#because he was so YOUNG and Henry kept trying to preserve as much of his innocence as possible

[morganas-pendragons]

gets so much worse if you listen to safe and sound by taylor swift during Sam’s last hours as a human

bruh wtf

[mean-scarlet-deceiver]

How would Nobby react to Gordon? I could either see Nobby trying to impart wisdom onto the young engine only for Gordon to blow him off because “I’m the best engine ever” Or Nobby doing a double take because how did they get another pacific???? This backwater island that was begging to buy any locomotives just bought 2 large steam engines?? How???

Yeah, that pretty well nails it. Well, that nails everyone’s reaction ("How did they get another Pacific????" — and remember that the N.W.R. is acquiring more large engines circa 1922-3 than just Henry and Gordon. Somehow they got a whole shed full of 'em.) But Nobby in particular has some experience with Topham Hatt’s method of procuring engines… so his reaction might be more specifically "What is the catch with this one?" and "Wonder if Hatt actually went to inspect this one first or if this is yet another deal he struck sight unseen and just… hoped for the best." You know. Questions for the ages.

As for Gordon’s reaction to Nobby trying to boss him around impart pearls of wisdom, well, yeah, I think you’ve pretty much called it. I’d say for the most part Nobby, especially at first, would like to very much ignore Gordon. Nobby’s got not only the Furness engines but now all sorts of newcomers into their territory to keep track of (also they keep renumbering everyone so that’s a headache right there), the N.W.R. is not his responsibility and, as of the year Gordon comes, those engines come and go too quickly to bother with them anyhow. It’s not like the new Pacific doesn’t seem to be able to garner all the attention he wants from his own railway. 

BUT sometimes Gordon’s… high-spirited behavior must be checked for the sake of station decorum and when Nobby does intervene the tension is HIGH. Coz usually Nobby is only telling him something that a long string of people and engines have told him already, and Gordon would LOVE to loftily sweep his objections aside right along with everyone else’s. But… Nobby has two advantages that no one else around does:

1) Gordon comes installed with respect for preserved engines, they’re the only engines further up the hierarchy than, well, you know. Him. Hierarchy is very important in G.N.R. culture, it’s rigid, and at first no one Over Here thinks Gordon knows anything about etiquette, but it’s just that G.N.R. hierarchy is… different. Unlike, say, the Furnessians, Gordon doesn’t have to defer to humans in general, no not even drivers, or at least drivers-who-didn’t-distinguish-themselves-during-the-Great-Races (oh God, Gordon’s first Sodor driver had nerves of steel, raise a glass); he also doesn't have to respect older engines who are not his direct forbears; hell, at first Gordon manages to even rationalise away nearly half of Topham Hatt I’s authority (Gordon is great at rationalisation, he’s a genius at it). HOWEVER. Preserved engines do outrank him. Unequivocally. So when Coppernob reproves him, Gordon is FURIOUS but… he can’t talk back. But this is also 1920s Gordon, who WILL burst a safety valve before taking anything he doesn’t like. BUT this is a PRESERVED ENGINE. #$%^&@!!!!

So Gordon would fall lividly silent and glare at Nobby in a way that would unsettle or provoke any other engine (Nobby doesn’t give a shit) and just sail into a fuming bout of mental trigonometry, furiously trying to work out some sort of excuse by which he can decide Coppernob is an illegitimate member of what he regards as one of the most respectable clubs in the world. Unfortunately... he can’t do it. (Maybe if Gordon had known Edward Bury had been sacked as loco supe from the GNR after cheating the company, lmao. But I don’t think Gordon does know this.) SO HE’S JUST SO PISSED OFF. How did he get exiled to the middle of nowhere, AND SOMEHOW THERE’S A BOSSY ENGINE FROM THE RAILWAY BOOM ERA kept here in immaculate condition to purely for the purpose of annoying him??! It's — it's — 'disgraceful' doesn't even seem to cover it, somehow. It's like you need more words than that. Hmmm.

Anyway, somehow — even with his resentment topping out at 10000% — Gordon keeps his mouth shut. 

Which is stunning. I think the first time it happens, Gordon’s poor driver nearly falls off the footplate. Silence is golden, man. 

Nobby himself is a little surprised at how easy it is to check Gordon — unless his temper is maxed out (which is not in fact an everyday occurrence), most of the Seagulls give him WAY more lip, and 133 is currently running him ragged at every opportunity. He’s already observed that Gordon’s temper is equal to his own so was expecting one hell of an argument, not instant submission.

Now, it would take a heart of stone to not be tempted to use this unexpected superpower to fuck with the temperamental young thoroughbred...

... and Nobby ain’t exactly a saint, so he goes right on ahead fully enjoying the ability to yank Gordon’s chain. 

2) But after a year this is starting to wear off — like most new engines, Gordon’s "programming" is not impervious to environment and experience, and, when you chuck him to a railway clear on the other side of the country, it’s gonna start crumbling even sooner. As far as Gordon is concerned, he’s been exiled to the WILDERNESS, he had to put up with all manner of indignities (a goods train! a goods train!), the social contract is already in cinders so he does NOT have to put up with Nobby giving him unreasonable orders like "pronounce the 'r' in 'Furness'" and "don’t call your fireman a blasted fool in the middle of my station" and "say 'thank you' to our station pilot or I’ll have you sent back to Doncaster on five separate flatbeds" and "if I’ve told you once then this makes it twice, 'Furness' requires an 'r' sound in the middle, don’t make me say it again."

So things might have changed, but Nobby gets a second trump card up his sleeve after going to the Wembley Exhibition. Coz now he’s acquainted with the Flying Scotsman. And he can not-so-subtly remind Gordon, if Gordon is being especially absurd, that he may well be in a position in the future to tell tales about him to his famous little brother. Maybe even tells Gordon that Gordon can let him know if he has a message for Scotsman, next time he writes… (It’s only Columbine that Nobby exchanges letters with but Gordon doesn’t need to know that.) 

At the same time, Nobby kept Scotsman in line during all the months of the Wembley Exhibition by pointedly talking up what a responsible and respectable and restrained engine Scot’s older brother Gordon is, what a fine young engine, I see him every day back home, he’s the epitome of grace (or whatever other quality Scotsman is failing to demonstrate on that particular day). 

I expect in ’68 Gordon and Scotsman realized that the wily old crafter had bludgeoned them both by talking each other up behind their tenders to each other, instilling them with low-key inferiority complexes that lasted until roughly that minute. While never once saying anything nice about either of them to their own faces. 

(They laughed, but only Scotsman really let it go. Gordon would still get Nobby back for it if he ever saw an opportunity. Not like this consumes him, not at all, but he just, like, listen. He’s aware that there is a score to settle… and Gordon believes in revenge served cold.)  

[tornadoyoungiron]

What's the deal with Green Arrow?

Young Iron AU - Green Arrow a little history 😘

His class got kinda ignored and belittled by the bigger Gresley’s and he’s always been underestimated or pushed to the side. Green Arrow’s the first and last of the Gresley LNER V2’s and the most famous. A lot of them didn’t really understand why Arrow was preserved but otherwise just ignored him. He got to shine a few times and he has a significant fanbase of his own. One of his favourite moments was pulling the train with Thomas and befriending him.

Arrow became Director Richard Dover’s favourite engine and he was pushed into the limelight and became the leading icons of the NRM for a while. That was until the Flying Scotsman entered the Museum’s collection and took his place and the restoration that was promised to him. Because of this, Arrow grew hateful and nasty as he was locked in a shed. He became ever more bitter as the Scotsman took over the role of Museum ✨ IDOL ✨ and had all the money throw his way while Arrow became in desperate need of repairs. He began to spread rumours and tell lies about the other engines, trying to make other engines look bad and try them against each other while trying to set himself up to return to one as of the museums star attractions.

Eventually the other engines caught on to his deceptive nature and shunned him. It didn’t stop him from trying to get one up on others though as he was very good at talking his way out of things and charming other engines with his sweet word play. People often underestimate his intelligence and his ability to trick people into revealing unflattering things about themselves.

When Tornado came on the scene, the other big engines practically shunned her, calling her a ‘fake’ engine or not a true engine. She befriended and hung out with the smaller engines as a result however Arrow approached her with a genuine desire to befriend her. Tornado and Green Arrow became close friends to which Arrow would cherish her and become unhealthily protective of her, to the point of trying to keep the bigger engines for befriending her.

After Arrow lied to her and was pressured into insulting her, Tornado was deeply hurt and cut all ties with him, leaving his friendless and now having all the smaller engines against him as they all adored Tornado. Tornado was brought into the Museum’s inner circle with the Scotsman and Truro, thus separating them even further.

Green Arrow then went on to try and scrap Flying Scotsman which lead to him being locked in a shed indefinitely before Richard Dover tried to steal him to save him from being scrapped by Cain. He was stored at Crewe where someone removed his voice box, causing him to become mute before being sent to Sodor as a loan to assist the growing workload on the Island.

To say the Sudrian engines did not approve of him was an understatement as they constantly bullied him with the exception of Thomas, Edward, BoCo and Salty.

Fun facts:

~ He’s probably one of the most intelligent and clever of the mainland engines. The dude is smart and knows it too.

~ He’s also one of the hardest workers. His work ethic is literally insane. He gives Duck a run for his money, so much so that Duck is secretly impressed with him, though he’d never tell him that.

- He might be smaller than Engines like Henry or Gordon but he can be just as strong as they are.

~ His class’s wheels are sensitive to poor tracks which often lead to him being derailed or accidents. Because of this he’s only allowed on the newer tracks which lead to him kind of acting like a Karen at times complaining about poorly kept railways.

[shattered-mirror-fanfic]

Chapter 2 is finally out! I’ll try not to take as long with chapter 3!

A03 link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32206135/chapters/80533708#workskin

Chapter text below th cut for people who don’t use Ao3:

It was cold...too cold. Darkness was everywhere, he looked down seeing blood smeared on his jacket. He didn’t like these colors, they were violent ones...wait what had happened? It was all coming back, all of it in slow motion. His ears were ringing as a gunshot played over and over in his mind. Screaming, crying, blood, pain...it always was his unwanted home. 

~~~

Right Hand Man woke up in a cold sweat, had it all been a dream? No, it was real, he wasn’t home. He sat up and looked around at the tent he had woken up in, seeing no one else. Right pulled out his phone (which he noted had a new crack across the top) and checked the time. 11:47. He had never woken up this late, especially when there was something big happening. “Oh fuck me with a metal pipe right up the arse.” He mumbled to himself while sliding off his bed and putting on his boots which had been left beside it. Rustling came from outside and as the australian cocked his head to pear at the source of the noise. Ellie walked in notably with her hair in a low ponytail and without her hat.

"Hey boss, glad you're awake. You completely fainted yesterday after, y'know..." She commented.

“Yeah...um, can I ask wot happened while I was out?” Right asked in response.

“Oh yeah, it was still pretty intense....” 

The events of the previous night had started with a strong wind, and ended with a hurricane. Once the government had fled, everything broke down. Henry had immediately darted out, followed by Alphys, Asgore and Frisk. Everyone was panicking. But Right Hand Man...he was silent, cradling Reginald’s newly deceased body in his arms. Have you ever seen a grown man cry? It’s depressing, even more so when it’s a 6’5” australian man with barely anything to lose. Except he just lost the one thing he could lose. Right was trembling for the first time in his life since he was a young lad, tears were rushing down his face as he pulled his best friend closer. He felt the brunette in his arms feel lighter and he cracked his blurred eyes open enough to see Reginald start to fade. Right sobbed more, quietly sputtering out “no”s, all while the teal soul was cracking away, little chips flying off into the wind before dulling and fading. The sun had set, the heart stopped beating. It was all dark, and Right collapsed.

The red-headed woman briefed her boss on everything before addressing which of the tents set up was where Reginald’s broken soul was located.

“Wait, so you’re telling me he's alive?!” Right asked loudly.

“Well, no, the doc just said she had this tank thing that can preserve human souls so she thought it may even work with the chief's soul.” Ellie responded. “Anyways, the doc and Ms. Toriel said they’ll try their best to use healing magic to repair him but it probably won’t work.”

“Hold on, who’s this Toriel lady?”

“Oh yeah, you didn’t get to meet the other monsters yesterday, Ms. Toriel is Asgore’s ex-wife, she’s super nice and patched me up since I got a cut on my arm.” 

“Huh, guess I missed a lot…”

“Yeah, here, if you wanna I can introduce you to everyone, how does that sound?”

“Sure but, can we check on Reg first?”

“Yeah, but how come, he’s just a soul right now?”

“I miss him…”

~~~

Frisk and Henry decided that staying around the makeshift camp was too stuffy, so they headed into town. It wasn’t that bad of a walk terrain wise, but it was still pretty long. Henry decided that maybe being dressed like a wanted criminal wasn’t a good idea, so he had kept his hair in a low ponytail today, leaving his hat at camp and wearing his old jacket over top of his normal fancy clothes. 

As they entered town Frisk reached up and tugged on Henry’s jacket, making him turn and kneel down to their height.

“Hey kid what’s wrong?” Henry asked calmly. Frisk couldn’t find the words to explain it, so they moved their hands in intricate motions, signing to Henry that they’re scared. Henry smiled and signed back saying that he understood and stood back up, grabbing Frisk’s hand in his own and walking with them into the town. They strolled for a bit until they reached a library. Henry pushed open the door to the dark shop, everything seemed old and sketchy. Henry flicked the light switch, lighting up everything and showing not a single speck of dust. All the books in sight seemed brand new, the floor itself looked recently polished. 

“Ah visitors, it’s been too long” A voice chimed from up the stairs. Down walked a man of average height, he had tan skin and dark brown hair pulled into a soft ponytail along his back. He wore grey glasses and a light orange apron, all tied together with a dark blue tie with a small shiny pendant on it. “My name is Mr. Williams, how may I help you?”

“Um hi, I’m Henry, we’re looking for specific books.” Henry said, rubbing the back of his neck. 

“Of course, what genre?”

“I’m looking for a book on politics and Mr. Henry is looking for books on human souls.” Frisk chimed in.

“Great, Henry, do you see the shelf by the mirror over there? The books over there should be what you're looking for” The man said, gesturing his hand towards a mirror hanging on the wall. “As for you young child, let me show you where the political books are.” 

Henry made his way to where Mr. Williams had gestured too, turning his head only once to make sure Frisk was okay. The white-haired man sighed as he scanned over the books looking for the correct one. One stood out among the others, it was an older book with a leather cover, he pulled it out of the shelf and stared at the cover. Guide to souls, and how to work soul bonds. Henry shrugged and opened up the table of contents when something caught his eye. One of the very last chapters was titled “How to undo an unwanted soul bond”. He flipped right to the page it would be on, desperate for answers, unfortunately fate was kicking him in the rear this time when the page was shown to be torn out and missing. Great, just freaking great.

“What’s wrong Heny~ Sick of me already?” Henry turned to the ghost behind him. 

“Leave me alone player, I was doing fine before you came along” He stated coldly.

“Don’t you see Hen, you need me, you’re only here because I made you better, and I still need to repay my debt for you helping me all those years ago.”

“I was a child, I of course helped you, just because I did that doesn’t mean I need a demon following me throughout my life!” Henry shout whispered. 

"Eh, everyone's a critic, now if you excuse me, I have to take a snack break.”

“Don’t you dare say it-”

“On the fear of weak.” 

“Of freaking course you drama royal.” 

“Thank you for using the correct pronouns.”

“I’m not an asshole” Henry laughed, following it with a frown. He looked back down at the book in his hand, flipping through the other pages before looking back up. “Hey could you-”

