes a carbohydrate, the body signals the pancreatic that it requires to launch some insulin to ensure that the sugar will have a pal to assist him enter the Cell Club.

Nonetheless, the cells do not let every sugar right into the Cell Club. No, they just let the variety of sugars because they need to utilize and also no more. What takes place to all of these sugars that are not let into the Cell Club? Well, a couple of things occurs. They can just stay in the bloodstream, drifting around as well as getting right into trouble and also creating problem for all of the other cells due to the fact that they fill the cells, much like a group of people desiring to obtain right into the Cell Club. You see, if the individual has diabetes, the pancreatic is unable to release sufficient insulin pals to go along with the sugar as well as make it do the right points. So, the sugar just hangs around. By simply standing (or drifting in this situation) around the cells, they produce an acidic environment which is not a friendly one. It is extremely polluted with sugar as well as its by-product acid. So what do you assume occurs to the surrounding tissue? Well, it begins to weaken as well as this, consequently, triggers pain and also breakdown of other tissues and also organs. Thus we have a problem of diabetes mellitus, which is a subject for afterward. I just wanted to offer you some suggestion of what is happening with the insulin.

Ok, secondly, if there are enough insulin buddies however the sugar is not required for energy production, the insulin buddies merely convert the sugars into fat and keep them around the body where they can be all set in situation the body requires them for insulin manufacturing. In essence, the insulin buddies take them into the "Fat Club" as well as inform them to just stay there up until they come for them. If power is not released in a quick sufficient pattern, more as well as more of these sugars are left in the Fat Club and also the Fat Club starts to expand around the body.

Now allow us claim, that this person in whom the fat is developing takes place a low-carb diet plan. To do this, he needs to limit his carb intake to a really reduced level yet he can increase or maintain his fat consumption at a high level.

Yes, when there are no carbohydrates around, the body will melt fat to provide itself energy. It damages the fat down into a carbohydrate form and also takes it to the Cell Oven where it is transformed to power; The last thing the body wants to utilize for energy production is the protein. Yes, your body, skin, hair, whatever, is made out of protein, which is the building block of the human body.

Ok, currently allow's go back to the fat storage story. All these fat cells are hanging around waiting to be converted to some kind of energy but it never ever comes.

Very few carbs are can be found in as well as the ones that are can be found in are promptly utilized for energy production. The Cell Stoves are fired up as well as all set to go however there are just insufficient carbs can be found in to convert to energy. Ok, the Cell foreman phones to the mind and states, "Pay attention, we're ready to melt some carbohydrates however none are being available in. What's up?" The brain just claims, "do not worry I'll care for it." The brain then contacts the pancreas and claims, "cut down on the insulin release and also instead, release the glucagon as well as tell it to go convert any kind of Fats that it sees spending time into sugars as well as send them right into the cells for energy production." The pancreas does what the brain tells it to. It shuts down on the insulin shutoffs as well as opens the glucagon shutoffs wide open. The glucagon is launched and walks around to the Fat clubs picking Fats to be transformed to carbs. Those carbs are immediately sent to the Cell Stoves with an insulin friend and every person enjoys.

No much longer is insulin just floating about in the body taking the excess carbs to the Fat Club. The pancreatic is delighted due to the fact that it does not have to throw away any kind of more insulin and can kick back a little.

The Results Remain in!

So, let's see if you're focusing:

If the insulin is substantially decreased and the glucagon is improved and functioning throughout the body, breaking down fats right into useable fuel as well as this fuel is being burned off by the Cell Ovens, what do you believe our "fat individual" is experiencing?

Did you say "weight loss?" You ARE taking note!

You comprehend what is going on below. Given that the body is not handling anymore carbs, it needs to locate another resource of gas. That source of fuel is the naturally taking place additional source of kept body fat that the glucagon individuals are walking around and releasing and converting to fuel.

Currently, keep in mind that when glucagon transforms that fat into a gas resource, the chemical reaction that occurs is NOT the like the one that takes place when carbs are used for fuel. You see, when fat is exchanged fuel it releases a material called "ketones.".

Typically, ketone manufacturing would certainly suggest that your body is not able to situate carbohydrates to utilize for gas so it is needing to turn to fat in the system. Well, yea, that's what is occurring right here too yet it's not a breakdown. No, it's being done intentionally so your ketone manufacturing is NOT a bad thing in this instance. So, when you most likely to your doctor and she or he informs you that you have a high ketone matter, make sure and tell them that you're on a low carb diet plan. They'll understand and also won't be interested in your high ketone count with the exception of one problem. When your ketones are high, your kidneys need to do away with them for you. If the ketones, which are big molecules, are strained of the body through the kidneys, don't have LOTS of liquids to wash them through, they tend to get stuck in the kidneys and also create all sort of issues. There's a really basic service for that. Drink plenty of water. Do not keep back. Do it, consume a minimum of 64 ounces of water every day consistently and also you will NOT have that issue ... ok?

If your body is continually shedding fats and does so for a long period due to the fact that you are not presenting a bunch of junk carbohydrates right into it, the result will be that you'll be much leaner as well as your cholesterol and triglycerides and also various other poor points that have been drifting around in your bloodstream, will be reduced and also you will certainly be much healthier. Your power level will certainly be higher, a lot of the chronic health problems you've been experiencing will certainly either disappear completely or will certainly decrease dramatically. It works, people. There is just way too much proof.

