#breek's son

[alexgrin]

Hope and her little brother Reef

Breek's kids

AU - Replacement - Where are the Bergens and Trolls still enemies...

[rottedsoulx]

finally posting this bc i was originally gonna add more to it, and I will but *jazz hands* this for now. Also if you haven't watched trollstopia this is solely based off Pushy Poppy and my belief that she is the Creek of her universe. Which means I make Branch the Poppy, and Creek the Branch...

More on that under the cut :>

IDK HOW EXACTLY THIS WOULD WORK,,, bc although I think she's a self-serving a-hole I don't think Poppy in any universe would be willing to sacrifice her whole species for just herself,... but she might for her only friends. Or more specifically, the only troll that didn't just tolerate her for her status: Branch. (And she doesn't hate Creek, just isn't used to being treated like just anyone, and just anyone to Creek is a nuisance lmao)....and to an extent the Snack Pack (....s-smack pack-).

She's a bitch, but inside she's a little girl who was raised underneath her perished sister's shadow.

Nicknames:

-Puppy (pending)

-Pranch (Party Branch)

-Greek (Grey Creek)

Also huge shoutout to @ryuunoyuki who I chatted to bounce off ideas with and I'm pretty sure she came up with the nicknames hehe!

[scotianostra]

On September 7th 1736, Captain Porteous was dragged from prison and lynched by an angry mob in Edinburgh.

I love when I can connect posts from previous days, if you remember this Thursdays post on Robert Fergusson birth date, in his poem The Daft Days, he mentions the ‘Black Banditti’ oh and the Aqua Vitae, is of course whisky!

And thou, great god of Aqua Vitae!

Wha sways the empire of this city,

When fou we’re sometimes capernoity,

Be thou prepar’d

To hedge us frae that black banditti,

The City Guard.

Captain John Porteous, was a Scottish soldier and Captain of the Edinburgh City or Town Guard, the old “police” force of auld reekie. The story of the unfortunate Porteous starts in January 1736 when three men, Andrew Wilson, William Hall and George Robertson, were charged with smuggling and attempting to rob Collector of Excise, James Stark at the Pittenween Inn, Fife.

All three men were initially faced with the Grassmarket gallows, though William Hall had his sentence revoked for returning King’s Evidence against his fellow conspirators. Judgment day for Andrew Wilson and George Robertson was set for 14 April. A few days before the execution date Robertson managed to escape his fate, leaving Wilson alone to face the hangman’s noose.

The following is from Edinburgh Poet, Allan Ramsay, (who I also mention on Thursday as Fergussons “muse”) for a first hand account of the events……..“

A true and faithfull account of the Hobleshaw [riot] that happened in Edinburgh, Wednesday, the 14th of Aprile 1736 at the hanging of Wilson, housebreaker.

On the Sunday preceeding viz the 11th, the two condemn’d criminalls Wilson and Robertson were taken as usual by four sogers [soldiers] out of prison to hear their last sermon and were but a few minutes in their station in the Kirk when Wilson who was a very strong fellow took Robertson by the head band of his breeks and threw him out of the seat, held a soger fast in each hand and one of them with his teeth, while Robertson got over and throw the pews, push’d o'er the elder and plate at the door, made his escape throw the Parliament Close down the back staire, got out of the Poteraw [Potterrow] Port before it was shut, the mob making way and assisting him, got friends, money and a swift horse and fairly got off nae mair to be heard of or seen. This made them take a closer care of Wilson who had the best character of them all (til his foly made him seek reprisals at his own hand), which had gaind him so much pity as to raise a report that a great mob would rise on his execution day to relieve him, which noise put our Magistrates on their guard and maybe made some of them unco flayd [unusually afraid] as was evidenced by their inviting in 150 of the Regement that lys [lies] in Cannongate, who were all drawn up in the Lawn Market, while the criminal was conducted to the tree by Captain Porteous and a strong party of the City Guard. All was hush, Psalms sung, prayers put up for a long hour and upwards and the man hang’d with all decency & quietnes. After he was cut down and the guard drawing up to go off, some unlucky boys threw a stone or two at the hangman, which is very common, on which the brutal Porteous (who it seems had ordered his party to load their guns with ball) let drive first himself amongst the inocent mob and commanded his men to folow his example which quickly cleansed the street but left three men, a boy and a woman dead upon the spot, besides several others wounded, some of whom are dead since. After this first fire he took it in his head when half up the Bow to order annother voly & kill’d a taylor in a window three storys high, a young gentleman & a son of Mr Matheson the minister’s and several more were dangerously wounded and all this from no more provocation than what I told you before, the throwing of a stone or two that hurt no body. Believe this to be true, for I was ane eye witness and within a yard or two of being shot as I sat with some gentlemen in a stabler’s window oposite to the Galows. After this the crazy brute march’d with his ragamuffins to the Guard, as if he had done nothing worth noticing but was not long there till the hue and cry rose from them that had lost friends & servants, demanding justice. He was taken before the Councill, where there were aboundance of witnesses to fix the guilt upon him. The uproar of a mob encreased with the loudest din that ever was heard and would have torn him, Council and Guard all in pices [pieces], if the Magistrates had not sent him to the Tolbooth by a strong party and told them he should be tried for his life, which gave them some sattisfaction and sent them quietly home. I could have acted more discreetly had I been in Porteous’s place.”

A total of 9 were reported to have been killed and at least 20 wounded by the City Guard. Porteous was arrested the same afternoon and charged with murder. He was tried at the High Court of Justiciary on 5 July 1736. There was no shortage of enthusiastic witnesses to testify against Porteous’ actions. The jury, no doubt spurred on by the mob gathered outside, did not hesitate in finding him guilty, and he was sentenced to hang on September 8th.

When the news reached London, Prime Minister, Sir Robert Walpole managed to secure Porteous a Royal Pardon. Porteous was still being held at the Tolbooth, the history is a bit vague about why, I surmise it may have been for his own safety, as there is mention of the guards being increased at the old gaol leading up to the day in question.

A 4,000 ­strong mob took to the streets of Edinburgh. A total lock­down was ordered by the City Guard and all gates, including the Netherbow Port were closed – shutting out many troops stationed outside of the town. The enraged mob made their way to the prison and set the doors ablaze, Porteous attempted to flee but was eventually grabbed by force and dragged up the Lawnmarket, then down along the West Bow towards the Grassmarket where Andrew Wilson had met his end. Porteous was strung up on a dyer’s pole and brutally lynched until he ceased to move. The government would later declare a reward of £200 for any information of those responsible for Captain Porteous’ murder, but none of those guilty would ever be found.

Sir Walter Scott’s famous novel The Heart of Midlothian written in 1818 would later recall the events in great detail.

If visiting Edinburgh and you find yourself in Greyfriars Kirkyard you can find Captain Porteous’s grave is towards the west wall, once a year the re-enactors of the Town Guard pay “respects” to the man there.

The pics are "The Porteous Mob" by James Drummond, The Porteous Riots, A Scene from the Heart of the Midlothian by James Skene and The Porteous Mob by Stanley Cursiter.

You can find a contemporary account of the Porteous affair here from the excellent Newgate Calendar https://www.exclassics.com/newgate/ng187.htm

[rausule]

Leeu , Tau in lt.

In die ikonografie is die l. verteenwoordig 'n zoomorfiese motief so oud as wat dit kompleks is, wat 'n besonder belangrike plek in die Middeleeuse simboliese heelal inneem Embleem van a. Mark die Evangelis, die l. in Johannes se apokaliptiese visioen (Ap. 5, 5), wat so 'n groot rol in die Middeleeuse ikonografie gespeel het, verskyn langs die troon wat die teenwoordigheid van Christus oproep, links onder, die kant van die uitverkorenes op die dag van die universele Oordeel, en is die enigste een, behalwe die Lam, wat die voorreg gegun word om die boek oop te maak en die sewe seëls te breek. Sagmoedige metgesel van St. Girolamo het volgens die hagiografiese tradisie die l. dit is ook die nekropompeuse dier, wat genadiglik voorsiening maak vir begrafnis in die woestyn van s. Antonio Abate en van s. Maria Egiziaca.Behalwe die bekendste aspekte, is die l. in Christelike ikonografie het dit soms teenstrydige semantiese waardes aangeneem, as gevolg van die voortdurende ossillasie tussen positiewe en negatiewe waardes, hoe gevarieerd en kompleks ook al, as gevolg van die nuanses wat van tyd tot tyd aangeleer word, soveel so dat dit nie tot te rigiede interpretatief gereduseer kon word nie. skemas. Eintlik, in die simbool van die l. verskillende betekenisse is bygevoeg en saamgevat en bydraes uit verskillende en verre kulture is gestratifiseer In antieke Egipte is die l. verteenwoordig die soewerein en die son, waaruit werklike krag spruit: die sfinks, embleem van koninklikes, het 'n leoniese liggaam, terwyl twee l. teen mekaar leun, oos en wes in die gesig staar, dui hulle op die daaglikse pad van die son en dus die siklus van dood en wedergeboorte. In die Mesopotamiese tradisie het die l. dit het eerder die instinktiewe en chaotiese kragte van die natuur verteenwoordig wat deur die held of heerser in orde gebring is. Uit die ikonografiese motief van die mitiese Gilgamesj wat twee l. vasgryp, so gereeld in Mesopotamiese glytici, het die beeld van die Bybelse held Daniël afgelei, wat in vroeë Christelike sarkofage, in Koptiese materiaal en in Romaanse kuns voorkom.

[cannibalcoyote]

Sinnelose Realiteit(Afrikaans)

Dit was vroeg op'n donderdag oggend toe sy ontvang die verskriklike nuus dat haar man is dood.

Sy het gewonder waarom hy nie terugkeer huis laaste nag, selfs wag deur die selfoon, uiteindelik hom roep, maar nooit ontvang'n antwoord.

Sy het net geloop het haar kinders, Lisette en Alonso, hul lang oprit na die skool bus wag, saggies waai totsiens as dit luidrugtig weggery, uiteindelik laat haar glimlag en hand val as die bus het uit die oog. Draai terug na die huis loop sy besef die voëls is besonder stil, abnormaal so, dit het die stilte ongemaklik as wat sy was vasgevang met haar eindelose gedagtes; nie eens die wind huppelend die blare was so hard soos gewoonlik. Sy stryk haar swart gevleg hare na die kant voor pluk onrustig op die moue van haar blou-grys trui, styf wikkel haar arms om haar liggaam as sy het begin om die loop terug huis toe, luister nou na die crunch onder haar skoene, haar gedagtes nog dwaal in die verwarring oor waar haar man, Ryker, was. 'n paar stappe weg van haar stoep sy vertraag haar loop as sy hoor die geluid van'n motor, haar wankelrige stappe effens as sy omdraai, die onthulling van die staan-uit die swart-en-wit patroon van'n Belmont, Ohio die polisie die motor ry in die rigting van haar. Die glans teen die voorruit van die grys lug het dit onmoontlik gemaak om te sien wat jy ry, laat haar onseker is of om te voel oorstelp van vreugde of ontstelde op dit se verbasing voorkoms.