Gone. Player had vanished, like always. The man sighed and turned to the shelf to find another book.

~~~

A few hours had gone by before Henry and Frisk met back up at the entrance to the building, Frisk holding three novel length books on politics for beginners and Henry just with the leather book with the missing page.

“Well I hope you two found everything you needed, feel free to keep those books, I really don’t need them.” The librarian said with a smile. Henry felt something off this time, but shrugged it off as something to not worry about. Frisk wasn’t satisfied with what the kind gentleman had said and reached into their pocket. “Oh, you don’t need to pay, please it’s the least I could do for you lovely folks.”

“Mr. Williams sir, is something wrong?” The child asked, tilting their head to the side. 

“No, no, I’m perfectly grand, I just thought it would be a nice thing to do since you two stopped by.” Mr. Williams reassured. “But, maybe I have been a bit lonely, you see, I lost my daughters a few years ago and no one takes interest in my library anymore.”

Frisk nodded before asking, “What were your daughters' names?”

“I see you're quite the learner young one, very well then. My younger daughter was Cassie, she was a really sweet girl and my older daughter was Amy, she was like a little mini-me.” Mr. Williams said with a spark of joy, dimming as he finished his sentence. Frisk blinked for a moment before reaching into their pocket and pulling out a light orange cloth wrapped around a box-like object (how Frisk was carrying this, Henry didn’t know). 

“I found these, they had your daughters’ names on them, I thought you may want them back.” The child said, unwrapping the fabric to show it was an apron wrapped around a dark purple journal. Frisk passed them to a baffled Mr. Williams as he stared at the objects.

"Th-thank you Frisk, this means so much." He responded, tears welling in his eyes. The man held them close, not wanting to let go at all. 

The store fell silent as the three said their goodbyes. Henry and Frisk left, books in hand, ready to go back. Mr. Williams smiled for what felt like the first time in years. He set the journal and apron on the table below the mirror. He turned ready to head back upstairs to enjoy some tea, but he heard the noise of glass shattering, darting back around to see his mirror broken, right from the center. Two of the shards landed each on his daughter's possessions. 

He thought to himself, they need me, don’t they?

[springfieldblues]

my long ass review for S32E03 Now Museum, Now You Don’t

warning: LONG because i rambled about history more than i thought i would

id been looking forward to this one because i like art history, especially after seeing how they tried their best to stick to historical accuracy in the previous episode I, Carumbus. this time however….they didnt try that hard. i dont know why i thought theyd go through that sort of trouble again LMAO

but its okay, i dont really expect the simpsons to be the paragon of historical accuracy or anything. especially in anthology episodes told through a particular character's lens (in this case, lisa, whos already feverish so whatever)

first i just wanna say that this is, i guess, less of a review and more of an accidental list of history fun facts. so im just gonna get my general thoughts out of the way first.

the episode was fun! to me at least haha. i mean it got me to think and do a lot of research on my own so that must count for something. besides a couple of really weird ones, the jokes were good. anthology episodes tend to be….not that good but i thought this one was one of the better ones so far. idk.

anyway on to lisanardo da vinky its the renaissance! jesus christ the italian accents in the beginning of this segment were annoying as hell but i also feel like that was the joke lmao. ill be real i kind of tuned out for a second there when grampa started rambling so idk what he said.

i told myself i wouldnt get nitpicky with historical accuracy if the jokes were funny (final edit: so that was a lie) but this meh bit with the pizza guys and mascots was really not worth ignoring the fact that its impossible for italy to have any tomato-based food in the 15th century (tomatoes were brought to europe from the americas in the 16th century, and pizza as we know it today—flatbread, cheese, tomato—originated in the late 18th century)

oh this next part was kind of legit tho. lisanardo, like the real leonardo, became andrea del verrochio's apprentice at his workshop. i loved this next bit:

"Whoever paints the sweetest cherub will have the honor of having MY name signed on their work. That's what great artists do!"

SO YEAH as it turns out, lisanardo painted the sweetest cherubs. the painting here is called The Baptism of Christ, and the real leonardo assisted verrochio in finishing it. specifically, he painted the cherubs in the corner.

this causes verrochio to quit and go someplace with less talented people: a music school (yes, verrochio did quit painting after getting owned by young leo and his mad angel painting skills. he never did anything with music tho, he was more of a sculptor)

alongside lisanardo, in mr largo-verrochio's workshop we have barticelli (botticelli bart), dolphatello (donatello dolph), ralphael (raphael...ralph) and mediocrito (no one that i know of. sorry milhouse) (and kearney i guess but they dont refer to him by name). botticelli and donatello are said to have also been apprentices at verrochio's workshop, but raphael came a couple of decades later so he couldnt have been there. and donatello was too old so that claim is a bit questionable. but anyway

it IS true that leonardo's peers envied him, to the point where he was anonymously and purposefully accused of being gay (a major crime punishable by death in 15th century florence) while he was still working at verrochio's workshop

we are then treated by what im pretty sure is the fourth time the show has used 'at seventeen' by janis ian, this time sung by a dejected lisanardo (man they really do keep making yeardley sing these days huh) who only wishes to be appreciated and not envied.

"I'll show them all! I'll show them all in a secret diary that no one will decipher for 400 years!"

some of lisanardo's future inventions. who wouldve known

so after barticelli, for some reason (revenge??? or something?? what was his plan here idgi) steals lisanardo's diaries full of blueprints of her inventions and takes them to mr burns who i have to assume is pope alexander VI here, they decide to use her inventions for war.

"With these, we can kill the most evil people in the world!! ....Slightly different Christians."

leo actually did this of his own accord. im surprised this is what they decided to do with lisanardo instead of talking about leo's love of nature and vegetarianism (not a single mention of that in this episode? come on...) then again, trying to do good only to end up indirectly making things worse is a very standard lisa storyline. i guess they didnt want to miss the chance to have evil pope burns (very fitting, especially for that era since they were all about money and controlling the people)

so lisanardo decides to leave for france, unlike the real leonardo who was more or less persuaded by his ultimate fanboy king francis I to move to france.

"Lisanardo, I have many questions. Why are you hitting yourself? A nerd says 'what'? And how is it possible that I am rubber and you are glue? Et cetera, et cetera."

that line may seem a little random, like hes just nelson saying nelson things (and i mean, obviously he is) but the real francis also "had an unquenchable thirst for learning, and Leonardo was the world’s best source of experimental knowledge. He could teach the king about almost any subject there was to know, from how the eye works to why the moon shines." so yeah, he did have many questions and lisanardo, finally being appreciated for her intellect, was happy to answer them all. its very interesting how lisa assigned this role to nelson in her retelling of da vinci’s life :^)

and so she lived the rest of her days in france, nat king cole's 'mona lisa' plays because duh, and they make a da vinci code reference because duh. and the segment ends. and not a single time did they show the actual mona lisa painting. the fuck?

(ngl i was fully expecting bart to say 'leonardo da vinky' for a second here)

so this next segment is about french impressionist painters, most likely the batignolles group, a name adopted by the early representatives of impressionism. its much more vague than the lisanardo segment since no one here is referred to by name (except moe, more on him in a sec) but i dont feel like it really matters in this case. bart is prrrrooobably claude monet but its hard to say, this segment is kind of a mish-mash of a lot of things. also i gotta say i really liked how lisa introduced the story to bart with an 'if you hate the formal study of art' and not 'if you hate art' because thats exactly my headcanon. i LOVE the concept of artist bart and whenever its referenced it just makes perfect sense to me.

anyway the segment opens in 1863 at the école des beaux-arts (back then it was actually known as the académie des beaux-arts), preserver of traditional french art styles. skinner reviews his students’ paintings one by one. praises the plain, unimaginative paintings depicting your typical european countryside landscapes. very run-of-the-mill (haha get it...cuz theres….a windmill) (although the real académie didnt approve of such basic stuff, they wanted artists to draw epic historical and mythological scenes) then he gets to barts painting and he gives him an F- because the painting made him think.

(the paintings in this scene arent real famous paintings as far as i know but they are inspired by real paintings enough to get the point across)

in comes barney dressed as bacchus as a model for the students to sketch, which i just loved:

barney: “You prefer robe open or robe off?” skinner: “Just cover your privates with this walnut shell.” barney: “Whoa!!! So roomy!”

skinner gasps in horror at bart’s sketch, which “looks nothing like him” and bart explains that “it shouldn’t; we’re making the art that we feel because we can’t compete with a camera.” damn, you go bart. take that, realism. draw what you feel!!

(also no, you didnt need to hold still for 17 hours for a daguerreotype. 30 min tops.)

nelson haw-haw of the week: FOIE-gras!

so here they are at the moulin rouge (“enjoy it before baz luhrmann ruins it” hey shut up. i love that movie), which wouldnt be built for another 26 years, but it is the most widely known gathering place for bohemians in the public consciousness so i can understand why they went with the moulin. nelson delivers this anachronistic line:

“This époque keeps getting beller and beller!”

which alludes to la belle époque, the golden age of france usually dated from 1880 to 1914. made me snort so ill let that slide

and heres moe! as henri de toulouse-lautrec, who was actually born a year after the year this segment is set in. yo moe szyslak he was just 1

toulouse-moetrec introduces himself as the chronicler of the demimonde (not an actual job). an iconic figure associated with the moulin rouge (largely due to his affinity for alcohol and prostitutes), toulouse-lautrec was also a painter, having illustrated a series of posters for the moulin himself. he simply had to be in this segment, anachronisms be damned, just because they decided to include the moulin. cant have one without the other.

and yes he did have a walking cane where he kept his liquor.

i love how everyone drinks absinthe in this place. theyre bohemians what else would they drink

toulouse-moetrec points out that barts paintings are the greatest thing hes ever seen (and hes seen like five things!) and that hes a genius. milhouse realizes that they should stop doing what the teacher says and use their own minds to instead...start doing what bart says lmao. to the easels!

next we have skinner hyping up chalmers about the art his students made for the salon de paris, an art exhibition that the emperor of france will attend. he assures him that none of these paintings will encourage debate, provoke thought or be out of place at a dentist’s office. when they unveil the art, theyre both SHOCKED at how scandalous the paintings actually are.

this reaction was kind of accurate. impressionism was severely rejected at the salon de paris, due to paintings not looking finished enough to them, they thought they were ugly and vulgar for depicting nudity in a contemporary setting (historical and mythological nudity was fine). these impressionist paintings were sent to the salon de refusés, which is. yeah. the place where they sent the rejects. the salon de refusés does not make an appearance but this scene makes a reference to it when the artists get expelled from the royal salon. also:

“What about our student loans?” “Oh they’ll be refunded. We are not barbarians, I mean, come on.”

(god if only)

so the painters are down because they want the emperor to actually see their paintings. toulouse-moetrec pipes in once again with an idea.

“There is one thing the emperor loves more than anything.” “France?” “No, he hates France.”

apparently the emperor really loves cheese, which makes sense since its napoleon III (who loved cheese) and homer (who loves cheese.) so the painters roll into the salon inside a giant wheel of cheese (obviously.) as lenny said, “Eh, you know French cheese. Very runny.” napoleon III chases after the wheel into a room, where the wheel falls apart after getting chomped on by the emperor. now that they got his attention, the painters proudly show the emperor their impressionist art, which he couldnt be more indifferent about because he just wants to eat his cheese dammit, and he awards them with the royal medallion just to kind of get them out of his way. skinner immediately starts kissing ass (as he does) until marge’s like ‘hey wait a minute. you expelled these students from the royal salon’ and an executioner immediately starts ominously measuring skinners neck.

“Uh, sir...is your tongue sticking out because you’re dead or because you’re mad at me?”

and thats the end of that lmao (gore in this episode, gore in the last episode, and next week we’re getting gore too cuz its THOH, what the hell is goin on)

we get a short intermission with maggie, who wants a story for her too! lisa tells her that renaissance artists loved to put babies in their paintings, especially baby angels.

here she is showing her The Triumph Of Galatea by raphael:

King David Playing The Harp by peter paul reubens:

and a very simplified version of pretty much any depiction of hell by hyeronimus bosch lmao:

not much else to say about this one, really. but i really liked that sky!

the last segment is about frida kahlo and diego rivera. or as bart puts it ‘the one about a fat guy whos wife is too good for him.’ i was REALLY looking forward to this one because i love frida and i thought itd be a cool opportunity for animators to go bonkers and do really cool shit with her art as inspiration…..but the segment is not about frida, its about diego and his selling out to capitalism. and its also yet another story with homer and marge drama. no funky cool animation here. sigh i guess i’ll take it

the story begins in 1929 at la casa azul, frida’s home (now museum dedicated to her life and work.) frida and diego are getting married. this courtyard definitely did not look this way yet back in 1929. also theres something very cringy yet funny about lovejoy saying spanish words the way he does, i honestly cant decide how i feel about that one

the writers know theyre being cringy with their gringoness so they go along with it.

moe: “Spanish for ‘best wishes’!” mel: “Spanish for ‘congratulations’!” bumblebee man: “Spanish for ‘muy bueno’!”

OH YEAH BUMBLEBEE MAN this is his new voice actor, eric lopez! hes not mexican but its still great to finally have a latino actor voicing a latino character and hes very excited to be part of the show so i hope to hear more of him!! im rooting for him

el barto/zorro makes an appearance which i am very confused about. he has jack shit to do with frida and diego and mexico in the 20s-30s. el zorro was set in the spanish california of the early 19th century. their use of the original theme song makes me think they just wanted to flex their disney privileges tbh

lets not talk about that that whole scene was bad

anyway diego announces he and frida are going to new york, without even asking her first. frida is obviously pissed.

“Don’t worry, as a woman, you’ll be treated with much more respect in America.”

so in new york, diego is having a bit of a business meeting with mr burns as one of the members of the rockefellers, who is commissioning him to draw a mural for the rockefeller center. its kinda funny how he refers to him and frida as socialists even though they were very much communists lmao its okay you can say it. ok so far, but then frida says ‘yes, we hate the capitalists! right now, a young socialist is being born who will take them down! mr. bernie sanders. i hope hes quick about it’ and that was a simple enough joke and couldve been left at that but then its immediately followed by this weird as fuck family guy-esque cutaway gag to bernie as a baby:

“Getting a cootie shot should not cost your lunch money. And if you don’t listen to me, listen to the Bernie Babies! What? Everybody’s got goons.” *larger babies start beating up this other baby* “I disavow that, and welcome it.”

this confused me so much that i had to ask one of my american friends to help me understand, but even she was like ‘uhhh yeah thats a weird joke,’ especially now that hes been out of the race for months (then again these episodes take almost a year to produce. i guess they couldnt be bothered to replace it with something more relevant.) whatever that was weird and confusing and unfunny moving on

frida is pretty irked that diego is going through with this deal. after all, it goes against everything they believe in. im not sure how the real frida felt about diego doing the mural, but she did feel a bit of rage during her visit to the united states, especially the obvious disparity between rich and poor. she hated having to interact with capitalists and found americans very boring. in this segment, frida seems to be acting more like the american communist party, which diego got kicked out of for accepting commissions from wealthy patrons. in any case, frida is pretty upset about this whole thing.

and finally we get the first and only kind of surreal frida moment. kinda. maybe. its more cartoonish than anything but im desperate ok

interesting how they felt like they had to add a “don’t smoke” in big letters after showing patty and selma flying away on their giant cigarettes. i wonder if this is something theyre making them do now? i remember hearing something about them toning down patty and selma’s smoking

diego comes home to frida, drunk as hell, followed by the marx brothers. i cant believe they didnt make a marxism joke come on it was RIGHT THERE. THE MARX BROTHERS. KARL MARX. COME ON

frida paints her feelings.

this makes diego realize that frida is a genius and he is not half the artist she is. he proclaims he will now show his awe of her by sleeping with other women, starting “an hour ago.” to which frida replies, “and i will start sleeping with other women, starting two hours ago.” yes this was pretty much their relationship. though im just wondering how the hell did diego not know frida was this kind of artist until now? i know homers an idiot but jeez. art was how frida and diego met, diego knew from the get-go that frida was an incredible artist. i guess the fame got to his head or something. again, homer just being stupid.

“well enough already, while the art is still deco, okay?”

its time for the mural diego painted, Man At The Crossroads, to be unveiled:

rockefeller examines it. good and great so far, and then...uh oh

“Who’s that fellow…? With the beard, and the bolshevik smile…” “That’s the founder of Soviet Russia, Lenin!”

“B-b-but he’s a communist!” “Oh he just attended a couple of meetings.”

rockefeller will not have this communist in the temple to capitalism that is the rockefeller center, so he orders diego to paint over it. diego stands his ground and refuses. despite rockefeller’s threats, diego says that theres only one person he wants to be proud of him no matter what and in true homer & marge fashion, frida is touched by this. they happily leave the rockefeller center.

now, the real story of Man At The Crossroads and the rockefeller center was actually not that different. as soon as the rockefellers found out diego had snuck in a portrait of lenin into the mural, they ordered him to paint over it, to which he refused. diego even offered to include abraham lincoln and even american abolitionists in the mural as a compromise, but the rockefellers simply did not want any references to communism whatsoever. they did not complain about the hammer and sickle, though. yes, they did know diego was a communist and hired him anyway. what did they expect? lmao. diego said:

"Rather than mutilate the conception [of the mural], I shall prefer the physical destruction of the conception in its entirety, but preserving, at least, its integrity."

so they decided to destroy the mural before it was even finished and they never talked to each other again.

diego then repainted the mural at the palacio de bellas artes back in mexico, this time known as Man, Controller of the Universe. this new version included even more communist leaders and a depiction of john d. rockefeller jr. drinking at a nightclub, right underneath a depiction of syphilis bacteria. cue nelson haw-haw:

this was the version they used in the episode also, since the original was, well, never finished and also destroyed. only a black and white photograph of it exists, taken by diego before it was destroyed so he could remake it.

right so, homer!diego then pulls a Barthood and finishes the episode with a large mural summarizing the entire episode. he says some rick and morty thing i didnt get because i dont watch the show idk idc

the end

ALRIGHT NOW ITS TIME FOR THE STORY OF VINCENT VAN MOE

[webgeekist]

I woke last night, and the beast had been there before me.  She placed my hand over your throat.  I’m not sure if she’s graced me with a warning, or if I stopped her before she could take you, but I can’t allow her to try again.  I can’t let her take you, too.

—

Jamie wasn’t surprised when she received the invitation.  The children may not remember her well, perhaps a passing memory as their uncle’s old friend, but he would have been sure to grant an opportunity in Flora’s wedding for a reassurance that they were thriving and happy, for a chance to see them again, even if they could hardly remember her.  And, perhaps most, for the opportunity to see what her wife’s sacrifice had provided his family, and that it, maybe, it was worth something.

The pain wasn’t in the invitation.  It was in the knowledge that Miles and Flora wouldn’t remember the very reason the invitation had been so important.  The children didn’t remember Dani at all.

Owen called her to ask if she would make it out.  He more than Henry was aware of what the past seven years had done, the significance of Flora’s chosen wedding date, entirely coincidental, and what attending any wedding at all might stir.  It had been but days after Vermont had granted the two of them some pseudo-legal way of putting their five year marriage to paper when Viola finally took Dani, when Dani had finally lost the battle to bear even her own weight, and the loss of that life had left Jamie sunk into the dirt, tending only to her plants.  For a while, Owen tried to keep tabs on her, knowing himself what it was like to grieve so deeply, but Jamie had shut him out after a while with the rest of the world.  Their calls were short, more of a welfare check than a conversation.

She didn’t want to go, if she were being honest, but she didn’t tell Owen that.  She suspected he didn’t have to hear it.  Hiding in grief was something they had both been good at, in their times.  So it again came as no surprise when, arriving late to the rehearsal dinner as she did, mid-toast to a girl at the head of the table who remembered him far better than the silver-haired new arrival at the very end, Owen stopped speaking.  What went through his mind as she took her seat was anyone’s guess, but Jamie thought in that moment that fear might have passed over his face.  She was aware of how time had changed her.  She paid it little care.  Time spent looking in reflections was time spent looking for something other than her own.

Reflections were things that traveled with her, but Jamie had searched for seven long years.  She was terrified of the idea that Dani would come home, find the apartment they shared empty, and never come back again.  She filled every basin with water as she went, begging the Lady of the Lake to follow her across a vast and wide country, an ocean and more removed from her home in the inky waters at Bly.

It was nice to see Flora so happy.  Jamie might not have stayed for the whole affair at all if the girl’s face didn’t seem so familiar in her love, and it allowed her to remember what that felt like.  It’s not that the memories faded.  It’s not that she didn’t keep them close.  It’s that in her grief and her emptiness, she imagined she knew what Dani felt like as the last of her days approached — there, but not.  Going through the motions of life without ever really feeling any of it.

She was so sure Dani had never meant to leave her so broken, understood why she had let Viola finally have control.  In the last weeks, she was so, so tired.  Jamie had tried so hard to bear both their weights, but the last of it— the heaviest of it— was beyond her, though she had tried with her whole heart.

Dani would never let her.

Into the night, she was surprised that she lingered.  Seated by a warm fireplace, listening to the stories she had missed in Flora’s life, smiling at stories about the adventures she and her soon-to-be-husband had already been on, blissfully unaware of the harrowing tale she had already participated in.

And then, they spoke of ghosts, and that was a subject that Jamie for all her quiet during the evening was particularly well versed in.

Owen and Henry looked briefly horrified, but...maybe this was why she came.  Maybe the opportunity to tell Flora the story of how she had been granted the opportunity to fall so in love was exactly why she was there.

They were surely afraid she would tell this story, and Flora would remember, but Jamie would never disturb her hard-won happiness.  She would tell the story, change some names around, but leave the indelible message of the tragic tale intact.

And as she told it, she found the remembering pleasant.  Not that she relished telling the story of Hannah Grose’s tragic end, of Owen’s sorrow, or of Henry’s near-death.  She wished as she told the tale that she could change any detail of Dani’s fate at all, but her memory had not been granted the gift of the weathering of time.  She remembered it all as print on the pages of her mind, solid as stone for the rest of her days.

The hour when she finished was late, but she could not regret the telling.  Something inside her felt lighter, as if the story itself had been her own personal beast in the jungle, and telling it had somehow exorcised it.

Owen was the one to usher away her gathered audience, wishing perhaps to stave off too many questions.  She’d been careful to obscure so many details, but the possibility always remained — and Jamie had risked — that one of the children would remember the name she finally gave to the au pair at the end of her story.

Dani.  It was a name they once knew, and had long forgotten.  But Jamie could never, and if they had nothing of the woman who gave them a chance at the happy ending their elders would never have, the children would have this story and Dani’s name.

Jamie hadn’t known what to expect of the gathered crowd’s reactions, but Flora’s simple statement later had been right in a way she had never considered.

Love stories and ghost stories were the same things.  

Their story — their wedding gift to Flora, in a way — was the only way she could keep Dani alive past her own memory, living in more than the moments that were silly or dumb, or made her cry, and that she kept close and dear in her waking mind and in her dreams.

She stayed past when she expected to be able to bear, through the ceremony and into the reception, lighter and happier than she had been in years, and felt a warmth she couldn’t explain.  Something was easier, comfortable, present.  Maybe, Jamie reasoned, she was simply gratified that the little girl she and Dani had once known had grown up into a magnificent young woman, in love and loving, and at peace.

Something of that peace was her own now, a part of whatever the rest of Jamie’s story would be.

The water in the tub was warm and fresh, and in the basin, it stood clean and clear.  Jamie searched those reflections for her lover one last time.  This was her routine.  She would prepare, dress in silk and make herself as pretty as someone sleeping might care to be, and she would sleep by the door opened just a crack.  Sometimes in waking, the remnants of her dream would linger, and she would be fooled into thinking someone was in the room with her.

She smiled softly as she settled into her chair, wishing it were so, and drifted into sleep.

—

“Here’s the thing.  You’re my best friend, and the love of my life.”  Dani’s face was so open in that moment, shining in soft light, the glint of gold held aloft in Jamie’s hand, surrounded by their tiny kitchen and every fledgling plant they cared for.  This was her favorite memory, her best part.  She would live in this moment forever, if she could.

“And I don’t know how much time we have left.  But whatever it is, I want to spend it with you.”

So precious little.  So very much.  What ended up being so many years at the time would have felt like an eternity, but Jamie had lived past the ends of infinity, and been left alone in the dark.

She was so reluctant to break the script of this precious memory, having clung so tightly to it in its exact form for years to preserve it.  She’d always been afraid that saying something else, anything else, would begin an inevitable end.  

All memory fades, eventually.  She had tried so, so hard to make sure Dani’s never would.

“I want this.  So, so much.  All I want with you, Dani, is more time.  We deserved so much more time.”

The woman in her dream paused, and smiled so wide Jamie was left confused for a moment.  Their proposal had been so emotional, so filled with watery gazes and happy tears.  This smile was different, but Dani’s eyes were no less watery.

And blue.  Both of them, the blue she remembered from when they first met.

“I’ve been waiting so long for you to finally say that.”

For a long moment, Jamie simply stared, but she couldn’t bear it any longer.  They crashed forward, embracing each other desperately as they had at the lake so many years ago, and the woman in her arms was so warm, so real that Jamie had difficulty believing that she was dreaming anymore.

“I’ve always been here, Jamie,” the lilt of her voice fluttered across the gardener’s heart, just as her fingers and her warm touch did the same.  “Because you have loved me, I will always be here.  And because I loved you, you’re always with me.”

—-

When she woke, the sun had just begun to make its way across the sky.  She was groggy, still a little tired but….happy.  And warm.

Warm that radiated from a single point on her shoulder.

She turned, as she so often did after waking, as she so often hoped in the space between sleep and full consciousness to catch a glimpse of something she longed for, and when the hand lifting from her shoulder, its ring finger bearing a band that matched her own, came into view her breath caught.

“Dani…”

The morning light was so soft, and Dani looked somehow more ethereal than any Bly ghost had.  Faded, but her face was bright and clear, her blue eyes shone with unshed tears, as beautiful as the day they had met.

“I’m here, Jamie.”  The sound of her name carried on Dani’s trembling voice nearly sent her to tears, but she refused.  She wanted — needed — to see clearly.

“You’ve come back to me.”

She smiled.  “I never left.”

“But I’ve missed you.  So, so much.”

“You held to our memories so tightly, Jamie.  You clung to them like letting them go meant letting me go.  I’ve been here, waiting in your dreams.  But you needed to remember.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before?  Why did you let me cling to them?”

Dani toted her head.  “You carried so much of my burden in life, Jamie.  This was the last.  We were so lucky to have each other for so many days, but we always knew why our time in life together would be short.  That was always our gift for Flora, and in telling our story, you’ve finally delivered it.”

She could feel the truth of those words in the telling.  She’d somehow known all along.  It was why she was all the way out there to begin with.

But with the lightness, a sudden emptiness.  As if she’d forgotten the hole in her heart, she was suddenly reminded by the clenching of it.

Jamie’s tears finally broke.  “How long must I continue without you?”

A watery, ghostly gaze might have broken, as well.  It was hard to tell between tears.

“Would you like company?”

“What?”

“Would you like company?  While you wait?”

Jamie hesitated only a moment before she asked her final question, her whole heart in it.  “Can you stay with me?”

Dani smiled sweetly, but continued to fade in the rising light.  “One night at a time, Love.  We’ll take it one night at a time.  But after that, I promise Jamie, we’ll have forever.  And in the between, remember my note.  Remember what I said.”

Dani faded finally, the daylight taking her, and Jamie was left immediately longing for the next night to come.

But the words in Dani’s final note, suddenly, meant so much more than it had before, and she knew she could make it between the dreams alone, just a little longer.

—

I woke last night, and the beast had been there before me.  She placed my hand over your throat.  I’m not sure if she’s graced me with a warning, or if I stopped her before she could take you, but I can’t allow her to try again.  I can’t let her take you, too.

But I swear to you, Jamie, I will remember.  I will remember your face and your warmth and your heart for as long as you live, and longer.  I will not let time weather what we were to just the shape of it.  What we had is made of stronger stuff than that.

I loved you completely, Jamie.  And you loved me the same.

Live, for the both of us.

[pennyserenade]

FIRST LINE GAME

Rules: List the first lines of your last 20 stories (if you have less than 20, just list them all!). See if there are any patterns. Choose your favorite opening line. Then tag 10 of your favorite authors!

tagged by my favorite domestic slut sister: @astroboots

PUBLISHED WORKS: 

scenes from a marriage (javi fic): The designs of misfortune carve themselves in the woodwork that is Colombia, marking and scarring a beautiful country for the sake of one man’s empire.

(a/n): i wrote this on a whim one night while just trying to write for the sake of writing and look where it’s got us.

freedom is just another word (frankie morales fic): Sometimes, Frankie could not stand himself. Really, despise himself. 

(a/n): i did this one because i’m cruel and a slut for angst

ungodly hour (agent whiskey fic): Her knees rest on his forearms, and she pushes his shoulders into the ground beneath him, earning a groan as his head bounces lightly off of the ground. 

(a/n): i wrote this one because i just wanted to write but i didn’t wanted to take a break from scenes. also, i was listening to the ungodly hour album and it makes me feel like a bad bitch so i had a desire to character a leading character that was one.

NOT PUBLISHED WORKS:

the world is yours (maxwell lord fic): Step ahead into the past. It was a meaningless, get-rich sentiment stamped on the box of each Polaroid camera they sent out, one that she’s seen a million times before but never felt the depth of until now; Maxwell has said it, willing away the accent she loves, and she knows that this is exactly what they’ve done: They’ve stepped back into a joyless, oppressive past in order to preserve some inkling of a meaningful future. 

(a/n): this will probably make a debut after i finish scenes and get somewhere with freedom. the step ahead into the past bit came from a poster at my work that i saw while i was on break. this is gonna be a fic exploring the beginnings of maxwell’s desire to be something, and i hope it covers the struggles he goes through a bit better than the film. also, i’m not gonna make him the villain as much as i am going to make him the anti-hero, because who can deny that michael corleone wasn’t a baddie once or twice hm ?

strobe lights (unpublished maxwell lord fic): It was a concoction of heavily artificial music--the sort that drips in materialism and would bling if sound was tangible--and Maxwell’s insistent stare that made her do it.

(a/n): this will probably never see the light of day because it has a no real meaning, but it’s older than any of the other stuff i’ve written for the p. characters. it was made before i created this blog, and just something that got the wheels in my head turning again.

scenes from a marriage (a very very early draft that i didn’t end up liking, javi fic): He had forgotten. Or she thought he had forgotten. She couldn’t be sure yet, but the hours kept ticking away, and he hadn’t shown up yet. Javier wasn’t ever the most timely man, but he was never this late.

a/n: what are my fics, if not angst preserving?

mama, you’ve been on my mind (a fic not belonging to the pedro fandom at all, but a story about two characters that my friend created): Something had gone taut inside of Henry the day he found out that Mari had gone missing. He’d worked hard to conceal it from Stella, expressing adequate amounts of concern and worry and frustration, but he never showed the absolute panic that rattled him to his very core. He didn’t want to upset her. Stella was a great woman, but no one could stand the shade of pale he would get when he was by himself, or the way he sobbed quietly thinking about her at night in the bathroom when he was alone and Stella was asleep. He hid it from her, something he had never, ever done with Stella, because he knew that this grief was more personal than he ever wanted her to know about.

(a/n): my friend gave me henry to write with her, and we attached pedro to his face to him, but the main story is about mari, a girl who henry had married when he was a younger. they divorced later on because they both came to the conclusion that mari loved women more than she ever would love him, but he never, ever stopped caring about her. mari eventually ends up getting murdered by one of her patients (she’s a therapist) because she rejects his advances, (but i promise the story doesn’t end there, because mari is very, very cool and my friend is such a bad ass writer, i just don’t want to give it all away). anyways, this takes place shortly after mari has gone missing. at this point, it has been about tenish years since henry and mari have split and he’s remarried to stella, a woman whom he loves dearly. henry and mari remained friends, and he’s not taking it well.

untitled mando fic: His first words to her had been these: It had to be done. They were muttered with such commitment and unwavering faith, she knew that he was a man who truly believed in whatever dogma he abided by. 

(a/n): this was the first thing i was gonna publish on here but everything i wrote felt odd and out of place, and i think i need a bit more time to set on this one before it goes anywhere.

let it be: (a story i was writing for a school contest but never finished): There came an awful, tightening sensation in the middle of her chest, so strong it felt like she was about to double over there, in front of all of these strangers.

(a/n): this was gonna be a story about a young woman who has just found out she was pregnant. i set it during the day that the beatles played there rooftop concert because i liked the idea of this young woman being surrounded by many people who’s eyes were glued to the sky because the beatles are playing their brand new fucking album, and she’s just coming undone. this is gonna expose me as a beatles stan and that’s okay.

diane’s a friend of mine (a story i didn’t remember writing until just now, doing this): It had all started with Diane, a woman who had loved him so passionately that he’d dated her twice. Diane was an intelligent woman with the tendency to date men who were far below her, and he wasn’t the exception as much as he was the rule. He remembered the way she didn’t mind his desire to be and do nothing on Sunday mornings, and the kind way she would trace his nose and smile approvingly before saying, “You’ve got the nose of greek gods, Francis.”