Most individuals link a reduction in insulin with the disease diabetic issues, the hormone additionally plays a big role in the storage space of extra fat in our body systems. Whenever a person consumes a carbohydrate, the body signals the pancreas that it requires to launch some insulin so that the sugar will have a buddy to aid him get right into the Cell Club.

Ok, secondly, if there are enough insulin friends yet the sugar is not required for energy manufacturing, the insulin friends simply transform the sugars right into fat and keep them around the body where they can be ready in case the body needs them for insulin manufacturing. Yes, your body, skin, hair, whatever, is made out of healthy protein, which is the structure block of the human body. No longer is insulin just drifting about in the body taking the excess carbohydrates to the Fat Club.

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attickit · 7 years ago

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A Dance in a Dream. [BTSDisneyAUCollab, Jung HoSeok]

Word count: 2422 words. Pairing: Jung HoSeok x Reader(she) Genre: Fluff, maybe a pinch of angst if you see it. Triggers: - None applicable -

A/n: I just really want to thank everyone for the opportunity of this collaboration. Working with such great writers was kind of intimidating also being the only dude can come with a bit more anxiety than I expected, but all of the ladies are such lovely people. Also! Credit to @aichan11 for the wonderful banner! Thank you!

You are not sure how long you have been pacing the place. Nowhere to go, no one to talk to, the door seemingly sizing you up.

You hesitate to pass through that same door. Just that one door and you have met more men than you think you would have ever met on your own within a year. Alright maybe that is an exaggeration. Or maybe not, you cannot even get your thoughts straight with so many things that already happened.

It could not hurt to go again, right? Whatever that pompous fairy godmother’s final intention is with this wish, it could not hurt just go with it until it ends. And until he comes back…

Your wrist twists, and through that door you enter once again. The bright light of the sun greets you on the other side, filtering through the trees. You turn back to notice the door to be a two-piece swinger, one vaguely resembling those of medieval times. The top of it is opened to a plump and friendly face.

“Go ahead love. Don’t be back too early now. Make sure to pick all the sweet sweet berries you can find. And remember, do not talk to strangers!“

This seems familiar you muse to yourself. You smile to the older lady and nod softly. The top of the door then slams shut and the unlikely whispers murmur through the cracks resound from the house. There is a soft crash from the house. A chuckle reaches your lips.

A sudden sting reaches your feet. Shoes feel uncomfortable, you think as you pull them off and place them near a tree by the cottage you left from. You pick up the basket you find as well. Might as well get those berries your “aunt” asked you to pick.

A soft song flows through you as you stroll. The hum on your lips turn into a melody of no words. The little woodland creatures have their eyes on you. You begin to feel a little shy in front of your odd audience.

An owl, brown and round comes closer to a branch overhead. It is round, a soft roundness that is shaped like a friend. That reminds you of another round person. Maybe he is friendly. He is trying, though in a weird way, to get you hooked up.

The brown owl’s beak opens and the default question reaches you. “Who?”

“I… I am just waiting for a prince.” You answer truthfully.

“Who?” It calls again. “Who? Who?”

It almost seemed like a soft caring tone. The big wide eyes are trained on you. The other birds chirp happily.

“Well I’m not exactly sure who it is. But by the process of elimination of princes as that person says, I’m guessing sleeping beauty?” Your hand fidgets with the brown and grey dress that now encases you. “Plus, the little lady in red whom I feel is one of my aunts told me to pick berries. I honestly doubt it is snow white.”

The owl rotates its head in a humanely curious manner. Its wings are tucked tightly to its side with all the tiny songbirds clumping onto the same branch. A squirrel has joined the entourage of woodland creatures on a tree.

“Gosh… This is awkward.”

The owl hoots, a little annoyed. Its wings push away the smaller song birds for space for itself. The wings spread and the owl flies. It circles you. You wonder if it wants you to follow. The little birds follow suit trailing behind the bigger bird. The squirrel has scrambled its way forward.

“Do you want me to follow?”

The owl laughs and flies forward. It stops and turns back to wait for you.

“Alright then.”

The little birds chip in a merry song. The melody dancing around you as the songbirds’ spin around you. A smile rises to your face. Your voice joins the melody of the birds. Your fingers busy themselves with picking berries that you can find as you follow your new owl friend. The little songbirds help by settling on bushes or branches with fruit in twos. You nod and sing in thank you to every one of them. A small little jealousy sits in your heart from the little pairings of birds.

The owl hoots for your attention as it rests on a low hanging branch. A pond is behind the tree. A clearing is by its left from you. The sight catches you off guard. The simplicity of nature makes you smile in its beauty. In the distance, you hear rustling.

The sound of cloven hooves head in your direction. From across the little pond, a white horse with dark mane like the night begins panicking. It stops at the edge with its back legs bucking up and launching its rider. A young man shouts as he flies. His cloak fluttering around him as he crashes into the shallow water. He groans after the impact. You gasp at the sight in front of you.

He did not hear you, being more focused on the pain down his spine. His face contorts into a scowl at the horse who is stepping into the pond cautiously. The horse pulls off the man’s feathered hat as he points a finger at the horse.

“Samson… No more carrots for you. I’ll be having them.”

The horse replies in a disgruntled neigh. The hat drops into the water. He whinnies offering his snout to help the young man to stand up. He takes it but not before adding a few more words that causes Samson to neigh sadly in tone.

“I’ll think about your bag of oats… Gosh, I am completely drenched.”