Die digter dit gery het die haar hart vinniger klop, neem in vlakker asem as sy kyk na die motor trek na'n stop'n paar meter weg. Haar hande onbewustelik wring mekaar as sy gewag het vir die motor deur te swaai oop, skielik voel ongemaklik warm, selfs al was dit redelik koud. Sy het geweet van die gevare haar man was in danke aan sy lyn van werk, en het geweet dat hy kon beseer word of gedood op enige oproep-uit, maar niks sou haar voor te berei vir die moedeloos kyk op die beamptes gesig as hy klim uit die motor.

Ryker was op die oproep met sy vennoot vir'n breek en betree in'n residensiële sone, die kriminele gegaan het uit die rug en afgeronde die huis te kom agter hulle as wat hulle gegaan het om te gaan deur die busted deur, skiet beide paar keer in die rug voor die loop. Die polisie is tans op soek na hom, maar het net twee getuies, een wat bijhorend hom as hy het begin om te breek maak hul deure oop, en'n buurman wat gesien het wat gebeur het en het die polisie.

As die beampte verduidelik wat gebeur het haar gedagtes het leeg, die reeds gedemp geraas van die bos heeltemal verdwyn en dat die ongemaklike hitte skielik verdwyn, die verlaat van haar liggaam in plaas daarvan voel leeg. Sy het gou gevind haarself gedwing om terug in die werklikheid toe die beampte het bereik uit om haar aan te raak skouer, dit was nie onbeskof of onwelkome aangesien hierdie beampte was baie goeie vriende met haarself en Ryker, maar die skielike en onverwagse kontak geskok haar genoeg te ruk haar skouer weg en neem'n stap terug. Hy het onmiddellik onttrek sy arm, sy oë gegooi af na die vloer, terwyl sy aangebreek'n jammer kyk as sy besef haar optrede.

Sy ten slotte gesê, "ek is jammer Carter, ek-ek voel net effens oorweldig op die oomblik."Haar stem timidly stil, 'n effense hakkel as sy probeer om te verstaan en beheer al die emosies skielik loop deur haar. 'n blik van die begrip spoel oor sy gesig voor knik sy kop plegtig en draai terug na sy motor, "Totsiens Saden."Carter het, bied'n kort, hartseer glimlag voordat versterking in sy motor en ry af.

Daar is baie gedagtes gedruis deur Saden se kop, al die nuus nie slaan haar ten volle nie. Met haar verstand racing sy stadig haar pad gemaak in haar kajuit huis, sluit die deur voor te rus haar voorkop hard teen die lood hout, gee haar een oomblik van vrede voor stoot af en op pad na die telefoon om te maak'n paar van die oproepe.

-------

Die huis is donker, gee af'n ontstellende en verwarring aura; die son nie opgestaan het nie en geen ligte in die buurt, maar hier is'n seuntjie met sy skool uniform en rugsak op stil-stil die sluiting van die voordeur. Hy begin loop weg van sy huis vinnig, die angstige atmosfeer rondom hom stadig verkwis die verdere hy het, sy gespanne skouers en op die rand kyk vermindering van om net effense paranoia.

Hy het'n litteken bo sy oog, die ietwat rooi kleur maak dit voor die hand liggend teen sy bleek vel. Hy het hierdie litteken dieselfde tyd wat hy verloor sy ma en half-suster, die motor-ongeluk was wreed, net hom en een van die ander motors passasiers na oorleef.

Hy skakerings sy oë weg van die verblindende hoofligte wat slaag deur elke so dikwels as wat hy loop af in die sypaadjie, sy paranoia verdwyn die nader hy nader Bingham se Dam. Hy vind'n plek weg van die pad, die opstel van sy sak af as hy neem die sluimerende swane en eende. 'n klein glimlag genades van sy funksies as hy onthou toe hy en sy ma, Liz, sou hier kom vroeg in die oggend om te praat en kyk na die sonsopkoms voor die skool; sy glimlag verdwyn so vinnig as wat dit aangekom het as hy besef hy kan net kom hier nou alleen. Hy kan altyd vra sy stap-pa Alec om te kom met hom, maar hy gevreesde enige reaksie Alec het, veral nou dat hy was die enigste een om te oorleef die motor te crash.

In'n poging om te skud sy gedagtes weg van die afgelope hy kyk terug na die swane, bewonder hul skoonheid teen die donker water. Die eerste paar son strale begin te gloei teen die dowwe lug, 'n effense briesie wat veroorsaak dat om hom te bewe as hy het geen eenvormige baadjie sedert daardie koste ekstra geld. As hy gaan sit en leun teen'n boom hy winces op die pyn opvlam in sy rug voor skud dit af en trek sy sak na hom, unbuckling die bevriesing metaal en die bereiking van in, trek uit'n gids met onvoltooide huiswerk; baie van hulle het crumples en trane selfs al het hy het hulle netjies in'n gids. Vrystelling van'n moeë en bitter sug hy begin werk, begin met sy naam, "het Archer Carlisle", sy koue hande maak dit moeiliker om te skryf en'n blik van verswaring flitse deur sy oë as hy weet dat hy nie sal kry al hierdie huiswerk gedoen voor die skool; vrees vul hom by die gedagte van om te sê Alec oor die slegte graad selfs al is sy onvoltooide en verskeur huiswerk was Alec se skuld. Met'n ander sug hy het weer aan die werk, probeer om te voltooi as baie van dit so vinnig en so akkuraat as moontlik.

-------

Dit was'n week sedert ek was vertel oor sy dood, het ek reeds geweet het wat ek kon nie bly in ons gemaklike Ohio huis, veral sedert Ryker dit gebou het; net loop deur die deur het'n walglike gevoel om oor my was om te weet dat ek sal hom nooit weer sien.

Die begrafnis was gister middag... Die swart rok wat ek gedra het, is nou'n hopie grys as in die firepit. My dogter Lisette het saam met my, dit was'n winderige dag met'n sprinkel van die reën afstof die grond buite, blyk dit dat die wêreld was selfs rou oor die verlies, maar dit is waarskynlik net vir my om betekenis in die eenvoudige dinge. My seun Alonso het die dood van sy vader baie moeilik, ek weet hoe naby hulle was, en sien my seun huil het'n traan breek deur middel van my fasade van krag, maar ek het om te vinnig vee dit weg as ek omhels my geween seun. Sy huil geduur het vir'n uur, Lisette begin om te huil as goed wanneer sy sien Al se skud vorm word getroos deur die myn. Daardie aand het ek het saam met hulle in hul kamer, sit op die vloer matte tussen hul twee beddens, een hand onder die knie in elkeen van my as ek jou vertel hulle stories na die stilte van hulle aan die slaap. Wanneer ek geweet het hulle was aan die slaap, ek het voortgegaan om hul hande te hou, leun my kop terug teen die hout muur as ek staar na die plafon, die lig van die maan die skep van skadu van die boom takke teen die teenoorgestelde muur. Ek het net sit daar, dink oor die oproepe wat ek gemaak het die dag toe ek die nuus ontvang; teen volgende week, wat is links van my familie sal wees in ons Skotland huis, weg van hier, weg van hom.

Ek het nog steeds nodig om die kinders te vertel, ek is nie seker hoe om te vertel hulle ons is weg te beweeg, weg van alles wat ons herinner van hul vader. Ek kan maar net hoop hulle sal nie verag my vir hierdie besluit, maar net te bly in hierdie huis veroorsaak dat my gedagtes om te dwaal in'n rigting wat ek sal nie toelaat dat my om in te gaan.

------

Die klok lui hard as ek haastig in die sluiting van die deur van my klaskamer, en kyk in die kamer rond ek sien almal reeds sit en die onderwyser kyk na my opvallend. Die verlaging van my oë, ek reguit uit my huiswerk en draai-in die messily klaar bladsye aan die mandjie voor traipsing verby my juffrou se lessenaar te bereik my sitplek, vermy sy en almal anders se oë te alle tye.

Ek weet ek moet nie bang wees deur my onderwysers, maar Mnr Curraigh het dieselfde streng stem as Alec, en ek kan nie help nie, maar word angstig wanneer ek stap voet in sy klas; sy streng reëls en intimiderend statuur nie presies my help wanneer ek probeer om te onderskei tussen die twee.

Mnr Curraigh blik van sy rekenaar aan my, ek sluk senuweeagtig en skuif effens in my stoel as ek kyk af na die papier ek delikaat geplaas op my lessenaar. Die klas se stil chatter hervat het'n paar oomblikke gelede, maar is vinnig gestop weer toe Mnr Curraigh stoot sy leun figuur af van sy lessenaar en rustig strided aan die voorkant van die klas.

"Mnr Carlisle, wil om te verduidelik aan die klas hoekom is jy laat is? Weer."Sy nonchalant eerste sin grootliks gekontrasteer sy harde uitspraak van "weer". Onbewustelik het ek my kop laer as die klas is stil, ander klasse kan giggel, maar hulle weet nie om te skroef rond in hierdie klas.

Ek skud my kop " nee " nie ten volle vertrou my stem te beantwoord sonder om te hakkel.

"Ek kan nie hoor jy Archer. Sal jy verduidelik aan die klas hoekom is jy laat is."Sy skerp, aksent stem lui uit teen die stilte en geen ruimte gelaat om te verhoed dat sy vraag. Ek weet hy is op soek na my as hy wag vir sy antwoord. Ek het uiteindelik kyk op na hom, die beantwoording van stil as my blik voortdurend flikker tussen hom en die plafon.

"Ek het verslaap meneer, ek sal nie laat dit weer gebeur nie."Ek het probeer om aan te bied'n kalm gesig om hopelik ophou om hom van my roeping weer uit, my gedagtes binne-in is blêrende met gedagtes of hy sal aanvaar die verskoning of nie. 'n tweede slaag voordat hy loop terug na die witbord en begin skryf, almal vinnig kopieer dit af in hul notaboeke, die gesprek skynbaar vergeet. 'n aanduiding van die bekommer het voortgegaan om te nag in die agterkant van my kop dat hy geweet het my verskoning was'n vals, maar ek het nie tyd gehad om dit te gee enige nadenke as ek was reeds agter die val op die notas, en my onlangse pols besering is nie presies gaan om voordeel te trek my óf.

