#blade opens the jars in the household clearly

[narwhalandchill]

the way i kept trying to do 12 with daniel and his gang except tingyun or him just had to go and die every single time over and over again on the first side and i kept thinking about how to clear it better and then in the end the answer? the solution? bench that fruit and call his fucking boyfriend

[lordsireno]

RvB - Skeletons in the closet still have flesh

Pairing: Implied developing Tuckington, mentioned DocNut

Warnings: Blood, Injuries, Illness, slow burn, No ending

Summary: Tucker comes home to find an injured and wanted man hiding in his cupboard, and finds himself unable to turn him in to the authorities. He now has to support the criminal and his half-alien son on his shitty night job, as well as deal with all his acquaintances sticking their noses in. 

((Welcome to my 5000ish word notfic that inspired my almost-human Junior design.  night-inscriber this was a long time coming. Sorry to anyone who doesn’t have a working read more oof ))

He’s running. His entire body is burning, and his mind is screaming at him for running up into an apartment building of all places. Adrenalin is helping him ignore the blood soaking his shirt, or the unusual bend in his leg, or how his left arm dangles at his side. At the next exit the stairs give way to a long hallway, dirty and unsuspecting. He moves down it, stopping when at the end a mirrored set of stairs open up. He takes a moment for a deep breath, and immediately regrets it as the likely several broken ribs halt his lungs. He doubles back, only to see a door numbered ‘609’ wide open, and small child standing in the hallway, pointedly staring at the drops of blood he’d left behind. The kid looks up and grins at him, and he barely has time to do a double take at the amount of sharp, pointed teeth they have before he hears movement in the stairwell.

He ducks into the apartment, finding himself in the living room, one door into a likely bedroom to his left and a kitchen to his right. The child follows him in and closes the door behind them as the thunderous footsteps got louder. There are two doors in the kitchen, so he picks the closest and throws himself inside, landing in a cupboard full of clothes and spare household items. Its spacious enough that he could probably just lay down, and sitting hunkered in the corner his head only just brushes a shelf. The child steps up to the door, so he puts up a finger in a ‘shush’ motion, to which they gleefully return before closing the door.

In the darkness he stifles his breath, trying to disappear. The walls are thin, so he clearly hears a group break off at the stairs and march down the hall. Their armour adds to the weight of their steps, but they’re not loud enough to cover the sound of safeties being switched. The steps de-sync as some stop and some still move. There’s a resounding crack that echoes in the apartment as the front door is kicked open, and the click of a gun being put at the ready.

“Anything Private?”

“Uhh, just some freaky kid eating jam sir!”

There’s further grumbling, before the collection of voices goes quiet. A few more cracks sound out as other doors are kicked, the stomping gets further and further away. What feels like minutes pass as he waits for the sound of their return, but there’s only the creak of the probably broken front door closing, and the soft padding of bare feet back to the cupboard door. When it opens, the blinding light turns the kid into a silhouette, so he squints to focus. The bright aqua eyes become clear first, slit pupils darting about as they look him over. His dark skin and short brown hair contrast against the bright greens he’s dressed in, but he can’t take in more details as the child darts away.

His injuries weight on him, the aches holding him down. He has to keep moving, but giving it a few minutes to let the hunting group move on begins to sound like a nice plan. He didn’t even realise his eyes had closed until the light in the cupboard changed again, and he forces them open. The child holds something out, a handful of gauze.

“…hu, thanks?”

“Blar-h!”

The grin returns, exposing the lines of the child’s lower mandibles and countless pointy teeth. The closest thing he could match it to was the face of a sangheili, but he didn’t care to dwell on why a child looked like that. He pressed the gauze to the holes in his chest, and reasoned for just a few minutes rest before he’d move on.

..........

After a long day at work, the last thing Tucker had wanted to see was a fully armed SWAT team hanging out in front of his apartment building.

Sure, out on the edge of space this shitty colony, built on an equally shitty rock was exactly the palace that attracted the dangerous kind of person. And those dangerous people would get up to the kind of trouble that would require particular force, but why did it have to be by his house.

They don’t try to stop him entering, just giving him a look over as he ignores every other antsy resident and goes directly to his front door. Which, to his gut-wrenching horror, is slightly ajar and barely on its hinges.

“Junior?”

Everything is quiet. He can’t help but reach for the knife on the back of his belt.

“Junior, kiddo?”

The door shifts awkwardly as he pushes in, and the first thing his eyes fall on are the red drops on the carpet-

“Junior?! Answer me buddy.”

“Grah!”

He relaxes as he spots his son, charging him arms outstretched, jam still in hand and all over his face.

“Geesus don’t scare me like that. What happened to the door? And what’s all this mess?”

He grabs Junior around the waist before the boy’s sticky fingers could get to him.

“Really? What have I said about eating from the jar?”

With a sigh he carried Junior into the kitchen, sitting him down by the skin and prying the jar out of his hands. Dampening a cloth, he begins rubbing away the mess from the small, four fingered hands. Then he feels metal against his neck.

“Don’t move.” A hand fumbles for the knife on his belt, freeing it after a few seconds. “Is this the only weapon on you?”

“And people call me out for being too handsy.”

The knife pressed harder.

“I’ve bled through the bandages your kid gave me. Where do you keep more?”

“Bathroom.” Tucker jerked his head back towards the closest door, thankful to pull away from the blade at the same time, “That door behind us.”

The person behind him is close. Close enough he can hear laboured breaths, the warmth blowing past the top of his head. For the longest moment, no one moves.

“Uh, you want me to grab it?”

“No. Just, don’t move.”

The knife and body behind him pull away. Tucker can’t help but glance over his shoulder at the stranger in his house. The man was clearly a head taller than himself, even as he hobbled towards the bathroom. Blond and grey hair was cropped military style, and his skin was littered in scars which made channels for the blood to travel as it dripped from his wounds. Despite the amount of blood which he’d clearly lost, the look in the man’s eyes was still one that showed he was ready to fight. He stepped carefully into the bathroom, still eyeing Tucker cautiously the entire time.  

With a small sigh, Tucker returned to cleaning the jam from Junior, having accepted that so long as the mas wasn’t trying to kill either of them, he could live with some criminal stealing his first-aid. Junior himself seem whole unfazed by the situation, humming softly as he looked around the room.

“You’re a lil trouble magnet, aren’t ya?”

“Grh?” The boy tilted his head.

“Cute eyes won’t save you. Don’t take in strangers, it’s a bad habit to pick up.”

As he moved to wash his own hands, the bloodied man re-emerged from the bathroom, bandaids and bandages covering any open wounds.

...............

-Tucker quickly finishes cleaning Junior. When Wash exits the bathroom, he’s clearly having trouble breathing and asks for a moment, falling to his hands and knees (junior licks a cut on his head, Tucker berates him licking strange blood), eventually he managed to drag himself away. Tucker laments about having to clean the blood.

-Tucker hears the SWAT return from his window, and against his better judgement, he goes and finds the man slumped in the stairwell. He drags him back to the cupboard.

-The SWAT come to his apartment, questioning. He’s cleaned most of the blood, and they thankfully don’t go hunting through all of the rooms. They show him a picture of the suspect, and hand a phone number to report to. He does his best to show no recognition of the picture even if the version he’d seen was covered in blood and bruises.

-Once he regains consciousness, Tucker asks the man what he did, seeing how he was in no shape to fight, but Wash just says he knows things they don’t want him leaking. He wanted to get to a trusted source so the info could get to the correct authorities. Seeing the amount of blood loss, Tucker guesses the man won’t last the night. He moves away, and Junior gets in close, licking the larger chest wound. The man is kinda terrified of the half alien, but suddenly sees the wound clot. Tucker returns and offers aspirin or alcohol for the pain, then berates Junior for licking the stranger again. He leaves the two items with the man and moves off.