A soft giggle escapes you. You have got to admit though, the scene that unfolded before you was funny. This time the young man in red, brown and blue hears you. He turns to face you. A shocked wonder fills his face.

Your laughter finally hits him and the blood rushes to his face. Pink brushes his cheeks as his hand reaches up to absentmindedly scratch the non-existent itch on the back of his head. A shy smile creeps onto his features. Samson pushes his rider forward with his head. The man clicks his tongue at the horse before giving you an awkward smile.

“Sorry about that. I didn’t see you there. My name is HoSeok.”

“Who?” The owl sitting above you hoots.

“Just a person trying to find a singing angel in the woods. Are you that angel?”

This time it is your turn to change into the shade of a shy rose. You did not think you were singing that loud. But HoSeok had heard you. Your fingers wring the cloth of your dress. You cannot seem to meet the stranger in the eyes.

Your words stutter when you answer him. “I was singing, yes.”

He wades through the pond to get out. The water drips as he ruffles his hair, trying to dry it.

“You have a beautiful voice.”

“Thank you,” you say in a whisper.

You are not even sure what to do next. You found a man in the woods (well he found you but that is not exactly important). The voices of your aunts ring in your head. His steps are directed towards you as he takes his cape off. He hangs it on the branch next to the owl. He ducks under the branch to fully face you. You hear Samson striding in the pond closer to where you both are.

“May I?” HoSeok asks, reaching a hand out to you in offer.

“May you?”

Your glance shifts to his eyes before trying to get a reassurance from your woodland friends. The owl hoots at you happily with a horse head next to it nodding. Your heart fills in a questionable feeling. This is something you definitely are having problems with.

“I’m sorry.” HoSeok apologises. “May I invite you to a dance? You can reject.”

Your hand hesitates. He is kind to you, a stranger in a strange forest that likely he has no knowledge of. You instead move back to gain more space between him and you. He moves back too.

He bows, “Refusal acknowledged.”

He smiles again. Two small pools appear in the corner of his smile.

“Come along Samson. The lady has refused thus we have no business in disturbing her. I bid adieu, fair lady.”

Samson reels back as if in disbelief. He whinnies at the young man. The hooves finally meet with the dry ground of the woods. They clop at HoSeok who is trying to walk away. HoSeok pushes the horse away before turning back to give you another bow.

Wait. He is the prince that you are supposed to meet in this story, right?

Your eyes lock with the owl’s. Again, its head is rotated in question. Right, right. It is up to you now.

“Wait! Please wait.”

HoSeok turns back with a brow raised. His hand holds onto Samson’s saddle.

“I’ll dance with you.” The words stream out of your mouth.

The owl and songbirds chirp around you in happiness and celebration. Samson neighs in resignation. Poor horse seems like he has given up with human made decisions. HoSeok leans into the muscled creature. His hands go over the back of the horse.

“A yes Samson. The answer became a yes! You’ll have your oats.”

A small skip in his step is seen as he reaches you. His hand is offered once again but he waits for you to place yours instead of reaching out for it. You take the hand. He curtseys before leading you over to the clearing beside the pond.

He asks again for permission before placing a hand to support your upper back. His steps are slow, leading. You follow easily, falling into the rhythm he set.

“Do you have a name?”

Your voice reaches out before you can contemplate the question. The body’s own reminder of your three aunts’ words. “Oh no, no. I was told to not talk to strangers. And since I am going against those words, you are not getting my name.”

He chuckles, “Fair enough, my lady.”

You see the little audience you have by the same exact low hanging tree. The songbirds sit on the low hanging branch. The squirrel sits on the branch over it. Your owl friend had made himself comfortable on Samson’s head. Samson himself does not seem to mind the new ball of fluff on his head. The chirps begin to form the song you and HoSeok are dancing to.

“You live in these areas, I am guessing?”

“Yes, I do.” You reply spinning from his release.

He catches you back into the embrace. His eyes are focused on your features. The dark irises roaming every plane he can see. He chuckles, embarrassed.

“Apologies for staring but I really can’t help but feel like I know you from somewhere. Maybe from a dream but I can never be sure with those.”

A warm thought fills you. You, too, feel like you should know him. It just feels right. It is like you have known him all your life. As awkward it had been before when first meeting HoSeok, it now feels like from then till now had been an eternity of words between the both of you. The warmth dancing between you both as you move to the birds’ songs. You hear something like a sigh from Samson and a chuckle from the owl.

“I feel just the same. I wonder what it is?”

“My charms?”

“Surely.” You laugh. “You came from the sky, into the pond. Who wouldn’t be charmed by that?”

He blushes remembering he was still a little damp from the fall. He can still laugh it off, upping the tempo of your little dance to a happy jump.

Your small talk continues with anything and everything under the expanse of the sky. It is like a melodic section in a song, eloquently phrased questions being answered by chuckling answers. It is a symphony that you do not want to end.

The light of the sun filtering through the trees is coming to a soft late afternoon dim. HoSeok ends the dance with the birds stopping their melody. He leans forward, breath mingling with yours, eyes hazed like a dream. Your own eyes flutter close in expectation. Like being snapped out of a trance, HoSeok steps back. His arms fidget.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s not right. I should not have asked you to dance with me. I feel… It’s just. I don’t. I feel that I am inevitably slowly falling in love with you. Though, I shouldn’t.” His eyes do not meet yours.