(a/n): this must’ve been written during my al pacino phase a couple of months back, and i think, as i scan over it, this is the story i wanted to write about an actor who has spent his entire life as someone else, just a plethora of different characters, so when he eventually retires, he begins to struggle with who he is. i think i wanted it to be told through the stories of women he’s loved during those years, because it’s the only time he remembers being himself. 

untitled roman sionis fic: roman sionis reminded frankie terribly of fredo corleone. he was void of that pure innocence—that essence of goodness that made fredo such a lovable character—but he had the stupidity. it was a stupidity that stopped him from being something more.

(a/n): i have written about thirty roman sionis drafts but none of them amounted to anything. i think the character is neat, and had a very big ewan mcgregor phase. 

an untitled fic set after the events of the panic in needle park, if anyone of you has seen that:  This is where I am. This is where my stuff is. The wind was biting this morning, reddening Bobby’s cheeks as he stood on the sidewalk waiting for Eileen.

(a/n): this was definitely during my al pacino phase, it’s about how bobby gets clean and has started life with another woman because he couldn’t stay with helen because they enabled each other too much. if i’m ever gonna do anything for any of you please let it be to turn you onto al pacino’s movies in the ‘70s. all of them are fantastic, and the panic in needle park the first installment. this movie lead to al giving his famed role as michael corleone later on, and it covers a lot of topics i didn’t expect, like drug addiction and poverty and i just think al pacino is amazing in it. i cannot believe that his first movie. here’s the link to the trailer: https://www.youtube.com/watchv=0ahe2zepONg&ab_channel=JulienPinault. drug tw and needle tw.

okay i think that is all i have and i know it’s not twenty but i can’t find any more.

tagging: @mourningbirds1, @disgruntledspacedad and anyone else who wants to do it because i think you’re all neat and lovely. 

[mistletouchunderthetree]

the last WIP of eddie month! i saved the longest for last (it’s over 11k words lmao) and hopefully you all enjoy it even though it’s forever unfinished. this was meant to be my big bang fic and then life happened and i was never able to finish it - it even has a few plot points outlined at the end (but even those don’t take you to the actual end of the story, oop). anyway, happy eddie month everyone!

this was a fun experiment in which i combined my favorite parts of each canon - book, miniseries, and movies - into one weird amalgamation that probably only makes sense to me. there is canon-typical violence, homophobia including slurs (henry bowers), and mentions of suicide (stan lives, but it was close).

“Eddie?”

He groaned out loud, turning his computer monitor off and turning in his desk chair.

“Yeah, Ma?” He shouted.

“Eddie come down here, please,” she said, her voice traveling up the stairs. He rolled his eyes and left the home office and found her standing at the bottom of the stairs. He stood on the landing at the top, looking down at her. “Down here, Eddie.”

He fought the urge to roll his eyes again as he took the stairs two at a time.

“Eddie, stop that! You know how dangerous that is! What if you fell and broke a leg? You know how easily bone fragments travel, Eddie, you know –“

“Yeah, Ma, I know,” he answered, ignoring her demand. “What is it?”

“I wanted to let you know you have plans on Friday evening,” she told him, beady eyes staring into his own. He walked past her, squeezing by to get through the hallway and into the kitchen. It was about time for dinner anyway, he told himself, might as well make something while he was here.

“And what plans would those be, Ma?” He asked, assuming he had to take her to bingo or the pharmacy or the emergency room. 

“You’ll be taking Vicky Beck to dinner.”

He turned to look at her, eyebrow raised. “Who?”

“Vicky Beck, dear,” she repeated, as if saying the name again would stoke the embers of his memory. He just looked at her blankly. She sighed, annoyance radiating off of her as she plopped down into a chair at the kitchen table. “She’s Marjorie’s daughter, Eddie. Very nice girl. Around your age, too. She’s a receptionist at one of the local doctor’s offices. I gave Marjorie a photograph of you to show her – she’s very interested.”

“No,” he said without making eye contact. He used the excuse of taking out ingredients for dinner from the pantry and refrigerator to not look at her. “I’ve told you so many times, Ma, I don’t want to date. I’m not interested.”

“Oh, Eddie,” she frowned. “I just worry! Who’s going to take care of you when I’m gone? Your health is so delicate, someone needs to be there –“

“I’m an adult, I can take care of myself,” he told her, pouring tomato sauce from a can into a pan. 

“Clearly you aren’t if you think it’s okay to use canned sauce, young man!” Sonia said, standing and smacking his hand. He huffed, putting his hands up and stepping away. “You don’t even know what’s in the disgusting preservatives they use, this stuff is full of chemicals, you’ll get cancer if you eat too much of this. I’ve told you so many times to stop buying things like this. You think you’re an adult but you don’t know, you need someone to steer you right, you make terrible decisions when no one’s around to stop you…”

“Buying canned sauce is a terrible decision? I’m the one that pays for the groceries, Ma! I should get to choose what I buy!”

She glared at him. “Edward, I’m not in the mood for your foolishness. When you stop purchasing cancer and bringing it into our home then we can talk. In the meantime, you will be going out with Vicky Beck on Friday evening. You’re too old to be alone, Eddie. My own health is beginning to falter, you’re going to need someone to take my place when I pass.”

He blinked at her. “You want me to find a woman to be my new mother when you die?”

“Do not use that tone with me, young man!”

“I’m 20, I hardly think I need to be taken care of by a surrogate mom!”

“Eddie,” she said, placing a sweaty hand on his cheek. He could smell the stench of her perfume and he did his best not to wrinkle his nose. “You have always been so… strong-willed. So full of ideas. And that would be okay, were you not sick. But you are sick, Eddie. Your delicate immune system can’t handle what others can… I’ve spent your whole life making sure you don’t go too far, to get yourself sick or hurt. And that’s what I’m doing now, with Vicky. I’m protecting you, because you need protection. No matter how hard you try to fight it, it’s the truth. So. You will see Vicky on Friday, take her to an early lunch after church on Sunday, another dinner next Wednesday, and she’ll be your girlfriend in a week’s time.”

He knew his horror was evident on his face but he couldn’t do anything to stop it. “That’s ridiculous, Ma, you can’t pick out a girlfriend for me! I don’t even want a girlfriend! And you know, just because I have asthma doesn’t mean I need protection from the big bad world, okay? I take my meds and I use my inhaler and that’s all I need! I don’t even need you! All you do is smother me, and force me into things I don’t want, so –“

“You stop that right now –“

“You know what?” He said, a burst of adrenaline-fueled courage shooting through him. He left the kitchen and started back up the stairs. “I’m leaving. I can’t stand it here anymore.”

“Eddie!” She screamed, and he knew the crocodile tears were starting. He ignored them as he grabbed a suitcase and began to pack everything that would fit.

*

Twenty-six year old Eddie Kaspbrak answered his phone, wincing when his mother’s voice came through the tinny speaker.

“Eddie? Eddie!”

“Yes, Ma, it’s me,” he said, barely containing his annoyance.

“Eddie you have to come home,” she said, sniffling. “I’ve been put in a wheelchair, Eddie, I can’t get around like I used to. I need help, you need to come home and help me.”

He sighed, massaging his temples as he felt a stress headache blooming behind his eyes. He eyed the medicine cabinet in the kitchen that held the Advil. “I’ll hire an in-house nurse, Ma, how’s that?”

“No!” She shouted, leaving him cringing. “Those nurses don’t know what they’re doing, Eddie, they’re the rejects that the hospitals and doctors offices won’t take, and I refuse it!”

He looked around his small house. He had a spare bedroom downstairs, and he supposed it wouldn’t be too difficult to add a ramp to get through the front door. With a little bit of self-hatred settling in his stomach, he said, “I’m not coming home, but you can come live with me.”

*

“You’re 32, right?” Angela asked, her fingers running through the condensation on her glass. Eddie nodded, only thinking about how disgusting it was that she wasn't using a straw. (Dishes and silverware and cups at restaurants are breeding grounds for disease, Eddie, his mind mother reminded him.) “So what are you doing living with your mom?”

He huffed. “My mom lives with me, there’s a difference.”

Angela raised an eyebrow at him.

“I take care of her. She’s old and sick, she needs help with just about everything.”

“You know…” Angela trailed off, glancing around the room. They sat in a small booth in the corner of an Olive Garden only twenty minutes from Eddie’s house. He wasn’t about to pull out all the stops for a date with yet another girl his mother set him up with. “You’re not a very good date.”

His eyes widened. “Excuse me?”

She laughed a little. “I mean, sure, you’re cute, but… Nobody wants to date a guy in his thirties who lives with his mom. You probably should save that bit of information until like, date three, at least. You won’t look me in the eye, and it makes me a little nervous because you don't seem to have a problem making eye contact with anyone else. Everything about your body language screams that you don’t want to be here. With me, specifically.”

“Do you do this on all your first dates?” He asked, offended.

“Just the bad ones,” she answered. “You know, the ones with men.”

He choked.

“Oh, come on, dude, look at me,” she said, gesturing to herself. Eddie frowned; he thought her flannel and boots looked comfortable. “This look is about as gay as you can get. My mom can’t accept it; she's constantly setting me up. Usually I tell her no but she showed me a picture of you and… well, I just had to find out what your deal is.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” He asked. His face was hot.

“Eddie,” she said in a voice meant for a young child. “Your mom has a lot in common with my mom. I mean, I hate to assume, but I can almost guarantee that, just like mine, your mom is sending you on dates with the opposite sex as a very clear nudge in the right direction.”

He gaped at her, unable to form words.

She laughed, but this time it was a bit more sympathetic. “Did you not know?”

He shook his head, then reached into his pocket to take a hit on his aspirator. She raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment.

“Well, whether you are or aren’t, your mom thinks you’re gay.”

“Fuck,” he whispered to himself, heart pounding against his ribcage. “I don’t – what? Why?”

“I mean, you’re a single 32 year old, for starters. I’m assuming you’ve never had a girlfriend. Had any boyfriends you kept secret? She probably would’ve caught on.”

“I’m not – I’m not –“ He couldn’t bring himself to say the word. Angela’s expression was changing quickly from one of amusement to one of pity. She opened her mouth to say something when the waiter stopped at their table, placing their food in front of them. They began to eat in silence (Eddie had already sanitized his knife and fork), and when they started to talk again, neither of them brought it back up.

*

There weren’t enough people for a funeral so instead they had a simple graveside memorial service in the Bangor Cemetery. One of his aunts spoke through crocodile tears so much like hers about what a good mother Sonia had been, and Eddie’s eyes stayed dry.

After, he met his three aunts at a café for a small lunch, and they got onto him when he didn’t order salad. They got onto him because he didn’t cry during the service. They got onto him for constantly keeping his poor mother in a state of such stress. They got onto him for leaving her for New York in the first place. They got onto him for not being married at 35, for not giving his mother grandchildren before she died.

He nodded and kept his mouth closed.

*

There was a method to his madness, he’d swear by it. Vitamins in the morning, followed by an anxiety pill if he needed one (he always needed one), followed by breakfast, which usually consisted of eggs (he enjoyed variety, so he made his eggs differently each day of the week – Wednesday was scrambled) and wheat toast with margarine spread on one side, the crusts cut off (the crusts are too easy to choke on, his mother’s voice said from inside his head), and then brushing his teeth. He got dressed, checked his email and the weather on his phone (a sunny day, cloud-free (but you never know, storms can just crop up out of no where – best bring your boots and rain jacket and umbrella just in case, you wouldn’t want to catch a cold and end up with pneumonia just because the weather forecast was wrong) and cool), and stepped out the door of his Queens apartment.

He walked to his stop and got on the subway, used an antibacterial wipe to clean the place where his hand would be holding onto the rail (his mind mother reminded him how easy it was to catch something that way – all you have to do is rub your nose, Eddie, and suddenly you’re sick with whatever the germ-infested subway rider that stood there before you had), and held onto his phone for the 30 minute ride. He exited at the financial district and walked for 2 minutes to his office building. He used the stairs to get to the eleventh floor (take the elevator, Eddie, you don’t want to aggravate your asthma) because he liked the slight burn in his legs by the time he made it to his floor. He stopped in the bathroom to wash his hands (you have to wash your hands, Eddie, you have to), said hello to Brianne at the front desk, and sat in the chair in front of his computer in his cubicle.

The work day tended to be boring. He spent a lot of time typing up reports, and even more time responding to emails. By his lunch break, he usually felt as though his brain was going to melt out of his ears. He popped two Advil to stave off the oncoming stress headache.

He ate lunch with his co-workers – they walked together a few blocks to a deli that made great sandwiches, and though he sat with them he didn’t talk much. In the beginning he fielded a lot of questions he didn’t want to answer, but after fifteen years they knew not to ask.

Except Daniel, who had started two weeks prior.

“So, Eddie,” he said, as they sat in the break room. He gestured at Eddie’s left hand. “I see you’re not married.”

“No,” Eddie agreed, taking a bite of sandwich. He hoped it would send a solid shut the fuck up message, but Daniel kept on.

“No? You got a girlfriend, at least? You’re what – 45?”

“40,” he said, his voice clipped.

“You’re 40 and not married? That’s rough man, what’s up with that?”

Eddie breathed in deeply, hand patting his pocket to feel for his aspirator. “Just never met the right person, I suppose.”

“Not even divorced?” Daniel asked, his voice getting higher with incredulity. Eddie bristled; it felt very much like he was being made fun of, but he didn’t know what to say. It reminded him of childhood bullies, calling him names before he even knew what they meant. He'd always talked back to - well, to whoever his tormentor had been back then. Now his brain wouldn't supply him with any quippy response, any thinly veiled insult. How had he been so brazen as a kid and so timid now? He tried but he couldn't even remember much of his childhood, like everything before he was 18 and living in Bangor with his mom had a thick haze covering it.

“Never married, no girlfriend,” he said plainly, unable to come up with anything better. He looked away.

“Boyfriend, then?” Daniel said. Eddie’s stomach turned and he flushed.

“I’m single, Daniel,” he said, before wrapping what was left of his sandwich (almost all of it) and standing. “I’m going to have lunch at my desk today, if you don’t mind.”

He didn’t wait for an answer before leaving the room, ignoring Daniel’s exclamations of “I wasn’t trying to upset him!”

He sat at his desk, fuming. He could hear the voice of someone he’d been out with once, laughing in his head.

Your mom thinks you’re gay.

But he wasn’t. And it wasn’t that strange for someone to be 40 and single. He knew plenty of people his age that weren’t married! Granted, most of them were divorced, but the point stood. Marriage wasn’t everything. Love wasn’t everything. He’d made it on his own for 40 years, and besides that he wasn’t interested in anyone. Couldn’t remember ever liking anyone enough to do anything about it. He could recognize when women were attractive, but it didn’t go beyond that. Can’t a man live alone with no romantic relationship and not get shit for it?

“Hey, Eddie,” said a voice from behind him. He spun in his chair. Jeanine stood there, a regretful frown on her red lips. “I’m so sorry about Daniel back there. Apparently he’s the type that doesn’t know when to shut up.”

(Your mom thinks you’re gay)

“A lot of that going around,” Eddie said, trying to ignore the voice in his head telling him to ask Jeanine out. He couldn’t even tell if it was his mother or someone else. It wasn’t his own voice, though.

Jeanine smiled awkwardly, like she wasn’t sure what he meant. “Right. Hopefully you’ll still eat with us tomorrow. We told Daniel to cool it.”

“No worries,” Eddie lied. “I needed to get some work done anyway.”

Jeanine glanced over his shoulder at his computer that he hadn’t turned back on. “Of course. And I wanted to let you know… This office is very accepting. There’s no… Judgment here. Just… So you know.”

Eddie pulled his aspirator from his pocket and took a hit.

(You’re sick, Eddie, you’re delicate, but I can protect you from yourself, a wife could protect you from yourself, you’ll always be sick but)

“Thank you for the sentiment, Jeanine,” he said, turning back in his chair. He heard her walk away and sagged against the backrest. Moments later, his phone rang.

He picked it up and frowned at the area code. Derry, Maine? He was… He was from there, wasn’t he? That was where he’d lived with his mother before they moved to Bangor. Derry was the town covered with thick haze that he couldn't completely conceptualize.

He answered the call with his heart in his throat, unsure why his hands were shaking so badly.

“Edward Kaspbrak speaking.”

“Eddie?” The voice said. He didn’t recognize it. “Eddie, it’s Mike. You need to come home. It’s back.”

The haze began to lift.

*

“I’m glad you made it, Eddie,” Mike said, offering a hug. Eddie warily wrapped his arms around Mike before glancing around the restaurant. 

“If I’d remembered more before I got on the plane, I probably wouldn’t have,” he said honestly. Once he started getting flashes of a rotting leper, of a decrepit house, of a clown’s drool on his face, he wanted to turn right back around. 

“How much do you remember?” Mike asked.

Just before he could answer, another voice joined them.

“Hey, guys.” Eddie turned and smiled. He would recognize Bill Denbrough anywhere (though he hadn't, had he? He owned his books, had seen his picture on the back cover, and he'd never thought twice about it). He stepped away after another hug, letting the other two catch up. He stood looking into the large fish tank, anything to get a reprieve from the memories that were hitting him, and then jumped when something hit the large gong next to their table. He spun, his eyes catching on red hair first. Beverly was smiling, and another man stood next to her, tall and thin and handsome, and somehow Eddie knew it was –

“Ben?”

“That was my reaction!” Beverly said with a laugh.

“You acknowledge Ben before you acknowledge me? Some kind of best friend you are, Eds.”

“Don’t call me Eds,” he said, the words spilling from his mouth without thought. He looked to Richie, wearing an ugly mustard color shirt beneath a leather jacket. He wore glasses much like the ones he’d worn in childhood, though they magnified his eyes a little less, and his hair was messy. He'd seen Richie's face, too, on a Netflix special he'd felt oddly compelled to watch. “You actually became a comedian.”

Richie’s cheeks turned pink and he took a few steps closer, hands in his pockets.

“I mean,” Eddie continued, “It’s not ventriloquism but not half-bad!”

Richie laughed loudly, his head thrown back. “Fuck, even I forgot I wanted to be a ventriloquist!”

“You would’ve made a terrible ventriloquist, Rich. Eddie was just too nice to tell you.”

They turned at the new voice, smiling at the curly hair and sweater.

“Stanley!”

“Yeah, yeah,” he said through a smile. After Eddie felt like he’d hugged everyone twice, they took their seats. He sat between Richie and Ben, right across from Bill. Stan was on Richie’s other side, already talking about his accounting firm and his wife Patty.

“She sounds lovely,” Beverly said with a smile.

“You’re not married?” He asked, pointing to her left hand. 

She frowned, touching her ring finger. “Uh, technically I am. I guess I kind of… left him?”

Eddie’s eyes widened. 

Beverly shrugged, waving them off. “It’s fine! What about everyone else? Anyone else married?”

“I am,” Bill said. “Her name’s Audra; you guys would probably recognize her if you saw her –“

“Oh shit, she’s that movie star!” Richie said loudly. “And you’re an author, I’ve totally bought your books before, dude!”

“I have, too,” Eddie admitted. He hadn’t known why he bought them at the time, but it had felt like something he needed to do. He thought he might even own a jacket from Rogue & Marsh.

“Nobody else is married? What about you, Ben?”

“No,” Ben said, cheeks pink. 

“But dude, you’re so hot, how are you single?” Richie said, punching a shocked laugh from Eddie’s chest.

Ben rolled his eyes playfully. “I mean, I’m not lonely by any means –“

Richie cut him off to whoop loudly.

“Anyway, what about you, Trashmouth?”

“Nope!”

“Divorce?” Bill asked with a smirk.

“I’m offended, Big Bill. No, no divorce. Haven’t had a serious relationship in… probably fifteen years. Kinda hard to hold anything down when you’re touring all the time.”

“Makes sense,” Beverly agreed, before her eyes met Eddie’s. He groaned. “What about you, Eddie?”

“Uh, no marriage, no divorce, very boring. Next.”

“No way, Eds, you can’t get off the hook that easy!” Richie exclaimed. “C’mon, when was your last relationship?”

Eddie looked down at the table. “Haven’t really had one. I was never really interested.”

The table had quieted, like Eddie had dropped a blanket of discomfort on all of them.

“It’s not a big deal,” he said, finally looking back up. He could feel Richie’s eyes burning a hole in the side of his head but he didn’t look. “I like living alone. I have friends at work and I always have nice chats with the pharmacist and... Look, it’s not like I’m lonely, okay? It’s fine. I’m fine.”

The conversation moved on quickly, Eddie’s discomfort obvious to everyone. Richie kept looking at him as though he were a puzzle, and as soon as the waitress returned to their table Eddie ordered himself a shot of whiskey and a bottle of beer, not even thinking about the fact that he would be drinking straight from the glass and don't you know, Eddie, dishes and silverware and cups at restaurants are a breeding ground for germs! Now that he'd remembered his asthma was fake, his aspirator a placebo, he felt like he could count the hours wasted on sanitization and worry about his delicate system. It made him boil with anger, that she had taken so much from him while giving him so many issues. He didn't want to waste more time. His system was fine.   

The night was long and draining, as much a reunion as it was a horror show. He was almost positive he remembered everything now, as did the others, and Mike claimed to have a plan. For now, though, they had some time to sleep. No point in heading into Neibolt exhausted, Bill had said with a shrug, and everyone had agreed. Eddie was finding it hard to sleep, though, with images of the leper running through his mind -

I’ll blow you for free

- And leaving him terrified and shaking. He thought back to being a kid, the same fear had kept him up at night then, too. He remembered talking to Richie about it as they read comics in the room above the Kaspbrak house garage, and Richie admitting he was having trouble sleeping, too. Kept seeing the werewolf, his own name written on It’s letterman jacket. 

He turned the bedside lamp on and picked up the phone without bothering to sanitize it even as his mind mother screamed at him. He looked at the directory and tried to remember which room was Richie’s. He was almost positive it was 207, one floor down and one over from his own, so he dialed the extension and waited. As the ringing sounded in his ear, someone knocked heavily on his door.

His heart seized up in his chest and he grabbed his aspirator from the side table and took a hit, even though he knew it was a placebo. 

“Who is it?”

“Eddie Kaspbrak?” A male voice from just outside the door said. “There’s an urgent message for you at the front desk.”

“Hello?” Richie’s sleepy voice said in his ear. He sighed in relief, not answering him yet.

“A message from who?” He asked loudly.

“What are you talking about – Eddie?” 

“A message from… Your wife,” the voice said, and Eddie froze.

“Uh, one second,” he said to the person on the other side of the door, then lowered his voice and spoke into the phone. “Rich, someone’s at my door saying I have a message from my wife.”

“You don’t have a wife,” Richie said, confused.

Eddie huffed. “Yeah, exactly!”

“Oh, fuck,” Richie said, and Eddie could hear shuffling on his end of the phone. Then, another noise, somehow both quiet and the loudest thing he’d ever heard. He watched with wide eyes as the lock on his door turned slowly until it clicked.

He opened his mouth to tell Richie whoever it was at his door had a key and to hurry the fuck up, but the line was beeping like Richie had already hung up. Slowly, he shoved the blankets off, putting his feet securely on the floor. He glanced around for something he could use to defend himself. A lamp? The phone? Why the fuck hadn’t he brought a knife or a gun to this clown fight?

The door slammed open, hitting the wall and revealing a man in a tattered jumpsuit. He had a knife in his hand.

Panic seized Eddie’s chest. The irrational part of his brain wanted to grab his aspirator for another puff but he knew it would be his last, so instead, without thinking it through, he charged forward as fast as he could, throwing his weight against the door as it bounced off the wall and back toward the man. 

Both men screamed. Eddie out of pure adrenaline and fear, some part of him wondering why the fuck he’d done that, and the other man because his foot and arm were smashed in between the door and the frame. Eddie kept his weight against the door knowing he didn’t have a lot of time; he didn’t weigh much, and this guy seemed particularly strong. He looked at the hand holding the knife, the small rivulets of blood dripping where the edge of the door had cut into the skin, and he grabbed a hold of it with both hands, trying to pry meaty fingers from the handle without cutting himself.

He didn’t manage it before the man pushed back with his own full body weight, throwing Eddie to the ground. He landed with a muted thud on his back and the man pushed into the room, spotting Eddie immediately. In the brief eye contact, Eddie realized with certain clarity that this man was Henry Bowers.

Henry Bowers, who had held him down and broken his arm with his bare hands. Henry Bowers, who had punched him in the nose more times than he could count. Henry Bowers, who had beaten Richie up again and again, who had mocked Bill’s stutter and Stan’s religion. Henry Bowers, who left even Beverly, the strongest of them, trembling. Henry Bowers, who had killed Mike’s dog. 

Eddie’s eyes flitted to the knife in his hand and a chill ran down his spine. Just yesterday he couldn't remember this man's name, but he remembered he used to fight back.

As a kid, he fought back against Henry Bowers, who somehow had the same knife he’d used to carved Ben open, the same knife with which he’d murdered his own father.

Henry lunged at Eddie, still on the floor. He kicked upward, one foot landing in the soft pudge of Henry’s stomach, the other his groin. Henry didn’t seem to notice, which left Eddie feeling terrified – what if this wasn’t Henry at all? What if this was something much, much worse?

“How ya doin’, little queer boy?” Henry asked, his voice hardly having changed at all. “Ready to get all cut up? Teach you to throw rocks!”

Eddie kept his foot wedged against Henry’s stomach, though the weight of him was causing a steady throb down his leg. Moving quickly, he pulled his other foot back and kicked again, this time aiming for the hand with the knife. Henry seemed taken off guard but he didn’t drop the knife, just leaned more of his weight onto Eddie’s leg. He cried out, giving in and planting his other foot against Henry’s stomach to hold him back. Henry didn’t seem to mind that he was leaning all his weight against Eddie’s feet, hovering over him like a ghost. 

“Not quite strong enough, are ya, fag?”

Eddie grimaced - the first time Henry called him that, he hadn't even known what a fag was. 

Henry brought the knife closer, almost able to reach Eddie’s face. With fear stronger than he’d felt in a long time thrumming through his veins, he grabbed Henry’s wrist with both hands, pushing him back. He let his fingernails dig into the place where the door had cut him, and Henry screamed, finally dropping the knife. Eddie glanced to his left and saw it, and with one hand still gripping into Henry’s wounded arm he reached over and grabbed it, plunging it upward into Henry’s chest just above where his feet held him up.

Henry’s eyes widened and Eddie sobbed as blood dripped onto his hand where he held the handle of the knife. He yanked it back out but Henry had become dead weight and his legs crumbled beneath it. He yelled, and then heard another voice.

“What the fuck!”

“Rich, help,” he said, hardly able to breathe under Henry’s weight. He was still wriggling, but Eddie kept a tight grip on the knife. Then Henry’s weight was being lifted a bit and Eddie helped, shoving until he landed on his back next to Eddie, blood seeping into the front of his shirt. Eddie stabbed again, but Henry caught the blow with his hand, and Eddie screamed as the blade sliced through the rough palm. Henry stared up at him, with a look that Eddie could almost describe as confused.

“Eds, Eds, what’s –“

“It’s Bowers,” he shouted, finally gathering the nerve to rip the knife out of Henry’s hand. Henry yelled and swung, smacking Eddie in the side and knocking the breath out of him. His uninjured hand came at him curled in a fist and managed to land on his eye. He stumbled backward a little on his knees, eyes closed against the blow, and without looking plunged the knife down again. Henry’s shrill scream and Richie’s Jesus fucking Christ oh my God oh my God let him know whatever he hit wasn't pretty but it wasn’t enough to be fatal.

A final time, he lifted the knife and opened his eyes. Henry’s face was covered in gushing blood, what was left of his eyeball hanging out of the socket. Eddie felt the Chinese food he’d eaten threaten to make a reappearance. From the corner of his eye he saw Henry’s arm begin to move and he flinched, not ready for another hit, but then Richie’s foot slammed the hand into the ground and Eddie plunged the knife back into Henry’s chest, over what he was pretty sure was his heart.

He pulled the knife out and threw it on the ground. It slid across the floor and stopped beneath the TV stand. Eddie pulled himself off of Henry, uncaring if he was still alive; if he was, Richie could deal with it. His own head spun, pain radiated down his legs, and his eye socket throbbed. He fell onto the bed with his eyes closed. For a moment he only heard the slight noise of movement from Richie, and then:

“Holy fuck, dude, you fucking killed him.”

Eddie let out a long breath of relief before saying, “don’t say it like that. It was self-defense.”

“Well obviously,” Richie agreed, and then threw up. The sound and smell made Eddie’s stomach turn again, and he leaned over the bed, grabbed the wastebasket, and lost his own dinner.

*  

They had migrated to Richie's room, after a brief talk with the rest of the losers to inform them of what happened. Everyone was appropriately horrified and offered to come sit with them for the rest of the night, but Eddie insisted he just wanted to sleep and he wanted to do it in a room without a dead body. Richie had offered his own, promising to keep quiet so Eddie could get some rest. 

Eddie had been unable to sleep, though. By the rigidness of Richie beside him, he was sure he wasn't the only one.

"So what's it like, being famous?" He said quietly into the darkness. He felt Richie jolt and he apologized with a laugh.

"No, it's fine, uh," Richie sighed. Eddie felt the comforter jostle like he was resituating himself. "I dunno, honestly. Kind of boring? I mean, don't get me wrong, in the early days I partied a lot. Slept around, got into things I shouldn't have. But… being clean and telling jokes you didn't even write? Kinda shit, not gonna lie."

"God, I fucking knew you didn't write your own shit," Eddie said. "I don't even know how I knew, but I'd watch all your stupid specials and like, be annoyed at myself because this guy is so obviously a fraud, why the fuck do I religiously watch everything he puts out?"

"Could have been my charming good looks," Richie joked, and Eddie felt his cheeks heat up. 

"Definitely not that," Eddie said with a hollow laugh. "Apparently somehow I just knew you were my best friend and I was pissed because I know you're so much funnier than the shit you say onstage."

"Oh," Richie said. Eddie squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't know how to fucking do this. How do you have conversations with people that aren't too much but don't feel like fucking small talk? Richie was his best friend once upon a time, would've been his best friend their whole lives if Derry hadn't fucked them up. 

But would they have been? Would they have been best friends if they'd grown up together? Navigated their early twenties together? Would he have dropped Richie the second he got into whatever shit he got into in LA? Would Richie have dropped him when he realized Eddie was fucking boring, with a desk job and a mother he couldn't escape? Would he have been just another person shoving him on dates with girls he didn't want to date? Another person asking why he wasn't married yet? Another person to think -

Your mom thinks you're gay.

He bit his lip. He couldn't think about that right now, not when their literal lives were on the line. He'd been putting off his sexuality crisis for years, it could wait another 24 hours.

Because that's what it was, and he knew it. He remembered the feelings from being a kid. He remembered the swooping sensation in his stomach, the blushing, the constant need to be the center of Richie's attention. He didn't think he knew what it was back then, but now? Now he knew what all those things meant. He knew what they meant when he felt them sitting next to Richie at dinner, and now, laying next to him in bed. 

But that was for a later date, if he even made it to a later date.

All Eddie could hear in the room was the whirr of the air conditioner, Richie's breathing right next to him, and his own heart pounding in his ears. He closed his eyes, willing himself to relax enough to even doze, but the quiet was broken when Richie cleared his throat.

"Yeah?" Eddie asked, when Richie didn't follow up with anymore sounds.

"I just - " He sighed. "You remember how we thought… When we were kids… That some of our power, or whatever, came from the lucky seven? None of us could have hurt It on our own but we could together, and we worked together and we all loved each other and looked out for each other."

"Yeah, I remember that."

"I don't feel like we're the lucky seven anymore," Richie admitted. Eddie didn't know what to say. "We're not… Together… the way we used to be. We were like one single unit back then. Even with Ben and Bev and Mike, we'd barely met them but they just fit with us. And now we just feel like…"

"Like seven adults who haven't spoken in over 20 years?" Eddie finished for him.

"Yeah." Richie's voice was sad. "We're not kids anymore, you know? And we don't know each other. Eds, I don't think we can even say we're friends anymore."

"That's not true," he argued, turning his head on his pillow to see the outline of Richie's face in the dark. He wasn't wearing his glasses but he was facing the ceiling. Eddie couldn't tell if his eyes were open or closed. "We all fell right back into old habits at dinner! It was like nothing's changed."

"But it has changed!" Richie said, his voice rising a little. Eddie jostled when Richie pushed himself up, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. Eddie stared at him and chewed on his lip. "God, are you telling me you still act like that as an adult? I can just look at you and tell you're not somebody who trades sarcastic insults with anyone. And I don't still joke about fucking people's mothers and I don't constantly slip into shitty Voices all the time and I don't just fucking make fun of people like an asshole! But we both - we both regressed! Like, some shit happened when we got back together and all of a sudden we were both shitty little teenagers again! All of us! Bill's stutter came back, for fuck's sake! Ben's an awkward fucking mess around Bev, as though that guy isn't swimming in pussy right now -"

"That's fucking gross, Richie," Eddie muttered, pushing himself against the wall. 

"I'm just saying," Richie continued, "that we all get along as 13 year olds. Not as the people we are now."

"That's - " Eddie paused and blinked hard, surprised to find his eyes filling with tears. "It's just because that's how we're used to acting with each other. If we all spent time together again I bet we'd end up acting more like who we are now."

Richie scoffed. "Eddie, who you are now would hate who I am now."

"I wouldn't hate you." He reached out hesitantly, rested his hand on Richie's broad back. "Why do you think I'd hate you?"

"You - You hate getting dirty! And you dress like you're ninety, your hair is like, combed, and you've clearly never used a drug in your life. You -"

"I'm gonna stop you, dude." Eddie readjusted himself so he was sitting facing Richie, who's blue eyes were clearer than ever without his glasses on, even in the dark. "The actual regression I experienced was turning back into the person I was before that summer, before I found out about my asthma. The scared kid who carried a fanny pack full of disinfectant wipes became a scared adult who kept disinfectant wipes in his briefcase and Advil in his pocket right next to his aspirator. I have been alone for the last 20 years. And I've wasted so much time being the delicate child my mother wanted me to be. Who I was at 13 is more me than who I am at 40. And I think - I think that's why we all regressed the way we did. Because we were happy together, at 13, and I don't think any of us are happy now."

Richie stayed quiet.

"Well," Eddie amended, "except for Stan. But he acted like an adult as a kid, so I don't think that counts. Anyway, I don't give a shit about what you've done in your past. I lived with my mother until she died in my mid-thirties. I've never had -" He cut himself off, feeling his face heat up. "Never mind. The point is that we are still the same people we were at 13. The people we've been for the last 20 years? That wasn't really us. This is us. Lucky seven."

"Okay," Richie whispered. Eddie ignored the way he swallowed thickly. "I think I - I think I'm just scared. Just going over every single way we could fail. And even - even if you're right about us, how we're all still the same… There's so much about each other we don't know. We don't really know much about how we've each spent the last two decades. Or where we've worked, where we've lived, who we've fucked. It's like we're strangers…"

Eddie cleared his throat, willing his blush to disappear. "Maybe… Okay, this might sound stupid, so if you laugh afterward, I'm giving myself permission to hit you."

Richie snorted. "Alright, go ahead."