-He goes downstairs only to find the building in lock down as they hunt the suspect. He complains about what he’ll feed his kid, and they throw him two rations.

-He returns and watches the man from the corner of his eye, seeing as he’s teetering on the edge of consciousness. He ends up sharing the last of his food with the man after Junior tries poking some at him.

-The lock down lasts for most of the day, so he has to call into work just in case he can’t leave. He checks on the man every few hours, and is honesty surprised he isn’t dead from blood loss. He sits and tries to get a bit more information from him, but all he says is that his ribs are probably broken and he’s struggling to breath. Tucker knows there’s no way to get him to doctor, and he doesn’t have the money for a home visit.

-Tucker leaves for work in the evening once lock down is over. He leaves a glass of water and reluctantly puts Junior in charge of watching the house, to which the child trills.

-At work he meets Donut, who says that the lock down was because of a crazy ex-military guy on the run. When Tucker questions the crazy part, apparently the guy escaped from a mental institution on the far side of town. Dread sets in at the information, only soothed by how immobile the guy was. Then he asks about Donuts boyfriend, who was nicknamed Doc. Donut doesn’t know exactly how much medical training he finished but he knows some things. Tucker says he’s got a case who can’t leave the apartment. Donut says he’ll bring him over, and even bake something for him and Junior, questioning what the kid eats.

-When Tucker gets home, Junior is asleep outside the cupboard, a defence line of toys set up. Tucker puts him to bed. Then he checks on the man.

….

“He was adamant he had to guard me.”

“Is that so? When did you learn the growl language?” The man’s face twisted with some amusement. Tucker lent on the door frame, staring down at the man. “Listen, an acquaintance knows a guy who might have some medical know how, but before he gets here, I need to ask you something.”

“Mmh?”

“They’re saying you escaped from the loonybin.”

“Oh, so they choose to disclose that.”

“So it’s true?”

His face distorted, either from the conversation or how he tried to readjust himself.

“It’s a long story.”

“Well I’m not going anywhere, and you’re certainly not going anywhere.”

His chest shuddered as he tried to take a full breath.

“Well?”

“I’m not going to fly off the rails and attack you if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“That’s part of it…”

The conversation didn’t continue, and the man’s face warped in further discomfort, his breaths rapid and shallow. With a sigh. Tucker closed the door, wedged a chair in front of it, and went to bed for a few hours rest.

 .............

-Tucker wakes up to an eager Junior and a text from Dount saying they’d be around soon. He makes breakfast and ignore the jammed door. When Dount arrives he scoops up Junior, and Doc from over his shoulder makes a curious remark about the alien hybrid. Tucker ushers them inside and Dount brings out the banana bread.

-When Doc questions about the patient, Tucker makes them swear not to overreact or freak out, all while moving the chair to block the front door. He opens the cupboard and the two look in, Doc being mortified at the sight. Dount guesses that it’s the guy the authorities have been hunting, and Tucker admits to that.

“Why haven’t you turned him in?”

“I’ve been avoiding asking myself that.”

-He forces Doc to check him over, else he’ll lock him in there too. Tucker and Dount chat in the meanwhile.

-Eventually Doc moves away, looking quite shaken, and says he’s got a prognosis. Broken ribs, extreme blood loss, bruising and swelling (and possibly breaks/fractures) to the right forearm, left knee, collar bone and face. Even if he gets his strength back, nothing will heal right without a trip to the hospital. Which Tucker reiterates he can’t afford, nor would bringing in a criminal do any good. Doc asks why he hasn’t turned him over to the authorities. He looks to the phone number, then back to the broken man in the cupboard, who squints out at him from a black eye that’s gotten darker.

“Again, what can we do for him? No hospitals.”

Doc sighed, “Uh, well we can splint the possible breaks, use ice to bring the swelling down, and make sure he eats and drinks. Rest will be best cure and the way to keep his pain down.”

“We’ll do that then. I’ll go find something for splints.”

Tucker moved away. Donut just gave a small shrug and turned to Junior, looking to entertain the child away from the possible criminal. Doc frowned, reluctantly moving back to the closet.

“Now before I give you anything, I need to ask if you’re allergic -”

Suddenly there’s a knife near his neck, and despite being held in the swollen hand it was barely shaking.

“Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to cut me open and get this shrapnel out of me.”

“I’m what?!”

Doc froze, terror surging through him. He didn’t doubt the injured man could kill him on the spot, and the fact he was asking him to perform surgery, in a cupboard, was not and more reassuring.

“I doubt the other three want to see harm to you, or that you want to watch me hurt the others.”

“I really don’t, but what you’re asking-“

The knife pressed harder.

“Alright alright uh…”

Doc moved his large first aid kit closer, twisting to look through it once the knife was removed. This was beyond anything he’d ever tried, but with a threat against himself, Donut, Junior and the idiot who was sheltering the criminal, he felt he only had one choice.

“I’d suggest biting down on this. And please try not to stab me while I’m working.”

He passed him a roll of bandage, which he took and placed in his mouth, before bracing himself. Doc slipped on the latex gloves and fished out the long tweezers and scissors, eyeing the sharpness of the latter. Scalpels were not a staple of kits, but he wasn’t too sure scissors would do the same job. He eye’d the knife still in the man’s hand.

“…You don’t happen to have a clean one of those?”

He got a look back of ‘Seriously?’, but after a moment he did pull out another from beside himself, perfectly clean with a bright aqua handle. Doc nervously took the knife but masked the shaking of his hand by moving swiftly to the wound. The shirt he’d been wearing was damaged, so he cut it away to expose his whole chest. There were a few clear entry wounds, and a few spots that were too covered in blood to clearly tell. Doc took a deep breath and got to work.

...............

-Donut notices the pained noises from the closet and leans in to help, a bit freaked out and confused, but understanding. As he plucks the twisted metal out the man passes out. Donut has to thread the needle as Doc is shaking, more blood leaking out again.

Tucker is mortified at the sight, then pissed that the man threatened Doc, and then worried about all that blood again. They splint what that can and leave him be. Donut says he really needs to think about what he’s doing with the criminal. He and Doc leave, and Tucker spends the rest of the day wondering.

Two nights later the man manages to drag himself out to the bathroom and changes his bandages.

Finding the man properly awake the next day, Tucker asks for recompense. He’s quiet for a moment, before saying that once he can move, he can play guard dog, protecting him and his son, as well as looking after the house. Once he’s able to leave and find his contact he says he can offer monetary repayment. Tucker stares at him, knowing he could get that from the bounty. But something stops him so he nods.

Things don’t improve as the man’s condition suddenly goes downhill. He shows symptoms of phenomena, and Tucker is now digging further into him life savings to try get him some antibiotics. During the haze of this time Tucker learns some more about the man, mostly through delirious muttering and trying to stop him for screaming. He hears the man call himself Washington, but then catches the name David as well. Other people are mentioned, and some are screamed for, but out of it all Tucker is more confused about the whole situation.

Miraculously Wash takes a turn for the better, and even starts breathing better.

Time continues, until Tucker is approached at work.

“Hey, your place is on the north side, right?”

He laments how ex-military types seem to drift towards each other in this colony, but it is a good place to just disappear. He thinks how even ignoring the man’s size, he doesn’t know how Grif lasted even one day in the military. Turns out he’s asking because there’s some work out north, but he wanted a place to crash that was closer.

“And let you anywhere near my fridge? Yeah right.”

“Oh ha ha.”

He actually offers to pay to stay, since the job should pay well. Tucker is torn since money is tight while feeding an extra mouth and buying bandages and painkillers.

“How long?”