Your heart is hitting against your ribcage in a dangerous tempo. “Why can’t you?”

He walks away only to sit down in the middle of the clearing. His eyes focuses on his horse and the saddle with the royal insignia. A frown is seen on his face, his arms lean on his knees. His sigh is loud when you sit down next to him.

“I am falling for you when I shouldn’t. I was betrothed to another when I was just a wee little boy. I was betrothed to the princess of this kingdom but I have never met her before. Just once I did but that was too long ago. I don’t want to marry her. I don’t know her. I want to get to know you.”

His body turns. His eyes are filled with worry and anxiety. He is looking to you for help.

“Maybe you could convince your father about that. You don’t have to marry that princess.”

“Maybe.”

The words stuck in your throat is forced to sound. “I’ll still be here if you do.”

“Thank you.”

Your hands intertwine with each other on the grass. Your heart is in leaps and bounds. This is it. A warm hand holds onto your cheek. Warm breath on your lips.

“May I?” HoSeok asks again.

“Yes,” an ache reaches your heart, “please HoSeok.”

The heat is gone. The emptiness is heavy around you. You eyes open once more and there you are, back in your dull and dark emptiness of the void with a silent door accompanying. It is becoming far too frustrating for you. That thought of so close yet so far.

You glance to the door. A constant grey light at the end of this darkness. You will have to go through it, again.

a/n: Heyo~ me again. So I really hope that you guys enjoyed what I’ve written and please do go read the other works written in this Collaboration! #btsDisneyAUCollab ~ :3

#btsdisneyaucollab #btssunshinenet #happyeverafter #jung hoseok #lycanhearted works #i think this would be the only full work i have on my blog #after the second part too of course #but thats it. just for the sweet people in this collab #hobi deer

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janakimurali · 6 years ago

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The world changed while I slept

I usually write two part stories for Deccan Herald’s school edition, but this time, the story extended to three parts and the story had an open-ending too, which gave me an opportunity to invite the kids to come up with alternate endings. And, did we get some interesting entries, which Imtiaz and the DHSE featured in the school edition.

The world changed while I slept Part One

The mellow sunlight beaming through the open window created lovely patterns on the floor. Some birds tweeted from the tree outside. A cool aromatic breeze wafted in.

Mita woke up smiling. ‘What a lovely morning.’

She jumped off from her bed and looked out of the window.

What? What had happened to the Raintree?

The tall and wide raintree which grew outside her window had dwarfed into a bushy tree. It had millions of flowers, all tiny and sparkling like diamonds.

The birds looked different too. There were a variety of multi-hued birds, some small, some slightly bigger. But all of them were as tiny as a sparrow. And was that really a sparrow? She hadn’t seen one in years.

What had happened? She blinked and rubbed her eyes and opened them again. The birds were still there. They tweeted softly, tinkling like musical tones floating in the aromatic breeze. She took a big whiff of the scented breeze, hmm, the air smelt fresh.

She must be dreaming. She pinched herself. ‘Ouch, that hurt. I am definitely awake.’

She ran out into the kitchen shouting, ‘Ma, Ma, did you see what happened to our tree…and the birds…and the air…it smells fresh.’

‘Shhh,’ said her mother, looking up from a screen, which seemed to be hanging in mid-air. The news snippets floated before her and once she finished reading it, she swiped the screen away. She seemed to be whispering to herself.

‘Whom are you talking to?’ asked Mita.

‘Shhh, don’t shout. I am talking to dad.’

‘But how are you talking to him, I don’t see your phone, do you have a Bluetooth connected to your ear?’ Mita said, lowering her voice.

‘You’re still too loud. Lower your volume, the neighbours will complain.’

‘What? Why would they complain?’

‘Because you’re loud. You know of the decibels rule.’

‘What decibels rule?’

Her mother sighed. ‘What’s wrong with you,’ her mom whispered. ‘The decibels rule is 100 years old. You know about how our neighbour’s son lost his ears, when his father suddenly sounded the car horn. Poor boy, he’s in hospital now, getting a new silicone ear and the father is in jail serving a sentence.’

‘Ma, what are you saying, what decibel rule, nobody split their ears yet to a car horn. If so, we should all have lost our ears to the blaring sound of car and motorcycle horns through the day and night - there’s so much noise pollution…’

Her mother looked at her as though she had lost her mind.

‘What noise pollution, nobody ever honks in our city. Nobody ever speaks louder than a whisper,’ said her mother softly.

‘We just had Diwali, people were bursting crackers all around, all the stray dogs and cats ran for safety…’

‘What crackers, whoever bursts crackers? And what strays, we don’t have any stray dogs or cats in our cities. The only animals in the cities are pets and none of them bark or mew or growl either – they are all quiet and peaceful animals,’ said her mother shaking her head. ‘I told you we have no pollution whatsoever. All the cars run on solar energy and we have had clean air for years and years.’

‘The trees, why are they shunted and…and the birds are smaller…the sparrow seems to have come back too?’

Her mother scoffed. ‘Who needs tall trees, they block the sunlight, all our trees are the same size, all their flowers are scented, so we get clean and aromatic air. And, who wants predatory birds. All our birds are genetically modified. They only tweet musical notes. And, you’re still too loud, my ears are ringing with the noise.’

Mita opened her mouth and then closed it again.

‘And the newspapers, we have no newspapers either?’ Mita whispered. ‘I saw you reading from a screen suspended from the air, how…how does that work?’