"We should find a way for all of us to know each other again. So we're not strangers. We should be the strongest version of the losers club when we go into the sewers, right? Losers club doesn't have secrets. Maybe we - you know, we bond with each other again. By telling each other stuff. You know?"

"Are you saying you want to sit in a circle and tell each other secrets?"

Eddie huffed. "Essentially, yes."

Richie laughed a little but held his hands up in surrender. "I'm not laughing at you! Just - I mean, why not? It couldn't hurt. Maybe we could re-do the blood pact, too?"

Eddie grimaced. "Yeah, Rich, let's physically weaken ourselves before we go fight a demon space alien. That's a super good idea."

"Well you don't have to be mean about it, dickhead."

Eddie laughed and shook his head. "How about, if we all live, we'll -"

"If we all live?! Don't say shit like that man!"

"I've already killed a man, Richie, I don't think death is completely off the table."

"Fuck, you killed a man." Richie sounded awed and a little scared.

"And you were very helpful, by the way." Eddie smirked.

"Listen, Eds, you've always been the brave one, we all know that, Mr. This is Battery Acid."

"I think I called It Fucknuts, too," Eddie recalled. He remembered spraying his aspirator at It, but even still he couldn't picture It clearly. "Do you remember what It looked like? It's real form, not any of the glamours."

Richie paused. "I don't - I don't think so? I just - I remember the eye in the sewers. When we all stood around like idiots and you screamed at us to step the fuck up. But other than that…"

Eddie remembered that, too. He'd lost his shoe in the eye, kicking it and screaming at the others to help him. It almost shocked him, to remember himself as being brave. But he had been. He'd attacked first, both the eye and… Whatever It became, in the end. His aspirator had really hurt It. 

"I wonder if we really saw It…" Eddie said. Another memory had hit him, one of Richie holding a baseball bat, of Bill trapped under Pennywise's arm. "I think - I think we hurt It while It was the clown. Maybe that's - maybe part of why It didn't die is because it was still using a glamour. It escaped before we hurt it enough to see the true form."

"That's - I mean, it was weird that Pennywise just bolted…"

"And Richie?" He reached out again, a little more confident, and touched Richie's arm. The contact made his chest clench. "You're brave, too. Don't you remember? Now I'm gonna have to kill this fucking clown."

Richie laughed quietly. "I hadn't remembered that until you said it."

Eddie hadn't remembered the battery acid or the eye until Richie brought them up, either. He wondered if it was because neither of them were the kind of people who looked for the good in themselves, and if there were other things they'd done that they could be proud of and just hadn't remembered yet. He hoped so. He hoped they still had some of that bravery left.

Richie flopped back down, head hitting the pillow as he released a loud sigh. Eddie followed suit, his face warming when he realized Richie had landed closer than he was before. They weren’t touching, but he could feel the heat from Richie’s arm only inches from him.

“We should probably try to sleep before… Well, we should try to sleep.” Richie’s voice had quieted. Eddie could barely hear him over the whirr of the air conditioner. “Goodnight.”

“Night, Rich,” he murmured. He hoped Richie couldn’t hear the fondness in his voice over the sound of the AC. He breathed in deeply and closed his eyes. He was asleep in minutes. 

*

Three short knocks on the door woke Eddie a few hours later. His left side was warm and he mindlessly moved into the heat before his muddled and tired mind remembered it was Richie next to him, still sleeping with breaths so loud it could almost be called a snore. Light poured in through the window so that Eddie could see Richie’s relaxed face, and staring down at the other man distracted him enough that he jolted at the sound of more knocks.

“Rich? Eddie? W-w-wake up, we’re meeting d-d-d-downstairs in twenty!” Bill’s voice drifted through the door and Eddie sighed, sitting up and shaking Richie’s shoulder.

“Mph,” Richie said, rolling away from Eddie.

“Wake up, didn’t you hear Bill?”

“Was ignoring him,” Richie answered bluntly. Eddie rolled his eyes and got up, heading toward the door just as Bill began to knock again.

“Hey,” he said, opening the door to find Bill’s fist mid-air. “We’ll be down soon, but can I talk to you first?”

Bill nodded, and Eddie closed the door behind them.

“Rich and I were talking last night and… Well, we were talking about how we don’t really feel like the lucky seven anymore. We’ve lost some of the connection we had as kids, and that connection is a huge part of why we survived last time. I just think – We think we should do something to bond again, like how we bonded at the Jane but… More. Maybe – Maybe we could go downstairs and just… share things about ourselves. You know, the kind of important things you share with your closest friends.”

Bill’s eyebrows had risen and Eddie bit his lip awkwardly. If Bill didn’t go for it, it wasn’t going to happen, and something in Eddie’s chest told him it needed to happen if they were going to survive.

Finally Bill shrugged. “I m-m-m-mean, it couldn’t hurt.”

“Right,” Eddie agreed. “So… If you could let everyone know what’s going on? We’ll meet you downstairs soon. I’m probably going to have to physically yank Richie out of bed, so…”

Bill nodded. “That’s fine. I’ll see y-y-you down there s-s-soon.”

Eddie thanked him and went back into the room, surprised to see the bed empty and the bathroom door closed. He sighed in relief that Richie had gotten himself up and went to his suitcase to pull out clean clothes. Richie finished in the restroom quickly and they switched, Eddie hurrying through his morning routine and dressing, anxious to get downstairs.

He stepped out of the bathroom without looking up, his pajamas folded in his hands, and after a few steps toward his suitcase he raised his head, confused by the silence.

He swallowed thickly at the sight of Richie standing in the middle of the room in just jeans, the hem of his boxers visible, the trail of hair leading down into his boxers all Eddie could see.

“Sorry,” he choked, looking away as quickly as he could force his head to move, feeling the heat light up his cheeks. He cursed himself in his head, power walking the rest of the way to his suitcase and focusing all his energy on making sure all his things were placed neatly and organized inside, trying not to think about Richie, half-naked, a few feet away.

He could hear Richie clear his throat behind him, but his voice still came out strained. “No worries.”

Eddie nodded without looking up. His hands were clenched into fists.

“Um,” Richie said awkwardly, when Eddie didn’t move. Eddie let out a breath and stood up, turning to face Richie, only to find himself again faced with a bare-chested Richie.

“What the fuck!”

“Sorry!” Richie said, not moving.

“Put your fucking shirt on!”

“Right.”

Richie bent over to reach into his suitcase and Eddie stared with his mouth open at the way the muscles in his arms moved, the way his back arched. He realized as he stared that there was no longer any attempts at denying his sexuality. This was it. He couldn’t look away as Richie pulled a shirt over his head. His cheeks were still hot and he waited for some joke from Richie, something like take a picture, it’ll last longer, or like what you see, Eds?, but Richie remained quiet.

“So,” Eddie said once Richie was fully dressed. “We’re meeting the others downstairs.”

“To share secrets?”

“Shut up,” Eddie said, walking out the door. They could hear the chatter of the others as they headed down stairs, and Eddie realized without surprise they were the last to make it down.

“Hey!” Beverly greeted. “Good thing you’re here, we were about to start without you.”

“Actually we already finished without you,” Stanley said, sly grin on his face. “Guess you guys don’t get to be part of the club anymore.”

"How dare you, Stanley," Richie said, skipping over to plop onto the floor next to Stan's spot on the couch. Beverly and Ben sat on the loveseat while Bill, Mike, and Stan took up the couch. There was a single armchair waiting, empty, between Richie's spot on the floor and Ben and Beverly, and Eddie took his spot. 

"We decided Bill will go first," Mike said, and Eddie nodded. It made sense in a way he couldn't explain. Of course Bill would go first. Bill would always go first.

"So," Bill started, then stopped. He cleared his throat and turned his face to the floor. Eddie bit his lip nervously, his heart beginning to beat faster as he waited for Bill's secret. "I wasn't s-sick. The day G-G-G-Georgie died. He - he wanted me to go out and p-p-p-play with him, but I didn't - I didn't want to. It wasn't that I didn't l-l-l-love him, or -"

"It wasn't your fault," Beverly said to him. "Nobody could've known what would happen."

Bill's face was red but he didn't cry. His eyes were resolute as he looked around at each of them. "I feel so g-g-guilty for what I d-d-did. And I feel g-g-g-guilty that I hadn't th-th-thought about G-Georgie in over 20 years."

"Pennywise wiped our memories, man, that's not -"

"I knew I had a l-l-little brother thatd-d- died. I knew his n-n-name, how old he w-was. And it was like… I d-d-didn't care. It d-d-didn't m-m-mean anything. I re-re-re-remembered him and it didn't m-mean anything."

"Fuck that," Richie said suddenly. "Seriously, Bill, fuck that shit. You didn't really remember Georgie, because if you did you would've spent the last 27 years feeling like you feel right now. We all know it. It's not your fault you didn't remember and it's not your fault he died."

"I know you probably don't believe that," Eddie added, "but it's true. None of it was your fault. And you're the one who led us to beat Pennywise the first time. You ended the cycle early, man. You saved lives."

Bill shook his head, still avoiding meeting anyone's eyes. "W-W-We all did that."

"Then maybe we should all get a pat on the back for it," Ben suggested. "We all did something that saved who knows how many lives. We should all - you know, give ourselves credit for it."

Eddie thought back to the night before, discussing all the things with Richie that he hadn't remembered doing. All the moments he was brave, strong, powerful. How he and Richie didn't remember them because they struggled to see their own strength.

"I agree," he said, nodding to Ben. "We all need to give ourselves more credit for what we did. Yeah, It came back, but we stopped it back then. The killings, they stopped. We were all brave as fuck, guys. And we can be brave as fuck again."

"I don't recall being brave as fuck," Stan said quietly. "I only remember being terrified out of my mind."

"That's what being brave is, though," Mike told him. "Doing something even when it scares you. And you're being brave right now, just by being here, Stanley. All of you are. We're all terrified but we're all here, and that, as Eddie so eloquently put it, is brave as fuck."

"Well said." Beverly smiled softly. "You should go next, Mike."

Mike looked surprised for a moment, eyes widening a bit, but he quickly nodded, shuffling in his seat. 

"Well," he started, looking around at each of them. "I guess you know I've kept up with each of you, but not - not quite the extent that I've kept up with you. I've read all of Bill's books and seen every movie adaptation. I've seen every television appearance Richie's ever made. I've read every article ever written about Ben. I've driven up to Bangor a few times, to one of those fancy department stores, just to see Bev's clothes in person. Couldn't afford to buy anything, but -"

The group paused as an uncomfortable undercurrent swept through the room. Eddie noticed he wasn't the only one who wouldn't meet Mike's eyes.

"Don't be weird about it," Mike said with a soft sigh. "It is what it is. And this - this tension, this discomfort… That's what Eddie's talking about. To be the Lucky Seven we have to push through what makes us uncomfortable. You guys can't walk on eggshells around me anytime finances come up. We can't walk on eggshells around each other at all. This is the point of this. We've got to share the hard shit, too."

Eddie didn't know what to say, so he kept his mouth shut. He looked up, though, and Mike was giving a comforting smile to them all. Eddie breathed in deeply and let it out slowly as Bill agreed with Mike, and the awkward tension began to dissipate.

"Anyway," Mike continued, "it's been hard to be the one to stay here. I won't lie, there were so many times over the years that I thought about calling one of you. And there were times over the years that I even resented you guys a little, for being able to leave. But this was what I was meant to do. This was my job. I accepted that, and I'm okay with it. I've made my peace with it."

"I'm sorry you had to stay here, Mike," Ben said. Mike just shrugged good-naturedly.

"Well, if we're going to be talking about the uncomfortable shit, maybe I should go next." Eddie raised his eyebrows at the bluntness in Bev's voice. She huffed a short laugh. "I mean - I mentioned leaving my husband at dinner but… There's so much more to it. He - Well. I'll start with - I have one very close friend. Her name's Kay, and I've known her a long time. And it's… it's funny, you know, when someone knows you, how they can see through your bullshit? Kay can see through my bullshit. But she never called me on it. Don't get me wrong, she told me to leave him for years, before we were ever even married, but she never… She had to have known, you know?"

Eddie swallowed thickly as Bev rambled, her voice catching a few times. His hands balled up into fists, a response to the anger that was slowly building inside his chest as Beverly spoke.

"But I'm glad she never brought it up because… I don't know how to talk about it, especially with someone who never met… Well, someone who never met my father. I didn't know how to talk about the shame I feel for running from my abusive father into the arms of an abusive husband. I don't know why I did it. I don't know why I stay."

Tears were dripping down her cheeks now, and Eddie had the urge to reach over and hold her hand, but Ben already had an arm around her shoulders and Stan was clutching her hand.

"Anyway, I - I left him. I had to… He didn't want me to. And part of me is… so fucking scared that I'm going to go right back to him after Derry."

"That's n-not going to h-h-happen, Bev," Bill said quickly, leaning closer to her to put a comforting hand on her knee. "We won't l-let you."

“It shouldn’t be like that. Isn’t it the same thing? Putting my wellbeing in the hands of yet another man? Trusting in you guys to keep me from going? It needs to be my own decision, and it needs to come from my own strength.” 

No one spoke for a moment. Eddie watched as Beverly wiped her tears with her free hand. Finally, Ben turned to face her and said, “we won’t make the decision for you, but no matter what you decide we’ll be there to support you. Obviously we all want you to be safe and not go back to him, but no one here is your keeper. We just love you and want the best for you. And if you leave you won’t be alone. We’ll all be there for you.”

The others murmured their agreements and Bev smiled through her tears, thanking them quietly.

"I'll go next," Stan offered, raising his hand a little. "I… Well, I guess I'm sort of Twitter famous? I've got a blue checkmark and everything."

"I'm sorry?" Richie asked, voice rising in pitch. "It took me two years to get a fucking checkmark and they gave one to you?!"

Stanley shrugged. "I had a commercial for my accounting business go viral."

No one said anything. Eddie stared blankly at Stan as though he'd grown a second head.

Stan huffed. "Patty and I made a commercial when I first started the company. We filmed it ourselves because we didn't have money to hire anyone and it was just - it was just me at my desk, and Patty standing next to me. And I'm just talking, you know, about why people should choose me as their accountant. But Patty apparently found it absolutely hilarious because she kept, like, laughing - snorting while I was talking. And in my head I'm thinking, there's no way we're going to use this, this is ridiculous, and I smile at the end - well, Patty says it's a grimace but what's the difference, really? - and Patty, completely unscripted, yells "call Uris Accounting for all your accounting needs!" and then I started laughing. Anyway, she posted it on Facebook without telling me and it went viral -"

"Holy fuck, I've seen that!" Richie yelled, throwing his hands up. "It's - there's a YouTube video, one of those compilations, called 'People Breaking and Laughing on Camera (Almost Entirely Richie Tozier Laughing at His Own Jokes)'! We're in the same compilation YouTube video!"

"You have the name of the video memorized?" Eddie asked. Richie laughed.

"That's terrible news," Stan said. Richie laughed harder. "Anyway, now the company's Twitter has thousands of followers who think my deadpan humor and random observations are hilarious. My actual secret is that I don't actually write any of it - Patty does. She's the funny one but she isn't a big fan of too much attention so people think it's me."

"Aw, it's okay, Stan, Richie doesn't write his jokes, either," Ben said with a grin. Eddie laughed, watching happily as Richie began to yell indignantly. 

It took a few minutes for the group to calm down. Eddie sat and soaked it in, trying to ignore the twisting in his gut that told him this lighthearted fun was going to end soon. That they may never get this feeling back again.

"Anyway," Stan said finally. "Patty's very funny. She calls my car The Sedanley."

"Aw," Bev cooed, grinning. "That's cute! You guys sound really happy together."

"We are," Stan agreed, his cheeks pink. "Anyway, who's next? Eddie?"

Eddie's stomach clenched and he bit his lip. He cleared his throat, finding a spot on the floor to stare at so he could avoid the eyes of his friends. This was his idea in the first place, he certainly couldn't back out now.

"Before I say anything, I just want to say I've never told anyone this, and it's… Well, it's quite embarrassing and I'd really appreciate you all not making fun of me."

"W-We'd never m-m-make fun of you," Bill assured him immediately. Eddie gave him an incredulous look. Bill laughed a little. "Okay, f-f-fair enough, we d-definitely would. B-B-But wew- won't! You can t-t-tell us."

"Yeah," Eddie muttered. He took a few deep breaths and opened his mouth. “I’ve never… you know, done it. Like…” His eyes darted around at each of them and his cheeks pinked. He lowered his voice to a whisper, “Sex.”

Stan laughed. “Clearly, if you feel like you have to whisper the word sex.”

“We promised no laughing! Nobody laughed at your stupid Sedanley!”

"Oh, honey," Bev said. "Why not? You could get any woman you wanted!"

Eddie didn't look up from the floor. His hands were balled up into nervous fists.

"Or man?" She continued. A question. 

Before Eddie could speak, Richie's voice broke the tense silence. “No! You aren’t allowed to come out!”

“I kn-kn-know you’re not about t-t-to be homophobic,” Bill interrupted.

“Like you can talk,” Richie answered, annoyed. “Have you ever written a character that wasn’t straight?” Bill tried to answer but began stammering worse than usual. “And I’m not being homophobic. But if Eddie comes out right now and steals my goddamn thunder then that would be biphobic. Because I’m bi. That was my secret. So. Now, Eddie, if there’s anything you’d like to say…”

“You’re the fucking worst,” Eddie told him. “And I don’t… I don’t know. I’ve never had feelings strong enough for anyone, man or woman, to ever do anything about it. I suppose I’ve found men attractive before, but never anyone that I knew or liked or – I suppose mostly celebrities, strangers on the subway, things like that. I never… I guess I haven’t met many people that have caught my interest.”

"Sounds like you need to lower your standards,” Stan said bluntly.

“Nah,” Ben said, smiling at Eddie. “I get what he means. I never really formed any connection with anyone either. Before you guys I was lonely, and after you guys I was lonely. I suppose I had been interested in someone when I was younger, but… I forgot about her. Maybe eventually you’ll remember someone, Eddie. Someone who caught your interest.”

Eddie finally glanced up, his eyes immediately finding Richie, who was staring resolutely at the floor. He chewed on his lip. Finally he looked over at Ben and said, “I think I will remember. Eventually.”

"Well," Richie said loudly, and Eddie jumped. Richie's cheeks were bright red and he shoved his glasses up his nose with his pointer finger. "Since I already spoiled my secret, I guess I don't have to go."

"We're very proud of you, Richie," Bev said with a soft smile. "Even though you ruined Eddie's moment."

"Sorry 'bout that, Eds," Richie said with a small shrug and a sheepish smile. "Couldn't let you steal my gay thunder."

Eddie furrowed his brows. "Didn't you just say you were bi?"

Richie waved him off. Eddie noticed his face was still flushed. He pushed his glasses up his nose again. Eddie clenched his hands into fists as he watched Richie fidget, knowing the other man was nervous but not being completely sure what he was nervous about. Eddie had said he would probably remember someone he had feelings for… Could Richie be figuring him out? Could Richie already know that Eddie had those feelings?

And now that he knew Richie was into men as well… Could he return those feelings?

"-but like I said earlier, to Eddie, I feel like I'm only just remembering the girl I loved…" Eddie realized he'd been ignoring Ben, who was obviously talking about Beverly. The two of them were still next to each other, but Eddie could sense some discomfort in Beverly's body language. He thought about how her entire life had revolved around men and felt a pang in his chest for her. She deserved a break.

"So, w-w-what do you th-th-think, Eddie?" Bill said. Eddie startled, tearing his eyes from where they'd rested on Bev. Ben had finished talking and Eddie was hit with a wave of guilt that he'd been too inside his own head to really listen. But he knew the gist of it, right? Ben loved Bev, Ben had been lonely as an adult. He was basically just repeating Eddie's life story, although probably without the virginity aspect. 

"I mean… I dunno. Do you guys feel closer?"

Bill shrugged helplessly. Eddie's heart sank. He didn't feel any different, either. 

"I think this was good," Richie said, stepping up beside Eddie and wrapping an arm around his shoulder. "At the very least we're better off than we were before. It was like a trust exercise, you know? It - it worked."

Eddie looked up at him. He was giving Eddie what was probably supposed to be a reassuring look, but from the angle Eddie was at, looked more like a grimace. Eddie laughed a little.

"W-Well, alright th-th-then," Bill said, heading toward the front door of the Inn. "Let's g-g-go."

*

By the time they made it to the small door that led to It's lair, Eddie could barely breathe. Nothing had happened the entire way. Why had nothing happened? Where was It?

"Well…" Richie said with a shrug. "No news is good news, right?"

"I don't think that applies here," Stan said, his voice trembling.

"Are we ready, then?" Mike asked. Eddie gripped his aspirator and shot it into his mouth. The others nodded grimly. Mike pushed the door open, and they went inside.

Amidst the chaos - It turning into a giant spider with Pennywise's face, chasing them down tunnels that lead to nothing good, three doors with no right answer - Eddie had clutched his aspirator in his hand. He hadn't thought about it, but now, as he watched Richie's body float into the air, eyes white, he thought that perhaps he'd known all along. He remembered spraying the aspirator into the giant eye, remembered - this is battery acid, fucknuts! - and he stepped forward.

He didn't utter a sound as he sprayed the aspirator at It, watching as the mist hit one of the spider legs. It's head swung around to face Eddie, so close Eddie could smell It's rancid breath.

"Battery acid," he said coolly, before shooting off the aspirator again. He was close enough now that the mist sank into one of It's eyes. Pennywise's voice bellowed around the cavern, screaming in pain, and Eddie sprayed again, this time aiming for It's open mouth. Just as his finger pressed down, just as the HydrOx filled It's mouth, Eddie was slammed into from the side. He lost his grip on the aspirator and landed hard on the ground, but his eyes didn't leave the spider. He watched as the mouth, filled with razor-sharp teeth, clamped down where his arm had just been. 

"You're a fucking idiot, Kaspbrak," Stan said, helping Eddie up.

"Holy shit," Eddie said, breathing heavily and looking at Stan, who was shaking. "You saved my life."

"Yeah, well," Stan said. Then, more quietly, so low that Eddie didn't think he was supposed to hear it, he said, "You saved mine first."

"We gotta save Richie," Eddie said, as It's yell pierced the air again. It was rounding on Mike and Ben on the other side of the cavern, and Richie still floated in mid-air.

"Hey!" Stan screamed, his voice echoing in the lair. Eddie's eyes widened and he grabbed Stan's arm. "You're not real, clowns are human and don’t have spider legs, either you’re a human or a spider, make up your mind!"

Eddie watched in horrified shock as It began to shrink, spider legs pulling in toward its body. The others began to join in, yelling what seemed like nonsense to Eddie, who suddenly could only focus on Richie, collapsing to the floor.

He rushed to Richie's body, lying on the ground, and began to shake him.

"Clown! Clown! Clown!"

"Rich, wake up, man," he said, patting Richie's cheek. Richie groaned. "Yeah, hey, buddy, open your eyes!"

"Eds, wha-" His eyes widened as he took in Eddie's form. He grabbed tightly onto Eddie's right arm, staring at it in wonder. "Fuck, you're -"

"Come help us!" Ben's voice carried over to them. Eddie looked over to where their friends stood in a semi circle around It, now shriveled and small and not a clown at all. Eddie helped Richie to his feet and, feeling more powerful than he ever had in his life, squeezed It's heart until It was no more.

Richie saw Stan kill himself and Eddie losing his arm and dying in the deadlights and when they’re out of the house he grabs Stan’s arms and looks at his wrists angrily and Stan realizes what it means and Richie asks “Why didn’t you do it?”

 “First I didn’t remember… I was in the bathtub… I was… Ready. I could only remember promising Bill, the blood oath… But then I remembered Beverly saying she saw us all as adults… And I remembered that I had, too, when I was in the deadlights, and that Eddie was going to die. I knew – Somehow I just knew that if I killed myself Eddie would die, and if I came back he wouldn’t. I could – I could end my own life, but I couldn’t bring myself to end Eddie’s. So I came back.”

not even the author knows what happens next :-)

[mollymauk-teafleak]

Prince Consort

This is a Valentine’s Day present for my lovely girlfriend who is awesome and the best and I really hope you like this baby @spiky-lesbian

Please consider leaving a comment on Ao3!

-------

Of course it was raining.

Alex gave Henry a smug smile as they’d sat at the loveseat helpfully provided by their hotel, right by the expansive window so they had a lovely view of the entire city, slate grey and swimming beyond a thick film of rain. One of the things they loved to argue about was whose country had the most ridiculous weather.

“Don’t,” Henry warned him, seeing the look and giving a retaliatory pinch to his already flushed cheek. Their very late breakfast had turned into something definitely other than breakfast and it had left them both dishevelled and out of breath.

“I didn’t say anything…” Alex pouted demurely, leaning up to lick a smudge of chocolate that had used to be part of a pain au chocolat from his cheek.  

“You don’t have to,” Henry went redder, pleasantly scandalised, catching his mouth and promptly wiping the smug look from his face with a deep kiss that tasted of coffee and brown sugar.

They were being excessive. They both knew it but neither could care. This visit was the first time they’d really been free of work, of law school, of responsibilities that kept them from falling into each other’s arms as often as they’d like. They felt like their younger selves again, nearly wrecking hotel rooms with the abandon of rock stars, lounging around in the afterglow with no clothes on with neray a thought of an upcoming deadline or press conference or budget report.

Except now they could kiss without fear.

“So what did you have planned for today?” Alex murmured when they eventually drew apart, only because they had to breathe and because they knew there were more kisses close in their future.

The reason they were in town was to fawn over their new niece, the week old Princess Margaret, immediately nicknamed Maggie and immediately spoiled by both her uncles. But today were the official portraits for the press and both of them were going to avoid those like the plague. Alex had been ready to construct an overflowing itinerary but Henry had told him not to make any plans. Telling a Claremont-Diaz not to make plans was like telling a shark to swim backwards but he’d somehow managed to refrain.

Having Henry sprawled on the loveseat with him wearing only a robe that was suggesting more than it was covering, that helped a lot.

His boyfriend smiled enigmatically, “I just need you dressed and ready for seven. That’s all.”

Alex frowned, studying his face eagerly for clues, “What kind of ‘dressed’? Fancy? Casual? Smart casual, the most infuriating category of clothing ever?”

Henry laughed warmly, “Whatever you feel comfortable in, dear. That’s all.”

Alex snorted and settled back against his chest, letting it drop for now. He was confident he’d wheedle the answer out of him sooner or later, there was no rush. He let his eyes close, enjoying the sounds of the city below, a city so different from the one he knew but which had become another kind of home.

Henry’s hand stayed on his back where it had settled a little while before, rubbing slow circles just below his shoulder blades. And then it began to creep lower, cupping the curve of his hip, his thumb pressing in the divot where it started to become his groin. There was something hungry in that grip.

A smile tugged at the corner of Alex’s mouth, “If we don’t need to be ready until seven, that gives us...what, four hours, right?”

“Something like that,” Henry murmured, a grin in his voice.

“What should we do with all that time then...”

Henry didn’t deign to answer, just chuckling in that unbearably sexy way of his as the hand gripped tighter, turning Alex onto his back and sinking his mouth against his love’s.

Fortunately, the rain had stopped by the time they headed down in the elevator of the impossibly expensive and indulgent hotel they’d sprung for, rather than face the awkwardness of staying in Kensington. Not that things hadn’t improved significantly since they’d come out but still, it was easier to feel like this was a romantic vacation when they chose their own bed. And when said bed wasn’t a centuries old antique.

The city was dark or, at least, as close to darkness as it ever came. The windows were still alive with light, bars and restaurants pools of it as they drove past, the streetlamps streaking it across the car’s tinted windows. Alex leaned his head against the glass, feeling Henry’s hand in his own, and smiled.

Though he was a little annoyed, down in his chest. He still hadn’t figured out Henry’s plan for their evening. He’d been watching the roads carefully, trying to map out London in his head with bars and restaurants he knew they’d been to before pinned in red. Placed they’d been to when they’d just started, places they’d had dates in since, places they’d spent one of their four anniversaries so far, though only two of them had been spent in London.

But, as he looked over at Henry’s face, illuminated by the car’s headlamps, he saw it again. The spark in his eyes, the suggestion that they weren’t here just for dinner and drinks. The look of someone who was up to something.

Alex tried to puzzle at it some more but he was quickly distracted just by looking at Henry. He always looked so content when he was driving, focused but at ease, the hand that wasn’t in Alex’s loose on the wheel. Sure their security detail flanked them from both directions in hire cars identical to their own but they were at least allowed their own privacy. It was a compromised sort of freedom, the kind they’d both grown used to. The kind that seemed to be tipping more in their favour as they grew.

“Hey,” Henry’s eyes didn’t move from the crowded London street ahead of them but his voice came soft and snagged Alex’s attention immediately, “I love you.”

Alex smiled softly, melting in the way only Henry had ever been able to get him to, “I love you too.”

Alex caught on about five seconds before they pulled up, with a sharp intake of breath and bolting upright in his seat, “The V&A!”

Henry gave him a grin, “Look at you, sounding just like a local. But yes, that’s exactly where we’re going.”

“It’ll be closed by now,” Alex was already shifting excitedly, not unlike a puppy, “Are we breaking and entering again?”

“Hardly,” Henry parked up with infuriating neatness and precision (he was easily the better driver though Alex would never admit it), “I don’t think it counts as that if someone just lets you in the back door. But yes.”

Alex bounded out, already smiling at the memories of the night he and Henry snuck out of the palace to come here, the night he’d looked at Henry and started to see a future. Even the weather was much the same, the pavements silvered by the earlier downpour, the blanket of clouds above him. He looked up at the grand, towering edifice of the museum and smiled, wishing he could go back in time and tell that confused young man that, three years from now, Henry’s hand would still be in his own and his own mind would be a place he genuinely loved to live.

He was so wrapped up in his own memories that he didn’t notice the security team pointedly staying within their cars.

Their footsteps echoed through the empty halls as they walked through the museum, dimly lit and eerie in a good kind of way. It had an excitement to it, like they were getting to see a side of it no one ever did. Like discovering a secret.

Henry was incorrigible; as soon as he came upon pieces he knew, he began to eagerly recount their stories, like an overzealous textbook given a voice box. Alex couldn’t complain, he was as much of a history nerd as the next person and he did adore seeing Henry so completely absorbed in something he genuinely loved.  He could listen to his boyfriend describe how the candlestick they were looking at was a fabulous example of the skill of medieval English goldsmiths all night.

They spiralled their way inwards, starting with the outer galleries with their Raphael cartoons and folios and moving down through costume displays and historical artefacts. Alex let Henry’s voice carry him somewhere else, to a place where everything was unique and precious and tagged with it’s own slice of history, perfectly preserved behind glass panels for anyone and everyone to come hear their story.

He was almost sad when they made their way to the main room, the last on their little journey. Though the statue in the centre was something of an old friend.

“There he is!” Alex grinned, gazing up at the twisted bodies of Giambologna’s masterpiece, looking almost haunting under the spotlights with no other light around, violence frozen into beauty, “No wonder the king passed it on to that Duke, you’d have to be gay to appreciate something this ostentatious.”

“That’s priceless artwork you’re talking about,” Henry pointed out, though he was smiling, abandoning his boyfriend’s hand completely and just sliding his arm around his shoulders.

Alex leaned closer in, enjoying the contact and the warm smell of him, “Priceless artwork with two buff dude’s asses on full display. Another point towards it’s obvious gayness.”

“You should be an art historian,” Henry snorted, pressing a kiss to the side of his head, just at the top of his jaw, “With a very specific focus.”

“Maybe I should. I could just keep going to school, doing degree after degree until I’m the most qualified person who ever lived who doesn’t actually have a job.”

Henry shook his head gently, deliberately, “No. The world needs you out there. Doing things, making things better the way you do.”

Sometimes Alex had to stop and just look at Henry, really look at him. Just so the voice that still lived somewhere inside him, the one that whispered to him and said he wasn’t good enough and he wasn’t worthy of everything he had, just so that voice could see the look of perfect sincerity on Henry’s face and know it was wrong.

“Fine. You can write the endless essays on the best asses in Renaissance art,” Alex murmured, aware that he was blushing slightly.

Henry smiled, hair looking like gold in the dimness, “Maybe...listen, I...I really, really love you. I just need you to know that.”

Alex frowned a little though his smile didn’t fade, “That’s twice now you’ve said that unprompted. What do you want?”

Henry looked a little abashed, like he really thought he’d been subtle, “Okay, fine, I do have something I want to ask you for.”

“Well spit it out,” Alex gave his usual cocky, lopsided grin, though there was now a genuine seed of worry in his chest, like something unseen was rushing at him, “You know I deal exclusively in blowjobs so we’ll see if we can come to an agreement about how many this favour of yours is worth.”

“Lord,” Henry turned his eyes upwards for a moment, looking exasperated, desperate and hopeful all at once, the expression of a man about to take a step forward into thin air, “Just…”

He pulled away suddenly and, for a moment, the seed of worry in Alex’s chest turned into a full blown panic...until Henry then sank to one knee and produced something from his pocket, something that caught what little light there was around them and glinted.

“I want you to spend the rest of your life with me,” he said, voice soft and sweet and sincere.

Alex froze in place, unable to stop his jaw dropping even though he knew he’d look ridiculous, “You...you’re proposing to me?”

Henry ran an anxious hand through his hair, sending it out of place, “Um...yes.”

“And...and the last thing I said before you did was a joke about you blowing me…” Alex said hoarsely.

Relief washed over Henry’s face and he smiled, “Rather appropriate for us, don’t you think?”

Before he could say anything more idiotic than he’d already managed, Alex threw himself down and caught that ridiculously perfect mouth in a messy kiss, one that nearly sent them both careening back onto the white tiled floor. Fortunately Henry shot one arm out behind him to catch them and managed to keep his grip on the ring.

“Is that a yes?” he murmured weakly, once their lips drew away for air.

“Yes,” Alex was crying like a baby, getting salt water on his jumper and Henry’s perfect collared shirt and he didn’t care, “It’s, like, a million yeses. I’m going to be a fucking prince!”

“Prince consort,” Henry corrected gently, laughing, his own eyes rather damp, “More importantly, my prince consort.”

“Yours,” just that simple word took Alex’s breath away and he kissed him again, unable to bear another moment without Henry’s lips on his own.

Somewhere in the middle of the crying and the kissing, the ring found its way onto Alex’s finger. Newly made and perfectly sized- just so they could have something that was theirs alone- it shone silver under the museum spotlights, as precious to Alex as any ancient statue or priceless painting.

There was so much Alex wanted to tell his younger self, standing where they knelt in a tangle, five years in the past, his heart heavy with doubts and fears and new discoveries about himself. He wanted to tell him everything would be okay. He wanted to tell him he was braver and kinder and more wonderful than he could ever know. He wanted to tell him that love was real and the future was bright.

But maybe he wouldn’t tell him that one day he’d marry a prince. Some things were better left as surprises.

[harry-leroy]

3 hcs for the Gloucester boys? (I’m working on mine for you now :))

Ooh thank you for this! You know I love these boys (maybe a little too much, but it’s fine), so I’m gonna go full motherboard on these :’). (On that note, these’ll probably give me some TEP inspiration - I’ve been kinda neglecting it because Selby Roses is my life right now hehehe.) But anyway, enjoy! Can’t wait to hear yours! (Also might add a cut to these later because angst and my obnoxious analysis - but my tumblr on desktop isn’t working too well right now and I can’t add cuts on mobile for some reason - so here we are).