“A few days a week, but it’d just be to sleep. I’ll be outa your hair any other time.”

He agrees. The first night he shows up its fine, he tells him to keep quiet not to wake Junior, shows him the bathroom, and tells him not to go in the cupboard else he be buried in trash. Grif says he can relate.

The second night is fine too, and Grif is out like a light and leaves as soon as his alarm goes off. The third night comes around, but Grif is restless. Tucker is on night shift and Junior is growling in his sleep. He gets up and cheekily checks the fridge, feeling rather sorry at the small selection. As he resigns himself to just lie, he spies light from the closed bathroom. He holds as still as he can, listening. It’s all quiet, and he wonders if he just left it on. He holds for a few more seconds, before the bedroom door opens and Junior emerges. He trudges into the kitchen and makes a demanding grunt. After a lot of grumbling Grif correctly fetches a cup for water with a straw, the they both return to bed. The next day Tucker notices the Wash use the bathroom during the day. And he suggests a lock on the fridge. “I fucking knew that fat-ass would go looking.” Tuckers secret guest stays hidden for the time being.

-While on shift, Grif realises his wallet is gone, which contains his ID and legal papers. Unable to skimp on work again, he asks Simmons to go fetch it, because it’s still probably under the couch pillow at Tuckers. Having managed to drag himself to said couch, Wash entertains Junior while Tucker is out. He hears someone approaching, their steps uneven as there’s more weight to one side. Going on alert he puts himself next to the door with Junior. The person stops, knocks and calls out, and then just opens the door whispering ‘wallet’. Wash puts a knife to his neck the moment he steps in and Simmons freezes, arms raised.

“Ohshitohgeezpleasedonthurtme!”

The knife is a steady weight, but shifts slightly.

“It’s quite rude to just burst into someone’s home. What are you doing here?”

“G-Grif sent me. H-he left his wallet.” A finger cautiously points to the couch.

“Grif. Figures.”

“You know- OW.”

Momentarily forgetting the knife, Simmons looked down to find the strange child who kicked him in the shin.

“That’s was uncalled for you little bastard.”

“Thanks for the support Junior. Now are we going to have a problem here?”

Simmons turned his head fully, catching a look at the man.

“Who are you?”

“That’s on a need to know basis. And you really don’t need to know.”

“Wait, you’re not that crazy ex-merc that the military is after, are you? Dount said something about him being around here.”

“Junior, remind me to kill the guy in pink next time I see him.”

“Blarg!”

“Kill?!”

“I’m in every mind just to kill you as well. Though I don’t want to cause Tucker any more problems…”

“I won’t say anything I swear! Nothing at all! I came in, got the wallet, and left!”

Wash stares him down, then narrows his eyes, putting the knife up to the left side of Simmons face, almost in his eye.

“Who stores your optical data?”

“You can tell?”

“Who?”

“Th-The UNSC provided the hardware, but my boss Sarge handles the software and upgrades. All his own development, stored locally and wiped daily.”

(AFTER HERE WE ENTER IDEA LAND. NOT ENDING WE SUFFER LIKE REAL FIC WRITERS.)

Wash notices Tucker is injured, and skipping meals and how Junior hardly gets time with his dad, and the guilt sets in. He didn’t ask to be sheltered and cared for, but he had been imposing for quite some weeks.

The next time Donut visits he says he’s going to turn himself in, but he wants someone to claim the bounty and give it to Tucker. Donut berates him, asking why he thinks Tucker didn’t turn him in in the first place. Wash can’t answer, so Donut says hes caused the trouble so he needs to pay for it. Find a way to pay him back.

.......

(Plot thread A - The Church AI)

Wash is in the Bathroom when he hears two sets of heavy and fast footsteps, and as always he goes on high alert, until the door slams open and someone shouts “Hey looser!” to which Tucker shouts back “Oh for fucks sake, it’s headache 1 and headache 2. Can’t I just have one relaxing day to myself?”.

The strangers must be 'friends’ as someone starts talking about 'stupid tucker’ and saying how he looked like shit. Wash peered out to get a look, only to freeze at the hauntingly familiar face of one of the intruders. He loses his footing, the thump startling the guests. When they ask what that was, Tucker says it’s a guest who’s been renting his couch, and that he better check on them. Inside he finds Wash pale and wide eyed. He asks what’s wrong, and Wash asks back how he knows those people. “What, Church and Caboose? We were in the same squad for a while. Why, you know them?”

He knows Church, Leonard Church. Technically, he knows several Church’s, but he’s uncomfortable at the sight of this one. Against better judgement he exits the bathroom and marches right up to Church, staring him down. Church comments on the type of weirdos Tucker is letting in his house. Wash stares hard and realises the man in front of him is synthetic, fake in the same way Simmons left side was. And when he doesn’t show to recognise him, he asks;

“Which one are you?”

“Which what? Tucker who the hell is this cryptic bastard?”

Tucker tries to pull him away.

“Does the word Alpha mean anything to you?”

“Uh, I was stations at Blood Gulch outpost Alpha when I met these two idiots.”

….....

(Plot thread B - The military’s interest in Junior)

-Tucker gets a letter in the mail, and immediately sours at the sight of the UNSC stamp. Wash asks if it’s another bill, and Tucker jokes he’d rather it be. It is a reminder of Juniors 6 monthly check up, to monitor the growth of the unique hybrid. Junior growls at the mention.

“Yeah, I know you hate it too.”

Wash is wary that the UNSC is keeping tabs on Tucker, but when he tries to press the why it’s clear he doesn’t feel comfortable talking about it. The trip and testing take a whole day, and near the end Junior has fallen asleep in Tuckers arms. The doctor comes along and says the blood results have come in, and the higher office wants to try some hormone injections to try even out Juniors growth. Experimental of course and done over several days. Tucker refuses, saying they’re both tired and if Junior isn’t in immediate danger then he doesn’t want to do more harm. The doctor stares him down, but eventually relents. It’s late when he returns, so he puts Junior to bed and goes hunting for food.

“How’d it go?”

He has a small laugh at Wash being in the closet again.

“What, it’s comforting.” Tucker makes him scoot and they both sit together.

-Then it’s finally Wash’s turn to ask why Tucker never turned him in, Tucker admits it’s not quite clear. However, what he does know is that when he first saw him, he related to him. Scared for his life, up against the military, but still fighting to live on. It was how he felt when the military started treating him and Junior as experiments. He says he was offered a job as an ambassador, the cliche 'sire of a hybrid to bridge peace and understanding’. He ran from it in fear they’d both just be used as puppets in military and political affairs. But now he wonders if it would have been better, to live in comfort and shelter, a proper education for Junior and connection to his alien heritage.

(That was a cute end point, but never enough self indulgence)

-Wash’s paranoid nature is a God send at times. He starts noticing regular and unusual foot steps, often before or after Tucker leaves, until one day they are way too close for comfort. One set stops at what are the stairs down, and the other lighter set comes right up to the door. Wash hides Junior in the cupboard and puts himself behind the couch. The mystery person knocks, waits, and then enters. Peering out the man doesn’t look at big of a threat, save for the gun, knives and arrogance in his stance. He mumbles something about a 'brat’, so it’s clear he’s after Junior. Wash watches him as he surveys the room, then checks the bedroom. He’s in two minds of trying to fight the man, who likely has backup outside, or to run. The main window is in the kitchen and is thankfully on a fire escape, but is locked and would have to be broken. He justifies Juniors protection over the window cost. While the man rifles through the bedroom, grumbling, he moves as stealthy as possible to fetch Junior, quietly opening the door, kneeling and lifting his slinged arm up, Junior getting the idea to climb up onto his chest. The man exits the bedroom just as he adjust Junior, so Wash pivots, throws a chair and dives out the window. He jumps to the external ladder and aims to get out as fast as possible. The intruder swears and shouts for his partner. His leg is still stiff from disuse, and with only one arm he teeters one to many times for Juniors comfort. When he hits the ground, he spares a moment to look up, and sees the intruder following down, before a sniper shot gets much to close for comfort.