‘It’s beamed from a satellite, directly to each home. We don’t need a television or a computer to receive it, we just need a smart home,’ answered her mother patiently. ‘And we don’t have mobile phones anymore, artificial intelligence in the smart homes connects us directly. ‘

Mita shook her head. Something was wrong with her world…or should she say, something was finally right with her world. No print newspapers, which meant no trees were being cut. Perfumed shunted trees, smaller and cuter birds. Wow! No noise pollution, no vehicular pollution and clean, scented air. She could live with that. She definitely wanted this world. She never wanted anything to change, ever.

‘But you still have to go to school, so get ready, while I get you farm fresh organic breakfast – we have nothing that has pesticides in them.’

‘Farm fresh food, wow,’ said Mita.

She was smiling ear to ear as she ran to her room to get ready for school.

‘Wow, no gadgets, no pollution, farm fresh food, the world changed while I slept.’

To be Continued…

The world changed while I slept Part two

Mita was living her dream.

Every morning, she woke up and looked out of the window. The dwarfed tree with the white diamond flowers was still there, as was the tiny, colourful birds. The aromatic breeze still wafted in through her window as did the mellow sunlight. Mom still served farm fresh food and nobody had mobile phones or other gadgets.

All the news was still streamed to them from satellites and there were no more noisy debates on any news channel. Their Artificial Intelligence in their smart home was called Zero. All they had to do was ask her anything and pat came the answer from Zero. She played music, turned on the TV channels, switched the lights on and off, fumigated their house and turned on the vacuum cleaner and the washing machine. Theirs was a zero-waste home, as all their waste was recycled.

Mita went to school in a solar powered school bus. All the other vehicles on the road too were solar powered. Everyone car-pooled, so there were always random groups of strangers in each car. There were also fewer cars on the roads. The roads were smooth and pothole free. Nobody honked. There was no road rage, as the fine was very hefty if anyone lost their temper on the road.

The familiar petrol bunks on the roads had given way to smart malls, where people were spoilt for choice. There were lots of video games in the sport pavilions, but everyone had to have headphones to play them. All the trendy garments in branded stores were free of child labour. The food courts served only farm fresh organic food. All junk food was totally banned. The smart theatre complexes beamed movies directly to big screens which hung in the middle of the auditorium. People sat around in a circle and watched the movies. It somehow made it all look so cosy. All the loud stereophonic speakers in the theatres had been done away with and every movie goer was given headphones.

There was no crime anywhere in the city, girls and women could walk freely on the roads, without fear of being molested.

‘After all we won the annual award for being the most peaceful city in the world. And mind you, we have been doing so for the last ten years,’ said her mother.

‘You mean I can walk home at any time, without being afraid of my own shadow? Wow, that’s so cool,’ said Mita. ‘I am sure this is a dream, but I am not going to pinch myself, I want to stay in the dream.’

Mita’s school had been transformed into a stunning green campus. There were cobblestoned pathways and a beautifully manicured lawn. Recycled water was used to water the lawns.

The school had thought it best to stop all noisy sports, like basketball, volleyball or cricket, as crowd enthusiasm raised the collective volume decibels to beyond allowed limits. So, all sports courts had been converted into green walkaways.

All the students wore soft rubber soled shoes, which made no noise as they went up escalators to the various floors. As stairs made too much noise, the school had converted all the stairs in the schools to noiseless escalators.

There were no scratchy, screechy chalks boards, teachers taught through screens that hung from the middle of the class room. Children sat around in cosy groups around the teacher. There were no desks as there were no text books or notebooks. No trees could be cut for paper, so everyone just memorised what was being taught.

That’s what Mita loved best - no school books, so no heavy school bags to carry either.

‘What about exams, how do we write them, how are we supposed to remember everything. There are no reference books, the school does not have a library anymore,’ Mita whispered to her friend, Rita, as they walked back from class.

‘How can we have libraries, we are not allowed to print and the school board had to do away with exams for the same reason. With a ban on paper and all gadgets, they had no clue how to set exams for the school children,’ Rita whispered back.

‘This sounds like fun, no books, no exams.’

‘But if you do want to recall anything, just ask Zero, she is your memory bank. Anyway, why do you want to remember everything, I take in only what I’m going to use later in life. I am not going to use calculus or geometry ever in my life, so I blank out during the maths class.’

‘Hmm. but I do miss my music class. I heard nobody is allowed to sing, play the drums or play any musical instrument, as the school is afraid it would raise the decibel levels.’

‘Naturally, the school does not want to lose its licence, crossing the decibels levels is a very serious offence. But why do you want to sing Mita, doesn’t Zero pipe in good enough music into your home?’

‘Yes, that Zero does, the softest, soothing and most melodious and tuneful music ever. But someone must have made those tunes, right?’

‘They’re a medley of all the music anyone has ever heard, The AI has dipped into all our memories and created music which people love to hear.’

‘Okay, but what about sports? Don’t you miss it, I know you’re a good basketball player.’

Rita shrugged. ‘I play basketball video games at the malls and on my screen at home, but yeah I agree, it’s not the same.’

‘By the way, what year is this, it’s still 2018, isn’t it?’

Her friend looked at her as though she was a stranger.

‘What’s wrong with you Mita, it’s 2118.’

To be Concluded…

The world changed while I slept Part three

So, this was no dream.