1) I feel like I need a staging of King Lear where Edgar is portrayed as having a mental illness, and I say that having looked at this play for almost a year now and trying to figure this boy out. (And obviously it would need to be done tastefully and respectfully, anything else would be terrible). But I suppose when I look at these two brothers, Edmund to me has a very clear, very straightforward way of thinking. He’s clear. Sure, he might get distracted with the idea of the sisters, and his indecisiveness between the two of them says that he’s lonely and he needs that connection with someone. But then again, there’s something politically advantageous about those affairs. He might be touch starved, but if he’s going to be touched, it’s going to be by the people who can also get him ahead. Edmund’s never had anything handed to him. He’s always had to play his cards right (as have the sisters - Edgar’s the only male character in the play set to inherit something one day, which I think is an interesting image). Therefore, Edmund’s motive and his direction in this play are extraordinarily clear: climb the ranks through force because I’ve been barred from inheriting honestly. Dog eats dog. That’s the way the England of King Lear works. Edgar, on the other hand, is somewhat of a surprise at every turn. He gets a problem thrust on him, so he responds with a motion towards self-preservation. (Henry VI also has this motivation as well - which might say something about entitled young men) Though, it reads like there was the thought in his head of the opposite. His method of self-preservation is highly creative, and would go to suggest that he doesn’t think himself to be mad or crazy, though I think Gloucester thinks of him in the storm because he’s exhibited behavior like that before. None of the other characters think of Edgar, except Gloucester - which suggests that this illness is kept behind closed doors. Going back to the beginning: Edgar’s not gullible. He’s paranoid. It might be something like persecutory delusions, and I feel like Edmund knows it (so he knows exactly where to strike). He’s not there at the division of the kingdom ceremony. He’s the only character who isn’t there. Yet, there’s no follow up as to why this is. I’ve seen it where Edgar was out with some girl, or he was reading a book or studying, but I’ve never seen it where it might suggest that he’s too afraid to leave his room to go or something to that effect, and I think (if done well) that could be a really strong choice. There’s also a line at the end that I keep thinking about, where Edgar’s telling Albany about when he encountered a man who told Gloucester about everything that had happened, he keeps rambling on without a name. Albany has to stop him: “but who is this?”, almost as if to keep him from hyperventilating - almost as if to say: “Edgar, what are you talking about? Who are you talking about?”. “Kent, sir, the banished Kent”, Edgar replies, as if Albany should have been keeping track this whole time. Anyway, I could go on about how I’d love to see this interpretation of his character, but this is getting long! :’) I hope at least some of that made sense ?

2) Okay, I’m thinking - since we’re going with the *amazing and incredibly angsty* headcanon that Edmund’s got some kind of sex addiction, I’m thinking it’s likely that he’s gotten some girl pregnant at some point. Whether he knows about it, I have no idea - I haven’t thought that far into it, but that could be really interesting to toy around with because of what happened with his birth and conception.

3) I still cannot get over the fact that Albany decided to stay with Edmund’s army not because he thought it was right, but it was because he hates the French. There’s a whole exchange in TEP about it - about how Edgar and Albany were on different sides in that horribly decisive battle, and now they have to unite a kingdom. It definitely knocks Albany’s image down a few pegs. Also, going with the fact that I kind of shipped Cordelia and Edgar in TEP (it was probably going to be a marriage of convenience for the both of them - they love one another, but probably not so much in that way), Edgar came back to civilization as himself to join Cordelia’s army. He didn’t have to do anything - so far as everyone else was concerned, he was off the map, but he came back to fight with her, to fight alongside her when she needed it most. And Albany was on the other side. Ahhh it wrecks me to no end.

[tomproctor03-blog]

Weekly History writing essay: Week 1

To what extent did financial security change over the period of 1509-88?

Financial security changed drastically over this period. Argued firstly by Historian G.R. Elton, he says about how when Henry VIII came to the throne, he was the first “Renaissance King”, and what he meant by that was that Henry was not interested in the administrative side of Kingshi rather he wanted to have hunting seasons, host grand parties, and invade countries, in which fort his he needed money. He was lucky in the sense that his father, Henry VII, had a plethora of effective tax reforms and ideas (for example commissiong the Archbishop of Canterbury to create Morton’s fork, what was a catch-22 tax scheme targeted towards the Nobles), but also you had the excellent financial advisers of Thomas Howard, 2nd Duke of Norfolk, and Lord Dynham, and the two tax collectors of Richard Empson and Edmund Dudley in which they created tax laws and “dug-up” old and dubious financial laws that everyone had forgotten about, leading to Henry, at the point he died in 1509, having over $2,000,000 in his coffers, leaving all to his heir, Henry VIII. So in 1509, the financial security was the greatest iit could be. However, because Henry wanted to have a lavish lifestyle, this drastically went down. However the real reason why the financial security fell down to England being in debt, was because Henry wanted to be implemented and ingrained into History, as the King who took over lands and started an Empire. So in 1513, Henry used the $2,000,000 + that his father has kept in, and overall it was mediocre. Henry had created the Anti-French league, with the Holy roman Empire, in which in this attack, Maximilian I helped out Henry (Henry had 30,000 soldiers), and France could not stand a chance, in which they defeated France at the Battle of Spurs, and Henry gained the prestigious lands of Therouanne and Tournai, however because he spent that much money on the war, that he had no extra money to keep those lands and preserve them for Englishterriotiry, so Henry lost the lands almost instantly. However, the financial situation was exacerbated, and that was because during the Battle of the Spurs (because of the Auld alliance between France and Scotland), Scotland invaded England, and even though the English defeated the Scottish at the Battle of Flodden Field, in which King James IV of Scotland killed, England again was spending too much money. When all of these wars finished, England was in ultimate financial scarcity; something needed to change. So it did. With the rise of Wolsey, from 1515 to 1520, the financial security did rise a lot, and that was because of the intellectuality of Wolsey. Now, even though Wolsey came from a poor background in Ipswich, he worked his way up the ecclesiatical church, and attended the University of Cambridge at the age of 15, and one idiosyncratic trait of his, was that he was very good with finances, thus why Henry VII made him a royal chaplain during his reign. Wolsey implemented a lot of taxes that were new, for example the subsidy (what generates around $225,000 for Henry), and the fifteenths and tenths (what generated around $118,000 for Henry). However, Wolsey also used some other older tax laws, for example clerical taxation on the church, the Crown lands on the Nobles and also the forced loans, what generated around $250,000 for Henry, thus increasing the financial security, showing the change. Also, Wolsey implemented taxation laws in this period, in which the main one would be the Act of Resumptions, what would discard obsolescent roya grants, saving Henry asround $10,000 a year. Also, Wolsey’s domestic policy (that was a success), of launching an investigation into over 254 enclosures, leading to the crown finding a lot of corrupt families, resulting in more tax being paid, also increasing the financial security. From 1520 to 1536 the financial security dropped very low. This was because, Henry went back to his ways of wanting to invade countries, but also in one specific example, he wanted to boast against another country. In 1520, England was isolated from Europe, and decided that France would be the country that they would make good terms with, so this led to the Field of the Cloth of Gold, however it did not produce a treaty, rather it was just a boasting session, resulting in greater animosity between the two countries. The crown spent around ⅓ of their yearly budget on this failure of a peace agreement. Also, in this period the laity began to notice that the crown were just manipulating them to give them more taxes, and that it as not for the: “good of the country”. They especially got annoyed when Cardinal Wolsey seen as a: “base” person, spent over $1,000,000 on his own house of Hampton Court Palace , what was grander than the King’s palace. However, a specific example of the laity, and also the church, becoming more irate with the taxes that the crown tried to push down their throats would be the amicable grant. With some background information, when Charles V, the Holy Roman Emperor, defeated Francis I of France, Francis was taken hostage, making France very vulnerable, so Henry wanted to invade the country. However, he had o money to invade them with (showing how low the financial security was at the time), so Henry brought to Wolsey something called the amicable grant, in which the laity would be taxed ⅓ of their yearly wages, and the church ⅙; their target was $800,000. However they managed to raise $0, showing you how the perpetuated use of taxes, had led to the country, now being dubious of them, leading to a decrease in the financial security. However, in 1536, all of this changed, and that was because of the ideas of Thomas Cromwell. Cromwell, not naturally gifted with finances, learnt under the Florencians of Francesco Frescobaldi and also other merchants in Bruges and Antwerp. When he came back to England in around 1516, he also showed that he was financially coherent, due to the fact that he sorted out myriads of church’s bonds and contracts about money with Rome, in which Cromwell actually went to Rome and met with Pope Leo X. Also, he shows his tenacity when it came to finances, when Cardinal Wolsey wanted to build the twin Cardinal Colleges in Oxford, but he could not afford it, however he was able to, when Cromwell told him to dissolute 24 monasteries. Ironically, this is how Cromwell now made Henry money in 1536, in which during the Reformation Parliament, they passed the Valor Ecclesiasticus, what was the start of the dissolution of the monasteries. Now by 1539, all the monasteries in the country were gone, and Cromwell had gained these monastic lands and sold them to some poorer people, what would create the new middle-class, and create more money because Cromwell would now tax these people, leading to the financial security changing a lot. However antithetical to this idea, but still going on with the argument, when Cromwell died in 1540, this led to the financial security going down. Firstly, there was now no one who would help out Henry when it came to keeping their financial security stable. This was because at this point (after the death of Cromwell), there was the rise of the privy council feuds, what was between the Evangelics and the conservatives, and at its peak, you had Thomas Cranmer being accused of treason but also Stephen Gardiner’s relative (Germaine Gardiner) being executed for not following the oath of Supremacy, but also Henry Howard, Earl of Hertford, being executed, who was the son of Thomas Howard, 3rd Duke of Norfolk. This led to the financial security being increased, and that was because Henry was not held back by someone, leading to Henry trying to invade France again, with the siege of Boulogne and also the Rough Wooing against Scotland, and because of these were very unsuccessful this led to financial security going down. During the reign of Edward VI, the financial security was very high, and it was stable throughout his whole reign. This was because, even though Edward’s advisers (for example, Edward Seymour and John Dudley), were egoists who mainly cared for themselves, they did do a lot, financially, for the country. For example, Edward Seymour led the dissolution of the monasteries, in which this generated thousands of pounds, and they then subsequently he sold them to the middle-class, further taxing them after, gaining more money. Also, under the protectoship of John Dudly, Duke of Northumberland, he managed to end all wars with France and Scotland, but also he introduced a lot of successful financial reforms, and it was even that successful that William Cecil, under the reign of Elizabeth I used reforms that were influenced by Dudley’s reforms. However, the real reason why their financial security did not go down dramatically, would be because Edward did not go to war as frequently as Henry, Edward was only young and there were effective tax laws, showing you the difference between the financial secretary of the reign of Henry VIII and Edward VI. However, go to the reign of Elizabeth I and this led to the financial security changing again. Firstly, at the start of her reign, Financial security as grate, and that was because of the cautiousness of Cecil and Elizabeth, but also because of the financial reforms of Cecil, but also because England did not go to war. That is because England was much more focused on: the Elizabethan religious settlement, the growth of Parliament, the marriage deal and also trying to make the country a politique and religiously stable country. However, go to the end of Elizabeth’s reign and the financial security was a different story. Many Historians, including J.J Scarisbrick, talk about after 1588, Elizabeth’ second reign started, in which she started to become too lethargic as a leader, and just allow the society to cope by itself. She spent too much money on the English armada (this was a retaliation to the Spanish Armada that occurred in 1588), in which she sent around 23,000 men and 450 ships, and around 12,000 died, resulting in mass money was spent. Also at the end of her reign, she went through with the debasement of the coin, but there were no financial reforms, leading to the subsidy decreasing from 140,000 to 80,000. Also, when she died, it was found that she had personal debts of over $350,000

The financial situation over the course of this period changed massively, and there is no debating over that, however the actual debate is when there was the biggest change. The biggest change that occurred over this period would be the start of the reign of Henry VIII. That is because, when Henry VIII became King in 1509, many Historians in that period said that his future looked: “bright and colorful, full of promises and pulchritudinous events and occurrences”. However within 4 years, the country was in mass debt. So, to go from a coherently economic country,that had been carefully and tenaciously carved out by Henry VII, Edmund Dudley, Richard Empson , Lord Dynham, Thomas Howard, 2nd Duke of Norfolk, John Morton, Archbishop of Canter Tb of others, to a country that was seriously in debt and in urge of an adviser to guide the economy in the right direction, just shows how drastic the changes were, showing the ultimate change in financial security in this period.       

[melodiouswhite]

Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde rewritten Ch. 13

13. Dialogues with Mister Hyde and Doctor Jekyll

When Utterson went to see, if Hyde had calmed down, he found him curled together under the covers, with only his dark brown hair being visible.

“Mister Hyde?”, he asked gingerly.

The pile of covers moved and two sunken-in, bilious green eyes peeked out. “Hm?”

Oh good, he's calmed down.

“Are you ready to talk?”

“Depends”, Hyde muttered, “What do you want?”

“There are just a few things I want to know. Don't worry, it doesn't involve your criminal record”, he added, when Hyde's eyes narrowed.

“I brought you something”, he changed subjects and put the plate he was holding onto the night table next to the bed. “Lanyon and Lady Summers said, that you've healed up enough, so it's alright.”

The patient crawled half out of the covers to see what was on the table and gasped in surprise. “Solid food! And pomegranate seeds! How did you know?”

“Lady Summers dropped a hint”, the lawyer told him.

Utterson couldn't help but smile at the way Hyde's eyes sparkled over the fruit. It was almost cute.

For a few minutes he watched, as the young man practically inhaled the seeds, as if he was starving, before Hyde paused and looked at him.

“Didn't you want to ask me something?”, he asked.

Utterson shrugged. “I'm waiting until you're finished.”

Predictably, the other ate a lot slower now, but the lawyer had time today.

“I'm glad you liked them”, he stated, when the young man had finished.

“They're my favourites!”, Hyde cried enthusiastically, “Juicy, sweet …”

“And messy”, the older man finished, nodding at the other's white covers and night-gown, which now were sprinkled red with pomegranate juice.

Hyde didn't seem to care about the mess he had made, just cleaned his face and hands with a napkin, before hiding back under the covers.

“Your name really suits you”, Utterson commented. “Did you choose it yourself?”

“No, Jekyll did.”

Then was silence again – Utterson had to recall, what he had meant to ask the other.

“How old are you?”, he remembered then.

He was surprised at how torn Hyde suddenly looked.

“That depends …”, the brunette replied hesitantly, “Do you mean how long have I existed as Edward Hyde or how old am I according to my papers?”

Utterson had to admit, that he hadn't thought of that. “Why not both?”, he finally decided.

Hyde shifted a little and drank some of the water on the night table.

“Well”, he finally spoke up, “I was created eight years ago. Don't you dare joke about my age”, he added with a menacing growl, that sent shivers down the other man's spine. Even a calm, wounded Hyde could be frightening.

“Don't worry, wouldn't dream of it”, Utterson hurried to reassure the younger.

I have a self-preservation instinct, thank you very much.

This seemed to mollify Hyde, who continued: “But according to my papers, I'm twenty years old.”

The lawyer was surprised.

He had expected Hyde to be a teenager, he looked and acted so much like one. Then again, this was only a number that Jekyll had made up on paper. Probably so Hyde could legally …

“Wait … so you were only a few hours old, when you started to … uhm …”

Hyde laughed, catching on: “Oh no! I needed a while to even become aware of myself. The first night I wasn't quite. The first times I was more Jekyll than Hyde, despite always looking like this. It took a few times for us both to become fully aware of me.”

He stopped laughing and stared up to the ceiling pensively.

“It was really odd”, he mumbled, “I just suddenly �� was. I wonder, if that is what being born feels like.”

Utterson thought for a moment. “I don't think so”, he finally replied, “But it's probably similar.”

“What's your favourite colour?”

Hyde stared at the other man incredulously. “My favourite colour?”

Utterson nodded. “Yes. Your favourite colour. I asked you that question once, remember?”

The young man shook his head. “Can't say I do. And I don't know, what my favourite colour is. I never bothered to think about that.”

The lawyer had to chuckle: “That's not something you think about. It just happens at one point, that you decide, that you like one colour more than the rest.”

Hyde shrugged. “Never happened to me. I focus on other things.”

“For example?”

“On every precious minute that I'm not caged inside Jekyll's bleeding mind.”

Utterson tried to suppress the wave of pity that washed over him. Hyde had made it clear more than once, that he didn't want pity. And honestly, who did?

“Mister Utterson?”

“Yes?”

“Speaking of colours, which one is your favourite?”

Utterson thought for a moment. “I have several. Brown, yellow …”

Hyde interrupted him: “That's too vague! Be more specific!”

The lawyer kept himself from rolling his eyes and clarified: “My favourite colours are wheat yellow and chocolate brown. Happy?”

The brunette seemed to be, as he smirked triumphantly. “Jekyll's hair and eye colour”, he observed.

When Utterson gave him a look of horror, he laughed: “I'm his alter ego, I see him all the time, I know what colour his hair and eyes are. Besides, I already know of your feelings for him, so no need to panic!”

The lawyer tried and failed to fight back the blush, that was threatening to colour his face. “Of course”, he muttered, “I know you do.”

Then something else occurred to the lawyer: “What else do you know about him?”

Hyde looked pensive, as he answered: “Hmm … almost everything, really. Not quite everything, but almost. We have memory in common, you see? I share his entire knowledge. Everything he remembers I remember as well.”

I must test that!

“Do you remember, how Henry and I first met?”, Utterson challenged.

The younger one snorted: “You bumped into each other. It was his first day at the boarding school and you helped him up. He asked you for directions to the lab and you brought him there. He was blushing like crazy. That's so cliché!”

The lawyer had to admit defeat and the other man snickered gleefully.

“You amuse me, Mr. Utterson, you really do!”, he laughed, like so many other times.

And like so many other times, Utterson couldn't decide, if he should be flattered or offended.

Hyde found himself enjoying his talks with Utterson more than he let on.

The lawyer was unobtrusive in his curiosity and gentle in his prying. As promised, he didn't address his criminal record once during their talks.

At one point, the young man caught himself wondering, if the black-haired man would be willing to be his lawyer too. Oh, who cared if he was willing, he had no other choice! He knew their secret and if he knew what was good for him (which Hyde doubted, but that wasn't the point!), he would keep close to them.

He couldn't help but be impressed as well. The lawyer seemed to be sincere in his intent to get to know him better. There was genuine curiosity in his eyes, which was interesting.

Hyde wasn't blind, he could tell that Utterson still disliked him, but it appeared that the older man was willing to work past that dislike and that was new to him. Of course the fact, that Utterson was mostly putting up with him for Jekyll's sake ruined it a bit, but Hyde took whatever positive attention he could get. Even if it was just a bunch of stupid questions.

The young man wasn't willing to answer all of them freely, especially, when it came to more serious and important matters, like his relationship to Jekyll. That was none of Utterson's business, even if he strived to be Jekyll's lover.

What did they see in each other anyway?

Hyde felt jealousy well up within himself, every time his other half interacted with the lawyer, the way he could feel Jekyll's happiness and hear his thoughts, even in his cage inside their head.

He hated, that his creator should prefer someone else over him. Him, who knew the blond doctor like no other! Jekyll was so ungrateful! That old, miserable, hypocritical …

“Mister Hyde?”

Utterson's calm, gentle tone yanked him out of his thoughts.

He blinked. “Huh? Were you saying something?”

The lawyer shook his head. “No, I just noticed, that your mood was deteriorating and that worried me. You weren't having too dark thoughts, were you?”

Hyde shrugged: “That depends. Does being annoyed at your other half count as too dark?”

“No, but you were making a face like you were plotting someone's imminent demise. That's why I spoke up. I hoped that this impression was wrong.”

Hyde laughed. How typical of people to assume that he was plotting the worst! But it was really adorable, that Utterson tried to see something good in him.

“I do give that impression, don't I?”, he snickered, “I could be having tea and cake and be talking about the weather and everyone would still think the worst of me.”

When he returned home after their conversation, Utterson couldn't help but feel guilty. He too had thought the worst of Hyde and he remembered, what his cousin had told him once, when he had recounted that one time Hyde had trampled a girl. The inexplicable urge to hurt the young man, the feeling of loathing and distortion.

But now, that he was trying to work past his dislike, he found the brunette's presence to be less revolting that it had seemed to him at first. No longer did he feel the sense of malformation around the young man, that had horrified him at first. He was getting used to that pale face, those bilious green, sunken-in eyes and the scratchy, high-pitched voice.

Maybe he had felt that way before, because Hyde was so thin. Or because of the fact, that he had the tendency to duck his head, when he crept through open streets at night.

Currently, the lawyer was bothered by different things.

One thing was Hyde's refusal to give clear answers, especially when it came to Jekyll. As if he wanted to hide something, no pun intended. Alright, maybe that pun was totally intended. When it came to his relationship to his other half, Hyde's expression became aloof and closed-off. And then his answer was either complete silence or deliberately suggestive remarks, that made the lawyer's skin crawl. That left him to speculate and the conclusions he came to didn't make any sense.

Another thing was how often he caught himself confiding into a young man he still didn't like. How did Hyde do that? It didn't seem to be difficult for him to pump one personal information after the other out of the lawyer. That scared him.

He also didn't like the sultry purr Hyde spoke with sometimes. That too didn't seem difficult. Hyde's voice was naturally husky and borderline feminine. Utterson could tell, why Jekyll gave into his darker half so easily. Hyde just had to sweet talk him with that seductive tone. Knowing Jekyll, it would be enough to make his knees go weak. Utterson wasn't as weak-willed, but he found it uncomfortable, when Hyde talked to him like that.

Nevertheless, he was now certain, that Hyde was not a monster, not a demon in human shape. Maybe he wasn't even really evil, although he was definitely bad.

Maybe Lady Summers was right and he was just extremely twisted. Of course the Lady would now say that of course she was right, that she was never wrong, when it came to the human mind. But he wanted to be sure about this one, before he agreed with her.

There was no doubt to the lawyer though, that Hyde was mad. He suffered from extreme mood swings, much like Utterson had seen it in pregnant women or in Lady Summers, when she was having one of her bad days. Edward Hyde could be calm and calculating one moment and overly emotional and irritable for no reason the next. What he hadn't seen yet, but what Lady Summers had told him about, were the frequent mental breakdowns the brunette seemed to suffer for no known reason (or at least none the Lady was willing to tell).

But Utterson was a perceptive man. Something bothered Hyde, even when he was acting carefree and relaxed. He sensed some underlying anger in the young man and deduced, that it had something to do with Jekyll. And that both scared and worried him.

So, when he came to visit the next day and found Hyde instead of Jekyll sitting on his bed (by now he was being allowed to get up for a while), he took the opportunity to confront him.

“Mister Hyde, we need to talk about something personal”, he prepared him first.

His conversation partner's bilious green eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“I don't know why, but I have given you a lot of private information about myself-”

Hyde interrupted with a snicker: “Yes, you're very talkative! You're lucky blackmail isn't my thing!”

That is quite fortunate indeed.

Utterson swallowed his fear and went on: “It's only fair, that you give me information about yourself as well. And by that I don't mean trivial things, like the ones I have asked about so far.”

The brunette looked at him with a strange mixture of misgiving and boldness, as if he was silently challenging him to ask, while dreading it at the same time.

“With pleasure”, Hyde consented finally. “What is it that you want to know?”

“I have two questions, Mr. Hyde”, Utterson elaborated, “The first is actually a fairly simple one: why are you so angry?”

For a few full minutes, the young man was staring at him in confusion and surprise.

“What do you mean?”, he finally questioned, when he had found his speech again. “I'm fine.”

Utterson contradicted: “No, you're not. I'm a lawyer, Mr. Hyde, I know subliminal anger, when I see it. I ask again, what is it that upsets you so?”

Hyde hesitated and avoided the lawyer's gaze.

“You don't have to tell me immediately”, Utterson accommodated him, “I have time, so there is no need for pressure.”

“No, it's fine”, Hyde muttered, “I owe it to you, I suppose. And I hate to be in debt. You want to know, what my problem is? Fine, but you won't like it. First off, I have several, but for the last four months, Jekyll has been the biggest one.”

Utterson thought back. Four months. That was roughly how long he and Hyde had known each other.

“Does it have to do with me?”, he guessed.

“Partly”, Hyde admitted, “After you accosted me, Jekyll didn't let me out anymore. The longer I was locked inside our shared conscience, the more agitated I became. Then something happened, that made me livid.”

He took a deep breath, then he finally faced the lawyer.

“Perhaps you remember the dinner, when you confronted Jekyll about me?”

Utterson dug in his memory, then he nodded. “Oh yes. I do.”

“Do you also remember, what he said to you?”, Hyde probed.

The lawyer frowned. “I assume, you mean a certain sentence, but you have to be more specific.”

The other man rolled his eyes and began to quote: “'The moment I choose …'”

“'… I can be rid of Mr. Hyde'”, Utterson finished together with him.

“Of course!”, he realised, “You heard that and assumed-”

“I didn't assume!”, Hyde cut him off sharply, “I knew! He wanted to get rid of me! He still does, now even more so than back then! He wants to get rid of me! He wants to destroy me!”

He was talking himself into a rage and Utterson smelled trouble.

“Mister Hyde, please calm down”, he pleaded, “I'm sure he didn't really mean-”

“Oh, he meant it!”, Hyde snapped, “I'm a part his damn soul, I know when he lies! He meant every word of what he said in that moment! And to top it all off, he threatened me, that he would never take the potion again and confine me to his head for the rest of our life! Of course, being the weak bastard that he is, he lasted only two months, but do you have the faintest idea, how that feels?! To not only have your creator and other half talk about you like that, but also be caged, like an animal?!”

Suddenly it dawned on the lawyer. The pieces fell into place and in this moment a lot of things began to make sense.

“Mister Hyde”, he began gingerly, “Was that the night, when-?”

“Yes! It was that night! After being caged for two and a half months, I was so full of anger and hatred, I just wanted to hurt someone! Can you blame me for wanting to vent my anger on the first person that crossed my path?! And if it's some random old man, what do I care?! It was his fault for even coming near me, when everybody else knows better than to! I didn't even know what I was doing, until that woman intervened! I just had that one thought: that Jekyll wants to be rid of me!”

Hyde's pale face twisted into an ugly grimace, he began to tremble with fury and gnash his teeth.

Right in that moment, he looked more fearsome than when the lawyer had first met him and Utterson was struck with fear of being attacked at any second.

“Rid of”, the young man repeated quietly, before suddenly leaping from the bed, seized the older man by the collar and shrieking: “RID OF! HE WANTS TO GET RID OF ME!!! RID OF, RID OF, RID OF!!!”

Again and again.

Fearing for his (and both Hyde's and Jekyll's) life, Utterson acted out of instinct. He grabbed the smaller man by the arms and held him in a vice-like grip. The madman in his arms thrashed around, shrieked, howled and roared profanities endlessly, while his captor endured the kicking and screaming and refused to let him go.

“Mister Hyde, please calm down-”

“I'M NOT A BROKEN TOY HE CAN JUST THROW AWAY!!!”, Hyde shrieked with rage.

“Oh course not, but please, calm down! You will hurt yourself-”

Suddenly the door flew open and Lady Summers barged into the room, armed with her sword cane. “What is going on here?!”, she yelled, then frowned at the scene.

It had to be a disturbing sight, but she didn't seem all too fazed. Apparently realising, that she wouldn't be heard, if she talked aloud, she spoke to him mentally.

“Mister Utterson, do you think you have the situation under control?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Alright, I trust you. Make sure, that he doesn't hurt himself. I'll come back later.”

After instructing him this way, she left calmly.

Hyde proceeded to thrash about in his arms for a while longer. After an eternity, it seemed, he had finally exhausted himself, went limb and his screaming and shrieking turned into wheezing and whimpering. He continued to claw at the lawyer's clothing, but was too exhausted to put any force into it.

Utterson continued to murmur gently into the brunette's ear, until he stilled completely, apart from the muffled sobs into his own shoulder.

“I hate him!”, Hyde sobbed, “I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!”

It sounded so broken, that Utterson had the impression, that the young man wasn't entirely honest – perhaps not even with himself. But before he could say something, he felt something wet leak through his waistcoat and shirt.

The black-haired man was overwhelmed with compassion. How long had the boy bottled up his anger and grief like that? Had he never been able to confide into someone else before? Not even in Jekyll, his own creator? The thought made the lawyer sad.

No wonder he is so messed up. As if being Henry's dark side incarnate wasn't bad enough.

He tightened his grip around the smaller man, even though they had been in this position for a while already. Although Hyde couldn't weigh much more than eighty pounds, he was growing heavy and Utterson's entire body hurt from the struggle.

After what seemed another hour of crying and wailing, the brunette finally went silent. Then he muttered: “Put me down.”

The lawyer decided, that it was safe and complied. “Are you feeling better?”, he asked worriedly.

Hyde smiled. Not the cold, twisted smile that sent shivers down the lawyer's spine. A small, genuine smile. It only lasted for the split of a second, but long enough for the lawyer to notice.

“Temporarily”, the young man breathed hoarsely. Apparently, his voice was gone from all the screaming. “It never goes away completely. But it's gone for now.”

He sat back down on his bed. Utterson poured him a glass of water, which Hyde drank greedily.

In that moment, the brunette looked so fragile, sitting there with that too big hospital gown hanging loosely down his small, slight frame, holding that glass with both hands and looking completely drained. If Utterson hadn't known who he was speaking with, he would have thought the other to be a helpless child. Of course he knew better. Edward Hyde was anything but helpless.

“What was the other question?”, the young man quietly asked all of the sudden.

The black-haired man blinked. “I'm sorry?”

“You said you had two questions”, Hyde reminded him, “One you asked already. What was the second one?”

“Oh.” Now Utterson remembered. He awkwardly scratched his neck. “To be fair, you already answered it. I was going to ask you about your relationship with Jekyll, but that's no longer necessary.  So-”

“Ask me something else, then”, Hyde offered.

The lawyer considered, then a question popped into his mind. “Why are you so light?”

Hyde frowned. “You mean, why am I so thin, don't you? No need to be all flowery about it.”

Utterson frowned back: “Mr. Hyde, you're just saying that, because no one has ever been kind to you before. Am I right?”

The brunette snickered throatily: “You have me there. Well, unless you count the Lady of course. But to answer your question: I've always looked like this. I don't know or care why, but that's just the way I came out.”

Hyde lay back down and looked up to the ceiling, while Utterson stretched his sore limbs and bent his back to get rid of the ache. He would have so many bruises tomorrow …

The door opened and Lady Summers stepped in.

“Oh, good, you have calmed down”, she said and entered with a tea ensemble. “I was concerned, because I didn't hear anything for a while, after all the screaming, so I thought I should check.”

“Don't worry, it's fine”, Utterson assured her. Then he remembered something else.

“What time is it?”

“It's half past midnight”, she informed him, shaking her head. “You gentlemen stay up far too long. Mr. Utterson, I'm not allowing you to leave the house to go home at this hour. Don't worry, I already let your butler know that you will be staying here tonight. It took me two full minutes to come up with a suitable excuse. Two minutes!”

“Well then”, Utterson consented, not remarking about her treatment of two minutes as if they were two years. “Does your personnel know that I must be woken at exactly six in the morning?”

“Of course they do. The second guest-room is ready for you. Also, both of you should go to sleep soon”, she added with a glare, before leaving once more.

Hyde looked at Utterson. “Is that what a mother acts like?”, he asked.

Utterson sighed: “Probably. At least how most mothers would act. I wouldn't know. Mine was never there”, he added bitterly.

“Does she have children?”, the brunette asked.

Utterson shook his head. “No. But she treats her clients like they are, even if they're as old as or older than herself.”

Hyde looked up to the ceiling pensively. “She sure is something”, he mumbled, “The first person not to be scared of me. Although she did have the sword cane.”

Utterson chuckled: “People tend more to be scared of her.”

“She's quite domineering, isn't she?”

“She's Prussian. That's just how they are. They have the attitude that everyone should comply to their demands and don't take 'no' for an answer.”

Hyde laughed hoarsely: “A lot of English people are like that too.”

Then, all of the sudden, he yawned.

Utterson smiled. Looks like it's sleepy-time for our little demon here.

“I'm leaving to reins to Jekyll now”, said little demon informed him, much to his surprise. “I'm more tired than I have been in weeks.”

“Sleep then”, the black-haired man replied and sat back down on his chair.

Hyde didn't scream and wind in agony this time. The transformation went by more smoothly, maybe the two had got used to the pain or it was getting less.

A minute later Henry Jekyll was lying on the bed, blinking and feeling around like a blind man.

“Hey there”, Utterson whispered tenderly.

Jekyll looked at him, recognised him and smiled serenely. “Hello.”

God, how he adored that smile! How long had it been since he last saw it!

Jekyll gripped his hand with his own and the lawyer relished in the touch.

“I transformed back into myself without the potion. You … you actually made him relinquish control. How did you do that?”

“I didn't do anything”, the lawyer pointed out, “It was his decision to let you take back over.”

“But you calmed him down”, Jekyll contradicted, “You calmed him down enough to- Gabriel, he has never been this docile before. What did you do?”

Utterson shrugged: “I allowed him to let it out. I listened to him.”

Maybe you should try it, Henry. You have no idea, how badly he needs you to listen.

“Just that?”, the blond queried doubtfully.

The black-haired man nodded. “Yes. Just that. Henry, you need to learn the benefits of listening and talking to others.”

The doctor groaned: “Not you too! Lady Summers tells me that all the time!”

“Well, she's right”, the lawyer insisted.

Jekyll huffed: “I'm too tired to argue with you.”

He gestured to the edge of the bed. “Come here”, he bade.

Utterson sat on the edge of the bed and was surprised, when the patient grabbed his hand again, brought it to his lips and kissed it with devotion.

“Gabriel”, he whispered, “Thank you so much.”

The lawyer smiled. “Anything for you, Henry.”

“I love you.”

Utterson felt his heart race. He could have kissed him then and there. Instead, he smiled and caressed Jekyll's face. “I know, Harry. I know.”

Your alter ego practically spelled it out to me, after all.

He could see the longing in the doctor's eyes and knew they were thinking the same.