(Plot thread C - Wash tries to get his information out)

-Finally able to move, Wash goes hunting for a contact. He knows most probably went underground while he was being hunted but goes to find one locally now the heat is off. Unfortunately he finds Maine, and while Wash thinks it’s great to see an old friend, he doesn’t know the man is back under the projects thumb.

-At a similar time, Tucker overhears two guys at the bar mention Wash. When it seems to be friendly in nature, he pokes his nose in. York and North are over the moons to hear about their old friend.

(You thought the whump was over? Think again me!)

Wash is sorely outmatched by Maine, who knocks him unconscious and takes him back to the project. Tucker can’t wait to tell him that he found his old contacts but Wash never returns home. He calls up York and North in concern, and the two say they’ll look into it.

After more silence, they come back with bad news. This is something serious, so just forget about it (And why are you so worked up? What was he to you?)

(WHAM BAM HIT ME WITH THAT TIME LONGING TIME)

A few years later, when news of a mystery hunter stalking old Freelancer ties, things get busy on the little old planet again.

-Tucker convinces the Reds to rig him a ship so he can go out hunting.

-After those years Junior isn’t with him anymore? Either due to medical reasons or Tucker falling for the ‘better life options��

(Or pussy out and give them a happy ending before the time leap) (BUT NOT WITHOUT MORE DRAMA)

Where Tucker goes and saves Wash himself but gets help from everyone along the way. The mercenaries come back and get a hold of Junior, but Junior gives them the slip when they come up against Maine. Junior latches onto Maine, who doesn’t really know what to do, so he brings him back. The Councillor is suitably confused at the new addition. So guess who the little half-human finds partly brain-washed?

[snidgetsafan]

Whom the Gods Love Die Young

Rating: G (for the moment)

Summary: The bride bit into the shiny red apple as everyone cheered around her, the wedding ceremony ending with this ritual gesture. The clapping and hurrahs soon turned to screams of horror as Snow dropped the apple, choking and clutching her throat as she fell in her groom’s arms, a last I love you leaving her lips before she died, David’s screams the loudest of all.

David and Emma travel to the Underworld to claim back Snow after her untimely death. In order to do so, they're going to have to face the dark and mysterious God of the Underworld and complete his challenges.

Seems simple enough until you add magic, divine quarrels, and the worst thing of all: feelings.

Notes: And here it is! The first chapter of my @cssns​! Thanks to the lovely ladies who organized this second edition! I took inspiration from both the Hades/Persephone and Orpheus/Eurydice myths, which I hope you’ll enjoy. I’d like to thank @shireness-says​ for betaing for me (at such short notice too!) and for cheering me one. Thanks darling, you’re a gem! I’d also like to thank @distant-rose​, who helped me with the mythological aspect of my fic when I was plotting it. She is a font of knowledge, people! All mistakes are mine, however. I’d also like to thank all the lovely ladies at the CSSNS Discord, who helped me when I needed it, and who always encouraged me when I needed it. Love you guys! And last but not least, I’d like to thank @tennant-the-tigger​ for the fantastic art she made for this fic, and which you can see at the top of this post. Thank you so, so much! (Go give her some love!)

Word count: 3.6k (on AO3)

The bride bit into the shiny red apple as everyone cheered around her, the wedding ceremony ending with this ritual gesture. The clapping and hurrahs soon turned to screams of horror as Snow dropped the apple, choking and clutching her throat as she fell in her groom’s arms, a last I love you leaving her lips before she died, David’s screams the loudest of all.

Emma’s eyes follow David as he paces back and forth in the dark room, not unlike a lion in its cage. They’d been asked (well, asked was not quite the right word; almost physically pushed in would be more accurate) to stay in this waiting room until the King of the Underworld could receive them, but Emma isn’t fooled. There are no windows in the room – probably because they’re deep under the hill the palace is built against – and Emma is pretty sure at least one person is standing on the other side of the only door. They’ve managed to travel to the realm of the dead quite easily, but Emma fears it will take a lot more to get out.

It had been surprisingly easy to get this far. After David had convinced her to accompany him on his mad trip to reclaim his murdered bride, Emma had sought the counsel of Elsa, Hecate’s High Priestess and Emma’s mentor within the temple. Prayers to the goddess had resulted in the appearance of two golden boughs on the altar, which the young priestess understood to be Hecate’s blessing.

(The strange dreams which plagued her that night must have been another gift - visions of boats, three sets of glowing eyes in the dark, pomegranates, and whispers of a word. She has no idea what "Killian” means, but she feels that it's essential to their quest.)

The legends about the whereabouts of the entrance to the Underworld were surprisingly accurate, and showing the golden boughs had allowed them to cross the Styx on Charon’s boat. The sedative-laced meat that David had brought took care of the three-headed hound guarding the gates of Hades (hadn’t that been a frightening explanation for the glowing eyes), and they had soon arrived at the doors of the dark palace.

But that’s where it had gotten more complicated. The guards they had come upon apparently weren’t used to having to deal with living people, as David had barely been able to explain why they were there before they had been shoved into this room, were they had been waiting for what felt like hours, leading to David’s pacing. Emma, for her part, was trying to keep a calm façade in case they were being watched (they were, she just knew it, could feel eyes on her, had been able to since they had stepped into the Underworld).

Waiting for such a length of time is not beneficial to Emma’s nerves. Ever since Snow’s death, David – and Emma by extension – hadn’t stopped moving and acting. Emma knows that for her brother, this is a way to avoid confronting the memory of his bride ( wife , she can hear David’s voice insist in her mind) dying in his arms during their wedding ceremony. Grooms traditionally give an apple to their bride to symbolize their ability to provide for their future household, and the bride’s eating of the apple signifies her acceptance of her husband, the final act of the wedding ceremony (well, before the very last act of consummation of course, but that was not something done in public, nor something Emma wants to think about in relation with her brother. Ever). Except that this time, the apple had been poisoned by Snow’s witch of a stepmother in an unthinkable desecration of the wedding ritual and a blasphemy against Hera, and only a single bite had been enough to kill Snow in mere seconds.

The witch had been immediately smote, her heart giving out even before Snow had taken her last breath. Her corpse had been found on the steps of Eris’ temple, where she had probably been trying to seek refuge. Seems like not even the goddess of revenge can protect you from Hera’s wrath. She’d probably gotten a straight ticket to Tartarus, Emma thinks grimly.

Good riddance.

But David hadn’t let misery take hold of him, and had instead gone straight into anger, arguing that Snow should have been protected by the goddess of marriage during her own wedding, that it wasn’t fair, and that the gods help him (or not, Emma couldn’t help but think), he was going to find his wife and bring her back. Emma had followed him, mostly so he wouldn’t end up dead too, but also because Snow was her friend. She could still see her collapse into David’s arms every time she closed her eyes.

The young priestess’ thoughts are interrupted by the door opening and a mousy little man wearing a red Phrygian hat comes in, looking surprisingly… ordinary. David stops pacing too, coming to stand next to his sister as they watch the man approach them, followed by a tall helmed guard.

“Good evening, Emma and David, my name is Smee. I was told you’d like to speak to his Highness?” the little man says, looking at them expectantly.

Emma blinks, jarred. The man – Smee – looks so out of place, with his colorful hat and affable manners, stepping into this dark stone room in the heart of a hill which is itself in the heart of the Underworld. The siblings have both been gearing themselves to meet with opposition and hostility, not… politeness.