Mita had been catapulted 100 years forward to 2118. Everyone around her was the same, her parents, her friends, her school. Yet, everything had changed. The world had changed while she slept – was it just a few days ago, a few weeks ago, a few months ago - or even 100 years ago? How was it that nobody had aged? She didn’t know anymore.

She learnt from Zero that the world’s scientists had found ways to beat climate change. Every city in the world now had the same climate – not too hot, not too cold, just the right temperature. There were no snowstorms, hailstorms, earthquakes or tsunamis. None of her friends at school even remembered them. In fact, none of her friends remembered anything. They never bothered to pay attention in class, as they could always go home and ask Zero about anything they needed to know.

‘Why does anyone even come to class, if they’re not going to pay attention?’ Mita asked Rita.

Rita shrugged. ‘I come to school to meet my friends. You?’

‘I don’t know anymore. Nobody does anything. There is no library, no sports, no music, no…no debates anymore…don’t you miss them?’

Rita looked strangely at her.

‘And, you miss them?’

‘Of course, I do. Nobody at school talks about their dreams…or…or ambition? I wanted to write music and sing, now I find, I can’t do that anymore. I am trying to figure out what to do with my life.’

‘You’re a funny one, aren’t you? What ambition, what dreams? Everyone works for the system and Zero will allot our work for us, when its time.’

‘But why should Zero do that? She’s Artificial Intelligence, just a machine. Shouldn’t we have the choice?’

‘You’re going to get into trouble talking like this. Especially as your parents are the system.’

‘What?’

Mita was too shocked to say anything more. Her dad and mom were activists who had wanted a different world, pollution free and garbage free cities and a reversal of climate change. That was not wrong, was it? She remembered they had led protest marches in the city, before…before all this. So how did they…when did they become the system?

She soon found out that the reason her dad travelled so much, was because he was a trouble shooter and handled breakdowns of the system at various cities in India, China, America, Japan, Germany, Britain and Russia. And her mother was one of the many administrators in the system, which ensured everything in their city was as it should be.

Mita wasn’t so sure she liked her perfect world anymore. She wanted to be able eat junk food sometimes, sing sometimes, laugh loudly at some joke her friends made and not worry about the decibels count all the time. More than anything else…she wanted…she wanted to be able to have a choice.

But Mita kept her thoughts to herself, she wasn’t sure Rita or any of her classmates would understand. And she definitely couldn’t share her disquiet with her mom or dad. For, they were the system.

‘You’re very quiet now. You don’t ask any questions anymore?’ Rita asked one day, as they were waiting in line to collect their fresh organic lunch in the school canteen.

‘I…I don’t know what to think anymore.’

‘Come to the basement at 3 p.m,’ Rita whispered in an aside.

‘What’s happening there?’

‘Shh, just come.’

When Mita went to the abandoned sports equipment room in the basement at 3 p.m, she had no idea what to expect, yet she was astonished to see so many of her fellow classmates from the tenth. The ninths were there, so were the eighths. She even spotted a few sevenths.

‘Come in Mita,’ said Rita. ‘Meet the Disrupters.’

Rita stood at the head of the room along with a few other boys and girls from their class.

‘We were not sure, we could trust you, for your parents are the system…’ began Rita, as she dribbled a basketball.

‘So, you do miss your basketball,’ said Mita smiling.

In the next hour, Mita learnt that the Disruptors met secretly every Thursday in the basement, as it was the only place, the school’s Artificial Intelligence spy network of drones and listening devices couldn’t reach. Like her, the Disruptors too were disturbed with their ‘too perfect world’ and wanted change.

‘We’re not saying we want to go back to 2018. There are a lot of things which have worked well, like the pollution free cities. But we can’t have machines controlling our every move. Our free will has been taken away,’ said Surya, one of the boys in her class.

‘Hear, hear,’ said the other students in the room.

‘Next, they will put a chip in our brains,’ said Rita.

‘What?’ said a shocked Mita.

‘The system is planning to do that supposedly to wipe out crime, but we suspect it is to ensure everyone conforms.’

‘But our thoughts are all we have.’

‘So, here’s what we are going to do…’ said Surya.

Concluded

Write your own ending:

The World Changed While I Slept is an open-ended three-part story. Read

all the three parts of the story and suggest your own alternatives to a better world.

Write your ideas in 400 words and send them in to DHSE by December 20th. The best five entries will be featured in DHSE.

#shortstory #children fiction fantasy

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dmmowers · 7 years ago

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The Gospel transforms Nazis too

The Gospel transforms Nazis too A sermon for Trinity Episcopal Church, Baraboo, Wis. and St. John the Baptist Episcopal Church, Portage, Wis. Tenth Sunday After Pentecost | Year A, Track 2 | August 20, 2017 Isaiah 56:1, 6-8 | Psalm 67 | Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32 | Matthew 15:(10-20), 21-28

Kyle Quinn is a professor of engineering at the University of Arkansas. He is in his late 30s. He has brown hair, a short, full beard, and is of an average build. At the university in Fayetteville, Dr. Quinn runs a lab to develop new ways to promote the healing of wounds. Last Friday night, Dr. Quinn and his wife were having a pleasant date night: they went to the art museum and out for dinner near their home in Bentonville, Arkansas. Saturday afternoon, he and his wife were having a quiet afternoon at their home when the phone rang. It was an official from the university, asking him if he'd heard about what was going in Charlottesville. He said he was vaguely aware, and then asked why. "The school official told him that his weekend 'was about to get a lot worse.'"