Die klas het uiteindelik geëindig het, die meeste mense is gepak en wag by die deur vir die klok, net'n paar mense sit by hul lessenaars. Ek snoepie die opgedra huiswerk in hul gids, plaas my notebook in my sak as goed. Ek bereik vir die gids wanneer die ander hand gryp dit die eerste keer, 'n hand wat aan geen student. Ek keek my oë voor vinnig kyk neer op die lessenaar, dit was Mnr Curraigh wat hou my huiswerk gids, hy was leun teen die lessenaar as hy afgeroomde deur die nou oop gids.

"Y'know, jou organisasie en sorg nie optel wanneer jy draai in geruk vraestelle."Hy sê as hy stadig sluit die gids, hou dit vir my uit te neem, wat ek doen vinnig volg deur met, stil plaas dit in my sak.

"Jy wil my vertel die werklike rede hoekom jy altyd lyk om te laat loop?"Mnr Curraigh vrae, sy gewoonlik hard en streng stem nou stiller en met'n wenk van kommer. Dit was'n paar oomblikke en ek het nog nie om te reageer wanneer hy stemme,

"Archer, as jy het'n werklike rede waarom jy is laat, ek verstaan, maar ek kan nie aanvaar hierdie vals verskonings nie. Hierdie is die 10de keer het jy is laat. As jy kan nie gee my'n ware rede dan het ek het om te gee jy aanhouding."Sy stem was nog nooit baie streng of harde regdeur die sin, met meer van'n waarskuwing toon vir dit, maar al wat ek kan uitkry as'n reaksie is om te onrustig skud my kop" nee " as ek kyk op om te voldoen aan sy blik. Mnr Curraigh net vorentoe kyk vir'n sekonde voor die vrystelling van'n bitter sug en druk af van die lessenaar.

"Moenie laat wees vir aanhouding Mnr Carlisle."Is al wat hy sê voor loop terug na sy lessenaar, die klok lui en die studente gedruis uit van die deur, myself volgende onmiddellik as om nie te laat wees om my volgende les. My gedagtes vir die res van die dag is vertroebel met hoe Alec sal reageer wanneer ek by die huis kom laat, hoe hy sal reageer wanneer ek vir hom sê ek het aanhouding weer. Die gevreesde poele in my bors, maak dit voel styf en die lug versmoor as ek strompel deur die dag.

------

Eerste dag in ons nuwe huis, dit was'n huisie wat my ouers besit en ek geërf het. Ver weg van Ohio, ver weg van die Ryker, al die pad in Glasgow, Skotland, geleë in'n mooi area met lolling groen velde en'n klip muur netjies rondom dit.

Lisette en Alonso het die skuif beter as wat ek verwag het, sou dit lyk asof hulle wou om weg te kom soveel as wat ek gedoen het. Ek het genoem voor om seker te maak dat die huis is gereed vir wanneer ons aangekom het, en'n vriend van my ouers kom oor om te kyk na my kinders, want ek het om te gaan na my werk so gou as moontlik. Gedruis uit van die huis, het ek vinnig gee die vriend'n drukkie, vinnig met vermelding van die tyd ek sal tuis wees voor wedrenne oor na my gehuur Volkswagen voertuig. My sakke band draai as ek probeer om te plaas alles in die kar, ek het vinnig stoot dit in die passasiersitplek voor die aanpassing van die spieëls en die opskrif af na my nuwe werk.

Die grys wolke rommelstrooi die lug herinner my'n baie van die huis, maar hierdie besige stad is presies wat ek nodig het om te kry weg van my klein dorpie lewe. Ry aan die linkerkant is nogal vreemd, al is, iets wat sal neem sommige gewoond raak aan.

As ek trek in die parkeerterrein ek sien dat die skool is nader aan die einde van die dag, ek hoop ek sal nie afgedank kry voor ek selfs begin. Vinnig struikel deur die kantoor deur, ek reguit my postuur en hemp voor loop na die balie en verklaar ek is die nuwe wetenskap onderwyser. Die vrou glimlag voor bel iemand, ek neem aan die skoolhoof of miskien'n ander onderwyser.

Na wag vir sowat 2 minute, die kantoor deur hard clamors oop, 'n lang man met dik lig bruin hare en'n intimiderende statuur vordering in, gee'n klein knik na die vrou voor nader my. Ek staan op en skud sy aangebied hand.

"Hallo daar, ek is Mnr Curriagh of Aric, ek is hier om jou begelei na jou klas."Sy stem het'n dik aksent aan dit, iets wat ek sal hê om te kry wat gebruik word te nou, aangesien ek woon in Skotland. Sy intimiderend houding blyk te kontras met die vriendelike glimlag hy bied.

"Plesier om jou te ontmoet Aric, ek is Saden."Ek beleefd reageer voor om hom te lei my uit die kantoor en in die gang af.

"So, jy is die nuwe wetenskap onderwyser?"Hy stemme in effense nuuskierigheid, gaan voort om te navigeer die leë sale.

"Ja, wat doen jy leer?"Ek vraag, loop vinniger om tred te hou met sy vinnige tempo.

"O my? Ek het nog altyd'n literatuur persoon."Sy reaksie veroorsaak'n klein glimlag te verskyn, is die feit dat mense hier is so mooi en verwelkoming is iets wat ek aanbid. Ons kom tot stilstand gekom na die ander oomblik van die loop.

"Wel, dit is jou klas, maar jy aangekom het'n bietjie laat."Hy het verduidelik as ons kyk na die studente te pak hul sakke. Ek vrylating van'n stil sug, natuurlik sou ek mis die hele eerste dag van my werk.

"Moenie bekommerd wees oor die vermiste jou klas is, kan jy pop in om te help met die aanhouding of verken die gronde."Aric state as hy flikker sy oë van die venster na my, ek is oor om te reageer wanneer die klok lui hard, eggo deur die leë sale voor die klaskamer deure swaai oop en studente lêer uit. Ons albei staan naby die venster om my klas totdat die sale stil sit weer, slegs'n paar studente staan rond, terwyl sommige is nou net die afwerking van oppak.

Aric beurte om te praat om my weer as sy blik draai na iets agter my, sy skielike skree verrassings my, en ek het vinnig draai om om te sien die skuldige.

'n jong seun met donker bruin hare onmiddellik breek, sy oë gaan wye by geskree, sy arm strenger sy hou om sy boek klou teen sy bors.

"Archer. Aanhouding is in die ander rigting."Aric state as hy loop tot by die student. Ek sou verwag dat enige student om senuweeagtig te wees op wat genoem word deur'n onderwyser, maar hierdie student, Archer, verskyn ronduit vreesbevange.

Voor Archer in staat is om te reageer, Aric begin om weer te praat. "Dit is die tweede keer wat jy het probeer om oor te slaan aanhouding, Archer."Gee'n effense breek as hy wag vir'n antwoord, na ontvangs van niemand hy kom uit'n sug van irritasie voor en sê, "Kom saam met my Archer."Begin om te loop terug na my, Archer sleep'n paar stappe agter met sy oë opgelei op die vloer.

"Ek is jammer om te sny jou toer kort, maar ek het te begelei hierdie student te aanhouding."Aric state as hy kyk terug na Archer.

"Heeltemal in orde Aric, omgee as ek kom met? Ek het mis my eerste dag na alles."Ek vraag, skrams by Archer, sy oë nie verskuif van die vloer die hele tyd. Aric kortliks knik sy kop voor die leiding van die manier om te aanhouding. Ek het vinnig volg, probeer om tred te hou, luister as Aric beskryf die dele van die skool wat ons deurgaan.

------

Wie is hierdie persoon? Is sy die nuwe juffrou? Sy het sê sy mis haar eerste dag hier, en ons nuwe onderwyser vir die wetenskap nie in staat was om te wys.

Ek lig my kop op, my oë het op soek na haar vir'n oomblik as ek oorweeg of ek moet vra my vraag is of nie. Uiteindelik gee in te nuuskierigheid, ek vra, "Is jy die nuwe wetenskap onderwyser?"My vraag blyk te skrik hulle albei uit van hul klein praat, Mnr Curraigh nou stil as ek wag op haar antwoord. Sy draai na my toe en bied'n vriendelike glimlag voor te reageer, "Ja, dit is my, jy kan my bel Mev Monroe."Haar reaksie is mooi maar kort, en haar stem gelyk te wankel effens toe sy sê haar laaste naam, wat veroorsaak dat my kop te kantel ooit so effens in verwarring by haar onwilligheid om te praat haar laaste naam.

"Dit is lekker om jou te ontmoet Mev Monroe, my naam is Archer."Ek het reageer, my stem skynbaar meer selfversekerd en harder as my normale toon, al het ek skaars gee dit'n gedagte. Vir die tyd wat oorgebly het van die loop te aanhouding, ek het dit praat met Mev Monroe, ek weet nie hoekom nie, maar sy was makliker om te praat met, dit kon gewees het van haar nie-intimiderend houding en hoogte is, of moontlik dat sy herinner my aan my ma, beide van wat is geloofwaardig.

Ons praat oor die boek was ek hou wanneer Mnr Curraigh kom tot'n stilstand, die kamer wat aanhouding is gehou in wat reg is in die voorkant van ons. Ek reik uit na gryp die handvatsel, 'n oomblik vergeet oor my pols besering totdat ek die vrylating van'n grunt van pyn, onmiddellik trek my pols terug en hou dit teen my bors as die harde aangrypende gevoel dat vloede my stelsel, wat my herinner van gister.

Beide Mnr Curraigh en Mev Monroe lyk geskok oor my skielike uitbarsting van pyn, Mev Monroe is oor om iets te sê maar ek het geen tyd om te dink, struikel agteruit ek draai effens en hardloop af. Ek gaan na die enigste plek waar ek veilig voel, Bingham se Dam, of Swan Dam as my ma gebruik om te sê, net om te onthou wat veroorsaak dat'n golf van angs te vee deur my liggaam, al hierdie dinge wat gebeur is te oorweldigend. Eers het ek verloor my ma en suster in'n motor-ongeluk, dan is my stap-pa(wat reeds nie van my hou nie) blameer my vir dit, en nou het ek'n onderwyser wat herinner my presies van my ma, ek weet eenvoudig nie hoe ek moet voel of te reageer op hierdie situasies nie. Ek is so vasgevang in hierdie produktiewe gedagtes en seer pyn wat ek versuim om te hoor die voetstappe nader kom. Dit was die skielike hand op my skouer wat veroorsaak het dat my om te snak in verrassing op die teenwoordigheid van'n ander persoon. Vinnig draai my kop het ek verwag om te sien'n woedende Mnr Curraigh of dalk Alec, maar ek is in plaas ontmoet deur Mev Monroe se hartseer glimlag as sy crouches langs my. Om uit te reik haar hand vir my pols ek wankel weg, maar na nog'n tweede toelaat dat haar om te sien my pols, ignoreer die moontlike gevolg dat sy dalk die vraag hoe ek volgehoue hierdie besering.