But he had made a promise and he would keep it.

(A/N:  Yeah, this one has angst and some fluff. The ending of the chapter might be kinda cheesy, but I was having a sentimental moment and it demanded to be put into writing. Also, I just wanted to finally finish that chapter. It took me an eternity to write.)

[stahlop]

Once Upon a Time 1x05 “That Still Small Voice” Review

Review 1x01 1x02 1x03 1x04

This is another filler-type episode for me.  Jiminy/Archie is just not that interesting to have a whole episode revolve around him.  The only purpose for this episode is to basically show that Emma is changing things in Storybrooke, and that Regina is losing her control over the curse. I get that we, as an audience, need to see little things moving forward, but I was so bored during this episode.

Synopsis:

Emma becomes a deputy in Storybrooke just as a cave in happens at the old mines. When Regina says she wants to pave it over, Henry is determined to go into the mines to find out what she is hiding, essentially trapping himself and Dr. Archie Hopper inside. In the EF, we find out the origins of Jiminy, before he became a cricket (because apparently he wasn’t always a cricket).

Opening:

A spinning wheel

Character Observations:

Jiminy/Archie: Jiminy is basically a coward.  He doesn’t want to steal anymore, but he doesn’t really have a choice as a child because that is what his parents force him to do.  But once he is an adult, for some reason he can’t bring himself to leave his parents. I don’t know if he has some actual affection towards them or he just has no other marketable skills and doesn’t know what he would do, but he’s scared to leave what he is familiar with. Instead, he decides to make a deal with Rumplestiltskin of all people. What did he plan to do once his parents were out of the way and why did he feel he needed to do something drastic in order to be free of them? They were pretty lazy people.  They kept the same puppet act for years, in the same traveling show, and also used the same Elf Tonic routine. I really doubt they would have gone looking for Jiminy if he had left. Once Jiminy realizes the error of his ways, when a perfectly nice couple gets turned into a pair of horridly grotesque puppets, he wishes to become a cricket because they are free. Um, okay.  And he is also tasked with being the conscience to a small boy, who turns out to be Geppetto, future father to Pinocchio.

Archie is also a coward because he can’t stand up to Regina. To be fair, he is threatened about his job by her, but as a therapist, he’s treating Henry in a completely unethical way. He is desperate to figure out why Henry is so entrenched in his fantasy world and why he believes he could be Jiminy Cricket.  He certainly is not feeling like his conscience is winning out, especially when he resorts to threatening Henry with being locked in a mental facility if he continues to believe in the fairytale fantasy. Throughout the cave-in ordeal, Henry’s confession that ‘there has to be more than this’, and the fact that he almost dies, pushes Archie to finally take the moral ground and stand up to Regina. Of course, he also threatens her that if a custody battle were to happen, he would not be siding with Henry’s adoptive mother, but with Emma.

Regina: She is losing more and more control and doesn’t know how to handle it. In this episode she has resorted to trying to control Henry, the one thing she has never had any real control over, by making Archie crush his storybook ‘fantasy’. Regina is thinking only of self-preservation at this point.  She shows no signs of caring for Henry.  Even when Henry goes down into the mines and gets trapped, does she really care about Henry’s safety or does she just not want him to find proof that his fairytale theory is real? She also blames Emma for everything, because, of course, Henry had no issues before Emma arrived. But we also see some vulnerability concerning Henry.  Is it possible that Regina actually does care for him?  She even concedes her authority to Emma in rescuing Henry. Of course, once Emma saves Henry, Regina’s vulnerability is gone and she is back to being Queen Bitch Supreme. Fortunately, Archie puts her in her place by basically telling her that Emma has his vote for being a better mother than Regina.

Henry: He actually gets something to do in this episode! It may be idiotic and stupid, but he does something. Archie is starting to question him about why he wants the curse to be real so badly.  Henry doesn’t originally have an answer for him. But later he tells Archie it’s because this can’t be all there is. That...doesn’t seem like a valid argument. That just seems like a child wishing for something more and projecting his fantasy on his friends and neighbors. If we didn’t already know that he is correct, I’d think he was overcompensating for the lack of love from Regina. Henry is also really challenging Regina’s authority in this episode. Not that he hasn’t before, but this time he risks his life to do it. He sees Regina put something in his pocket and resolves to figure out what it is.  He also finds a piece of glass in the tunnels that he’s convinced is something that will prove he is not crazy, as Archie has been telling him he is on Regina’s orders. By the end of the episode the only thing really resolved with Henry is that Archie is no longer implying to Henry he’s crazy, and he notices that the crickets are back.

Emma: She is starting at the deputy’s office and the second she puts on her deputy’s badge the mines collapse, showing that the more she puts down roots the more the curse starts breaking down. Regina again talks down to her when she and Graham go to help at the mines, but stands her ground when letting Regina know she works for the town now.  Emma also confronts Archie about his treatment of Henry, since Archie was the one to tell her to believe in Henry’s fantasy. She also confronts Regina over the phone when she tells her Henry is missing. Emma gets the chance to help Henry by saving him and Archie from the falling elevator, but is then immediately rebuffed by Regina and only acknowledged as the deputy who helped save Henry instead of as his mother. Emma is doing her best, she is attempting to put down roots, not only to prove Regina wrong, but to change herself in the process.  She knows that Regina’s feelings towards Henry are lukewarm at best, and believes that Henry’s fairytale fantasy is a result of not feeling loved. She wants to make sure he is happy and right now, being there for him is what will make him happy.

Mary Margaret/David/Kathryn: I’m putting these three together because all their stories intertwined. Mary Margaret and David are spending a lot of time together. Mary Margaret is still volunteering at the hospital but spending most of her time entertaining David.  It is obvious they both have feelings for each other, despite David being married to Kathryn. David still has no memory of his life. He tells Mary Margaret that he’s been lying to Kathryn about any memories he has said he has had to make her feel better. David tells Mary Margaret that nothing feels real, that she is the only thing that feels real and right. Mary Margaret, is of course happy about this, but at the same time, realizes that just because he doesn’t remember being married doesn’t mean he’s available. Kathryn, to her credit, is either oblivious to the fact that David has feelings towards Mary Margaret, or is banking on David’s memories coming back soon and then his feelings for Mary Margaret will be moot.  Although, from the way she spoke of their marriage before his ‘accident’, it didn’t sound like they were in a good place, especially if he was in a coma for however long she thinks he was gone and she never reported him missing because they’d been fighting. By the end Mary Margaret has decided to resign from volunteering at the hospital because it is too painful to see the guy she likes with his wife. 

Questions:

Why are there no crickets in Storybrooke?  Did Regina hate Jiminy Cricket so much that she just banned all crickets? Was she afraid if the people heard crickets they’d remember something from the Enchanted Forest?

How exactly did several pieces of glass from Snow White’s coffin, which seemed to be miles below ground, make its way above ground for Regina and Henry to find?

Does Rumplestiltskin just like to spin straw into gold for fun?  Is it soothing? Does he always give it out as payments for whatever people do for him?

Do Jiminy’s parents work for Rumplestiltskin? Why is Jiminy giving him the stuff they pickpocketed and how do they have those peoples names? What is Rumplestiltskin doing with this stuff?

Where was young Geppetto during dinner? Did it really take him hours to gather, what I’m assuming is water?  Would his parents have had dinner without their child just because guests came over?

What did Rumplestiltskin want with the people turned puppets?

Why is Snow’s glass coffin in the mines?  Did Regina bring other items over in the mines? Is that why she wants to collapse it and pave it over? 

How long do magical crickets live for?  Jiminy was supposed to be, what, mid-20s when he was turned into a cricket and Geppetto was about 9-10.  He’s been a cricket for the past 40-50 years?

Observations:

Jiminy was human before he was turned into a cricket, and then he was turned back into a human when the curse hit.

The mines collapse immediately when Emma puts the deputy badge on.

According to Henry, Jiminy Cricket and Geppetto are best friends.

Archie’s dog is named Pongo, the name of the dog from 101 Dalmations.

The mines cave in more when Henry finds a shard of glass, most likely from Snow’s coffin.

Jiminy’s parents, besides picking pockets, also sell Elf Tonic (rainwater) to unsuspecting people.

David still has amnesia but feels a strong connection to Mary Margaret.

I’m pretty sure the Blue Fairy turned Jiminy into a grasshopper and not a cricket.  Look at the pictures below.

Cricket

Grasshopper

Jiminy

All in all, not too impressed with this episode. Young Geppetto basically beat us over the head with his talk about crickets and giving Jiminy his signature umbrella. I feel as though this was just one of those episodes that just beats the ‘moral’ into us, no matter how much it doesn’t fit in with what is going on in the story. This was basically a filler episode that really didn’t move much plot forward and gave us the background on a character that, so far, hasn’t seemed that crucial to the audience.

As usual feedback is welcome.  Please let me know your thoughts about anything and please reblog!!!

@searchingwardrobes @thisonesatellite@justbecauseyoubelievesomething

@laschatzi @profdanglaisstuff @mariakov81

[rosesisupposes]

Destined, part 5

Modern fantasy AU meets Coffeeshop AU

Tags: Virgil/Anixety ; Patton/Creativity ; Patton/Morality ; Logan/Logic ; Remy/Sleep ; Dante/Deceit

Chapter Pairings: none

Chapter Warnings: Major Character Death

Reader Tags: @residentanchor​ @royallyanxious​

Summary: After centuries of acting as an oracle to heroes, quest-seekers, and villains alike, Virgil just wants to live as a normal, modern human. For someone who can see infinite probabilities, you’d think he’d know better.

<<Chapter 4 | Masterlist | Chapter 6>>

Read on Ao3

Flashback: Naverre, in southwest Europe, 300 CE

Prince Colan of Naverre was frustrated. It was not a pleasant feeling, but it had become all too familiar recently. Nothing was working as he wanted it to.

It had started with his eldest brother’s wedding plans. Alric and his fiancée, Maria, were due to be wed in just two month’s time. Inspiration had struck when it was first announced - this was Colan’s chance to prove how well he could organize such a grand event. The heir to the throne and a daughter of the oldest noble house of a neighboring country? It would take careful knowledge of deportment and politics, of logistics and timing. Colan was sure he could do it, and do it well.

But Alric and their mother, Queen Lelina, had brushed him off. “There’s no need, my sweet son,” she’d told him kindly, brushing his hair with a soft hand. “The steward and master of ceremonies have the matter well in hand. You need only be your handsome self and support your brother.”

Colan couldn’t help but pout ever so slightly. “Can I at least bear the rings?”

The Queen had laughed. “Oh Colan, you know the role of ringbearer is too important to waste. We must save it for a noble we wish to mollify, or an ally we wish to flatter. Don’t trouble yourself, dear. Why don’t you take Duchess Maria for a ride through the royal forest?”

Colan had sighed, and gone off to be a good host to his future sister-in-law. That, at least, everyone could agree he excelled in.

He knew he shouldn’t feel so rejected, it was just that… how was he ever going to be taken seriously if he was never allowed to do anything serious on his own? He loved his brothers dearly and only wanted them to succeed, but they both succeeded so much that there was no role left for him except to smile and wave.

Alric, the named heir, was already a beloved highness throughout Naverre. He had a working relationship with the nobles’ council already, sitting in with and without King Henri overseeing. The nobles gave and received counsel with mutual respect. And the people loved him too. Alric took biweekly rides through the capital city to mingle with his future subjects. Wizened grandmothers sighed happily that he looked a true king as he dismounted to listen to a shopkeeper’s opinion on proposed taxes. Colan had experienced it first-hand, too. There was no one better than Alric to vent to. His eyes would be earnest, his reactions kind. He made you feel heard.

If only Colan could talk to him about his current problem.

His second-eldest brother was Prince Bryant. Bryant didn’t have the same ease with people as his brothers did, nor was he skilled in the intricacies of policy like Alric. But he was a skilled knight and general, already making a name for himself outside their borders. His training master had once said that Bryant had the unique talent to see a battle from the eagle’s eyes as easily as the mouse’s, and simultaneously too. He could be locked in combat with an enemy knight or renegade ogre while maneuvering to defend the soldiers around him and filling in gaps in the army’s line - all without hesitating a moment or losing a second’s advantage. On his eighteenth birthday, he had been named an officer in the nation’s army. Three years later, he was second-in-command. It was widely rumored that when Alric ascended to the throne, Bryant would ascend to Commander General, and Colan had confirmed the rumors through industrious eavesdropping. In the meantime, the King and Queen had begun negotiations with neighboring kingdoms and duchies for Bryant’s betrothal.

And that left Colan. Left behind, leftover Colan. The public loved him, true, but he was continuously greeted as “the young prince” or “our dear little Colan.” He wasn’t loved the way a future monarch like Alric was, but like a child. He was a decent warrior, but his spatial awareness was lacking. He was an excellent host to foreign dignitaries and local nobles, and he kept dinner conversations lively. But that role was the purview of queens and hostesses, and besides, both his mother and sister-in-law were just as talented as he. In fact, the only sphere where he felt unparalleled in his peerless family was during the evening entertainment, those rare times he was permitted to sing, or play the lute or piano. But a prince couldn’t very well become a wandering bard.

There were days where he wished he could leave Naverre. Not because he did not love his homeland, but because he knew that surely, some other kingdom had a vacant role that would fit his talents perfectly. But the children of kings only left the land of their fathers by marrying into foreign lines, and even then, few nobles would risk losing their child to distant lands for anything less than a prince. Colan gazed out his tower window. I wish I could marry another prince, he thought, before catching himself. That kind of thinking was… discouraged, at least in noble houses. Marriages between two men or two women could produce no children and thus no heirs. Bloodlines must be preserved. “You must take care that your lady is not neglected,” his tutor in royal lineages had explained.. “She will be your partner, and mother to your children. Any dalliances must not supersede what you owe to them and to her.”

Sitting up from his window seat, Colan groaned. He had to stop having the same ruminations over and over. Sitting here pondering his inadequacies was no way to fix them. There must be some way he could be useful to Naverre, and to its future. Surely he wasn’t destined for a life of fluff and unneeded support to his brothers.

Destined. Destiny. That was it!

His history tutor had mentioned the Sage his great-grandfather had consulted, the one whose words pointed old King Jonathan to the land that became Naverre. If Colan could seek out that Sage, he would be able to seek his Fate. He could bring glory to Naverre, to his line, and to his name!

Inspired, he began to plan all he would need. The journey would be long and likely dangerous, journeying north and east to the White Mountain. He couldn’t disrupt or derail the wedding, so he must wait to leave until after. And his family mustn’t seek to bring him back, so he would need an official reason. What could he… ah, he knew. Maguelone. The province traded frequently with his sister-to-be’s home country, but personality clashes continued to cause bumps in the road. He would offer to bring new of the wedding to the rulers of Maguelone, aiding both Naverre and Aquitana. And then he would continue north and east until he reached the snowy slopes of White Mountain and the Sage’s refuge.

Pallas awoke from a deep meditation to the sounds of hallooing from outside his hut. He’d completely lock track of time, so it must have been at least a decade since the last Seeker found him. He stood easily, not a trace of stiffness in his joints despite his appearance as grey-bearded man of at least seventy. He opened the door to see a young man, energetic despite the cold winds and snow. Frost had coated parts of the boy’s auburn hair, but his eyes blazed with excitement.

“Greetings, revered Sage! I have journeyed far to reach you!”

“Welcome, Seeker. Enter, rest, and warm yourself.”

The young man’s look of determination faltered. “Revered Sage, I must know my destiny! I cannot delay!”

The Sage smiled kindly. “And so you shall, brave Seeker. But you have already done battle with the winds of this mountain, and must refresh your spirit. Once you have prepared, your destiny will be revealed.”

The boy hesitated, but stepped inside the hut, shedding his heavy cloak, traveling pack, sword, and shield.. He revealed garments clearly not meant for mountaineering. A tight-fitting jacket that had once been white was decorated in faded gold cords and a no-longer-brilliant red sash. Pallas frowned internally, and guided his guest to the fire.

“Young Seeker, while you rest, please, tell me why you seek your destiny.”

“My name is Prince Colan, of Naverre, and I am the youngest son of my father King Henri,” he started, staring into the flames. “My brothers will serve our homeland honorably and well. But I know that I can, too, if only I knew how. Once I know my destiny I will fulfill it for the glory of Naverre.”

Pallas frowned, staring at the prince’s determined profile. To be so adamant in what his future must hold meant likely disappointment.

“Seeker Colan, you must know that destiny is not biddable, nor can it be defied. Your destiny may not be what you desire it to be - but once you have been told, it cannot be changed,” he cautioned. “I tell you this not because I believe you are ignorant, but because I do not wish to remove the possibilities you dream of for yourself.”

Colan looked up, defiant. “I know I will be bound. And I know you cannot guarantee that I will found my own kingdom or find a cure for blight. But I know that there is a role for me in the world, where I will thrive the same way my brothers thrive. I just need to know what directions there are. I need to know I will have a purpose.”

Pallas gazed into the Prince’s eyes. He could see that he would not be deterred, and it would be foolish to try. “Very well. Are you recovered?”

“I am.”

“Then we may begin as you wish.”

Colan took a deep breath and stood, moving to kneel in front of Pallas’ carved wooden chair.

“Sage, I entreat you, tell me my destiny,” the prince said. Pallas knew he’d been rehearsing this line over and over in his head, wanting his moment of revelation to be perfect.

“Seeker, to know your destiny is to be bound by it. Are you prepared to risk your future?”

“I am.”

“Then give me your hands, and prepare to be bound.” Though his form was old, the age did not show on the Pallas’ hands, imbued as they were with the ancient magic of Sages. He clasped Colan’s offered hands, and closed his eyes.

Pallas had never seen such a thing. Colan had just one possible future. He would marry a princess from the north. He would help the future Queen Maria entertain the Court. He would serve in ceremonial posts, knighting citizens and presiding over new buildings. He would have no children of his own, but be a doting uncle to his nieces and nephews. No choices or factors that Pallas saw would change this. There was no adventure, no glorious purpose, nor even a glimmer of one. It would be a plain and unexciting existence for the rest of his days.

Without letting his expression change, Pallas shifted his magical focus towards one question: would Colan be happy?

He would consider himself contented. He would feel neither excitement nor passion. He would never be entirely bored, but also never stimulated. But he would be happy enough.

Pallas recoiled at the idea of giving a single fortune, with no meaningful variation. Hadn’t he seen how badly that went at Delphi? If just one outcome was decreed, there was only one way to avoid it - to die before living out its entirety. Evasion in life was impossible. Just look at poor Oedipus.

Desperate to not condemn such a passionate boy to such a disappointing future, Pallas  shifted the focus of his power to look backwards. Such a thing was unorthodox, and frowned upon, to be sure, but if he could just find a past pivotal moment, perhaps there will be a way to alter the future, even if he can’t see the future effects. This was what Pallas told himself, anyway.

His vision became filled with vignettes of Colan’s life, moments that remain foremost in the prince’s memory, whether conscious or unconsciously. Unlike searching through potential futures, looking through the past is constrained to the first-person view of the Seeker. Pallas lived the prince’s struggles, felt the weight of expectation and the shadow of his brothers.

Colan is three, chasing after Alric at 8 and Bryant at 6 as they race to the duckpond. He almost reaches their heels when an unseen root catches his foot. His knees smart as he struggles to regain his footing and continue. Silk and linen rustles as Mother appears from behind to pull him into her arms. “Oh my poor sweet Colan, are you alright? Don’t worry, you don’t need to catch up with them.”

Colan is nine and at long last has reported to the training master to learn to be a knight. The training master is a huge man from the far North, six feet tall, every inch chiseled with hard-earned muscle. A broadsword that he wields with ease hangs at his belt. Colan is bursting with excitement, ready to show how well and quickly he will learn. The master looks down at him. “Ach, what wee lad you are. Are you ready to train?” “Yessir, I am! I want to be a great warrior!” The giant laughs. “Weel, we’ve already got Bryant as our warrior. We’ll do the best we can with ye though, dontcha worrit yerself none.”

Colan is thirteen and Duke Rogero, his mother’s distant cousin from the South, is visiting Naverre. Rogero has dark hair and cobalt eyes, and tawny golden skin that contrasts beautifully with the bright white of his entrancing smile. When Rogero makes his first bow to the family, he catches Colan’s eye as he straightens, and winks. Colan feels his heart stutter in his chest. The healer had explained to him that at his age, he might begin feeling odd urges, and his body may react without his knowledge. But these reactions were supposed to be around young women, not beautiful dukes. Throughout his state visit, Colan seeks out Rogero, asking about his life and his journeys. He asks if he is married. “Not yet,” the Duke replies. Colan asks how old would someone have to be to marry him. “I’ve no real preference, as long as she’s close enough to my age to not be bored by me. Why, do you know any noble ladies here I might like?” A guard present guffaws. “You ask me, sounds like our little princey wants you to marry him!” Rogero throws back his head and laughs along with him. The echos chase Colan as he flees, tears of confusion and hurt leaking out of his eyes.

Pallas’ eyes stung with Colan’s constant need to be better, to be enough, to be more than what he was.

How could he tell this prince that his one overriding need with never be fulfilled? Was that his role here, as Sage? To destroy Colan’s hope of purpose, to crush his spirit so that he would be able to be “content?”

In that moment, Pallas rebelled. He steadied himself, making sure no tears would be visible. He opened his eyes, and pretended to be channeling the ancient magic.

“A split path within a tangled wood will lead you to your true purpose.”

There was technically such a path on the way back home, where the road split five ways at the border to enter Naverre and continued all the way to the King’s castle. But there was no true choice, no purpose waiting for the young man along any other path but the road home. It was an exaggeration, of sorts. Nothing more.

No - he’d lied. Pallas knew he’d lied. But the look of relief and determination on Colan’s face justified the act. If it preserves his hope, surely it’s a white lie, he thought. Destinies weren’t certain, the prince knew that, right? There was still a chance that the future he’d seen would come to pass. And… maybe it would work out. Maybe the sheer act of believing in another outcome would force one into being.

Colan stood quickly, a new fire burning in his eyes. Not one of desperation, nor of fear of failure. But one of determination.

“Sage Pallas, I thank you for the gift of my destiny. I will commend you to my father, and throughout my travels, the way my forefather King Jonathan did. I hope you will hear of my exploits.”

He clipped his sword to his belt, donned his cloak, and hung his shield from his pack. He bowed deeply to the Sage, and exited the hut.

Pallas left the mountain often after Colan’s departure, seeking news. Nothing surfaced for month, then months, and then a year.

Two years later, he finally heard news from Naverre. The country was in mourning.

One month after his descent from White Mountain, Prince Colan had successfully picked up the trail of a band of renegades orges. He’d correctly determined that they were heading towards his homeland. Instead of taken the road to Naverre to warn the army, he’d rode after the band himself, sure that this was the purpose that had been foretold.

The prince had thrown himself into a battle against ogres, outnumbered nearly twenty to one. If he’d succeeded in taking any down with him, no one could say how many. What was known was that the remaining band joined with many others  to attack village after Naverran village, and Prince Bryant had led the army to defeat them. It took them months to round up the last of the monsters.

It would be at least a year after his death that Colan’s body was recovered by Naverran scouts, mauled almost beyond recognition by ogres. Only fragments of his clothes and the royal crest on his sword hilt led his body to be returned to his heartbroken parents.

Colan had died in obscurity, alone, with no effect on the ogres’ subsequent attack. His family and country mourned, but recovered and prospered under the rule of King Alric and Commander General Bryant. Prince Colan of Naverre became a footnote in the nation’s history, a neglected branch of the family tree, frozen at eighteen.

It was Pallas’ - now Virgil’s -  greatest shame. And it was all because he’d lied. He refused to ever do so again, no matter the emotional toil on the Seeker. It just made him feel… slimy.

Chapter Notes: Alric - from German: “Rules All” Bryant - from Celtic: “Strong” Colan -  from English: “ Triumphant, Young”

I swear, I love them, I really do.

[stargleeksil-blog]

Criminal Minds S07E07 “There’s No Place Like Home”

Episode 07 – There’s No Place Like Home

Hey guys!

So, I am kind of excited about this episode, because the title is implying tornadoes, storms and chaos, oh my. And also some amazing references that I am hoping will crop up - fingers crossed ...

So without any further ado, my pretties.

Let’s see what unfolds and let’s prance down the yellow brick road towards murder.

“Finally got him down.”

“The Ibuprofen must have kicked in.”

“It’s about some missing kids.”

“Please don’t walk away like that.”

“We’ve talked about this.”

“I know this is hard on you. On all of us.”

“Look, if I had someone to cover my shifts, I would.”

“What if it was Henry?”

“What if it was?”

“You’d want someone out there looking for him.”

“I wasn’t helping anyone there, Will.”

“Fine, I’ll tell them I can’t come in.”

“I was supposed to have time off.”

“Henry’s not feeling well.”

“You don’t have to be here.”

“Ah, I get antsy when I’m gone too long.”

“And thanks for the team’s donation to ALS in Carolyn’s name. She would have appreciated it.”

“So how are you doing?”

“I’m okay. It’s funny, though. We were divorced 20 years. And I never missed her as much as I do right now.”

“Hey, you. Welcome back.”

“Good to be back, Penelope.”

I love their friendship.

“We’re ready when you are, sir.”

“The bodies of two unidentified boys were found near Wichita, Kansas, a week apart.”

“Both were Caucasian  and between the ages of fifteen and seventeen.”

“They were each found mangled in the aftermath of a tornado.”

“Yeah, but that’s not what did them in. The ME has determined that the case of death was blunt force trauma to the head before the storms hit.”

“Well, the death blow in each case was in almost exactly the same spot.”

“Now, what about all the other damage to their bodies? Some of their limbs are missing.”

“Yeah, victim number one, his right leg was taken off. Victim number two, both arms were severed. But was that because of the tornado or the unsub?”

“The ME still hasn’t discovered that. He’s a busy guy. Major storms have hit the area. 23 dead. The morgue is slammed.”

“It fits the unsub. He’s got a hell of a sadistic streak.”

“Well, a tornado would clear the air and give the unsub the privacy to do his thing.”

“He may be using the storm as the body disposition modality. Forensic countermeasure, wind, hail, rain, mother nature destroys the crime scene.”

“Or he wants us to think mother nature actually committed the murders.”

“What concerns me is the brief periods between kills.”

“Only a week. He’s moving fast.”

“We need to move faster. Garcia, get me IDs on all the victims.”

“I’m a gale-force wind.”

“Wheels up in thirty.”

“Oh, and pack for foul weather.”

“The forecast is nasty.”

George Gissing: “For the man sound of body and serene of mind, there is no such thing as bad weather. Every day has its beauty. And storms which whip the blood do but make it pulse more vigorously.”

“Right in the middle of tornado alley.”

“If this unsub is using tornadoes as a forensic countermeasure, then Kansas certainly is the ideal setting.”

“Tornadoes do pose a significant threat.”

“During this year’s super outbreak back in April, there are 336 confirmed tornadoes in just several days, resulting in over 300 lives lost.”

Ding dong

“Hey. Tell us something good, mama.”

“Okay, I’ve IDed your victims. I’m putting this all on your tablets if you’d like to follow along.”

“First up is Jason Meredith, 16-year-old runaway from Garden City, Kansas. Mom said he took off over a year ago.”

“Next up is Eric Janelle, 15-year-old kid form Wichita. He’s been gone three weeks.”

“Oh, both of these kids have records for possession and prostitution.”

“They were street hustlers.”

“At-risk teens. This could be a sexual predator.”

“An extremely violent one if the unsub is responsible for the damage done to the bodies, especially those missing limbs.”

“Well, now, he could be keeping the body parts for some sort of fetish.”

“Oh, okay, eew. That is my cue.”

“I’m here if you need me with my binary machines that don’t say gross things.”

She’s so cute!

Is he praying? Oh Rossi.

“I didn’t know you were a bad flyer.”

“I’m not. I just hate turbulence.”

“You know, turbulence very rarely causes planes to crash.”

“That does me absolutely no good at the moment.”

“Thank you.”

“What we really need to worry about are microbursts, sudden downbursts of air associated with thunderstorms.”

Someone needs to shield my poodle from this angry stallion.

“But a small craft like this, if we hit one of those at the wrong attitude

– 

pulverized.”

Oh Reid.

“I beg of you to make him stop.”

JJ already has Will and Henry to deal with, why add poodle to her list of worries?

“Well, the unsub definitely has his own mode of transportation. This is way up the beaten path.”

“And the first victim, Jason Meredith, was found over thirty miles away.”

“You say you were able to clear this place before the storm hit?”

“I didn’t know you could do that for tornadoes.”

“Okay, so the unsub either found a way in or he was already here and he hid during the evacuation.”

“That, or the body got sucked up into the funnel cloud and was thrown there from someplace else.”

“Either way, he came into close contact with this storm. Maybe even close enough to put himself in danger.”

“Or he waited someplace safe for it to pass and came back and dumped the body.”

“No, I think the storm itself actually means something to this guy.”

“You don’t think he’s just using it to cover his tracks?”

“I played ball in college with a guy from Indiana. He said he and his boys used to get drunk and then chase storms. Said it was the closest they could get to the true power of God.”

“Okay, so he’s impulsive, probably young, maybe a loner with nothing to lose.”

“We should be looking at actual storm-chasers.”

“Where can we find them?”

“They mostly work with the university.”

Well, crap. 

“You think this guy’s educated.”

“Well, he knows enough about the weather to use it to his advantage.”

“So far it’s working.”

“Here you go.”

“When was the last time you saw Jason?”

“Do you know why he would leave home?”

“And how did Jason cope with that?”

“So it sounds like you and Eric were pretty good friends.”

“Your foster mom said that you used to get in a lot of fights before Eric got there.”

“So he looks out for you.”

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“We found him a couple of days ago.”

“He took the news about Eric pretty well.”

“Tough kid.”

“I guess they have to be. They’re all alone.”

“Each of the victims had a strong protective instinct and was looking out for somebody else besides themselves.”

“Maybe the unsub is keying on that.”

“Boys like that are hard to fool.”

“What if he used to be one of them?”

“I mean, those kids would see right through someone trying to be a poseur.”

“If his MO is connected to the weather, he’s gonna try to grab another boy soon.”

“Identical blows to the head.”

“They had alcohol and dextromethorphan in their systems?”

“It’s cough syrup.”

“It’s a cheap high, if you can steal it.”

“And these two had a whole lot of it on board.”

“What were you able to from all the damage to the bodies?”

“Mostly?”

“I’m guessing with an axe or a cleaver.”

“Cut off postmortem.”

“They both have ligature marks on their wrists and ankles, at least what they have left of them.”

“He held them before the kill.”

“Was there any sign of sexual assault?”

Nope. Even if there were, the tornado probably cleaned it up real good.

“So, he guts them drunk and high, he restrains them, kills them, and cleaves off a limb as a souvenir.”

“Then he dumps the body and lets the storm clean up his mess.”

“But why the souvenir?”

“What or who, exactly, is he trying to remember?”

“Okay, time to go.”

And get out of that creepy morgue with the sandwich-eating ME who handles dead people and eatsd in the same room .... gross.

“Name’s Gary Dyson. Sixteen. Runaway from Kansas City.”

“This particular area get hit with a tornado last night?”

“The weather’s gotta be the trigger.”

“He’s following the patterns.”

“We track the storms, we find the unsub.”

“Forensic evidence has been washed away. But behaviorally, it’s the most intact crime scene we’ve encountered so far.”

“It’s the same blow to the head, but no cuts, no abrasions.’

“Except he’s missing his torso.”

“It was only a matter of time before he missed one.”

“Tornadoes are extremely unpredictable and sometimes last only a matter of minutes before they dissipate.”

“The fact that he was able to leave his previous victims directly in the path of one is astounding.”

“So the conditions were perfect last night, but his tornado never came.”

“It’s only been four days.”

“He’s accelerating.”

“And the weather’s driving him to do it.”

“Guys, we know that fetishists are loyal to the body parts they take, but I think that this unsub is loyal to the whole of these parts.”

“If you were to take the missing pieces from all the victims so far, you could almost assemble an entire body.”

“So he’s not taking bodies apart, he’s putting one together.”

Yup.

“We’re looking for a white male in his mid- to late-20s. He’s mobile and he travels great distances to follow storms.”

“He’s probably in a tuck or a van.”

“We believe he may live in that vehicle. It’s probably beat up, maybe rusted from the elements.”

“Sorry.”

“Jeffrey Dahmer, serial killer, was under the illusion that he could create young male sex zombies that wouldn’t resist his advances.”

“And when Dahmer’s test subjects died, he kept their body parts souvenirs.”

“Skulls, hearts, even genitalia.”

“Restoring body parts is no small task. They’re gonna get ripe fast.”

“He needs lots of ice, salt, maybe, something to preserve them.”

“And he’s paying for all that stuff somehow. Gas, too.”

Uh-oh.

“He doesn’t have the social skills to hold a job for long, so he’s most likely a day laborer, handyman, anything transitory.”

“We think he’s using the weather as a forensic countermeasure to destroy evidence, but we also think he might be some sort of symphoraphiliac.”

“Sorry, symphora what?”

I’m with that cop.

“Uh, excuse me.”

“Symphoraphiliacs – they’re sexually aroused by disasters.”

“Usually fires or traffic accidents. In this case, the weather must enhance his excitement.”

“He hunts street kids, so he may be from a similar background.”

“And he’s most likely uneducated, but he’s still charming enough to engage his victims.”

“We’ll talk to the press.”

“You should warn any transient kids you might know.”

“As this weather gets worse, so will the unsub.”

“Since when is a seizure fine?”

“But his fever broke.”

“Did you give his medicine this morning?”

“Did he feel warm?”

“Well, you checked, right?”

“Nothing. I … where is he now?”

“Okay. I’ll call you when my flight arrives.”

“Henry’s sick. I’m coming home.”

“Call you later?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Uh, it’s Henry. He had a whole seizure.”

“Will took him to the ER. He … he’s fine.”

“Apparently, it’s totally normal.”

“Look, I gotta get back home.”

“Of course.”

“Anything I can do?”

“Can I borrow the jet?”

“I think the budget oversight committee might not appreciate my generosity.

“Yeah, well, worth a shot, right?”

“Check in and let us know everything’s all right.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

“Hey, Hotch.”

“I’ve been thinking … the vast majority of unsub with this type of MO aren’t driven by the killing.”

“They’re really fascinated by the body parts.”

“Psychologically they exist in a realm where fantasy meets delusion. It’s basically the perfect blueprint for the creation of a serial killer …”

“I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

“Yes.”

“Should probably get to the point.”

“I think I know how this unsub may have gotten started.”

“All right, the first victim was found missing his right leg, the second, both arms, and the third had no torso.”

“So that leaves the left leg unaccounted for.”

“We can assume the head would be the most difficult piece to find.”

“That part would have to fit an unsub’s fantasy perfectly.”

“So he’d most likely save it for last.”

“Now, what that tells us is there’s a victim out there we haven’t found yet who’s missing his left leg.”

“Or the unsub hasn’t acquired it yet.”

“True, but most body part collectors evolve to this level, and in many cases they  exhume bodies for parts before they start killing.”