A mob of internet users had been coming through photos of the white supremacist march on the campus of the University of Virginia the night before. In it, they found a man wearing an Arkansas Engineering t-shirt. He was in his late 30s, average build, brown hair, and a full beard, and looked vaguely like Kyle Quinn's professional headshot. So the mob had begun to publish Dr. Quinn's name, job, contact information other personal details to the web. Soon, profane messages and death threats started streaming in. When their home address was published to Twitter late Saturday afternoon, Dr. Quinn and his wife took off for a colleague's home, calling police to alert them of danger at their home. Dr. Quinn's only crime was looking vaguely like someone who had been like the rally. (http://www.npr.org/sections/alltechconsidered/2017/08/17/543980653/kyle-quinn-hid-at-a-friend-s-house-after-being-misidentified-on-twitter-as-a-rac)

I use Facebook and Twitter often, and I often find helpful things for sermons on those platforms. This week, I found some examples that broadly fit under the heading, "What not to do." After a Facebook friend posted the story about Dr. Quinn and doxxing - the term for when internet users publish personal information of people who are caught up in a news story -- I witnessed an argument that went on for dozens and dozens of messages between my friend and another person, who turned out to be an Episcopal priest. The priest argued that society's only goal should be maximum shame of Nazis, and that the danger of misidentification didn't matter because the people in question were Nazis, and they deserved any consequence that might come to them as a result. Every time my friend raised the question about the dangers of misidentification, this priest called them "collateral damage."

Even though I join with that priest in fully condemning the racist, white supremacist views of those who marched on Charlottesville last weekend, I think that he couldn't be more wrong about our strategy in responding to people with these views. Because indeed, these people are still people - trapped by the power of Sin in a hate that will, if it is not checked, lead to their destruction. Yes, their ideas are un-Christian and blasphemous and offensive: but if we ostracize these people so that the only friends and family they have are fellow white supremacists who share their views, what hope do they ever have of hearing good news that could change their ideas?

There is always a temptation to treat people outside our religious group as less worthy of God's love than we ourselves are. This is what St. Paul has been mulling over for the past few weeks in his letter to the Romans, chapters 9-11. Throughout this section, Paul has been reflecting on the covenant God made with Abraham and with what happens to the Jewish people now that their Messiah has come but they mostly failed to recognize him. In response to the rejection of Jesus by the Jews, God has now begun to reveal himself to Gentiles so that they could receive the gift of faith in Jesus Christ. For the Jews, this was throwing pearls to swine, this was throwing the children's food to dogs. Gentiles were unclean. Their ideas about how God worked in the world were offensive. Everyone knew that the Jews were God's chosen people, and it was unthinkable that the God of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob would now call filthy Gentiles to be a part of his chosen people.

But the Roman Christians who received Paul's letter were Gentiles. They had set aside their pagan ways, their worshipping of idols, their debauched sexual practices, and they had begun to worship the God who had shown them mercy. And look what happened: they became the superior group. They looked at all of the Jews whose Messiah had come in Jesus. But most of those Jews didn't recognize them. The Gentiles had started to brag about themselves, thinking of themselves as superior to the Jews because the Jews couldn't recognize in Jesus the Messiah they had awaited. The Gentiles thought that because God was calling them, God had turned his back on the covenant he had made with Abraham and his descendants. They had begun to believe that God loved them more than the Jews.

But St. Paul will not have this either. He concludes our reading this morning, and the whole section we've been reading and preaching out of the last three weeks, by saying that God will never turn his back on the Jews, his chosen people, because when God gives gifts and calls people his gifts and call are irrevocable. All of us, Jew and Gentile, are dependent on God's mercy, not on our own superiority. Our beliefs, our ancestry, the rightness of our ideas: none of that makes us more or less worthy to receive the mercy of God. "For God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to all."

But if we are the people to whom God shows mercy, why do we struggle so much to extend mercy to others?

Now some of you might respond and say, "Of course we show mercy to others; we're Christians, that's what we do." But it's easy to show mercy to others if they look like us, are the same social class is us, and believe in the same ideas we do. Have you ever been in conversations even in our church where things turned political, and you could feel the tension in the room creep up just a little bit? Did you ever wonder at that moment if the people talking would still be friends after the conversation is over?

There are so many people who need mercy, who are told through word and action by our culture that they are damaged, that they are not worth our time. In my five months in Baraboo, I have been staggered by the amount of poverty and drug abuse there is here. What if people who were struggling with the effects of poverty and drugs met some of us? Would they have positive personal interactions with us? Would they go away thinking, "Hey, even though my life is a mess, those people from Trinity care about me." Would we be able to do something tangible to show those folks love with no strings attached?

We have a number of parishioners and friends of this parish who are people of color, growing up in a place where they are vastly outnumbered. Some of us might be tempted to look at the small numbers at the neo-Nazi rallies in Charlottesville and Boston and think, "Eh, racism isn't such a big deal." Will we listen closely enough to hear our friends of color talk about watching their kids play sports at other high schools and hearing fans yell racist slurs at them? What does the mercy of Jesus look like for those people? I think it looks like a Christian community gathering around those folks to say, "Your pain matters. We're sorry this happened. We believe you. You're valuable to us. You have so many gifts to offer here at Trinity and in our community." Rather than dismissing these events as the action of the lunatic fringe, we value our friends and the people we meet enough to take their stories of pain seriously.