Dit was die effense verbreding van haar oë wat veroorsaak het dat my om te volg haar blik, ek verkies om nooit kyk na my beserings, so sien my pols al geswel en gekneus oorsake my oë te verbreed sowel. Sy het liggies raak aan my pols en ek het dadelik trek weg, die pyn skroei deur my arm. Sy lyk om daar te sit in'n oomblik van denke, as al oorweeg wat sy moet sê.

"Archer. Hoe het dit gebeur?"Daar was dit, die een ding wat ek nie wil hê om te hoor. Ek skud my kop en kyk weg, nou eers besef dat'n paar trane het gestroom my gesig af, vinnig vee hulle met my vry hand. Ek hoor nie'n reaksie op my weiering so ek kyk terug, sien Mev Monroe trane terug te hou as goed, al is die rede waarom, weet ek nie. Skud haar kop, sy stoot haarself af van die vloer, en bereik'n hand vir my, wat ek stadig neem. Nou staan ek stof myself af met my goeie hand, losweg hou my rugsak as ek wag op haar vrae.

Al wat sy doen is, skynbaar skud haar kop na haarself, voor beduie vir my om haar te volg. Sy lei my terug na die skool, nooit praat of loer na my, net staar vorentoe, byna emptily. Sy neem my na die mediese kamer en vertel my om te wag by die deur as sy loop weg om te gesels met'n verpleegster. Ek wonder wat sy sê, het sy vermoed dat my stap-pa het hierdie beserings? Of dink sy nog'n student het dit gedoen vir my? Moet ek net hardloop terwyl ek nog steeds die kans? My gedagtes is skielik gestop as beide Mev Monroe en die suster loop oor na my, my senuweeagtigheid skop in op'n ander persoon nou teenwoordig.

Ek probeer om nie aandag te gee aan die flare-ups van pyn as die suster toegedraai my pols in'n ys-sak, die ysige koue maak my bewe as die weer buite was reeds koud. Na'n paar minute van die versiersuiker my pols sy bring'n kompressie verband, snoesige wikkel my pols en hand, die pyn verminder nie, maar handhaaf'n bestendige pyn wat rondom my hele arm. Toe sy klaar sy gee my instruksies om te doen elke dag, en'n nota vir die klas om te sien as dit was my die skryf van die hand.

Loop oor na die deur, ek spot Mev Monroe wag daar, haar vriendelike glimlag vervang deur'n ernstige en streng kyk, een wat maak my voetstappe'n bietjie meer huiwerig. Ons verlaat die med kamer, en loop uit in die stil, verlate gang, haar gesig nog steeds ernstig as ons beide stop.

"Hoe het jy daardie besering Archer."Dit was nie'n vraag nie, maar iets wat aangedring het op'n antwoord, die een wat ek was baie huiwerig om te gee. Hengel my gesig weg van haar ek skud my kop " nee " weer, wil nie om haar te vertel die waarheid, my gedagtes blêrende dat dit sou lei tot meer pyn as goed, dat selfs indien sy het glo my, niemand anders sou.

"Archer, as jy nie vertel my, dan sal ek om jou te vertel die kantoor te bel jou pa."Sê sy, haar stem verloor sommige van dit is streng as sy pogings om my te kry om te antwoord.

Hoor haar bel Alec my pa veroorsaak dat al hierdie gevoelens om net ontplof, my woede vloei vrylik, en ek kan nie help nie, maar reageer chaoties, "HY IS NIE MY PA!"My skree echos af in die gang, die stilte het in sy wakker is ongemaklik, al die woede-gedrewe vertroue vinnig laat my lyf as ek uitasem. Sy is nie dom nie, sy gaan om uit te vind wat gaan aan, ek sal geneem word weg van my huis, die laaste plek wat herinner my van die ma en my suster.

Haar houding blyk te versterk na die aanhoor van my reaksie, ek kan net hoop sy sal nie kwaad wees saam met my uitbarsting.

"Ek is net gaan om te vra jy een meer tyd. Wat het dit gedoen."Haar stem was doodse stilte, die tweede sin om hard uiteengesit en laat geen ruimte vir verskonings. Ek het uiteindelik die gesig van haar, maar my kop is nog steeds verlaag, my oë flikker tot haar elke so dikwels as wat ek dink wat ek gaan sê.

"....Alec."My stem feitlik'n fluister, alhoewel ek weet sy het dit gehoor, en die wete dat iemand anders is bewus van hierdie geheim nie net veroorsaak dat my om te voel... kwesbaar.

[hjalmargerber]

Sonder haar droog die stories op. Die lewenslus geblus. Vinniger hardloop. Swaerder optel. Harder werk. Meer bereik. Soggens is net die son daar. Saans net die maan. Iemand het die strand gesteel en die branders breek op die rotse. Tyd maak die skerwe glad, te glad. Waar is die bloed? Daar moet mos bloed wees na só ‘n seer? Die hart bloei binnekant toe. By die oë uit. En soms by die mond. Waar hy skerwe maak. En ander bloed. Nie my bloed nie.

[lunarflare64]

The oldest of the next gen royal family!

Branch and Poppy's first child, Rosie! She was eager to be queen from day one, and always did her best to be ready for her future role. Unfortunately, when she became queen she realized it wasn't as great as she originally thought. She knew it wasn't all fun and games, being queen was a big responsibility, but the full weight of it hit her too late and she went into a state of depression. Branch and Poppy had a tough time convincing her to let go of her crown and pass it down to one of her siblings, but she was a lot happier with her freedom as shown in the middle drawing.

Branch and Poppy's second child, Birch. He seems to take after his dad, and is a grump the majority of the time even though he's not grey, but he's a completely different guy during late night parties. Mainly because of glow sticks. He's gotten sick from accidentally drinking glow stick liquid more than once, and is practically immune to the stuff in his later years. When Rosie offers him the crown, he adamantly refuses, hating the idea of having all trolls look up to him.

Branch and Creek's first son, Root! This boy is more of a hippy than Creek will ever be. He often wears chakura gemstones and has a large collection of various types, changing which one he wears every day according to his plans, though he mainly sticks to love related ones. Root is a major flirt and very, very gay. Of course, all flirtation stops when his primary crush, Sunstone, is around.

These are the oldest three, and yes they're in the same universe, the Love Letter universe. Poppy, Branch and Creek are in a polyamoros relationship with Branch married to both Poppy and Creek, but Creek and Poppy have a mostly platonic relationship. There are five more kids from the royal family on the way, then I'll focus on the snack pack's kids.

[dirttroll]

Do you have evidence on wwot?

INCEST TW // INCEST CW // 

-

Yes, heres the son and dad gorillas from sing by them

(cgnsfwca is a past url of wwot's)

In the past wwot has drawn plenty of noncon content (including breek) I shouldnt need to dig up since this is about the incest warning post I made

EDIT: deleted the other part of the post due to bad information being given to me and leading me to believe what I was posting was helpful as a warning

[alexgrin]

Children of different ships!

At least Hope won't be lonely. Amethyst is a good guy! Yes, I settled on the name Amethyst.

[that-poet-person1437]

Horison

Hey guys, I finished writing a poem that is very close to my heart. It's about my experience driving through my home country, South Africa. The original version is written in my mother tongue, Afrikaans, and I wanted to upload it here. I'll upload a translated version as well. As you'll see, it's a lengthy poem!

Ek was hier, my tone tussen sand. Op die suidpunt van die wêreld is my naam gebrand. Vir oulaas my hare laat waai in die wind En Blouberg se strand in my hart toegebind. Kyk agtertoe en sien Tafelberg se kleed Van wolk en mis; die Duiwel se leed. Van Honk sit heelbo en rook vir sy lewe. In stryd met ou Satan, die bergpiek vergete. Vir die laaste tyd kleef die sout aan die lug. Sien landerye van plante van die soet wynvrug. Die berge daarom maak beurte om te trap. Die lande tussen klowe aanmekaargesit soos lap. Die pad word gelig tot by 'n groot berg se maag En ons skiet deur die tonnel wat daglig vervaag. Na minute se stil-eggo ry, so effens benoud, Skyn die son helderwit, alewig getroud. Berge smelt langs ons, maar kom tot 'n stop Soos die son stadig kruip tot die wêreld se top. Tussen dorre bossies lê Karoodorpie dou Pakkies van herinneringe wat liefde omvou. Wit wolke rol lui oor die oseaan van kleur, Van groen, geel, rooi, persgrys wat grense ignoreer. Die brekende branders vorm wit donsies gras. Die kragdrade volg en hou dop vanaf hul mas. Treinspore kom en gaan; rook die platteland deur. Verby plat grasse, bossies, sandgrond wat stof smeer. Mens loer vir berge oor die horison, en hulle loer terug, Berge wat sommer blouer is as lug. Wanneer mens stilhou, tril die voëltjies se geselsies En 'n eentandman vleg mandjies vir 'n geldjie. 'n Lang pad waar gedagtes wandel en oor rotse glip Deur spookdorpe se strate van ou teer en klip. Matjiesfontein sit vergete en verlate. Beaufort-Wes se balkonne fluister glorie vir die strate. Uniondale se spook bly 'n laggende euwel. Hanover se wit letters lê geskommel teen die heuwel. Teerpaaie breek weer oop tot 'n uitsig vir vliegtuie. Gekreukelde berge wys die merke van ou Aard se buie. Drie susters op hul trone, vir ewig vervloek Om ons verbygang aan te gluur en sterflikheid te soek. Geel gras word groen soos die reënstreke ruil In ons eindelose pad tot waar die wolkbronne skuil. Wit wolke in die lug die naaste sneeu wat ons kry So ver noord van Sutherland wat aan koue verkry. Bome word bondels word rye, nes die huise rondom, Voor die patroon weer tot gras plato's verdamp in die son. Die wolke is steeds in die verte vasgevang, Maar die bondel het gegroei in hul wol samegang. Hulle vorm donker klonte wat voor die son indryf, Maar as die die wolke oopmaak, sal 'n poel se knipoog wys. Die groen begin ryker word, en die blou gryser al, Dan sak die wolke neer asof hul uit die lug gaan val. Blou word pers terwyl die reën deur die verte sleep. Soos 'n nuwe dag kom die son om oor die vlakte te breek. Stowwerige veldbrand word geruik; dis buite seisoen. Meng rooi wit en swart met die blou geel en groen. My oë volg die klippies, word klippe, word wonings. Die huise groei groot en vorm stede vir konings. Die lyn in die verte het nou nader gekom, Die son wat ons gelei het nou net onder die horison. Sterre versamel helder en word ligte langs die straat. Die bome wat wild was, gaan nou mooi in lanings staat. Brûe oor riviere word nou brûe oor gryspad teer, Elk pad draai na eindpunt, as die einde ooit aankeer. Die roete word bekend, tyd en ruimte is nou tasbaar. Die son verdwyn op niet; hy weet sy werk is klaar. Die avonturiere betree hul woning, uiteindelik aangekom By hul eindpunt, hul huis, op die rand van die horison.