“Er,” she says eloquently, looking at David, who looks as flabbergasted as she feels.

“This way?” Smee continues as if nothing is amiss, gesturing towards the door before exiting into the hall.

David leads the way out of the door, before slowing down to let Emma step up beside him as they walk down the corridor, sandwiched between Smee and the guard. David steps closer to her, allowing the folds of their chitons to conceal the frantic way he grabs Emma’s hand, the strength of his grip betraying his anxiety at the meeting to come. Emma doesn’t mind, as she’s grabbing onto her brother’s hand as tightly as he is, although perhaps not for the same reasons. David’s only goal is to get Snow back; he isn’t thinking about anything else. Emma can see the bigger picture, and that bigger picture is that they’re going to be face to face with the freaking God of the Dead .

Very little is known about the God of the Underworld. Emma knows he is the brother of Liam, God of the Seas and of Arthur, God of Thunder and King of Mount Olympus, that he was given the Realm of the Dead to govern, and that he rarely leaves his kingdom. So little is known about him that mortals don’t even know his name, forcing them to use one of several monikers when referring to him such as King of the Underworld, Lord of the Dead, or even simply Hades, as if the god were equal to the realm he rules. Despite all these names, the god is rarely mentioned in the mortal world. His very role of Agesander , the soul carrier, makes him the most terrifying figure in the Pantheon to most people.

Emma can still feel eyes on her, even more intensely than before. Her shoulder blades itch from the uncanny sensation of being watched, but she refrains from squirming, not wanting to show any discomfort to their escorts. She has to stay strong, she repeats to herself as a mantra. David’s sanity and Snow’s life (and their own, too, she guesses) are at stake here.

What feels like hours later, but is probably only minutes (five flights of stairs, though; she had no idea coming to the Underworld would be so physical), they arrive in another, more airy part of the palace. There are actually windows here, and she can feel a breeze ruffling her hair and the edges of her clothes. While made of dark stone, the palace didn’t seem as gloomy as she had expected, Emma notes with some surprise. Light streams into the halls, making the floors gleam, and a glimpse out of the window affords her a view of what seems to be an orchard and rolling fields beyond that.

Soon after they enter the hall, their guides stop in front of two massive basalt doors. The portal opens soundlessly in front of them, revealing a grand throne room beyond. Smee and the guard in front step in, heading towards the throne at the other end of the room, and David and Emma follow, taking a deep breath to center themselves.

A man – no, a god – sits on a high-backed throne on a grand dais, seemingly bored, if his slumped position can be believed. His lavish black clothes and spiky crown clearly designate him as the ruler of this place yet something feels… odd. Emma frowns but says nothing as she approaches with David. After all, it’s not like she has anything to compare the situation with. While becoming a priestess of Hecate has afforded her easier contact with her goddess, she hasn’t met her. Not even Elsa has had that privilege, and she is the High Priestess of their temple. Still… this doesn’t feel right .

“So, you dare trespass on my kingdom?” the god’s voice booms in the cavernous hall as soon as they are in speaking distance.

David steps forward, dropping on one knee at the foot of the dais and bowing his head in deference, Emma demurely following his lead.

“We’re sorry, my Lord,” David begins, his eyes still lowered to the floor. “I merely wished for an audience to beg a request of you.”

“A favor, eh? I have temples for that, why didn’t you use the traditional method?”

“Because you must get these kinds of prayers every day, and I wanted to be sure you’d listen to mine. My bride – my wife was killed during our wedding, and I’m here to beg you to let her come back home.”

“You’re right, I do get prayers every day. What gives you the idea that you are any different from all of these people?”

Emma frowns as David tries to justify his plea. Hecate has gifted her with the ability to detect lies, and that is what she feels coming from the god right now. Can her power even work on a deity? Is it a blasphemy to even presume it can? And yet… something’ s not right. Keeping her eyes downcast, Emma nonetheless focuses all her senses on what the seated god is saying. The feeling doesn’t go away; on the contrary, it amplifies as he goes on. What’s going on?

“Please, my Lord,” David is pleading, desperate to sway the being in front of him. “I’d do anything to get her back.”

“I can’t give you your bride back,” the god says. True . “Can you imagine what would happen if people heard that the Lord of Hades lets people go? The kingdom would be swamped with people wanting their lovers, children, or evencats back.”

Emma decides to intervene, seeing her brother flounder in his desperation, and wanting to test a theory.

“The only way we were able to get to you, your Highness, was because Hecate helped us. I feel that if she deigned to assist us, it’s because she feels our quest is justified.”

“Help from Hecate?” the god asks suddenly, straightening on his throne, a move echoed by Smee and the guard still standing behind Emma. “What are you talking about, mortal?”

“The goddess gifted us with these boughs to pay the ferryman,” Emma answers, prompting David to open his satchel to show the glimmering branches. “And she gave me… instructions,” she finishes a little lamely, not knowing how to explain her dreams.

The god is silent, gazing over Emma’s shoulder, seemingly lost in his thoughts. Emma watches him, waiting for his decision.

Which is not the one she hoped for.

“Nonetheless,” he says, slouching back onto his throne, “a death is a death. I might be the Lord of the Underworld, but there are certain lengths I won’t go to, and this is one of them.”

Lie . A big, fat, blaring lie that sets all of Emma’s senses aflame as she takes a surprised breath.

“No, you’re not,” she blurts out, staring at him incredulously now. What’s going on? Who is this man – no, not a man, divinity definitely oozes from him, he is a god… but not the god of this place.

“What did you just say.” the god rumbles, David’s hissed “ Emma!” drowned by the sound echoing all around them. Everything is still in the room – deathly so, she thinks a little hysterically as she realizes she has become the center of attention. The stares from the men in the room, as well as the invisible eyes which have been following her every move, weigh on her like so many lead weights. And yet…

“You may be a God, my Lord, but you are not the ruler of this place,” she repeats a little more assuredly, ignoring David’s attempts to shush her. The more she thinks about it, the more Emma’s sure of herself. And the angrier she grows. They’re here to beg for Snow’s life; David is slowly going mad with pain, she’s grieving for her friend as well, and these gods (because the Lord Hades has to be part of this masquerade, he has to) are playing games with them.

“Quite presumptuous of you to make such a claim.”

“I know when someone is lying. And you are,” Emma answers calmly, knowing there’s a chance those could be her last words.

“You have some gall, mortal. I like it. Well, this was fun while it lasted,” the god says as he rises, his solemn demeanor dissolving into nonchalance as he descends from the dais, walking towards them. “They’re all yours, pal, have fun with them,” he says as he passes them without stopping, clapping the guard behind Emma on the shoulder before sauntering out of the room.

Emma and David turn as one man towards the guard, both having the same thought. Had the actual God of the Underworld been with them the whole time? How had they not noticed ? Because now that they look at him, the same powerful aura that had emanated from the pseudo-Hades also seeps from the guard’s skin, clearly betraying his divine nature.

The guard sighs, looking to the ceiling, before he unclasps his helmet and takes it off, looking at the siblings exasperatedly. Stepping in front of them, he throws the helmet to Smee before crossing his arms, his clothes changing right in front of their eyes from a soldier’s garb to a black himation revealing one of his strong shoulders as well as part of his chest.

“Cat’s out of the bag, then.”

Emma tries to keep her cool. It would serve no purpose at all for her to berate a god.

David has no such qualms, however, his temper getting the best of him. “You… you mean all of this was just a joke? Who was that?”

“That, as you so eloquently put it, mortal, was Hermes, messenger of the gods. Before you put voice to the thoughts I can so clearly see on your face, may I remind you that he is my nephew, and you are in my domain?”