“All right, let me call Garcia.”

“So you think our unsub did the same thing.”

Was my poodle’s lecture unclear?

“PG at your service, don’t let the name fool you.”

“Baby girl, you’re on speaker.”

“Garcia, can you look for grave robberies in tornado alley over the last five years?”

“Okey-dokey.”

“Searching.”

“Oh. That’s a shockingly big list.”

“Who knew grave-robbing was so on trend?”

“How many of those involve the bodies of teenage boys?”

“Uh …”

“None.”

“What about morgues and funeral homes?”

“Momentito …”

“Again, that is a list that should not be that big.”

“Mostly stolen embalming fluid, though.”

“It’s often used like PCP, Garcia.”

“I’m feeling optimistic about the youth of America.”

“There are no teenagers involved in this either.”

“All right, try looking for thefts involving body parts, specifically left legs.”

“Okay, ew! See, this is why I can’t talk about how my day was at dinner.”

“Breakfast, lunch.”

“Spencer, you scare me.”

“Join the club.”

Ha.

Hey!

“A left leg was stolen off a body a year ago at the Riggio Funeral Home in Tulsa.”

“They never found who did it.”

“Garcia, what was the weather like in the area at the time?”

“Uh, thunderstorms and tornadoes.”

Yup.

“An F2 cyclone hit right around there, and then the robbery took place after they evacuated.”

“It’s gotta be our unsub.”

“Wait, there’s more.”

“The guy whose leg was stolen, he was a 47-year-old father of two who died of leukemia.”

“That’s a huge jump.”

“Preferential child sex offenders don’t usually stray from their preferred age range.”

“It’s not about the sex at all.”

“He used the body from the funeral home to develop his MO so he could live out his fantasy and kill in a storm.”

“Whatever it is, this unsub won’t stop until he finds a perfect head.”

“That’s the final piece to his puzzle.”

“Hey. Thought you were out of here.”

“Flights are canceled ‘cause of the weather.”

“How’s Henry?”

“He’s headed home. Finally released him.”

Finally.

“That’s great news.”

“Where are you guys off to?”

“To the university to talk to some storm chasers.”

“Stay dry.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Who’s that with Hotch?”

“There’s been another abduction.”

“A boy named Shaun Rutledge. That’s his younger brother Billy.”

“He says a young white guy with an RV attacked him with a crowbar in the rain.”

“He’s also changed his victim selection criteria.”

“The boy he grabbed gets straight As, plays football, even volunteers at his church.”

“So he wanted him so badly, he was willing to leave a witness?”

“Which suggests he’s losing touch with reality and his delusions are starting to take over.”

“What is it about this kid that was so attractive to him?”

“He was teenage and Caucasian like the others, right?”

“We also think that a sexual element may actually not be at play.”

So then what the hell is driving this guy?”

“Maybe it’s love.”

“What if he’s trying to recreate someone he loves?”

“It is an emotion that drives us to extremes.”

“If he’s trying to recreate someone, it’s probably somebody he loved and lost.”

“Wait. You said he was with his big brother, right?”

“Holla at your girl.”

“Baby girl, I need those great big beautiful brains of yours.”

“Jazz hands ready. Gimme.”

“Okay, look at all the teenage male victims or tornadoes in the last ten years. Same geography as before.”

“That would be male, 13 to 18 … 42.”

“How many victims had younger brothers that survived/”

“Uh … ten.”

“The unsub might have been a high-risk kid.”

No shit.

“Garcia, how many of the survivors have criminal records?”

“I got two for you.”

“First up is 27-year-old Justin  Harris, had a DUI in 2008. Next is 22-year-old Travis James.”

“Ooh, little troublemaker. Shoplifting, possession, and prostitution. Oh, my.”

“And all when he was a minor.”

“You got a home address or a vehicle registered in his name?”

“Uh-uh. None.”

“You got a photo on this guy?”

“It’s on your tablet right now.”

“All right, this is a composite sketch from the description the kid gave.”

“Old school.”

Huh? What’s going on?

“Oh, my God. This poor kid.”

“In 2001, Travis James lost his big brother Tucker and his mom Jan when a tornado hit the McCleary Trailer Park in Enid, Oklahoma.”

“So our guy’s a local.”

Oops.

“Oh, that’s great.”

“Hang on, Garcia. The power just went out.”

“Garcia, I think we’re good. Keep going.”

“Sometime before this evil tornado touched down, Travis, along with five other boys, testified against a one Roscoe Gulch.”

“For what?”

“It appears that this Gulch character was a notorious pedophile in the area, and he was a resident of the same trailer park as Travis and his family.”

“It looks like brother Tucker had confronted this Gulch person lots of times. He even broke the creep’s nose once.”

“He was protecting his little brother.”

Cutie.

“Oh. And then the plot thickens. According to a statement from Travis, right after Gulch was acquitted, he and his brother went to Gulch’s mobile home.”

“Travis said he saw the mobile home get swallowed up by the tornado. And when he came out there was nothing left.”

“He was found in pieces. It took his DNA and dental records to ID him.”

“Travis went into foster care and he was reported missing in 2003. He ran away.”

“Ten years ago his brother got ripped apart, and now he’s trying to put him back together?”

Frankenstein, anyone?

This reminds me of something.

“But why start killing now?”

Good question.

“Garcia, send me current weather reports for the area, including radar images if you have them.”

“Ask and you shall receive.”

“It is on your tablets.”

“With the weather in the area, he’s going to be so excited, he won’t wait.”

“He’ll take the boy to the closest area with the most activity.”

“That’s right around here, just southeast of us.”

“It’s Frankenstein.”

“What?”

“The unsub isn’t trying to put his brother back together, he’s trying to bring him back from the dead.”

“He believes that tornadoes have the power to take life, so conversely, they should have the power to restore it.”

“We’ll pick up Rossi and Prentiss on the way. Let’s go.”

“Garcia, what have you got?”

“Sir, I found your trigger.”

“A year ago, a tornado ripped through a cemetery near Tulsa. One of the 53 graves that was disturbed was that of Tucker James.”

“His brother was killed by a storm, then his memorial was destroyed by one.”

“Now he’s using both to build a memorial of his own.”

“Now that he has that boy’s head, the delusion will completely to take over.”

“Garcia, those storm chasers at the university we talked to, they should be out in full force.”

“I’m sending you their number now. Tell them to be on the lookout for the unsub’s RV.”

“And, Garcia, patch into their radio chatter.”

“They’ll know where the storms are.”

“On it, my pretties.”

“We need to head into those areas with the most precipitation.”

“So make a right at the next intersection.”

“It should be Pawnee Road.”

“Hey, how exactly are we supposed to chase this storm?”

“The unsub won’t actually chase the storm.”

“To get close to it, you have to get in front of it.”

“It’s a little like playing chicken.”

It’s official, I iam un-American ... I have no idea what playing chicken is ... is that like when a kid is being stupid an drunning after something that might hurt it andx then running away? Oh, I get it, cuz chickens are stupid ... oh my god ,I cannot believe I had to actually think about this.

“Uh-oh.”

“What?”

“It’s frozen.”

“Hey, Hotch. We just lost the internet.”

Worst thing to ever happen.

“I’m frozen up, too.”

“The weather must be affecting the upload.”

“I’m patching Garcia in.”

“Yes, boss.”

“Garcia, we just lost our internet and we need you to guide us into the storm.”

“Consider me your eyes and ears, sir.”

“Okay, guys, a twister has been spotted near Rose Hill just south of your position. The storm-chaser dudes are calling it a landspout.”

“We don’t want that one. Landspout tornadoes are relatively insignificant.”

“Where to, then?”

“Garcia, look for hook echoes on your monitor.’

“Hey, hook echoes.”

“Yeah. Okay, I’m gonna do that.”

“Just tell me what they are.”

“They’re swirling hook-like radar signatures that look surprisingly like what you’d expect them to.”

“Okay. Uh …”

“No, I don’t see anything like that.”

“They’ll likely form in those red and violet areas on the map.”

“I don’t see anything that looks even remotely like that.”

“Okay, they shouldn’t be too far from our current positions. He’s close.”

“Oh, God.”

“No, wait ...”

“Wait, yes!”

“Yes, I see it.”

“Oh, that’s gotta be it. Yes, ye…”

She’s just the cutest thing ever!

“Where, Garcia?”

“Oh, no, no.’

That’s never good.

“What? What is it?”

“There are two.”

“We’ll have to split up.”

“Which way, Garcia?”

“Uh, okay. Half of you can stay in your current heading.”

“The other half, make a … right on Meadowlark Road.”

“Morgan, take Meadowlark Road. We’ll keep going.”

“Got it.”

“Hey, I just got a hit from the storm-chaser dudes on the RV. You guys are the closest.”

GPS - Garcia Positioning System ... sorry .. I just couldn’t help myself.

“Where are we talking, Garcia?”

“Heading east on Summer Road just north of your position, make a left on Prairie Creek.”

“It’s the next left.”

“You got it.”

“Hang on, guys.”

Uh oh, reckless Derek driving!

“What’s that up there? Near the old house.”

Whoops, poodle spotted something with his little eye.

“Travis James, FBI!”

“Put the weapon down!”

“We can’t do that, Travis.”

“Just let Shaun go and we can work this out.”

“That’s his name, you know.”

“He has a little brother, too.”

“We know you saw them when you attacked them.”

“Travis, Tucker would not want this. He would want to protect you like he did with Roscoe Gulch. Just let him go and we can help you.”

“I’m telling you, we need to cover now!”

Yeah, no kidding, dude!

“Come on, man, put the weapon down!”

“Put it down!”

.... The fuck did we just witness?

Did that twister just sweep a dude? FUCK!

At least they saved the kid.

Here’s how my honeys deal with a Gale-force twister:

Arthur Golden: “Adversity is like a strong wind. It tears from us all but the things that cannot be torn, so that we see ourselves as we really are.”

Aww, momma bear is callin ghome, I love JJ so much.

“So the weather’s supposed to break tomorrow. I should be home sometimes in the afternoon.”

“I’ll call and let you know for sure.”

“Yeah. Sort of. It’s kind of weird.”

“I’m … I’m fine. It’s just … been a really long day.”

“Listen, I’m really sorry about everything.”

“So, uh, is he still up?”

I love this kid!

“Hi! Hi, little man.”

“How … how are you?”

“I heard you, um, you went to the doctor.”

“Not yet, buddy. Tomorrow. I promise.”

“So, are you ready for story time?”

“Yeah? Okay.”

“Daddy, you ready?”

Daddy is ready.

“Bedtime for Baby Star.”

“Once there was a Baby Star, he lived up near the sun. and every night at bedtime, that Baby Star wanted to have some fun. He would shine and shine and fall and twinkle, oh, so bright, and he said, ‘Mommy, I’ll run away if you make me say good night’. And then his mommy kissed him on his sparkly nose and said, ‘No matter where you go, no matter where you are, no matter how big you grow, and even if you stray far … I’ll love you forever, ‘cause you’ll always be my Baby Star’.”

“Good night.”

This is the cutest kid in the world! (Aside from Jack Hotchner)

So this episode was all over the place - I was fearful for Henry’s health, for my pretties handling that weirdo in the tornado - that dude getting torn apart by that twister! Oh my! Also, the many - many - references from Garcia just made my day and the reference to Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein was pretty cool ... and lest we not forget that all the parents awards go to JJ and Will ... they really should tie the knot, they’re so cute together!

As ever, thank you ever so much for keeping up with my inconsistency in publishing these posts ... I’m just trying to get my shit together with these and I’m seriously lagging behind because my work (currently a call center representative taking messages for over 5,000 different companies) is demanding and toll-taking and sometimes I’m just not in the mood to review my facve show ... BLASPHEMY!

So I’mt rying to get back on track.

LOVE YOU GUYS

[qqueenofhades]

The Dark Horizon: Chapter XXXV

summary:  AU. The Caribbean, 1715: Royal Navy Lieutenant Killian Jones and his brother, Captain Liam Jones, have just arrived to help pacify the notorious “pirates’ republic” of New Providence. But they have dangerous allies, deadly enemies, and no idea what they’re getting into when they agree to hunt the pirate ship Blackbird and the mysterious Captain Swan. OUAT/Black Sails. rating: M status: WIP available: FF.net and AO3 previous: chapter XXXIV

For the first few instants after Hamilton’s cannonball of a conversation-ender, Emma thought Flint was going to laugh. She thought she might too, because surely there was no other proper response to such a clumsy and transparent attempt to stop them from getting pardons. That, after all, must be what Hamilton was doing, and remarkably ungratefully, given the number of times they had saved his life – Emma had spent the afternoon getting the full story of Jamaica from Liam and Miranda, and catching up as much as she could with Sam. But despite the accidents and misadventures, the Charlestown gambit was still the plan. Hamilton was evidently trying to squash the possibility, but why? He couldn’t want to mend fences with Gold, after everything. Perhaps he thought he could get his comfortable position and life back, or perhaps he was so embittered by Flint and Miranda’s marriage, the final nail in the coffin for the disgrace of his family name, that he had concocted this devastating fable, trying to destroy their fragile happy ending before it ever had a chance. After all, with no pardons from Lord Peter, that dream of a life together was gone. They would either have to fight to the bitter end, or throw themselves on the Crown’s utterly dubious idea of mercy when it came to their kind – and more specifically, them. No matter what, Gold, Jennings, and the rest would make sure they suffered.

“You’re lying,” Flint said, the first one to recover the power of speech, as he had apparently worked this out an instant ahead of Emma. “You just can’t stand the idea of us insulting your precious honor like this, so you think you’ll scare us away from even trying to make it out alive. Not that I should expect anything different – your father and Lord Alfred were brothers, were they not? No wonder you spring from such a foul fucking pit of – ”

“I assure you, I am not nearly mad enough to lie about this, especially to a man like you.” Though Lord Archibald flinched at the sight he was presently confronted with, he held his ground. “Whatever – justifiably, perhaps – low opinion you may hold of my honor, I am in fact attempting to do the right thing. Captain Jones and Captain Bellamy saved my life and treated me well, when I gave them scant reason for it. Miranda is my cousin-in-law, and Thomas. . .” He stopped, clearly gathering from the thunderous look on Flint’s face that he broached this subject at his utter and mortal peril. “Well. As you yourself said, Lord Alfred was my uncle. I was. . . aware of developments. Did you not ever wonder why you were found out and betrayed, at precisely the right moment to destroy your political ambitions and your lives together? Did you truly think it was a coincidence or sheer bad luck? And you know, you must know, that there was only one man in position to provide all that information to your enemies. Lord Peter Ashe.”

Flint, who had been starting to get to his feet, froze in place, like a troll that had ventured out too close to daybreak and turned to stone. All the merriment of the wedding party seemed to be turned to cold and poison – to, horribly fittingly, to ash. It was clearly taking every drop of his composure not to roar at the men to get out right now, when they were lazing on the beach with their victuals and their drink, completely unaware of this horrible dark shadow sinking teeth and claws into them. Finally he barked, “This way. Now.”

He, Miranda, Emma, Killian, Liam, and Sam got up from the fire, following Lord Archibald up into the palm grove, the waxing moon turning sand and sea to silver glass. Glancing over her shoulder, Emma saw Abigail Ashe looking after them with an understandably distressed expression, and opened her mouth to ask what they were going to do with the poor girl, but now was not the moment for such questions. Flint was lit to the point of total detonation, and for the first time that Emma could remember, Miranda was making no effort at all to calm him down or walk him back. Indeed, her face was a smooth, lovely, ice-cold mask, broken only by the deep-kindled, soul-consuming, impossible, agonized rage burning in her brown eyes. Always so gentle, so calm, so kind, so patient, so wise – everything that Emma had known Miranda to be. The one who had said she was tired of fighting after giving herself to it for so long, hoping the next battle would somehow make a difference, when it never did. To see this now, this utter, unbearable desolation and destruction, was almost worse than Flint’s open fury.

“You,” Flint said at last, fighting the word into even a raw simulacrum of courtesy with a terrible effort. “You’re not just making this up? If this is some vile fucking trick, I swear – ”

“As I said, I would not dare. And I am quite certain.” Lord Archibald’s eyes darted between Flint and Miranda, as if he might have long imagined this moment of bringing them low, but now that he had, it was not nearly so satisfying as he thought. “I believe it was made clear to Lord Peter that his options were to be tarred as a traitor with the rest of you, his life and career destroyed likewise, or he could tell them everything he knew and be spared, receive a new commission overseas. He had a family, a young daughter – surely you could not expect him to accept exile into outlawry and piracy with the same ease you did? He had no choice, he only – ”

“Had no choice?” Miranda’s voice cracked like a whip. “You think it was easy for us, and that he had no choice? How dare you! I had a choice, James had a choice, and we made them! Fled to New Providence, to those years of pain and rage and darkness, while Lord Peter built the very city of Charlestown, and his comfortable life, on our misery? It never once troubled him, he never lifted a finger to find us or help us or clear our names, while the city hanged all the pirates it could? Because he had a daughter? You mean such as the daughter I never bore, to Thomas or to James, the ghost of a child I dreamed up to keep me company on another long, unbearable night alone in my hut in the jungle? Lord Peter murdered them, and the daughter I did finally come to have was once more thanks to Charlestown’s cruelty and neglect, Leopold White lining his pockets and preserving his honor at the expense of his disgraced, abandoned maidservant! It is a city of liars and thieves and traitors, bought and paid for in sin and selfishness, a reeking sty of filth and greed! I want it torn to the ground! I want to burn the entire fucking place down with my bare hands!”

Everyone stared at her, as if barely able to believe that these words were coming from Miranda – the one of them who, like Sam, was their voice of reason and restraint and sense, the one who urged compassion and sanity and a view to a future that she herself believed in a little less every day. But as they had found Sam’s breaking point, they had most undoubtedly found Miranda’s, and she turned to Flint with tears brimming in her eyes, overflowing down her cheeks. “Forgive me,” she said. “I kept pushing you to stop, to make terms, to give up the fight, to turn away from this. I thought you had done all you could do and then some. I thought you had become the one in the wrong. James. Forgive me.”

Flint did not look at his wife, or indeed at anyone. He remained rooted to the spot in a sort of horrified trance, as if he could barely comprehend or process the enormity of this. Emma and Killian exchanged a stunned look of their own, as this likewise threw their own future into utter disarray. They could fault neither Flint nor Miranda for their reaction to this news, but if it was followed by sailing to Charlestown and fulfilling her request for its fate, it would light the New World literally afire and end any hope of any governor anywhere granting any of them another pardon. Indeed, Killian might have to return to Blackbeard and make another deal to get the Jolie back, since it was an absurd liability, especially now, to be sailing around in such a tiny ship with so few guns and thinking that one of the others would protect them. But of course, the reason he had given it up in the first place was to leave the pirate life, to run away with Emma and Henry and the child. To go back –

Emma almost couldn’t breathe, felt as if a giant fist was gripping her heart and lungs and crushing them flat. It was almost impossible to believe that barely an hour ago, they had all been so happily at the wedding and then at the fireside, dreaming of a future together, and a life away from war. She looked apprehensively at Sam, not sure what she might see, which way he might be leaning – he had restrained from burning St. John’s in his hour of darkness, as Killian had told her, but he had said as well that he wished he had done it, that he wanted all of them dead. Would he now accept Charlestown as a suitable substitute, especially given his relationship with Flint and Miranda? Was he going to finally pass that point of no return?

Sam’s face, however, was utterly expressionless, though he clenched a fist so hard that his knuckles went white. He turned abruptly away, hit the stout trunk of the nearest palm tree a few times, and inhaled a ragged breath through his nose. Emma took a step toward him, as she knew that Sam’s instinct, even in his extremity, was to help people, to make them happy, to care for them. But if he did that now, if he agreed to the destruction of Charlestown to support Flint and Miranda’s final, furious revenge, it would come at the cost of his own soul. If he went under those dark waters, there was no coming up.

Yet as Emma reached for him, that breathless, half-painful clutch at her innards came again, squeezing and twisting until she grimaced. At the same time, she became aware of a soaking wetness in her breeches, which she had totally overlooked in the general turmoil of the past ten minutes. She had gone through this once before, and while she prayed she was mistaken, she was unfortunately and unshakably aware that she wasn’t. “Killian,” she said, in a gulp. “Killian, I think – I think the baby’s coming.”

He whirled around with an aghast look, as this was the only thing that could make the situation even worse. It was, after all, a tiny island in the middle of nowhere, and Miranda, Abigail, and Regina were the only other women present. They were surrounded by drunken pirates partying on the beach, as well as Lord Archibald and a completely beside-himself Flint, which hardly inspired much confidence in the event of things going wrong – and if they did, they couldn’t exactly run and fetch someone who knew how to fix it. Charlie and Henry should not be expected to help, they were too young, and would much rather avoid seeing things that could not be forgotten. Killian would surely stay with her, but he only had one hand. So what – Liam and Sam? See if Billy felt like moonlighting as a midwife?

At least Emma had certainly succeeded in getting everyone’s attention, and it was Sam who spoke, moving to offer her his arm. “I can take you to the Whydah, the bed will be the most comfortable. Do you think you can make it there, or – ”

“I – no, I can’t give birth in your bed, it would be a mess.” Emma grimaced again. She was also not sure that the prospect of a rowboat ride out to the ships sounded particularly appetizing right now, and felt almost guilty for interrupting the urgency of the moment – even though she, of course, had absolutely no control over when this chose to happen. She had known it would be very soon – it was April, it was time, though this might be early by a week or two. Better here than at sea, or in a storm, as at least she would have solid ground and several assistants. Henry had taken hours, but they said second births usually went faster. How much so, Emma did not know, nor wanted to press her luck in finding out.

As for Miranda, she remained where she was a moment longer, then stepped away and came toward Emma, taking hold of her other arm, though Emma could feel her hands shaking. With Killian nervously trotting alongside, Liam heading off to find Regina – dangerous as the woman might be, she did at least have a knowledge of plants and potions and medicines – and Flint deciding on the instant that he was not interested in volunteering and striding off into the darkness, Sam and Miranda steered Emma to a sheltered patch of sand. Sam took off his coat and spread it on the ground, as Killian did likewise, then helped Emma to sit. “We’ll need more,” he said. “This is no place for it. I’m sorry, love. You should never have had to – ”

“Killian, I chose to come with you.” Emma put a hand on his arm. “I knew this could happen. But all of you – Miranda, it’s your wedding night, you shouldn’t have to spend it like this – ”

Miranda gave her a faint, catching smile. “Do you really think it would be so joyous otherwise?”

Emma had no idea what to say to that, and gasped instead as another pain hit. Miranda knelt down and began tearing her petticoats into strips to use as clean rags, Sam went to fetch water, and Killian, clearly desperate to be useful and lacking any other apparent way to do so, hesitated, then offered Emma his rum flask. “Will this help, lass?”

Emma was about to refuse, then decided that this child was, after all, the progeny of pirates, and took a long slug. It burned all the way down, but it kindled a small ember of warmth in her stomach that indeed made her not feel the next contraction quite as keenly. By then, Sam had returned, hauling two large buckets of fresh water, and Will, Abigail, and Regina were trailing along behind, looking – at least for the most part – nervous but determined to be of whatever assistance they could. Regina was, of course, the exception, but she threw a dirty look at Killian and said, “Put that rum away, Jones. I have something that will actually help.”

With that, she pulled a small phial from her sleeve, uncorked it, and held it out to Emma. Emma hesitated one last time, but Liam had said he trusted her, and Regina had gone through hell on Emma’s behalf to obtain the pardon and not yet said a word about it. Emma looked at her a moment longer, then nodded, took a deep breath, and drank it.

The effects were pleasantly quick, making her entire body feel relaxed and dreamy, not quite in her purview, and certainly not in pain. Rather too late, Emma wondered if it was more of the vodou medicine that Regina traded with the Maroons, or even a pinch of the zombie poison, which was said to produce this same deliriously dissociative effect. But if she had been on the Maroons’ island as originally planned, she might have been given this same stuff anyway, and at least it didn’t hurt. Instead she leaned back and watched them through something of a hazy remove. Sam and Will had gone to fetch more blankets to render her makeshift birthing bed as comfortable as they could, and Abigail began to wet the rags and hang them neatly over a twisted root. Killian sat next to Emma, holding her hand tightly, as Miranda acted as midwife, looking to see how things were coming along and ordering the others for whatever she needed. Despite the strangeness and inconvenience and generally improvised nature of the whole thing, Emma could not help an odd, poignant rush of gratitude. All these people here, helping her, ignoring their own struggles and heartbreak to do so, putting her first, being her family. She had not dreamed of such a thing since she was twelve years old and her parents were dead of typhoid, leaving her alone with Charlie and no choice but to try to get them to the Americas together, to start a new life. From that, in whatever long, strange, dangerous, tender way it had taken, to here, and knowing what now lay after it. She couldn’t lose them. She couldn’t.

Her labor went on well into the night, as the effects of Regina’s drug began to wear off and the pain returned. Emma bit her lip on her grunts and moans of effort, not wanting to cause a band of boozy pirates to crash in to see what was going on; she could do without their well-wishes, thanks. Regina gave her a second, smaller dose, which took some of the edge off, but it was still faster, harder, sharp and straining, as Sam took charge of her other hand and Emma thought she might accidentally break both of the men’s fingers. But neither of them said a word, or tried to get her to loosen her grip. Abigail moved behind her to brace her shoulders, as Emma hissed and struggled, digging her heels into the sand. It hurt, God, it fucking hurt, she could feel sweat rolling down her cheeks and sticking her braid to the back of her neck. She tore at Sam and Killian’s hands as Miranda steadied her legs, Will ordered a curious onlooker to get lost immediately, and Regina passed up wet rags. Whatever might happen, whatever was happening, she was still not, not at all, alone.

The pains reached a desperate, wrenching zenith, Emma threw all her strength into a final, almighty shove, and felt a rush of hot blood on her legs. This was followed a few instants later by the unmistakable cry of an infant, as Miranda moved to catch something small and slippery, bundled it in the ruins of her petticoat, and took Sam’s offered knife to cut the cord and tie it off. She accepted a few of the rags from Regina and cleaned the baby, then wrapped it in one of the spare blankets and looked up at Killian and Emma, who were staring at her in mutual desperation. Very quietly, she said, “You have a daughter.”

Emma let out a long, jagged breath, sagging back against Sam and Killian, as both of them uttered delighted noises and kissed her. There was the afterbirth to deliver and more cleaning up to do, but then at last, Miranda gently handed the child to Emma. She had given up crying by now, and was sucking on her tiny thumb, though rather resentfully that it was not supplying any food. It being dark, it was impossible to say what she looked like, apart from the usual red and wrinkled newborn. But Emma felt a rush of raw, disbelieving, utter, unspeakable love at the small, perfect weight in her arms, curled against her chest, as she looked up to see Killian gazing at them in mesmeric fascination. She shifted the baby slightly, got a hand free, and pulled him down for another slow, weary, sweet kiss. “How about that,” she whispered. “A daughter.”

He nodded, making a choked sound, as he ran a thumb very lightly over the child’s forehead, as if in fear of breaking or sullying or otherwise spoiling her, this creature of pure innocence that surely could not have sprung in any way from him. They sat there for some intangible length of time, lost in the moment, until the baby stirred and began to fuss, and Emma shifted again to nurse her. Once this was done and she had been settled and fallen back asleep, Emma said shakily, “Well, I suppose we. . . we did choose her name.”

“Aye.” Killian’s eyes had not moved off them in about the last hour, but at this, he shook himself and looked at Miranda and Sam. “We were – with your blessing, of course – planning to call her Geneva Elizabeth. For Miranda’s friend, and Sam’s mother.”

At that, both of them looked utterly stricken, but not in horror. Miranda’s eyes welled with tears again as she pressed her hands to her mouth and turned away, and Sam seemed to be at a loss for words. Then at last, he nodded. “Aye,” he said quietly. “Aye, of course.”

It was close to dawn by now, and Emma dozed for a few hours, exhausted and still sore and bleeding, as Abigail took over tending her. She hadn’t said a word since the revelation of her father’s treachery, as if they might turn on her if she reminded them of her presence, and perhaps she felt safer here as well, as if even the most sorely ill-mannered ruffians would not kill her before a new mother’s childbed. Emma did hope she was right about that, for any number of reasons, though when she woke up, Abigail was gone. It was a cool rose-blue early morning, and she was ravenously hungry.

When Killian had brought her some breakfast, and they ate together as the sun began to edge up the horizon, Emma refused to say what she had realized, the thought that was inescapable in her head, overshadowing the joy and relief of little Geneva Elizabeth Jones’ safe arrival. She wanted to keep this moment perfect for as long as she could, to remember it this way. When they had finished, she said, “Where’s Miranda?”

“Over there.” Killian nodded at the palm grove. “She took Geneva so you could rest.”

Emma’s throat closed as she looked over to see the silent, solitary figure of Miranda among the trees, still wearing her bloody and torn petticoat, holding the sleeping baby and staring out to sea. She could not fail to be in unimaginable emotional turmoil. Married last night to Flint at last, only to have it immediately soured and shaken to the core by the shocking disclosure of Lord Peter’s betrayal, and her own furious, heartbroken plea to burn Charlestown to the ground, that their revenge had not been finished but indeed barely begun. Then attending the birth of her adopted grandchild, given the name of the daughter she had always wanted to have for herself with either of her husbands, but never did. Now seeing this new life, this promise of the future that seemed to become ever more perversely elusive with every turn, and the knowledge they could no longer have it, that there were no more possibilities of pardons, that it would in fact be a fight to the death. Even the strongest souls would buckle under such a burden, and Miranda had been bearing it for years.

Emma watched her, soft and troubled, until Miranda finally turned and came back down the sand. From the look of her eyes, she had been crying for quite a while, but her voice, though rusty, was calm. “Good morning, my dear. Your daughter is beautiful.”

Emma reached out to take Geneva, who was making cross sounds clearly in expectation of breakfast, and as she suckled, took the opportunity to finally look at her. Her eyes were blue, though most newborns’ were, and though a bit small, she was sturdy and solid, in possession of all her fingers and toes, and there was the faintest dusting of dark hair on the curve of her skull, which fit neatly into Emma’s cupping hand. When she had finished her meal and been cleaned and changed, she went straight back to sleep, which Killian regarded with bemusement. “Do they always do that?”

“No,” Emma said, with a wry smile. “Some are much fussier. Let’s hope it keeps. . . keeps up.”

Killian, sensing the faint crack in her voice, looked at her in concern. “Love, what’s wrong?”

Emma opened her mouth, could not bring herself to do it, and was distracted just then anyway by the arrival of Sam and Liam. Sam got to hold his goddaughter for the first time, which he did with an intent, tender look, and Liam regarded his niece with a sort of quiet pride. Then he reached out and clapped Killian on the back. “Well done, little brother.”

“I don’t get any of the credit,” Killian said, cheeks rather pink. “Emma did all the work.”

“Aye, true.” Liam glanced at her. “But a pirate ship is no place for a newborn, and if Lord Ashe’s mercy is off the table, it will be even more – ”

Emma had not wanted to come out with it so quickly, but now it was staring her in the face, and there was nothing for it. “Liam, you have already done a great deal for me – for us – and I don’t want to have to ask more. But I have to.”

“Oh?” A slight frown creased Liam’s brows. “And what is that?”

Emma reached out and grasped Killian’s hand, feeling utterly unready, unable to do this, but knowing that she had to. “I know you don’t want to join the pirates outright, and we still have the Jolly Roger, which is a good ship for speed, but not for fighting against much more heavily armed foes. You proposed marriage to me before, since you wanted to take care of us. And so – ”

“You proposed marriage to her?” Killian turned on Liam with a glower. “Were you intending to tell me about this?”

“Easy, little brother.” Liam looked defensive. “It was only in the event that you got yourself killed going after Antigua, and I would have to look after her and the baby as I promised you. She shot me down rather swiftly, anyway.”

Killian opened his mouth, then shut it, clearly unsure whether to be ruffled at this presumption, pleased that Liam had been intending to keep his word, or shyly proud that Emma would choose him over his elder brother, the man he had thought for so long there was no competing with or matching up to. Then he looked back at her with a frown. “Love, what were you going to ask?”

“Just this.” Emma swallowed, trying to maintain her composure. “As I said, we have a fast ship at our disposal, and Liam, you don’t want to be a pirate, but you’re certainly not fighting for the Royal Navy any more. Furthermore, you’re right. Lord Ashe’s mercy is off the table. There is a battle coming, an ultimate reckoning, and I don’t know how long or how terrible, but. . . I shouldn’t expect anything less than that. I need you and Regina to take Henry and Geneva to safety. Get them out of the Caribbean. Give them. . . give them their best chance.”

Liam, Killian, Sam, and Miranda all stared at her, which was almost more than Emma felt capable of bearing at the moment. Still, she forced herself to continue. “You said that we could go to France, start over there. That’s what I want you to do. I have money, I’ll give it to you, if you can condescend yourself to accept pirate gold. Take Regina, Henry, and Geneva to Paris. Get a post with the French Navy if you want, but there will be enough that you won’t have to. If Killian and I survive, we will come to find you. If not. . .” She closed her eyes, steeling herself. “They will be your children. I’m trusting you with them. Please.”

Liam looked floored. He raised a hand to his face, then dropped it. “But you. . .” he said at last. “You have a pardon, Emma. The only one of this lot who does. You could come with us.”

“Aye. The only one.” Emma gripped her knees, trying to stop her hands shaking. “But if I left my entire family behind to fight and die without me, I. . . I’ve found it again, I knew it last night, when you were all here with me. I can’t abandon them, I can’t, and I can’t be so selfish as to put my children in the crossfire. According to Miranda, you insisted that I have the pardon. Well, now I’m insisting that you have it. That should please Regina. You were the ones who suffered and fought for it. Get Hamilton to rewrite it for you, and keep Henry and Geneva safe. Give them a real life, a good life, not one where they have to grow up in the smoke of cannonfire and the shadow of bodies swinging from nooses. I know what I’m asking, but. . . you have to. Please.”

Liam’s mouth had remained open, so he closed it. Then he got up, strode down to the camp on the beach, and returned in a few minutes with Regina, who – for once – did not appear to have a blazing retort on hand. It looked as if Liam had explained the situation to her on the way, but she was still completely at a loss. “This is. . .” she began at last, then stopped. “No, we couldn’t. How would we feed her?”

Emma, who had expected Regina’s objections to tilt in a far more vehement direction, was likewise caught off guard. It was true that they could not hope to engage a wet nurse until they arrived in France, which was a journey of some weeks even with a good wind and a further few days on the road from Le Havre to Paris, and quite obviously, Geneva would need to eat before then. Emma remained briefly at a loss, until Sam said, ��There’s a nanny-goat aboard the Whydah that just had a kid and is giving milk. You’re welcome to take her with you.”

“Fine, then, but you’d give her to me?” Regina’s eyes flickered to the peacefully slumbering baby, almost timidly. “And Henry? After everything that I. . . that I. . .”

“You told me that you wanted to be a mother,” Liam said, most unexpectedly. “In Antigua, after you rescued me from prison. You said that you might think of taking in a child, a baby. And you – we – we could, you know. Try to build a new life. There are worse choices.”

“Yes, but – ” Clearly Regina had not expected this to be connected to the presence of the actual flesh-and-blood child in front of her. “You’re still a condemned man, because you’re too stubborn to take the pardon I tried to get for you. How do you expect to live quietly in France when some outraged English agent could barge in during the night, and drag you to face whatever cooked-up notion of justice they think they can – ”