[scotianostra]

On September 23rd 1678 The Earl of Mar was commissioned to raise a regiment nicknamed “Earl of Mar’s Gray Breeks” which later became the Royal Scots Fusiliers.

The history of some regiments can be a bit obscure, this is due to the fact that after the wars of the three kingdoms, and the Bishops Wars when soldiers were used to repress political dissent by both Royalists and Protectorate troops there was an uneasiness to have armies loyal to the state or Crown, so if any further civil war broke out the troops would again be divided. The norm at the time was that the current Colonel of the regiments treated the soldiers as their personal property, they carried his name which changed when transferred and disbanded as soon as possible.

As was the tradition at the time the Regiment was named after its colonel as ‘The Earl of Mar’s Regiment’ and nicknamed ‘the Duke O'Mars Greybreeks’.

The Regiment saw its first action in 1679 at the Battle of Bothwell Bridge when it helped to put down the Covenanter Rebellion which formed following the restoration of King Charles II. Presbyterian ministers who refused to accept the rule of bishops were ejected from their parishes by the crown and took up arms in rebellion.

Charles II died suddenly in 1685 and was succeeded by his unpopular brother James II who was quickly plunged into suppressing mounting discontent, during the Monmouth rebellion of 1685. James Scott the 1st Duke of Monmouth (the illegitimate son of Charles II and the King’s nephew) unsuccessfully attempted to overthrow the unpopular King. The Regiment was once again in action on home soil during this time, suppressing a force raised by the Earl of Argyle in Scotland to support James Scott’s claim to the throne.

In 1686 the Regiment was armed with the ‘Fusil’ muskets, the most modern weapon of the day, instead of matchlock muskets becoming ‘The Scots Fusiliers Regiment of Foot’ it was at this time they became called into the English army to serve during the War of the Spanish Succession. Colonel Thomas Buchan replaced The Earl of Mar as Colonel in 1686 but was removed for refusing to swear allegiance to William III, March 1689.

The Regiment was granted the Royal title in 1712 to become ‘The Royal Scots Fusiliers Regiment’. In 1959 after a series of reforms they were The Royal Scots Fusiliers was amalgamated with The Highland Light Infantry to become the Royal Highland Fusiliers. In 2006 the Regiment was further merged with The Royal Scots Borderers, The Black Watch, The Highlanders, and The Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders to form the Royal Regiment of Scotland.

[tinyshe]

                            Tam O 'Shanter                                                                                                                                                                By Robert Burns                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                           

When chapman billies leave the street, And drouthy neebors neebors meet, As market-days are wearing late, And folk begin to tak the gate; While we sit bousin, at the nappy, And gettin fou and unco happy, We think na on the lang Scots miles, The mosses, waters, slaps, and stiles, That lie between us and our hame, Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, Gathering her brows like gathering storm, Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.         This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, As he frae Ayr ae night did canter: (Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, For honest men and bonie lasses.)         O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice! She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum, A bletherin, blusterin, drunken blellum; That frae November till October, Ae market-day thou was na sober; That ilka melder wi' the miller, Thou sat as lang as thou had siller; That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, The smith and thee gat roarin fou on; That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. She prophesied, that, late or soon, Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; Ot catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, By Alloway's auld haunted kirk.         Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, To think how mony counsels sweet, How mony lengthen'd sage advices, The husband frae the wife despises!         But to our tale:—Ae market night, Tam had got planted unco right, Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, Wi' reaming swats that drank divinely; And at his elbow, Souter Johnie, His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony: Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither; They had been fou for weeks thegither. The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; And ay the ale was growing better: The landlady and Tam grew gracious Wi' secret favours, sweet, and precious: The souter tauld his queerest stories; The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: The storm without might rair and rustle, Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.         Care, mad to see a man sae happy, E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy: As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure, The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!         But pleasures are like poppies spread, You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; Or like the snow falls in the river, A moment white—then melts forever; Or like the borealis race, That flit ere you can point their place; Or like the rainbow's lovely form Evanishing amid the storm. Nae man can tether time or tide: The hour approaches Tam maun ride,— That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; And sic a night he taks the road in, As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.         The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; Loud, deep, and lang the thunder bellow'd: That night, a child might understand, The Deil had business on his hand.         Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg,— A better never lifted leg,— Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, Despising wind and rain and fire; Whiles holding fast his guid blue bonnet, Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet, Whiles glowrin round wi' prudent cares, Lest bogles catch him unawares. Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry.         By this time he was cross the ford, Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd; And past the birks and meikle stane, Whare drucken Charlie brak's neckbane: And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; And near the thorn, aboon the well, Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. Before him Doon pours all his floods; The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; The lightnings flash from pole to pole, Near and more near the thunders roll; When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze: Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, And loud resounded mirth and dancing.         Inspiring bold John Barleycorn! What dangers thou can'st make us scorn! Wi' tippenny we fear nae evil; Wi' usquebae we'll face the devil! The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, She ventur'd forward on the light; And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!         Warlocks and witches in a dance; Nae cotillion brent-new frae France, But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels Put life and mettle in their heels. A winnock bunker in the east, There sat Auld Nick in shape o' beast: A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, To gie them music was his charge; He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl, Till roof and rafters a' did dirl.— Coffins stood round like open presses, That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; And by some devilish cantraip sleight Each in its cauld hand held a light, By which heroic Tam was able To note upon the haly table A murderer's banes in gibbet airns; Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; A thief, new-cutted frae the rape— Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted; Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; A garter, which a babe had strangled; A knife, a father's throat had mangled, Whom his ain son o' life bereft— The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu', Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'.         As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd and curious, The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: The piper loud and louder blew, The dancers quick and quicker flew; They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit Till ilka carlin swat and reekit And coost her duddies to the wark And linket at it in her sark!         Now Tam, O Tam! had thae been queans, A' plump and strapping in their teens! Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, Been snaw-white seventeen hunder linen!— Thir breeks o' mine, my only pair, That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, I wad hae gien them aff y hurdies, For ae blink o' the bonie burdies!         But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, Lowping and flinging on a crummock. I wonder didna turn thy stomach.         But Tam ken'd what was what fu' brawlie; There was ae winsom wench and walie, That night enlisted in the core (Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore. For mony a beast to dead she shot, And perish'd mony a bonie boat, And shook baith meikle corn and bear, And kept the country-side in fear); Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, That while a lassie she had worn, In longitude tho' sorely scanty, It was her best, and she was vauntie. Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie, That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!         But here my Muse her wing maun cow'r, Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; To sing how Nannie lap and flang, (A souple jad she was and strang), And how Tam stood like ane bewitch'd, And thought his very een enrich'd; Even Satan glowr'd and fidg'd fu' fain, And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main: Till first ae caper, syne anither, Tam tint his reason a' thegither, And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!" And in an instant all was dark: And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, When out the hellish legion sallied.         As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, When plundering herds assail their byke; As open pussie's mortal foes, When, pop! she starts before their nose; As eager runs the market-crowd, When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud; So Maggie runs, the witches follow, Wi' mony an eldritch skriech and hollo.         Ah, Tam! ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin! In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin! In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin! Kate soon will be a woefu' woman! Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, And win the key-stane of the brig: There at them thou thy tail may toss, A running stream they dare na cross. But ere the key-stane she could make, The fient a tail she had to shake! For Nannie far before the rest, Hard upon noble Maggie prest, And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; But little wist she Maggie's mettle— Ae spring brought aff her master hale But left behind her ain grey tail: The carlin claught her by the rump, And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.         Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, Ilk man and mother's son, take heed, Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear, Remember Tam o' Shanter's mear. [X]

[audramh]

He Sometimes Wears It Home

I love a good back story, and since I haven't seen one written about this moment yet, this is the one I came up with. What was behind this look from Cait to Sam at NYCC, and what exactly was she recalling when she said sometimes he wears the new wig home?

A final inspection in his trailer's mirror: temples, hairline, behind both ears. A vigorous head shake just to be sure. No movement. So far, so good. Now for some exaggerated facial expressions: feigned surprise, eyes blown wide. Hm. Secure. Wrinkled forehead with nose scrunch. Nothing amiss. My God, he thought, this thing's still holding on after a full day of shooting. The lacefront wigs, the glue:  everything was better this season. Wendy, you beauty. 

Having lied through his teeth to get everyone to leave before him - 

   No, no, I can manage; I'm just going to shower here and do a bit of reading. Quieter here than at home, you know. 

   No worries: I've seen it taken off hundreds of times, and I know how it's done. Off you go. 

 - he turned the light switch off behind him and shut the trailer's flimsy door.

He pulled his parka up a little higher to hide the short 'tail in the back, lest the nighttime guards catch a glimpse of it. Just before he caught their eye, he remembered the telltale forehead. Shit. He jerked his hood up just in time. "'Nite", he called out with a wave. The guards each returned the gesture with their free hand that wasn't holding a coffee.

He approached his car, knowing Davie would be chatty. Oh God. Not tonight. Gotta focus. He plopped down in the back and closed the door. "There's the lad. Wot's yer prefairt station fer the drive? Hits o' the Eighties? Mayhap yer podca - " He'd stopped short when his eyes encountered Jamie Fraser in the rearview mirror. He turned around with a start. "Wot the...?"

God. Here we go.  "Look. Just don't make it weird, arite? I'm like to lose my nerve as it is." Davie shot him a barely-contained side smile that read "och, ye wee devil" as he placed the car in drive.

"If it's all the same to you, some light jazz'd be nice. And just... quiet. Got handed some new pages for tomorrow that I'd like to get a jump on."

"Aye. Yer the boss." Wisely, Davie took a pass on the 'get a jump on' remark. And he drove.

_____

He sent her a quick text from the road:

  ETA 15 min 😘🥃😈🍤🥧

He chuckled to himself.

_____

Home.

"Cheers. Thanks mate. See you bright and early tomorrow" and Davie was gone.

The scrape of his key in the lock.

Quiet.

Nothing, save Eddie barely noticing his entrance before curling up into a fat ball on the sofa.

He removed his parka, and tested the air in a heavily-accented whisper:

"Sassenach, I'm come home."

Silence.

"Pssssst... Sassen-ACH... where are ye?"