David swallows nervously before chancing a look at Emma, who surreptitiously nods. All true, even the threat. Especially the threat. Hermes had been all talk; his uncle will not hesitate to put action to word.

“No, your Highness,” David mutters apologetically.

“Good. Now, let’s be quick about this: I cannot help you on your quest. Your fiancée has died, and dead she shall remain.”

David’s face crumples as he hears the god deal his judgement in such a final tone, before he steels himself once more, straightening his spine and raising his head.

“But it’s not fair! She was killed during our wedding ceremony! She should have been protected by Hera!”

At this, the god perks up, looking more closely at David. “Your fiancée is Snow Leukḗ?”

“Yes!” David exclaims, his hope renewing at the god’s recognition. “You’ve heard of her?”

“I’ve heard of her killer,” the god corrects, sneaking a glance at Emma. “It’s not often we get new guests in Tartarus.”

So Regina had been sent to Tartarus to endure eternal torment, then. Emma doesn’t feel as satisfied as she had been earlier, but she can’t feel any pity for the woman either. She had gotten what was coming to her. Taking a look at her brother, Emma is surprised not to see a smile on his face at the news. The gods know he had ranted and raved about what he’d do to Regina since Snow had died and they had embarked on their quest, but now that he knows she’s suffering far worse than anything he could have come up with, he just looks… grimly resigned. Which shouldn’t really surprise Emma anyway; her brother is a just and fair man who would never do ill on any other soul, despite his words.

“So you agree that Snow’s death was unfair, then?” David tries to press his advantage.

“My role is to care for dead souls, not to pass judgement on their lives or deaths,” the god answers shortly, clearly growing tired of this conversation. “Now, I’ll kindly ask you to leave my kingdom, unless you want to be made permanent residents of it sooner than you expected.”

David isn’t budging. “But, the goddess Hecate – “

“Hecate gave you two trinkets and a dream and what, I should indulge your desires? You think you’re the only one who’s ever gotten a god’s favor to come down here? Orpheus did, and Orpheus failed. This is my kingdom, my realm, and I will rule it as I see fit, whether or not it pleases you, your sister, or bloody Hecate!” the god shouts in anger, getting closer and closer to David until their noses are practically touching.

Emma watches all of this, thinking furiously. When put in this light, Hecate’s gifts did help them get here, but now if looks like they’re on their own. Are they, though? Every step of their quest, every difficulty had been thwarted by a hint or a boon from the goddess. Why not this one too? Emma thinks about her dream. She doesn’t see how pomegranates could help her in this situation, which leaves her with…

“Killian,” she says, looking up at the god, who freezes as soon as the three syllables pass her lips before whirling to look at her, completely ignoring David and an agape Smee.

“What did you just say?” he growls, stalking towards her, his blue eyes flashing.

This is the first time she has the full attention of the god, and it is… intense. It feels like being under a hundred gazes at the same time, watching her from all angles. Actually, she has felt like that several times since arriving in the Underworld, even though the feeling hadn’t been that strong then. Was that the god’s eyes she had felt? Had he been watching them since the gates? If he had known about them, then why hadn’t he come to them earlier?

“I said ‘Killian,’ your Highness... That’s your name, isn’t it?” she realizes, seeing him react once more to the word.

“Who told you?” he demands, now towering over her and ignoring her question.

“I– it was in my dream?” Her answer sounds more like a question, the god’s proximity and the fire in his eyes rattling her and making her lose control of her voice. “I told you, Hecate sent me a dream, and that was– “

“Yes yes, that was part of it, right,” the god – Killian – interrupts as he once again whirls around, pacing agitatedly in front of the two siblings. In the distance, a dog barks (there are dogs in the Underworld? Are there other animals?) and the god stops walking, his back to them. Dragging his hand heavily over his face, he sigh   s as he goes to slouch on his throne , mutters of “bloody meddling hag ” reaching Emma and David before the god speaks up, sounding as if each word is a chore to utter.

“Very well. I agree to give you a chance to reclaim your fiancée. But!” he hurries to say, before David and Emma can get their hopes up too much, “in order to be allowed to leave the Underworld with her alive, you must accomplish three tasks for me to prove your worth and devotion. If you can complete them, then I’ll give Snow Leukḗ back to you, and the three of you will be able to leave freely. If you fail one of those… you’ll be taken out of the realm, and only allowed back in after your death. Are we clear on this?”

David seems about to burst with joy and hope, barely daring to believe this reversal of fortune. Overcome with emotion, he nods enthusiastically before thanking the god profusely. Emma too feels fit to burst with relief, bowing to the god before looking up, catching his eyes scrutinizing her before he turns away, his himation swinging about his legs as he walks towards his throne.

Emma has no idea what pushed the god to change his mind so suddenly, but she knows it has something to do with his name. No one knows his name in the living world, so she understands that it has at least some importance that Hecate chose to reveal it to her. But why did Had– Killian fold so quickly?

Three tasks to get Snow back. Seemed reasonable. If Herakles could manage twelve, Emma and David could manage a quarter of that, right?

Right? Tag list (tell me if you want to be added or removed!): @hollyethecurious, @shireness-says, @gingerchangeling, @slow-smiles, @wingedlioness, @branlovesouat, @snowbellewells, @kmomof4

[agilenano]

Agilenano - News: Treasure in the English Chalk Streams

By Jane Eastman

At sun up the excitement is palpable. I remember seeing a twisting ribbon of mist hang above the water meadow and every single blade of grass was dropleted with beads of silver. A heron launched as a herd of deer broke through the reeds, noisily crossing the water in front of us before leaping the old fence and away. It was if we had imagined it! These moments, which seem to come at the beginning of an adventure, always feel like good omens and the passion for treasure hunting always starts with place. For me it’s the Hampshire countryside and the chalk streams that I know and love.

We paced on through the water in our waders. There was a fallen willow near the bend as the stream narrowed, the current was stronger here, and it became harder to move forwards. Changes to the river flow can strip back the silt, potentially revealing something very old languishing in the river bed; it’s always worth a closer look. The glass-bottomed bucket is a window into the water. Here the underlying chalk filters it “gin clear,” but the speed of the flow on the surface blurs what is below. Freshwater shrimp dance in the current when disturbed and there’s a Miller’s thumb sculpin under almost every stone! But it is the brown trout that make these rivers famous for those who try to emulate the touch of damselfly on water with a tiny attached hook. It is always a pleasure to enjoy the view of the river teeming with life.

But what else can be seen through the glass of my homemade bucket? Around the bend in the river sits a beautiful Georgian mansion house. The original inhabitants and the generations that came after used the river as their bottle dump, discarding kitchen empties, glass waste, and crockery into the water along with the ash and clinker from the many hearth fires. This is typical of how rubbish was disposed of by the houses that edge the river here and over the years. Bottles, pots, clay pipes, jars, bones, and crockery have slowly moved downstream to be concealed within the silt and gravel. Household refuse of another era has become part of the geology of the riverbed.

Aqua glass was the standard color for everyday Victorian utility bottles, and it is something to behold in the water. The varying iron content in the sand used in the glass mix combined with the amount of oxygen made available to create the flame resulted in an array of blue-green hues. Seeing the slither of the side of a bottle peeking out of the gravels is always exciting! On this day just over a year ago, the first time we discovered this particular spot, I found my first Hamilton “torpedo” bottle. I would like to say that I had to dig it out of the riverbed and that it took considerable effort, but this one was just lolling around in the shallows like a gift; a rare bottle that we had hardly dared dream of finding!

Artificial carbonated waters were first made in the 1770s, but there was always an issue with the gas pressure created by the fizz-loosening corks in bottles if they dried out. In 1814, William Hamilton patented a torpedo-shaped bottle that had to be stored on its side so ensuring the cork remained moist and the seal remained good until opened.