“We have arranged that,” Liam said. “If you don’t want to come with me, that is of course at your discretion, but I will take the children myself. Though I don’t have much experience with babies, I did raise Killian, so I suppose I can manage Henry. Or else – ”

“No,” Regina said at once, then bit her lip, as if she had taken herself aback with the speed of this response. “No. Leave you in charge of two children alone, one a newborn, while also trying to captain the ship? That would be a disaster. So it looks as if I have to come, doesn’t it?”

A charged silence hung in the air after her words, as if the weight of it, the reality, the finality, was sinking over them like lead. Emma was not in the least confident that she was doing the right thing at all: after the years she had already spent far from Henry, working as a pirate to give him a good life, she was now proposing to send him and his infant sister away for what might well be forever? Yet she had never reckoned on Geneva’s existence, even more than she hadn’t with Henry’s, much less falling in love with Killian to boot. If she went to Paris, he would want to go too, but as a convicted and notorious traitor, even France would not be much of a safe haven for long. If he went with them, they would always run the risk of them all being caught and dying for his crimes, and he would never agree to that. Thus if she did go, they would have to be separated again, likely permanently, while Emma knew that she had left him and the rest of her family behind to face the war of the world, to fight and die against their enemies. And when it came down to it, she simply could not. Not again. Henry and Geneva were but children, had never asked for this danger and could not choose to face it as an adult could, could not come of age – if they even lived to do so – on a tide of blood and broken bodies. They had to go. They had to. And if it broke Emma in half in the doing, perhaps it was no more than she deserved.

Slowly, with clumsy, nerveless hands, she lifted Geneva and passed her to Regina, who hesitated, then accepted her, settling her into the crook of her elbow. The baby stirred, snuffled, but didn’t wake, turning her head and continuing to sleep, blissfully unaware of how she had just been transacted, and Emma felt something close to a scream burning up her chest, choking her throat, until she almost couldn’t stand it. At that moment, she hated Lord Peter Ashe as much as Flint and Miranda must, wanted to burn Charlestown herself in recompense for his treachery and the future he had ripped from them, all the daughters he had stolen. No more. No more.

Killian reached for her, and she clutched him desperately. She knew that if she held Geneva much more, she would be unable to give her up at all, and so she had to start now, to train herself for the unthinkable. She would miss it all, again. It was Regina whom Geneva would grow up calling mother, Regina who would see her first steps, hear her first words. Regina who would teach her how to be a lady – perhaps for the best, if Emma barely knew how. There was only some tiny, cold, shivering solace in the fact that Liam would be her father, and she would have her elder brother. They’d do well enough, as a little family. They would live.

After a moment, Regina handed Geneva to Miranda, and she and Liam got to her feet and went to find Henry. Nobody said anything after their exit, even though the silence was as raw as an open wound, until an unexpected shadow fell over them. He scarcely looked as if he had spent the night more enjoyably than any of them, and he had cut his ginger ponytail, shaving his head to stubble, as if to ceremoniously prepare himself for war like a samurai of distant Japan. Flint considered them for a moment, barely seemed to need to ask why they looked as if they were at a funeral instead of a birth, and didn’t say a word. Then he started to walk away, but Miranda burst out, “James.”

Flint stopped. His back was to them, so it was impossible to say what might have showed on his face, and it was a further moment until he turned stiffly. At last he grunted, “Aye?”

“Come,” Miranda said quietly. “Come look at your granddaughter.”

At that, something passed over Flint’s still-frozen expression ever so slightly, the trickle of a spring thaw very far beneath the icy surface of a lake in deepest winter. He seemed briefly about to refuse, then took a few curt steps and glanced down at the baby in Miranda’s arms. For an instant, it was possible to sense the magnitude of his own grief, spilling from him as if the river had burst its banks in flood, this dream of an utterly alien life where this was his family, and this was his home, and he was happy, and had not rent himself to dust and vengeance and stone – flint, flint, flint, echoed in his very choice of name – in pursuit of mending the unmendable, and breaking the unbreakable. And yet, it was only for that instant. Then one last time, he raised his castle walls, shut the gates, and went away inside. Looked over at Emma and Killian, and nodded coolly. “She is a charming child,” he said. “You must be very proud.”

With that, he straightened up, turned again, and strode away down the sand, as Miranda watched him go with an expression of heartbreak to nearly dwarf what Emma felt aching in her own chest. “Excuse me,” Miranda said, handing Geneva to Sam and getting to her feet. “I – I need to be alone for a little while.”

After she had gone as well, that left only the three of them, not counting the baby: Sam, Killian, and Emma. They remained where they were, staring out at the brilliant blue sky and sea of a luminous spring day, until Sam said, “Where are we going, then?”

Killian glanced sidelong at him, clearly catching the delicate undertones in this. Finally, he said, “Do you think we should burn Charlestown?’

Sam considered. “No,” he said quietly. “Do I want to? Yes, but I refuse to let that justify the choice. As well, for better or for worse, Ashe’s daughter is still here with us, and you and I promised to protect her when we captured her ship. I hardly think that cutting her father down before her eyes, in cold blood, qualifies as such. The question, however, is whether we could possibly prevent Flint from doing it, or feel as if we had any authority to tell him not to. He could still negotiate. Threaten Ashe that unless he gave the lot of us pardons, he would burn the city to the ground, or something of the sort. But I can’t see Flint ever stooping to accept such a filthy document from the man who is the reason he had to turn pirate in the first place, and frankly, neither would I. Yet we all know that Flint will not leave this unavenged. And if Miranda thinks as well that Charlestown should be burned, rather than trying to stop him. . .”

Sam trailed off, even as Killian and Emma could sense his morbid point: that one way or another, Charlestown and Lord Peter Ashe had a death mark on them, and they could either refrain from participation in the name of their own high-minded personal honor, or go with Flint and Miranda and be prepared to do whatever they had to. Lord Archibald had warned them not to go to Charlestown, but he had instead all but sealed it as their next destination, and they came seeking not peace, but a sword. Sam was further correct that Flint would ignore them if they tried to stop him – asking him to help call off Blackbeard and Vane in St. John’s was one thing, but expecting him to meekly swallow something of this unspeakable magnitude was too much. And, terribly, Emma almost didn’t care what happened to the city, after her own painful history with it. Lord Peter had made this monster. It seemed simply fitting that he should be consumed by it.

“There’s still Robert Gold,” Killian said, after a moment. “Flint and I were – well, I was – planning to tip off your old captain about our suspicions that he is in fact a traitor. That way, we could possibly get the Navy to turn on him or at least question his right to command them, break up whatever plans they had for dealing with the pirates, and buy us a little time. If so – ”

“You meant to tell David Nolan?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “Aye, well, if there was anyone who would feel it was his duty to investigate fully, no matter the risk, it would be David. But do you really think you can stop Gold with just the Windsor?”

“Stop him? No. We could, however, potentially slow him down a bit, throw something in his way that even he didn’t see coming. Nolan helped Flint and I rescue you, he’ll hear us out if we can find him. Did you – on Antigua, when Gold had you prisoner, is there anything you can think of that might tell us what he actually wants?”

Sam snorted bitterly. “To cause as much chaos and misery as he pleases, so far as I can tell. Turned Eleanor Guthrie to his side in less than five minutes, so if she’s now informing on Nassau to the Navy, we’re in trouble. Doubtless my other old captain, Benjamin fucking Hornigold, is expecting that he will be given the honor of commanding an English ship to the battle. As for Gold, though. . . all I can think of is that he had a strange black knife. Twisted, evil thing, I’d never seen its like. I didn’t get any sort of good look at it, but it struck me as odd even at the time. Not that that means anything, though. Perhaps he’s simply an aficionado of eccentric weaponry. Even an evil bastard needs hobbies.”

Killian and Emma glanced at each other and frowned, as this likewise did not sound familiar to either of them. Then Geneva stirred in Sam’s arms, mewling fretfully, and Emma didn’t give a damn about anything, about ease or hardship, about choices, about rightness. “Please,” she said, half in a whisper. “Let me hold my daughter.”

Sam hesitated, then nodded, and passed her back. As before, she curled warm and bonelessly into Emma’s chest, still all but part of her, dark lashes showing against her round cheek. Emma closed her eyes hard, pressing a kiss to the baby’s downy-soft head, with a powerful, almighty ache in her fingers and her hands and her arms and her entire soul, to hold on, to hold on and never let her go. That this, somehow, could defy the very order of things, its inevitability, its march toward cessation. Dust to dust. As if she could make the sun slow, the stars hold soft, the world stop, and all of time stand still.

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

Liam and Regina departed that evening. They had taken the nanny-goat, the money from Emma and a significant extra chunk from Sam (which he said was a christening gift for his goddaughter), the rewritten and sealed pardon from Lord Archibald, and everything else they would need to sail on the Jolly Roger to Paris, and try to build whatever life they could. Will had decided to go with them, to help look after the children and lend an extra hand, and they would have taken Abigail and Lord Archibald as well, but Flint refused to yield two such priceless hostages.  Thus it was a subdued and solemn leavetaking, everyone trying to put a brave face on it while knowing that there was a very good chance they would never see each other again, and that once Liam and Regina left this world, they could hardly return for casual visits. They had to make the break clean, could not look back, could not risk calling any suspicion on them, and the great charge they had been entrusted with: Henry, dressed for traveling, chin up but lip quivering, and Geneva, asleep in Emma’s arms as she carried her down the beach, Killian at one elbow and Sam at the other. Oh God, oh Christ, she did not know how to do this.

The Jones brothers looked at each other without a word, then stepped forward and embraced for a very long moment, struggling to let go for the last time. Emma knelt down before Henry and tried to think of something to say, something for him to remember her by, but couldn’t. Finally, she whispered, “I love you,” and kissed his forehead. She didn’t want to tell him that she’d see him again, when it was a promise out of her power to keep. “Be. . . be good.”

Henry bit his lip and nodded, apparently not sure what else to do. Sam and Liam clasped hands quickly, Emma and Will hugged hard, and even Killian and Regina managed a cordial parting. Then it was time, and Emma and Killian bent over Geneva, kissing her once and then again, barely managing to straighten up and hold her out, a tiny blanketed shape in the rich blue twilight, for Regina to take. Emma felt her knees going out, and clawed hold of Killian, who wasn’t particularly steady either. Sam silently offered them an arm, and they both hung onto him, watching the small party retreat down the sand and into the boat, out to the waiting, anchored silhouette of the Jolly. Watched them go aboard, and the sails raised. Watched them start to move, dissolving into the soft deepening darkness of the falling night, and not look back.

They stood there long after the ship was out of sight, Emma and Killian too numb to move, until Sam finally stirred. “Come on,” he said quietly. “Let’s get you something.”

Emma did not think that anything could ever fill the void inside her, but she took better hold of Killian and walked with the men up the beach to one of the fires, which had been so warm and inviting and celebratory last night, before Lord Archibald opened his mouth and the entire world had changed. All she knew now was that this had to be, this had to be, worth it. They had to defeat Gold and Ashe and Jennings and Hornigold and the Navy and however many other enemies still remained, they had to fight as they never had before, they had to do whatever it took to win, and to survive. They had sent their future away, held in abeyance, the wager they had to make. The reminder of what the stakes were, and the price of them.

Flint glanced up as they seated themselves at his fire, which he had been staring into as if determined to learn how to physically breathe it. Emma braced herself for some abrasive comment, but he said nothing, thrusting a rum flask at them as if sensing that they probably needed it just as much, and they untwisted the cap and took long pulls. Sam took it when Killian passed it to him and had a drink as well, then handed it back to Flint, who finished it off and tossed it in the sand. Miranda was not there. It was not clear where she might be, or what precisely the state of things between them was. Emma did not think that Flint blamed Miranda for this whole wretched situation, not really, but she had been the one pushing him the hardest to stop, to make terms, to settle down. Now that was spectacularly shot to pieces, and after holding off on actual marriage for so long out of respect for Thomas’ memory, their reward for it was to find out exactly how a man they had trusted and befriended had destroyed all of them in the first place. It would be hard not to feel utterly cursed, together or apart.

“So,” Flint said at last, in a guttural rasp, when he saw they might as well sit and share their misery. “Going to get your own ship back?”

It took Killian a few moments to surface from his reverie. “Aye, I suppose. Though I’m not entirely certain what I can give Blackbeard to make him want to undo the bargain that we – ”

“Leave that to me.” Flint’s mouth twisted. “I know what to offer him.”

“Oh? And that is?”

Flint gazed back at him with an expression that clearly said he was not going to tell him.

“So – what, we’ll sail with you until we find him, then trust that you’ll know exactly what to say to get him to hand the Jolie back, without a peep of protest?”

Flint shrugged, digging out another bottle of rum and using his knife to cut open the wax seal. “Did you have a better plan?”

“No.” Killian paused. “Then you’re making for Charlestown?”

“Yes.” Flint took a drink. “And if you were thinking of being a friend to me, I need Captain Hook, the vengeful terror of English Harbor and Kingston. Killian Jones and any empty moralizing he might feel inclined to do can stay the fuck away.”

“Mate. Look.” Killian leaned forward. “I know how you’re feeling. Believe me, I do. The reason my life was destroyed, my enemies knew everything they needed to in order to stage that scene on Antigua where Jennings literally cut off my bloody hand and everything we had ever done or believed in was torn down in front of us, was because of the carpenter on my ship, August Booth. He wasn’t a friend to me as Lord Peter was to you, but he was still a ranking officer and someone I had sailed with for many years, who sold me and Liam out to Gold and never turned a hair in doing it. If I had the chance to spit him and roast him over a fire, well, I can’t say that I wouldn’t likewise be extremely bloody tempted. But it’s not going to help.”

“I told you to spare me your moralizing.” Flint crossed his boots, continuing to stare into the fire. “Or is that something else you can’t – ”

“Look,” Killian said again, low and dangerously enough that even Flint’s head jerked unwillingly up. “I just saved your arse from the mutiny, and don’t tell me you don’t know it. So you’ll, what, sail to Charlestown breathing blood and fury and give them all an excellent chance of being hanged anyway? Not that long ago, you and me and Sam also sat on a beach at night, on Tortuga, planning to drift apart, to go our separate ways, to blow where the wind takes us. We can’t, don’t you see? We can’t. There are no more chances of pardons for any of us, whether or not we wanted them, and pirates have to stand together. More than that, I know how hard it is to see what’s in front of you, and not what has gone behind and before, but you have a family now. You do. You have your wife, you have Sam, you have me and Emma – you said you’d make a home with us, I think you’re well aware that you’ve grown used to having us around, and you just pretend that you still hate us because you’re a grumpy bastard who hates everyone. And I just handed my daughter to my brother and Regina and let them sail away, to most likely never see us again, because I’m going to stay here, Emma is staying here, to fight. So if you think that this somehow doesn’t matter to me as much as it does to you, fuck that.”

Everyone stared at Killian, as it had likely been a long time – if ever – since anyone had dared to speak to Flint in such a fashion. Even Silver cloaked his manipulations in a veneer of polished, glib courtesy, wheedling and flattering and using honey instead of vinegar, but Killian’s patience was clearly out, raw and bloodied from the parting earlier, as Emma squeezed his hand. She half-expected Flint to finally go off with a bang, as it was Miranda who had lost her temper on the revelation of Ashe’s treachery while Flint remained numb and silent, but he still appeared almost at a loss. Then he said again, voice a grate, “So?”

“So.” Killian’s cheeks were flushed in the firelight, eyes dark and wild, but his voice was more or less even. “Go to Charlestown, aye, but be cunning about it. Go in acting as if you don’t know anything about Ashe whatsoever, and are simply happy to see your old friend again and return his daughter. Then when you have him alone, you do whatever you see fit to make him answer for his crimes. Turn the tables. He will offer you anything he can think of. Take it, or don’t.”

Flint considered Killian for a very long, very fraught moment, until the corner of his mouth curled up in a thin, mirthless smile. “Betray him in turn, you mean? That’s. . . rather elegant.”

“Aye. He turned on you when you did not see it coming, when you had no defense, and lost everything as a result. You can, with a bit of artistry, serve the exact same bitter medicine to him. Then whatever becomes of him after that, you will know yourself avenged.”

Flint remained implacable, fingers tapping on his knee, as he took another long pull on the rum. “And what would the two of you – ” he tilted his head at Killian and Sam – “be doing, while I was amusing myself in such fashion?”

“Once I get the Jolie back, I thought Emma and I would return to Nassau,” Killian said. “We need to know how it stands there, if Blackbeard and Vane have come back, if anyone has any news on Jennings’ fate, or what devilry the Navy is preparing for us. On the way, though, we have to see if we can find David Nolan and warn him that Gold is a – ”

“I’ll do that,” Sam said. “I’ll track down the Windsor and pass the word to him.”

Killian and Emma looked at him in surprise and wonderment, as they were both well aware how difficult it must have been for Sam to agree to go anywhere near Antigua again, let alone to find the very ship on which he had served and where Hume had carried out his abuse. But it was likewise true that of any pirate who came bearing news of a governor’s grievous treachery, David Nolan was the most inclined to listen to Sam, and they had to trust that their old friendship would be enough for David to take him seriously. He could not openly turn on an agent of the Crown without tarring himself with the same traitorous brush, but he could do something, and having at least one ally on the other side of the coin might prove invaluable, when the fighting started in earnest. The Navy reinforcements must have arrived from England by now. For Sam to sail alone into these dangerous waters was no small offer, with no surety of a second escape.

“Sam,” Emma said quietly. “You don’t have to – ”

“Aye, I do.” He looked back at her just as fiercely, dark eyes burning. “I’m your family too. I already tried to run away, and I’ve done well for myself in taking prizes, but I said that when the time came to fight the battle against Gold, I’d be there. It is, and it’s now, and just as you would not leave us, I won’t either. I’ll be with you, with all of you. Until the end.”

Emma reached out to take his hand with her free one, pulling the three of them together, as they thus regarded Flint with a single searching stare. He seemed to search for words, started and then stopped, and was just on the verge of trying again when Miranda appeared out of the darkness, with – most surprisingly – Abigail Ashe trailing behind her. It was impossible to say what they might have been talking about, but Miranda looked at Flint as if expecting him to wall her out again, waited, and then finally, tentatively sat down next to him. “James,” she said quietly. “Forgive me.”

Flint’s eyes were rather oddly bright in the firelight, though he still made no sound. At last, however, he reached out and took her hand, his rough, ringed fingers closing around her smooth ones, as she let out a breath that seemed to be all the air in the world and let her head sink onto his shoulder. He turned to kiss her hair, and the fire crackled and spat, beautiful traceries of sparks against the soft black sky. As Emma sat across from them, Sam on one side and Killian on the other, for this last night of peace, this distant echo of their happiness from the far shore of such a long, dark sea, on whatever lay after, she simply, and at last, felt herself there, nowhere else, no time else, and breathed, and lived, and was.

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

They left the next morning. Flint’s crew had had two days to get fat and happy on all of Sam’s spoils, and there was a remarkable lack of muttering and grumbling as Killian, Emma, Miranda, and Abigail boarded the Walrus. They would sail to Blackbeard’s last known general vicinity, see if they could find him and the Jolie, and once it was (hopefully) re-acquired, fill him in on the threat and see if he could be induced to blow a few Navy ships out of the water, which for Blackbeard ought to be no trouble at all. This, however, could not include the Windsor, which he had stated his intentions to destroy at their first meeting, in repayment for his unpleasant servitude under Nolan’s predecessor, Captain George King. Sam was to take the Whydah toward Antigua, see if he could catch David up and tip him off, and Lord Archibald was traveling with him, as the word of the Governor of Jamaica would lend considerable weight to charges of Gold’s treachery. Besides, Lord Archibald seemed to have decided that if his lot was now thrown in with pirates, he wanted to stay with the pirate he knew to be a fair, generous, and honorable man, for which of course he could not be faulted. Emma had tried one last time to convince Charlie to come with her, but he had made fast friendships among Sam’s crew and was growing used to life aboard the Whydah, so there he would stay.

As for her and Killian, after they got the Jolie back, they would head home to Nassau and get the lay of the land, while Flint, Miranda, and Abigail continued to Charlestown and whatever reckoning awaited there. Flint seemed to have taken Killian’s advice to be shrewd about it, but whatever else he might intend, he kept it extremely close to the vest. Most of his crew was unaware that anything had changed at all, though it was unclear if this included Silver. Still, as he had just had his leg hacked off and had been unable to get out of his hammock, even he might have his claws dulled for the time being. Emma thought it would be good for him.

She herself was not up to doing much, still recovering from both the physical toll of childbirth and the emotional gauntlet of giving Geneva up. Her body knew that it had had a baby, and could not understand why it was not there, why it had been so completely and unnaturally severed from it. Abigail, still seemingly determined to make herself indispensable, was helping her wash and dress, for which Emma was grateful; as good as Killian’s intentions were, and as much as she counted on him being there, he was still not much help with only one hand. She knew he felt its loss keenly, especially now when she herself needed an extra one, and he was twice as useless. That night as they lay in their bunk, she said quietly, “You’re doing all you can.”

“Am I?” He shifted against her, looking at the low wooden ceiling above. Intimate relations were out of the question for another several weeks at least as she healed, but they still needed to be close to each other, to hold each other, to touch, to find what peace and ease they possibly could. “It doesn’t bloody feel like it, love. Tell you true.”

“You convinced Flint to play Charlestown carefully, and to reunite with Miranda, after you saved him from the mutiny and whipped the Walrus back into shape. You convinced Sam to go find David Nolan and warn him about Gold, when you were the one to work all of that out in the first place. You’re still the pirate captain who won that duel with Blackbeard, whether or not it feels like it, the commander of our fleet. And you. . . with Geneva. . .” Her throat felt thick. “It’s not your fault that Peter Ashe betrayed Flint and Miranda ten years ago. It’s not your fault that we couldn’t get pardons and go away with her. I couldn’t have done that without you.”

“Aye, but you never should have had to.” Killian’s voice was soft, bitter, savage – but not at her, or even at any of their enemies, but at himself. “You never should have had barely a day with our daughter before giving her up, and still have to face what is before us. If this is the future we have, love, then so be it. But it’s never one I wanted to give you.”

“Killian.” Emma turned toward him,  propping her chin on his shoulder. “It’s with you, all right? That’s what truly matters to me. We’re still here, together, alive. And we will find Geneva and Henry again, some day. I do believe that.”

He looked at her for a long moment, eyes tender and tired, as he reached out to stroke a lock of hair out of her face. “Aye, well, lass,” he said at last. “If you think so, then so do I.”

“Yes.” Emma gripped hold of his arm. “Yes, I do. Killian, I – ” She faltered on it, nearly stopped, but this time, would not let herself. Not after everything. “I love you.”

He stared at her in surprise and shy delight, mouth open, with an expression of such pure shock that she almost had to giggle, painful as it was. The silence remained for a few moments longer, until at last, he broke into the softest, most radiant smile she had ever seen on anyone. “I,” he said, stopped, and shook his head, then reached for her, pulling her close. “I love you too, Emma Swan. I do.”

It took a few long days of sailing, as well as vigilant watch for any unfriendly vessels – they had thought they glimpsed a Navy rater in the distance at least once, and did not want to get close enough to make sure – but they reached the rich waters near Hispaniola and Puerto Rico that Blackbeard had announced his intentions to pillage, and where Killian had found him in the first place. It was easier than they expected to pull it off again. With the Queen Anne’s Revenge, with its forty cannons, and the Jolie Rouge, with its sixty, Blackbeard was master of a hundred guns and two very strong pirate ships, and saw no need to hide from anyone, not when he could simply sail out and blast the ever-living bejesus out of them. This was nearly applied to the Walrus, but they were recognized in the nick of time, and signaled to the Revenge to approach for a meeting. Killian’s face on seeing the Jolie again – now battered, painted black, flying the skull and crossbones, and otherwise completely unrecognizable as the former HMS Imperator, but still his, his girl, whom he had likewise thought to never see again – was nearly as bright and beaming as it had been at that moment in the cabin with Emma.

“You,” Blackbeard said, when the captains had appeared on deck and drawn close enough for parley. “Back to beg for your ship, boy? You seemed quite sure you wouldn’t be.”

“I’m here to barter for my ship, yes. And you will address me as Captain, not boy, if you would prefer to keep this simple.”

Blackbeard raised an eyebrow, apparently amused that Killian dared to threaten him, however subtly, to his face – but with the slightest flicker of respect, as he could not fail to remember that Killian had beaten him in the duel on Nassau and ordered him off the attack on Antigua. “Apologies, Captain,” he said, with rather specious gallantry. “But I’ve put your ship to good use, and if you’re taking her back for more mercy missions – ”

“I won’t be, no. There’s a war to be had, against our common enemies, and I mean to help in fighting it.” Killian tilted his chin back and met the older man’s eyes coolly. “You can keep whatever plunder you’ve taken with her, I’m not interested in any cut of the treasure. Or – ”

“There are a whole host of Navy ships in the Caribbean now,” Flint interrupted. “Plenty of new targets. And last time, we stopped you from burning St. John’s, ripping out the heart of Antigua, but that could be changed. Where is Vane, by the way? I don’t see the Ranger here.”

“Charles does as Charles does.” Blackbeard regarded them with a curious, calculating expression. “So – what? In exchange for the Jolie returned, you’d grant me permission to burn Antigua, after you stopped me last time? As if I needed your leave?”

Flint shrugged. “Do you want to sit on your hands here? I doubt it. As I said, the Navy has arrived in force, and will be after the lot of us soon. Taking out St. John’s would rather delay them, don’t you think? Our friend Hook here saw to English Harbor last year, but that was only half the snake. The moment was not right for you on our last visit. Perhaps now it is.”

“Is that what you were planning?” Killian demanded in an undertone. “What you claimed you’d offer Blackbeard, to make him give the ship back? Sacking Antigua?”

Flint shrugged again. “Do you want it or not?”

Killian was quiet, clearly struggling with the idea of agreeing to let St. John’s be burned after all, when he, Sam, and Flint himself had gone to such effort to stop Blackbeard and Vane from doing it the first time. It was true that there was no room for sentiment, that agreeing to spare the city from humanitarian kindness would just result in the Crown being able to more efficiently hunt them down and hang them. If it was now hosting the Navy’s reinforcements, moreover, it had become a legitimate military target, not a slaughter of mostly unarmed civilians. Warning David Nolan about Gold was one way to disrupt the scale of the threat that faced them, but it would be beyond foolish to let it be the only one. Flint was right. Refusing would be idiotic. And if there was one thing Blackbeard was good at, it was causing total red mayhem and terror.

“As you noted,” Flint said, “you don’t need our leave to do anything. If you can sack Antigua, you’ll have earned it. Certainly one way to ensure you are known as the legendary pirate captain who feared nothing and no one. All we ask is Hook’s ship under his own command again.”

Blackbeard considered this, then spat. “And if his men won’t have him? They’ve chosen a new captain, you know. It won’t be as simple as walking back aboard and picking up.”

“New captain?” Killian turned to stare suspiciously at the Jolie, searching the deck. “Who?”

“Me.” A new voice spoke up as a familiar face stepped forth from the madding crowd, doffing his hat with a flourish. “Captain Jack Rackham, at your service.”

“You?” Killian and Flint said at once.

“There’s no need to sound quite so astonished.” Rackham pouted. “The ship found itself without a captain after your departure, Charles was – as my compatriot noted – being Charles, and I decided it was high time to make my own decisions. I’ve wanted a crew of my own for some time, to prove my worth. And indeed, Anne and I have done quite well with the Jolie. We’re willing to take you aboard, but I’m still captain here. I don’t intend to step aside.”

“Look, you smirking wart, that is my ship, and I am – ”

“Not any more, you’re not.” Rackham folded his arms, as Anne appeared from the crowd as well and moved to stand next to him. “You traded it away, fair and square, and I won the election for a replacement, fair and square. I’ve taken us a fine few prizes too, sailing with Captain Thatch. As I said, you can join my crew, but you would be my crew.”

Killian eyed him evilly, as both of them must have been recalling Rackham inveigling for a job when Hook and Emma first arrived on Nassau. The tables were decidedly turned now, which only one of them was in a position to appreciate, but after a moment, Killian surprised everyone by smiling. “Very well. You have indeed won your captaincy fairly, and it would be bad form to deprive you of it by trickery. But what good does it do you if you’re out in the middle of bloody nowhere? It was Nassau you needed to win over, and you would certainly impress them by sailing in as master of such a powerful ship, with so many rich scores to your name. If Vane is there, he’ll know you’re not merely his bumbling ex-quartermaster any more, and I’m sure you have other intrigues to pursue. All you need to do is take us with you.”

Rackham squinted at him, clearly trying to work out the catch in this otherwise signally tempting offer. “What business do you have on Nassau?”

“What business do any of us have on Nassau? It’s our home, and with the Navy now swarming us like maggots on a wound, we would be well served to see that it was defended.”

“And where’s Flint going while we’re doing this?”

“Flint advises you to keep your snout out of matters which don’t concern you.” The captain in question raised a cutting ginger eyebrow. “Hook has made you an offer. Aye or nay?”

Rackham bristled at this cavalier dismissal, but seemed to decide that while he might be new to this whole command lark, he did at least know that picking a fight with Flint was the quickest way to dump himself ignominiously out of it. “Very well,” he said. “Hook and the lovely Miss Swan are, of course, welcome aboard.”

As they were preparing to leave the Walrus, Emma lingered behind to speak to Miranda – who, despite reconciling with Flint, had not yet seemed at all herself again. She had not said anything more about wanting Charlestown to burn after her first furious outburst, but she had also not advocated for sparing it or treating it gently. She had continued to behave politely with Abigail, as she was far too well-bred to do otherwise, and she had known Abigail as a small girl back in London; she clearly refused to heap Lord Peter’s sins onto his innocent daughter’s shoulders. But she seemed more exhausted and heartsick than Emma had ever seen her, the silver streaks in her hair more advanced than they had been that morning on the Maroons’ island, brittle and worn and simply at a loss for how to carry on. She managed a smile for Emma, but her eyes remained drowned, a woman at the bottom of the well. “Safe journey back to Nassau, my dear,” she said. “If you and Killian need lodgings, you are welcome to use my house.”

“Miranda. . .” Emma struggled to find the right words to give her strength and solace, when Miranda had done it so often for her. There always came that strange and unsettling moment when you realized that your parents were not infallible, that they were weak and human and weary too, and she had grown so used to thinking of Miranda as her mother that there was no difference than if she was. She reached out, taking the other woman’s cold hands. “There’s. . . there’s still hope. It won’t be you and me sailing away to live with the children in Boston, but maybe that future isn’t lost forever. Just. . . delayed for a little while. I still need you. We do.”

Miranda looked at her for a long moment, then leaned forward and lightly kissed her forehead. “I am prouder of you than I could ever truly say. Whatever happens, know that.”

Emma wasn’t sure she trusted herself to speak, and nodded again, hugging Miranda hard, as Killian and Flint shook hands with that same weight of solemnity and sincerity, of finally allowing themselves to admit that they had come to rely a great deal on the other, and more than just as fellow captains, but as friends, as family. Flint paused, then cuffed Killian on the shoulder. “Don’t let the weak-chinned wonder be a slippery git to you on your own ship, eh?”

“Aye.” Killian’s mouth quirked. “I’ll miss you too.”

Flint flinched, but didn’t say anything, stepping back to stand beside Miranda, as Killian and Emma made their way to the Jolie. They landed on the deck, a strangeness beyond words coming up to overtake them, at returning here, to the place it had all begun – both as pirates, just the two of them, preparing for the ultimate confrontation and culmination. Killian looked around at his old ship without a word; he could not fail to be thinking of his brother, and how it completely disorienting must have been for Liam to return to the former Imperator as a stranger, no longer its commander and captain, but merely another face among the crowd. Emma couldn’t tell if he was in fact scheming to divest Rackham of his position, or if the need to pull together outweighed such petty grievances. This was it, then. This was it all.

The Walrus, the Jolie, and the Revenge pulled apart, each bound for a different port –Charlestown, Nassau, Antigua – and each on a different purpose. Emma could not possibly imagine how any of these would end, with the stakes so high and so many life-or-death throws of the dice already made. And yet. No matter what happened, she could not fail to be glad that she was here with Killian. That she had stayed. Whither thou goest, I will go.

It was a journey of close to a week northwest to Nassau, though it was late enough in the spring by now that the weather was fair and the trades were blowing hard, which gave them extra speed. They hadn’t been there since January, and it was impossible to say what might await them, if a new captain had risen or if Vane had returned to lord it over the island, what with his rivals having been unwisely absent for so long. He still had plenty of Spanish gold at his disposal, after all, and plenty of ways to buy friends and alliances. With Eleanor Guthrie in the hands of the Navy, and – according to Sam – having changed her allegiance to them, it was furthermore impossible to say how the place might be run or the profits distributed, if they were at all. Vane had many talents, to be sure, but business (and sharing) were not among them.

And yet, when they drew in sight of New Providence five days hence, these were quite the smallest of their concerns. As Emma peered through the spyglass, she felt her heart skip a beat, remembering Merlin’s ominous warning to her on the Maroons’ island. It has already begun, and Nassau will fall. I have seen it. A great fleet of white sails before the harbor, and a wall of burning ships. The man with the scar on his face comes with milk and honey in his mouth, and a poisonous sting in his tail. Your friends will die. Not on Antigua, perhaps, but they will. There is no winning this battle. It is beyond anyone’s strength.

There was, indeed, a great fleet of white sails before the harbor, a half-dozen ships at least. The Union Jack capered above them, snapping in the breeze, and the sunlight glinted on guns and muskets, tiny blue-jacketed figures striding the decks. This, then, was where all the might of the Royal Navy had descended, to come to grips with the scourge of piracy at last. It was now. They were here.

The siege of Nassau had begun.