Silence.

"Balfie?"

He heard the dryer door open. Well, at least he knew where to find her. With that, Jamie Fraser walked into the Balfe-Heughan laundry room. Her back was to him as she reached for a towel to fold. She was in a tank and a pair of sleep shorts, and her hair was a wreck.

"Hullo, darling. I am so glad you're home. God, it's been a day. Remember the sniffles we noticed at breakfast? Well, they took a turn, and I've been sneezed on and snotted on by two kids with fevers. Finally got them down about an hour ago. And I'll have you know, our son even had the gall to puke - "

She stopped when she'd turned around to find her husband's face and found that of Jamie Fraser instead.  

  What the -

It stopped her in her tracks. 

 "Oh Balfie, c'mere." Jamie reached out for her, arms clad in a very familiar whitish-gray linen shirt. She went to him instinctively as though she was Claire. In that moment, she became Claire. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close. He whispered tender words of sympathy for the trying day she'd had, but while her mind knew the voice to be her husband's, she was in Jamie's arms. He felt like Jamie. Smelled like Jamie, thanks to the familar hair and wardrobe, and OH MY GOD he was wearing the effing breeks and scuffed-up boots.

   Game. On.

Coming out of his bear hug, she took a long, leisurely look at him. He mistook her expression for exhaustion and reached up to break the lace-front of his wig away from his skin. "Balfie, I'm so sorry. I should've told you what I had planned. But I said nothing, and from the look of things, I've picked the worst possible time - " And his fingers were fast approaching his hairline.

As she plucked his hand away just in time, she heard the cultured English voice of Claire Fraser escape her lips.  "DON'T-  [pause] - take it off."

His mouth curled into a slow, devious smile as his eyes narrowed and went dark.

She whispered three breathy words a mere inch from his lips:

"Bedroom. Ten minutes."

_____

As he listened to the running shower, he sat on the edge of the bed and remembered the countless times they'd said they'd do this very thing... one day. One day was now.

The shower had stopped. He'd just finished unbuttoning his boots and tossing them aside (gently - they weren’t really his and he wasn’t supposed to have them here anyway) when the bathroom door opened. Out walked his wife with one hand seductively fluffing her still-wet hair and the other clasping the soon-to-be released Sassenach First Love blanket scarf around her body. His breath hitched in his throat.

My God, he thought, this woman is an angel. And she's mine.

"Ahhh Dhia." A deep, cleansing breath and back in character. 

"Come here to me, Sassenach. And let me care for ye, mo ghraidh."

_____

[rausule]

Vulgêre Latynse manier van dink en prosedures om konsekwent te wees in die gebruik van die taal.

Die strengheid in denke en die basis van vulgêre Latynse gedagtes is die rede vir die nommer van 'n naamverskynsel stel konsepte. Dit word gebruik om stellings oor hoeveelhede of verwantskappe uit te druk. Die mees basiese vorm van hoeveelheid is sigle en die mees basiese vorm van verhouding is die vergelyking van hoeveelhede. Getalle het ontstaan ​​met tel en tel word ook verbind met vergelyking, waardeur die getal vyf minder as sewe is omdat tel tot vyf vroeër as tot sewe lei. Ander hoeveelhede, soos lengte of gewig, is baie vroeg deur die mens verkry en daarmee is die konsep van meting gebore. Die vergelyking tussen getalle is toe veralgemeen na die konsep van verwantskap tussen verskillende hoeveelhede: op hierdie manier is verwantskappe gedefinieer soos die een wat die hoogte van die son aan die verloop van tyd koppel, of die een wat ons wil vasstel tussen die gewig of die lengte van 'n item en die koste daarvan.

Voordat ons oor getalle praat, moet ons verstaan ​​waarop ons wil hê en waarop ons kan staatmaak. Ons verstand begryp die werklikheid volgens twee oënskynlik opponerende metodes. Eersgenoemde is geneig om verskeie voorwerpe in 'n enkele entiteit saam te stel, soos wanneer ons aan die "woonkamer" dink as die samevoeging van 'n kamer, meubels soos 'n bank, leunstoele en tafels, en meubels soos skilderye, ornamente, ens. Die tweede is geneig om 'n individu in verskeie dele af te breek, byvoorbeeld wanneer ons dink aan 'n persoon as saamgestel uit 'n kop, 'n romp, twee arms en twee bene. Hierdie twee maniere om die werklikheid te sien, wat onderskeidelik samevoeging en skeiding genoem word, is nie duidelik van mekaar onderskei nie en ons beweeg geestelik

onder hulle sonder om 'n uitdruklike bewustheid daarvan te hê. Ons sê dus dat "alle mans 'n neus het", wat alle mense (verlede, hede en toekoms) in 'n enkele klas saamvoeg, en terselfdertyd skei wat 'n eenvoudige deel van 'n persoon is, dit wil sê die neus.

Om duidelik te wees, elke keer as ons gekonfronteer word met prosesse van samevoeging of skeiding, sal ons onderskei tussen 'n individu, beskou as 'n enkele geheel en wat ons saam sal noem, van die dele waarin ons dit afsonderlik voorstel, wat ons elemente sal noem. . Op hierdie manier sal ons die sitkamer as 'n geheel sien wat bestaan ​​uit die elemente "kamer", "bank", ens., en die elemente "kop", "stam" ensovoorts as die hele "persoon". Versamelings en elemente is die eerste konsepte wat in wiskunde teëgekom word. Om uit hul spesifieke aard te abstraheer, sal ons 'n neutrale notasie gebruik, wat nou in alle dele van wiskunde aanvaar word. Elemente word aangedui deur die eerste kleinletters van die Latynse alfabet en versamelings met hoofletters. Om te sê dat 'n versameling A uit die elemente a, b, c, d saamgestel is, skryf 'n mens A = {a, b, c, d}, waar die krulhakies ooreenstem met wat ons samevoeging genoem het en die kommas met skeiding. Die ellips". . . ” word gebruik om elemente aan te dui wat nie verlang word nie of nie gespesifiseer kan word nie, soos wanneer ons A={a,b,c,...,z} sal skryf.

Natuurlik maak die notasiekonvensies wat pas gegee is, sin vir generiese versamelings; vir spesifieke stelle sal ons spesifieke notasies, ontstellende spesiale letters, vetdruk of in Goties of uit die Griekse alfabet, en simbole met spesifieke betekenis kan aanneem. Byvoorbeeld, die versameling natuurlike getalle, dié waarmee ons tel (nul ingesluit), sal aangedui word deur N = {0, 1, 2, 3, . . .}, waar die ellips hierdie keer aandui dat ons nie die oorblywende elemente wil skryf nie (omdat ons hulle ken) en dat ons hulle nie almal kan rapporteer nie, aangesien hulle nie eindig in getal is nie. Die simbole 0, 1, 2, 3, ens. hulle het 'n konvensionele, byna universeel aanvaarde betekenis: in tekste wat in Cyrillies, Arabies, Chinees of Japannees geskryf is, word getalle nou geskryf met ons tien Arabiese syfers, van links na regs.

Om die feit aan te dui dat 'n sekere element a tot 'n versameling A behoort, word 'n ∈ A geskryf en "∈" word 'n simbool van lidmaatskap genoem; sy ontkenning is 'n ̸∈ A. As P die versameling ewe getalle is, 10 ∈ P en 15 ̸∈ P. Laat A en B twee versamelings wees sodat elke element van B ook 'n element van A is: ons sê dat B is 'n deelversameling van A en word geskryf B ⊆ A; as dan A ten minste een element bevat wat nie in B is nie, dan is B 'n behoorlike deelversameling van A en word B ⊂ A geskryf. Byvoorbeeld, P ⊂ N, gegee dat elke ewe getal 'n getal is, maar daar bestaan ​​getalle wat nie selfs. Twee versamelings A en B is gelyk, en ons skryf A = B, as elke element van A ook 'n element van B is en, omgekeerd, elke element van B ook 'n element van A is. Met ander woorde, A = B beteken dat A ⊆ B en, gelyktydig, B ⊆ A. Dikwels, om te bewys dat twee versamelings gelyk is, pas 'n mens hierdie waarneming toe, wat bewys dat elke element van die eerste aan die tweede behoort, en omgekeerd.

Dit is goed om die verskil tussen die begrip van behoort en dié van "inhoud" ten volle te besef: eersgenoemde bring 'n element in verband met 'n geheel, die tweede bring twee stelle in verband. Maak seker jy verstaan ​​die volgende voorbeeld: gegewe die versameling A = {a, b, c, d}, oorweeg die element b ∈ A en definieer B = {b}. Met ander woorde, B is die versameling wat slegs uit die element b saamgestel is. As geheel het ons B ⊂ A, maar nie een van die stellings b⊂A en B∈A maak sin nie. Laastens, laat ons onthou dat as B⊂A (B ⊆ A), ons ekwivalent kan skryf A ⊇ B (A ⊃ B), wat lees "A bevat (behoorlik) B" en ons sê dat A 'n superversameling van B is.

'n Stel sonder elemente, soos die "stel eenhorings", word 'n leë stel genoem. As ons dink aan die "stel driehoeke met vier sye", besef ons dat daar net een leë stel is, die een sonder enige element. Die leë stel word aangedui met ∅. Die leë stel word beskou as vervat in (wees 'n subset van) elke ander stel, en dus 'n onbehoorlike subset van homself. Vir volledigheid, onthou ons dat 'n stel gedefinieer kan word deur al sy elemente te lys, soos wanneer ons A = {1, 2, 3, 4, 6, 12} stel, en die stel word gesê dat dit deur uitbreiding gedefinieer word. Alternatiewelik kan ons 'n stel definieer as saamgestel uit alle en slegs die elemente wat 'n sekere eienskap bevredig; ons kan byvoorbeeld B = {delers van 12} stel, waar die krulhakies steeds gelees word as "die stel van"; in hierdie geval A = B, maar ons sê dat B deur intensie gedefinieer word (aandag, hierdie woord word met die letter “s” geskryf!). Meer formeel sou mens B = {x | skryf x deel 12} en lees "die stel elemente x sodanig dat x 12 deel". Let op dat x 'n skynveranderlike is en dat die vertikale staaf si

A B A B

A∪B A∩B ABAB

A\B A△B Figuur 1.1: Venn-diagram

lees "sodat". Die volgende drie bewerkings tussen stelle vind met uiterste frekwensie in alle dele van wiskunde plaas:

• Unie: die vereniging van twee versamelings A en B word geskryf A ∪ B en is die versameling wat saamgestel is uit die elemente wat in A is, in B is of in beide versamelings is;

• Snyding: die snypunt van twee versamelings A en B word geskryf A ∩ B en is die versameling elemente wat gelyktydig in A en in B is;

• Verskil: die verskil tussen twee versamelings A en B word geskryf A\B en is die versameling elemente wat in A is, maar nie aan B behoort nie.