God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he can have mercy upon all - not just to church people, to people who believe the right things and who do the right things. He shows mercy to the victim of internet doxxing, to the unwed, teenaged mom. He shows mercy to the man with autism who struggles to relate to other people. He shows mercy to the murderer. He shows mercy to the victims of racism who can't get their white friends to hear their pain. And yes, he shows mercy even to the foulest, most odious racist neo-Nazis descending on Charlottesville last weekend.

Because ultimately, we are all just people, even if some of us embrace ideas that are incorrect, hurtful and offensive. Even those of us who are addicted and imprisoned by the hate that we feel towards other people need to be set free by the gospel of Jesus Christ. When Paul says that God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that the can have mercy upon all, he means everybody, even those people that are difficult to show mercy. For a lot of people, that kind of gospel is offensive. But no one promised us that Christianity would be easy. Our only promise is that Christianity will make us free.

And that is the good news in Paul's conclusion to Romans chapter 11. There is no more a line between Jew and Gentile, between religious people and unreligious people, between acceptable and unacceptable people. All of us are disobedient, yes; all of us need transformation. To the extent that faith in Jesus has changed us, those changes are a gift from God - they are God's mercy poured out upon us. They are not something that we get to boast about, because they are gifts that we receive. All of us -- Christian or not, are deeply loved by God, and he is at work in our lives whether we know it or not. Someone told me once of being present for a sermon where the pastor said, "Sure, God loves everybody, but when you become a Christian, God loves you more." I think there are a lot of people who believe that, and it is a lie. Jesus Christ came to earth as a human being so that he could rescue humanity even while we were yet sinners, Paul says in Romans 5.

When we live in a Christian culture that is willing to stop at nothing to punish evildoers, or to punish those with offensive ideas, you can be sure that we've lost Paul's teaching on sin. There is not a line between "good people" and "bad people" in God's economy. We cannot group the most notorious wicked in a group by themselves, and put the rest of us so-called normal people in a bucket over here labeled "mostly good". The reality is that the line between good and evil runs through every human heart. We are all capable of massive evil, just like we are all capable of profound beauty. And so all of us, from the most saintly to the most profane, are in the same boat of total dependence on the mercy of God.

What is noteworthy here is that Paul doesn't come to much of a conclusion. He says that God hasn't rejected the Jewish people, even though they have not accepted Jesus as Messiah. Instead, God is using their disobedience for a larger purpose - to bring the Gentiles into his people. In turn, the way that God's mercy changes the lives of the Gentiles will be a testimony back to the Jews. Ultimately, God will use the disobedience of everyone, Jew and Gentile, to bring about mercy for all people. He doesn't tell us that hell will be empty, though it seems that it's alright for us to hope and pray that this will be the case, that God's mercy will overcome even doubts and fears that we put in God's way. But we don't know the details here, and Paul doesn't give them to us. But instead of spelling out how this is, he breaks into doxology: "O the depth of the riches and wisdom and knowledge of God. How unsearchable are his judgments and how inscrutable his ways!" We don't know how God will resolve all of this. We don't know how the Jews will come to faith in Jesus. We just know that God desires to be merciful to all. How could that happen? We don't know. In verse 25, Paul calls all of this a mystery, and it is: we don't know all the details because the Bible doesn't give them us. All we know is that we can be confident of God's mercy to save that which he loves.

As I was preparing this sermon this week, I ran across the story of blues musician Daryl Davis, the subject of a 2016 documentary called Accidental Courtesy. Davis, a black man, has for a number of years befriended members of the Ku Klux Klan. He had initially planned to write a book about the Klan and so began interviewing their members in the early 1990s. He never set out with a goal of converting them to a different way of thinking; he just opened dialog with them. He said that he started having these dialogs to try to ask Klan members "how they could hate him if they didn't even know him?" His Christian faith deeply informed his work. Instead of simply preaching to them directly about how the Bible condemns racism, he tries to find common interests in music or in other areas to show them that he is a person. He says that "what you have to understand about the Klan is that this is a group of people who feels inferior, and the only they can feel superior is by making others feel inferior. So you have to care about them as people to show them that actually, they're not inferior after all." As a result of friendships with Davis, more than 200 former Klan members gave up their racist views and left the Klan, because through talking with him they came to realize their views were wrong. (https://www.goodnewsnetwork.org/black-man-befriending-kkk-members-lead-200-people-quitting-organization)

I once studied with a man who had been a pastor of Assemblies of God churches for many years. In his first church, the pastor and his 8 year old son were accosted by a man who had some kind of conflict with the pastor. The man yelled and screamed and called the pastor all sorts of names in front of his son, and then left. The pastor was broiling mad and shaking and couldn't believe that this man would do that in front of his son. Just as the pastor was trying to figure out how to talk with his son, whose name was Jonathan, about what happened, Jonathan piped up, "Dad, that man was really angry. He must have been really hurting inside." This pastor was shocked into silence, for out of the mouth of a babe came profound wisdom. Thereafter in his teaching, the pastor taught something he called "The Jonathan Principle". You have to look past the words, look past the actions and see the need.

So in the Christian church, we don't excuse violent anger. We don't excuse racism or white supremacy. We don't excuse greed or theft or adultery or dishonesty or rude behavior or gossip or name-calling or a thousand other things. But thanks be to God that Jesus Christ looked past our words, looked our actions, and saw our need for mercy.

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