This beautifully impractical Victorian amphora of a bottle with its bubbly glass and applied lip dates from the mid to late nineteenth century. Since that day, I have been very lucky to find five Hamilton bottles from other locations, including examples with the names of local brands either embossed or etched on the glass.

Late nineteenth century Burgess’s Anchovy Paste lid, few people knew what a lion really looked like!

We now affectionately call this stretch of river “pot lid alley” as the former occupants clearly had a love of anchovy paste. We have found several of the wonderful transfer-printed Burgess’s anchovy paste lids here, a well marketed brand that started in 1760, famously supplying Nelson’s HMS Victory in 1805, Scott’s Antarctica expedition in 1910, and topping the morning toast at this residence, it seems, for all the years in between.

I love all old glass, but my favorite finds have to be antique ink bottles. From the middle of the nineteenth century, increasing levels of literacy opened up a new market and a mind boggling array of brands supplying ink in liquid form became available. Most popular were the little bottles known as “penny inks.” English glass penny inks are crudely made. They are often wonky with beautiful bubbly glass and finished with a rough top where the bottle was simply burst off the blow pipe, to be filled with ink, bunged with a cork and sealed with wax. Penny inks were available in stoneware bottles, too. These are also known as “pork pies” and with their beautiful drippy glazes, no two are ever the same. The occasional thumb print in the clay brings an evocative connection with the maker. I imagine letters penned, shopping lists made, bookkeeping done, and lines written after school for misbehavior; what tales were held in these little bottles of ink! I always hope to find an ink bottle, but these are gifts from the river and I take nothing for granted.

The Georgian mansion house river dump that I have described has given up many ink bottles in several designs and as an affluent household, there have been more unusual bottles too. A Blackwood’s Patent “igloo” ink in a beautiful deep green color is a treasured find here, along with a pouring syphon ink bottle by the same brand, my first umbrella-shaped ink bottle, and an array of the more familiar bottles in every shade of aqua, to add to my treasured collection.

It is not just Victorian bottles that can be found in rivers of course. In some spots it’s a mishmash of finds and eras and the archaeological context can be as long as there has been human activity using the water. This is what makes river hunting so exciting, you just never know what you could find next! It is a glorious muddle where beautiful fragments of centuries old pottery, mobile phones, lead toys, clay pipes, last week’s discarded beer bottles, even Roman beads, all can be found and sometimes together! But on this particular day, turning the corner to the Georgian mansion beside the stream, my first find was not a bottle or any of these things, but a boar’s tusk, perfectly preserved in the water. I scooped it up from the gravel and was transported straight back to a time before the wild boar were hunted to extinction 700 years ago.

Note: Never go wading into fast, deep water alone!

With thanks to my treasure hunting friend, Mike @thebottlewader

This article appeared in the Beachcombing Magazine January/February 2020 issue.

Agilenano - News from Agilenano from shopsnetwork (4 sites) https://agilenano.com/blogs/news/treasure-in-the-english-chalk-streams

[nobody-wants-ice-cream]

Day 3: Snowflakes

https://archiveofourown.org/works/21639139/chapters/51654073

Isabel McDailey was the governess tasked with teaching of all seven 26 month olds in the Hargreeves household. She was not allowed to question their names, Dr. Pogo, or Sir Reginald’s orders. She came to work at 7:00 on the crisp, cold morning of December 3, 1991. 

“Ms. McDailey. Sir Reginald wants to improve small motor skills for the children today. It would be wise to do some form of activity with them,” Dr. Pogo took her coat at the door. She stopped being shocked by his appearance very early on. 

“Alright. I’ll use classroom one then. Are the children still eating?” Isabel asked. Seven was a very picky eater. She could hold up the entire group when she didn’t want to eat something. Her nanny, Marielle Greens, often complained about her when they went out for drinks. 

“I wouldn’t know,” Dr. Pogo looked up at her, “Perhaps you should prepare your activity.” 

Isabel nodded and then ventured across the mansion to the learning part of the house. She spent most of her time in a few classrooms. Classroom one was for general purpose. Classroom two was an observatory. Classroom three was the courtyard. Isabel prefered the courtyard because she felt that the outdoors and fresh air helped young children learn. However, it was far too cold to use it today. 

She flicked on the lights for classroom one. The floors were covered in soft, foam pads and rugs. There were seven of each supply and each were the best quality money could buy. There was one teacher’s desk and one chalkboard. Isabel pulled out a stack of printer paper and the seven scissors meant for seven little hands. She took care to pass out a few pieces of paper to each child. She then remembered that they recently discovered Five was left handed, so she gave him a pair of left-handed scissors she bought herself. Just as she was laying out the chalk, Five’s nanny, Linda Finchley, led in her class. 

“Good morning, children,” Isabel said in her happy, teaching voice. 

“Good morning, Ms. McDailey,” seven cheerful voices screamed back at her. For the most part, her class was very loud. 

“Remember to put your shoes in the cubbies,” she reminded. For some reason, Sir Reginald didn’t want them wearing shoes in the classroom. She knew better than to question it. Each slipped off their little oxfords, or in the case of Three and Seven, little mary-janes, and set them into clearly labeled cubbies. 

The traffic outside was beginning to pick up. The City was known for mild traffic at all times except for morning and afternoon rush hour. 

“Four, that’s my cubby! See it’s got a number three on it! That’s mine,” Three was possessive over anything labeled hers. 

“But I wanna use cubby three,” Four whined. 

Isabel quickly needed to put out the small fire. “Four, put your shoes in your cubby, please,” she said in a warning tone. Four quickly followed orders and moved to his desk. 

“What are these for, Ms. McDailey? We aren’t allowed to use scissors,” One was looking at her with confusion. His hands itched for the desk, but he did not touch the supplies she left. 

“Good question, One,” One preaned in his seat, “today we are making paper snowflakes to decorate the classroom with. You each have the supplies needed to do so,” she moved to the front of the classroom.

“Watch very carefully. I don’t want to repeat myself. Take your piece of paper and fold it like this so that one corner reaches the edge. The paper now looks like a mini-guillotine blade. Can anyone remember what a guillotine is?” a lesson last week was about weapons that behead people. 

Six raised his hand. Isabel nodded at him. “It’s the big machine that has a blade that comes down to behead someone who is stuck there on purpose, right?” 

“Correct. Very good, Six. Now that you have your mini-guillotine blade, take your scissors in your hand and cut off the part that does not have any overlapping paper,” Isabel demonstrated the folding and cutting part, “so when you unfold the paper, you will have a perfect square. Let’s start with that. On your desks, fold your paper like I showed you and then hold it up,” Isabel directed.

The children made adorable, concentrating faces while they set to work. Five was going slow and trying to be careful when compared to Seven who folded her piece about the same tempo Isabel did hers. Seven’s came out nicer than Five’s. Seven had an eye for symmetry. Maybe that’s her power? Being very symmetrical? Isabel therorized. 

So far, only One, Five, and Six had their powers manifest. One was super strong. At times, she would go to him to open jars or lift objects around the classroom. Six had a portal to eldritch monsters in his stomach. His control was wonky, but so far, the monsters were too small to harm anyone. Then there was Five. His power was spatial jumping. Five couldn’t control his powers either. When he was sick, he would sneeze and suddenly not be there. If he felt strong emotion, his hands would glow blue and he would scratch at them. Linda hated chasing after him, but she did buy him a pair of mittens so he would stop scratching and biting his hands raw. 

“Good job everyone,” a few of their folds were crooked, but she wasn’t chasing perfection, “now take your scissors in your writing hand. Use the small hole for your thumb. Place the paper on the desk and carefully cut off the rectangle on the top.”