Daar word gesê dat twee versamelings A en B onsamehangend is as hulle kruising die leë versameling is, dit wil sê A ∩ B = ∅. Die onsamehangende vereniging van die versamelings A, B word aangedui A ⊎ B, en stem ooreen met die vereniging van A en B wanneer hulle onsamehangend is, of so gemaak is deur hul elemente anders te merk om hulle onderskeibaar te maak. Laastens word die simmetriese verskil tussen die twee versamelings A, B gedefinieer deur die verband: A△B = (A \ B) ∪ (B \ A).

Die bewerkings tussen versamelings word maklik verstaan ​​as ons onsself grafies help met die bekende Venn-diagramme: in hierdie diagramme word 'n versameling voorgestel deur die punte van 'n sirkel en daarom, gepas twee of meer sirkels te rangskik, kan 'n mens die effek van enige bewerking tussen stelle.

Dr De Beer



[imagineclaireandjamie]

Imagine sweet moment before John Willie and Murthagh came to diner. Some romantic scene …

Here is a quiet missing moment from the episode where Jamie meets his son Willie for the first time (4x06). I hope that this fits the bill, anon. 

❤️ Katy

If asked to swear (hand upon Bible, before God or a Court of Law), I would be able to say two things about John Grey.  

First, John Grey was a preternaturally handsome enigma.  

Second, my husband’s friendship with the man baffled me utterly.  I knew of Jamie’s appreciation of John’s inclination towards self-sacrifice and honor early in life. They were traits exhibited in abundance one night when John attacked my husband. (After his botched attack, a soft-faced, virginal John fell prey to Jamie’s manufactured threat to ravage a True English Rose.  Over the years, we had often laughed about the situation –– the frightened look in the eyes of a young man, no a child, Jamie’s extraction of information through sleight of hand manufactured by my decision to barge into the interrogation, the way John could laugh of it now.)

I also grasped (though failed to understand) Jamie’s sense of obligation and friendship arising from John’s decision to commit Jamie to serve Hellwater instead of into some other form of indentured servitude.  

(The quietness in Murtagh about those missing years were the only thing that helped me see how Jamie gleaned some appreciation for the arrangement, notwithstanding the horrible things that happened while he was there.  Chief among them, the circumstances surrounding the conception and loss of yet another child, Jamie’s taking of yet another life even in the service of saving a son he would hardly know.)

But then there was Ardsmuir.  The man was my husband’s jailer.  Although things certainly could have been worse for Jamie, my husband had bartered his companionship for the lesser incidents of humanity and scraps of subsistence from John.  Medical attention in exchange for another prisoner a token offered for Jamie’s companionship over pot roast and chess. (Though he drew the line at losing his Queen to appease John.)  A holding of court in the warden’s chambers over the need for blankets and explaining with startling calm (according to him) the prisoners’ needs for nutrition from some source other than the meat of rodents infesting the prison. But what John gave (what he was able to give) consisted of hardly more than meager scraps. John was still cloaked in red, a man designated to administer the Jacobites’ punishment for the mere exercise of seeking self determination.

I also could see from this young boy (a son) that Jamie had a well of appreciation that he was raised well.  Comfortable.  Not on the run.

Despite all of this confusion over their friendship, I had to give John credit.

He could read a room.  

John.  Murtagh.  Jamie.  Me.  Willie.  

(Oh.  Willie.  The conversation in the print shop, the tremble in Jamie’s hands as he passed me the pocket-sized portrait of a son he would never raise. The son who he entrusted to his jailer.  “An honorable man,” Jamie had asserted then.)  

No, it was not the Willie in the printshop portrait that stood in my home. 

It was William.

Everyone, save the child, felt it.  

The way he was clay made half of Jamie’s body and half of someone else.  

There was talk of dinner.  

Of stretching the rabbit stew that I had meant for just the three of us –– Jamie, Murtagh, me –– to cover the Lords Grey and Ellsmere.  

Our conversation faded into nothing. 

The dead space between words became static.  

The moments between topics buzzed with awkwardness.  

Talking became impossible because secrets pressed against lips, and speaking (even a breath) would let them break free from a dam, to flood the earth between us. Certain truths were shared only among a sampling of the company.  Chief among them, the paternity of the small boy in his ostentatious, silky breeks the color of emeralds and coat of crushed sapphire with broad brass buttons.  

In the static, Jamie turned to the fire, touched the mantle, bowed his head.

“Jamie…” I started, turning to him and stopping mid-step as tension tightened in his shoulders.

And at that, John had cleared his throat and taken William by the shoulder. “It’s best that we go tend to our horses, William.”

And in that moment, I found a certain unlikely appreciation for John Grey.

His transition out of the static was so natural.  

A diversion spoken in a way that would have made me hug him in any other circumstances.  

(Had I liked him more. Had I not developed, unbidden, a hot seed of hatred deep in my womb for him the moment I crossed the threshold of my home to see him standing before my hearth with my husband. Had I not had my hand on his son’s shoulder.  John’s son’s shoulder.  Jamie’s son’s shoulder.  Not my son’s shoulder.  Had it not been for the sand trap of disappointment opened beneath my feet, sucking me down for the things that I had missed, that I could not control.)

With a grumble about something or another, Murtagh also excused himself.

And I was again alone with Jamie, the shutters closing me off from a line of sight into his mood.  Nothing cast light onto the corners of thought where the feelings dwelled.  

“Are you… okay?”  My voice skipped, a stone glancing across placid surface of water, having no idea the best approach.

Though he shook his head, he did not say a word. Dropping his hands and turning from the hearth, he simply muttered that he was going to change into more suitable dinner attire.

Having no sense of what to do, other than to be near, I mumbled that I would slip into something else, too.  It was there, near our bed, where something about him broke me.  

Perhaps it was the quiver in his hands as he reached to the neckline of his shirt, stiff fingers worrying the fabric before he pulled it up and over his head (the sweat and dirt and grime of the labor he poured into making the Ridge our home made it soft and grey).

Perhaps it was the way he had discarded his usual tidiness, allowing his shirt to fall to the floor with a heavy thwap.  

Perhaps it was how he undid his breeks, but did not push them off of his hips. As though he had been distracted by some more pressing thought (his fingers all but trembling as he settled his hands at his hips and stared past me, through walls, towards unseeable horizon).

Perhaps it was the hitch of his breath as he sat at the edge of our bed (where that morning he had taken his time with my body, made love to me so tenderly, so slowly, that I had wondered if the basalt wheels of time at the center of the earth were grinding to a halt, his mouth swallowing the moans created by his labor before they could be eaten by the walls created by his labor).  The ropes (drawn tight) holding the mattress up squeaked their protest beneath his weight, and he rested a hand on his stomach, like he was about to be ill.

Perhaps it was the distant burr of his mind working overtime, fingers flexing and relaxing into a fist before tapping away at the ridged arc of his muscular thigh.

(I knew the quietest parts of his mind, just as he knew mine.  And in the abundance of quiet moments captured not in the four corners of a photo album, but contained within the four corners of an eighteenth century cabin, I knew him better than ever.  I could see the rhythm of his children’s names beating like a drum in his head.  Faith.  Brianna.  Willie.  No.  William.  Names that would never belong to Jamie in the way that he longed for –– simply to hear their voices call out whatever iteration of “father” they so chose in childhood.)

Quietly, I gathered the supplies to clean the dirt of the day from his body and brought them to our bedside.

“Make room for me, my lad.”

He dutifully spread his knees to create a space for me, eyes focused on the small stool where I set a basin of warm water, two clean cloths, and a brush.  

I touched his face, only for a few moments, drawing his gaze back to me and up.  “Talk to me?  You know you can tell me whatever is in your mind.”

Sighing, he nuzzled his mouth to my palm. “Tell me about my daughter.  More, I mean.”

The request startled me, my eyebrows knitting together.  “But Willie––”

“Aye, Willie.”  

He stopped, shook his head as though he thought better of it.  (It struck me that my husband had never named a child, never conceived of the name that others would call to them.  He had given William the name James, but no one would speak it.)

“I’ll never ken Brianna.  Just as I dinna ken her sister.  He’s here.  Now.  I’ve laid eyes upon him.  But I’ll no’ ever have a dinner wi’ my daughters.”

Faith.

Somehow the single syllable of her name (a word meaning complete trust or confidence, a burden and gift of spiritual apprehension) knocking about in my mind was too much in the moment. He had said it more of late (her name, one that I gave her), and I found myself wondering how often he had thought of her in those twenty years.  In our separation, we lost the opportunity to carry one another’s grief, and it still made my heart ache, my stomach go unsettled.

But for this moment, another daughter. 

Brianna.

I dipped a corner of the cloth into the basin before wiping gently along his hairline, down his temple.  Cloth chased beads of grime as they rolled over his cheekbone.  And stories unraveled from my unconscious mind.  

Things that I did not know I remembered.

I explained that father and daughter had the same habit of peeling raw tomatoes, asserting rather baselessly I thought, that the flesh was more tender sans skin.  

I told him about a young Bree’s disgust for ice cubes in fizzy drinks because she said the cold made her teeth sing.  

The dance recital where she missed a step, had a tantrum, and stomped her small tap shoes on the lights lining the stage with such gusto that she sent sparks into the audience and made the recital devolve into some sort of apocalyptic chaos. 

The time my towel fell free in the kitchen as I tried to get her off to school, running madly late for work myself, and she asked me why I had a beard between my legs. 

The constant rotation of perpetually dying goldfish, my quiet ritual of sneaking into her room to steal away her “sleeping” fish and dispatch it down the toilet when she was not looking, only to replace it.  Her indignance when she said “I know what you are doing, mom!” in her most American accent at the age of five, my hands (guilty dead goldfish thieves) holding the bowl over the toilet.  

The speech she gave in sixth grade to The Optimist Club. The way she had said that her mother the healer inspired her (though we had fought in the car the entire way to the school), and her prize of a twenty dollar savings bond that she said she wanted to donate to a food pantry.  

I fell silent as I turned from his clean face, reached for the brush.  Though everything in my being was here with Jamie, without regret over my choice to return to him, my heart ached for the hole left by my daughter’s absence.

“I ken this is hard for ye,” he whispered softly, fingers catching mine as they worked through a stubborn tangle.

He drew my fingers to his mouth.  Swallowing, I whispered, “Don’t.” Tears were streaking down my face and when he reached to wipe them, I shook my head. “I love you, and you love him.”

We had missed so much.   I would not (could not) begrudge him for missing Willie.