Two was best at this task. He cut his paper with perfect precision. 

“Okay, now unfold the triangle and you will have a perfect square,” she held hers up. 

The children looked at their squares with awe. Their cuts weren’t straight, and in the case of One, Three, Four, and Five, they didn’t fold the paper correctly, but they were passable. 

“N-now wh-w-wha-wha-what?” Two had an impossible stutter. Nothing she or any speech tutor did helped it. She decided to ignore Four and Five giggling at him. 

“Now, Two, we fold it in half whatever way you would like. I am going to keep the same fold from earlier. Make sure that it’s even! Now’s the fun part. Take your scissors and cut around the fold and edges. Be sure to keep the halves together and do not cut too far across the fold. If you do that then you will have two half snowflakes instead of one big one,” she broadcast her movements and snipped her snowflake while taking quickly. 

“Cool!” Five exclaimed when she unfolded her paper to show them her finished product. 

Isabel watched them struggle to maneuver the scissors. As long as no one was bleeding, she didn’t care. ‘Take the job’ her mother said. ‘Only seven, it will be easy’ her mother was a dirty liar. 

Watching these repressed, loud children was a toll on her psyche. They were like normal children, but wrong. She wanted them to be happy, but with the environment they were in, they would never be happy. She could see that in the single-minded determination that possessed all seven. 

The outside traffic was getting heavy. Rush hour. 

Normal two year olds don’t know what a guillotine is. Normal two year olds don’t have nannies buying them the things they need like mittens and left-handed scissors. Normal two year olds don’t have powers. Normal two year olds can’t make paper float. Wait-

“Who is making the paper float?” Isabel struggled to keep calm. The paper snowflakes were spinning around in the air. And little Seven’s eyes were glowing white. The snowflakes danced and moved around the classroom one to the beat of the traffic. 

Seven beautiful snowflakes each with a unique personality whistled around while the children laughed. 

Isabel sighed. Another power. She needed a drink. 

“Issa snowstorm! Can we have hot chocolate?” Seven was forgetting to speak properly in her excitement. 

“No, Number Seven. We have something far better than chocolate,” When did Sir Reginald enter the room?

The snowflakes moved towards Sir Reginald. They attacked him. Sir Reginald grabbed them out of the air and ripped them apart. No chocolate. No more snowflakes. 

Isabel sighed. Another lesson, ruined. 

[agilenano]

Agilenano - News: Treasure in the English Chalk Stream

s By Jane Eastman At sun up the excitement is palpable. I remember seeing a twisting ribbon of mist hang above the water meadow and every single blade of grass was dropleted with beads of silver. A heron launched as a herd of deer broke through the reeds, noisily crossing the water in front of us before leaping the old fence and away. It was if we had imagined it! These moments, which seem to come at the beginning of an adventure, always feel like good omens and the passion for treasure hunting always starts with place. For me it’s the Hampshire countryside and the chalk streams that I know and love. We paced on through the water in our waders. There was a fallen willow near the bend as the stream narrowed, the current was stronger here, and it became harder to move forwards. Changes to the river flow can strip back the silt, potentially revealing something very old languishing in the river bed; it’s always worth a closer look. The glass-bottomed bucket is a window into the water. Here the underlying chalk filters it “gin clear,” but the speed of the flow on the surface blurs what is below. Freshwater shrimp dance in the current when disturbed and there’s a Miller’s thumb sculpin under almost every stone! But it is the brown trout that make these rivers famous for those who try to emulate the touch of damselfly on water with a tiny attached hook. It is always a pleasure to enjoy the view of the river teeming with life. But what else can be seen through the glass of my homemade bucket? Around the bend in the river sits a beautiful Georgian mansion house. The original inhabitants and the generations that came after used the river as their bottle dump, discarding kitchen empties, glass waste, and crockery into the water along with the ash and clinker from the many hearth fires. This is typical of how rubbish was disposed of by the houses that edge the river here and over the years. Bottles, pots, clay pipes, jars, bones, and crockery have slowly moved downstream to be concealed within the silt and gravel. Household refuse of another era has become part of the geology of the riverbed. Aqua glass was the standard color for everyday Victorian utility bottles, and it is something to behold in the water. The varying iron content in the sand used in the glass mix combined with the amount of oxygen made available to create the flame resulted in an array of blue-green hues. Seeing the slither of the side of a bottle peeking out of the gravels is always exciting! On this day just over a year ago, the first time we discovered this particular spot, I found my first Hamilton “torpedo” bottle. I would like to say that I had to dig it out of the riverbed and that it took considerable effort, but this one was just lolling around in the shallows like a gift; a rare bottle that we had hardly dared dream of finding! Artificial carbonated waters were first made in the 1770s, but there was always an issue with the gas pressure created by the fizz-loosening corks in bottles if they dried out. In 1814, William Hamilton patented a torpedo-shaped bottle that had to be stored on its side so ensuring the cork remained moist and the seal remained good until opened. This beautifully impractical Victorian amphora of a bottle with its bubbly glass and applied lip dates from the mid to late nineteenth century. Since that day, I have been very lucky to find five Hamilton bottles from other locations, including examples with the names of local brands either embossed or etched on the glass. Late nineteenth century Burgess’s Anchovy Paste lid, few people knew what a lion really looked like! We now affectionately call this stretch of river “pot lid alley” as the former occupants clearly had a love of anchovy paste. We have found several of the wonderful transfer-printed Burgess’s anchovy paste lids here, a well marketed brand that started in 1760, famously supplying Nelson’s HMS Victory in 1805, Scott’s Antarctica expedition in 1910, and topping the morning toast at this residence, it seems, for all the years in between. I love all old glass, but my favorite finds have to be antique ink bottles. From the middle of the nineteenth century, increasing levels of literacy opened up a new market and a mind boggling array of brands supplying ink in liquid form became available. Most popular were the little bottles known as “penny inks.” English glass penny inks are crudely made. They are often wonky with beautiful bubbly glass and finished with a rough top where the bottle was simply burst off the blow pipe, to be filled with ink, bunged with a cork and sealed with wax. Penny inks were available in stoneware bottles, too. These are also known as “pork pies” and with their beautiful drippy glazes, no two are ever the same. The occasional thumb print in the clay brings an evocative connection with the maker. I imagine letters penned, shopping lists made, bookkeeping done, and lines written after school for misbehavior; what tales were held in these little bottles of ink! I always hope to find an ink bottle, but these are gifts from the river and I take nothing for granted. The Georgian mansion house river dump that I have described has given up many ink bottles in several designs and as an affluent household, there have been more unusual bottles too. A Blackwood’s Patent “igloo” ink in a beautiful deep green color is a treasured find here, along with a pouring syphon ink bottle by the same brand, my first umbrella-shaped ink bottle, and an array of the more familiar bottles in every shade of aqua, to add to my treasured collection. It is not just Victorian bottles that can be found in rivers of course. In some spots it’s a mishmash of finds and eras and the archaeological context can be as long as there has been human activity using the water. This is what makes river hunting so exciting, you just never know what you could find next! It is a glorious muddle where beautiful fragments of centuries old pottery, mobile phones, lead toys, clay pipes, last week’s discarded beer bottles, even Roman beads, all can be found and sometimes together! But on this particular day, turning the corner to the Georgian mansion beside the stream, my first find was not a bottle or any of these things, but a boar’s tusk, perfectly preserved in the water. I scooped it up from the gravel and was transported straight back to a time before the wild boar were hunted to extinction 700 years ago. Note: Never go wading into fast, deep water alone! With thanks to my treasure hunting friend, Mike @thebottlewader This article appeared in the Beachcombing Magazine January/February 2020 issue.

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