After a time, his hair again laying in well-mannered waves along the back of his neck, ready for me to plait it and tie it there. “He was such a little Lord down by the stream.  You wouldn’t believe it.”

“Oh aye?” he asked.

Snorting, I recalled for him the scene that Murtagh and I had happened upon.  His son, glowering over some harmless leeches. The turn of his brows and grimace as I popped them free from his shins.  His hand found my hip, ran along the curve of it.  

“You look perfectly suitable for a dinner with Lord John and your little lord progeny.”

Snorting, he drew me closer by the hip, rested his face against my stomach.  “Ye dinna ken the blessing having ye here with me is.  I have all I need here in my own arms.”

I dropped to my knees in front of him, taking his cheeks in my hands as I inhaled the musk of him.  The odor of the man with whom I was building a life here in the middle of a great, blue-green forest.  “I have all I need, too.”

He kissed me then, slowly at first, but developing an intensity that made me burn although our company would surely return to us soon. It was over as soon as it began, leaving my swollen mouth breathless.

“I’ll owe ye,” he said quietly after pulling away, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth.  “For cleaning me.  For pulling me back together afore we sit back down together wi’ John and Willie, Murtagh, too…”

I made a contemplative noise, rubbing the tender nub of my right knee as I rose from the hard floor.  “I’ll expect payment with interest.  Probably a full bath, a good buffing with the salt scrub that I made.”

With a failed wink, he nodded. “Ye can count on me taking my time wi’ a full bath later.”

[lady-o-ren]

Underneath the Elder Tree

Chapter One

William Fraser had never known a mothers touch in all his young years until he found one under the withering white flowering of an elder tree.

It had happened deep in the forest where the trees grew wild and their branches twined thick, creaking as they swayed from the brisk autumn wind. Their leaves rained down in a golden, sweeping haze, pushing the lad down unfamiliar paths hoping he would notice with just a turn of chin, a maiden fair to care for and she him.

But Willie was deeply distracted searching for frogs, speckled back and green, hoping to find a friend before the forest would cloak in frost and he, stuck in his cabin with only the cracklings of the hearth and his father's chatter for company. 

He peered into the dark crevices of craggy rocks only to find hissing beetles, bent on hands and knees to the wet rot of decaying logs, coming eye to eye with a brood of mice huddled in grey furry warmth that glared at him with scorn at the rude invasion.

Nothing that croaked or hopped.

Willie puffed a disappointed sigh to a wasted morning where all he had to show for his efforts was a runny nose that he rubbed along the arm of his too-big wool coat, breeks muddied at the knees that would earn him a tongue lashing from his father with pockets of uneaten worms writhing for escape in the folds. Not to mention a mucky stench clinging to him that left Willie fearing a bath most of all.

He scrapped a hole in the damp soil with the heel of his shoon, crushing the ring of fungi tops and releasing their pungent tang as he emptied his pockets of the wee limbless creatures that had coiled around one another in a slimy pink cluster. 

Trudging back home through the slippery mud that left a squelching gasp with every step, Willie caught a sight that had him sinking to the sludge. Tucked away amongst thistle weeds and ferns under a crooked elder tree was a woman curled upon herself like a doe lost in sleep. He felt his heart lodge thick in his throat as his father's voice echoed in his head.

"A beauty beheld in the wilderness is to never be disturbed nor trusted, mo mhac, for there is only treachery lurking where their souls aught to be."

It was one of the many warnings from his father's tales told by the hearth where the spritely fires would alight his grizzle-haired face in a molten sheen as Willie sat at his knee in wide eyed captivation with his wooden snake, Sawney, clasped tightly in his hands. 

The stories he'd tell were of witches, faeries, and other vile creatures that dwelled in trees tall enough to blight out the sun so as to snatch a wanderer who'd lost their way, or hide in the rings of standing stones, shaped like jagged teeth as howling wails escaped its maw, waiting for boys such as he.

But there were no towering rocks for the wee folk to hide, nor yet was the sun on it's descent to swallow him in night. No, today he would be like his father. Just as braw, just as brave, if maybe not nearly as tall for the lass in need. 

Squaring his shoulders (blood pounding in his ears), Willie picked up a long weathered stick to wield in his hands on the off chance she was one of the wicked folk and approached her like he would for his much loved hoppers - quietly, with hands and legs ready to sprint into action if things went awry. 

But as he got closer he saw the woman for what she truly was. 

She was clad in a ragged brown coat, thrown open at the waist, where a sullied pale dress could be seen that gathered at her knees. The once fine embroidery depicting spring had succumbed to her travels, unraveling budding flowers with their strange blue leaves (of which Willie had never before seen) and long green vines stitched like the rippling waves of sea. There were rips in the sheer fabric exposing her protruding ribs where faint streaks of blood marked her skin white as snowdrops and white as Willie's face from the startling sight of red. He tore his eyes up to see her tangled craze of curls dark as his own that framed her face gaunt from hunger with lips tinted a deathly kiss of blue. 

Her being was such a lifeless thing that Willie thought her dead. 

Though to be sure, he gritted his teeth (with a stuttering breath that whistled through his nose) and poked her bared calf with his stick. She woke with a blood curdling groan, swatting her hand towards Willie, who promptly dropped his stick to frantically scamper away at having awakened the dead - if only he hadn't tripped over a tree root jutting up from the ground, falling with a graceless thunk.

"Ifrinn!" Willie yelped, sure he was on his way to meet his creator. 

But then the woman of the forest unfurled herself from a pallet of ferns and leaves, parting her dirt-speckled hair that revealed eyes of bewitching amber that glimmered in the rich evening light dappling through the boughs above. They landed on his face, transfixed to hers taut with shock - then darted warily to their surroundings. When nothing stirred from the bushes, the looming shadows of the trees, she found her breath and spoke with a voice gentle and warm as summer rain.

"Did I frighten you, little one?" 

Willie nodded, mouth agape. The sound of her flushing his cheeks. "D - Di' I scare ye?"

She brushed a hand along her calf, as she nodded back too. "Terribly. I thought you were a daring fox mistaking me for its supper."

The word supper raised the fine hairs on the back of his neck as he was reminded once more of his father's words. He dug his fingers deep into the soil grasping for a stone.

"Are ye of the auld folk that steals away boys like me tae feed tae yer weans?" Each word tumbled from the quiver of his mouth that both pained and amused the woman to hear.

"Oh, dear boy, is that what you think of me?" She gave him a smile to reassure him that she was nothing of the sort. "You will live another day and many more until you're very old and grey for I have no interest beyond the elderberries to fill my belly." She then laid her palms open at her lap, fingers numb and stiff. "I promise, you have nothing to fear from me." 

Showing more trust to a stranger than a boy really ought to, Willie let the burning breath he'd been holding pour out of him in a white cloud of relief. But a new worry took hold as he reached forward, grazing a stubby finger against her berry stained ones, icy to the touch.  

"Ye canna eat the berries off the tree, they'll twist yer innards somethin' awful and the black ones do ye worst of all," Willie said with a frown, regretting sharing his last chunk of bread with the wood mice. 

Then a kindness so obvious to a child came to mind.

"Come home wi' me!" He said with bright-eyed sincerity, propping high up on his knees. "We have bread and meat and soup that isna cold and a hearth sure tae roast ye - no' that it would," Willie added hurriedly." And -"

"I don't think your family would want you bringing home a stranger, especially one who has no means to pay such generosity back. Don't worry for me, I'll make do here as I am," she firmly insisted.

But Willie saw how her breath whispered from her lips chapped with cold, and how she shivered in her coat, threadbare and useless to ward against the wind growing sharper, seeping to the bone. And what would shield her from the cruel things that hunted by moonlight? He knew not a thing, he saw those scratches at her sides.

No, despite what she said, whatever she may be, Willie wouldn't leave her be. 

Stubbornly shaking his head, Willie replied, "I ken my, Da, and he would skin me tae my toes fer leavin' ye here in the cold in no' but tatters, hurtin' and alone. But I promise if ye come wi' me no harm will touch ye as long as I'm near."

A flicker of tenderness shined in her eyes, before shutting them tight, bowing her head, feeling faint. She pressed a trembling palm to her brow as her sight began to haze and prickle with white. She needed to send this fool-hearted boy away before the desperate sleep she so sought would take her. Quietly. Finally at peace.

The lad had simply come too late.

So she hardened her voice with all the grit she could muster, hoped it gleamed vile in her eyes like the creatures he thought she was. "You don't even know my name, nor I yours, boy. You owe me nothing. I need nothing. Now go home before the sun falls behind the mountains and you into the fangs of the beastly wicked." 

He flinched hard alright, but clenched his jaw just as quick, undeterred, and kicked himself to his feet with a throaty grunt.

"My name is William James Fraser, your servant," he said, sounding far older than his young years. He waited for a response and after several heartbeats it was given with a heavy sigh. 

"Claire," she answered simply with an exasperated look. "But this doesn't mean - "

"William!"

Came a worrying bellow, startling the two. They turned to see a man off in the distance crashing through the overgrown bracken, flushed red as his hair, frantically searching, searching. . .

Claire's hands balled into fists on instinct, her face marked with distress.

"Tis a'right," Willie said softly, trying to calm her. "It's only my Da. He willna hurt ye. He likes the lasses - I think."

Still, Claire forced herself to her feet, leaning against the trunk of the tree for stability as Willie reassured again that she had nothing to fear before rushing off to his father.

___

"Da! Da! Da!" Willie shouted, barreling into his father, all knooby elbows and knees. 

"Taing do dhia," Jamie breathed as he kneeled and checked his son over for injury, feeling heart throbbing relief that he was whole and safe. Then he grabbed the lad by the shoulders to meet the ire of his eyes.

"Ye wee wretch!" He growled, though not entirely unkind. "Have I no' told ye time and time again yer no' to venture into the wilderness wi'out me. Tis dangerous for you, as it is for me. Yet here ye are again, blackening my temper, tearing my sanity in two. I aught to tie ye hand and foot but I reckon ye gnaw through the rope like the wee ratten ye are."

"I'm sorry, I dinna mean to stray far." But Willie was hushed from speaking more by a gentle shake of his shoulders. 

"That's always yer excuse, lad. Either yer sticking that heid of yers down foxholes or trying to snap yer neck climbing trees to gather bird feathers." Jamie had to refrain from rolling his eyes when informed they were, "No' just any feathers". 

"So what daft thing was it this time?" 

A smile touched Willie's lips, his face aglow. "I found a faerie woman, I'm sure of it. I promised she could come home wi' us, have supper wi' us and ye say it's a mighty sin tae break yer word, bad as lyin'."

"Aye," Jamie said quietly after a moment's troubled hesitation, eyeing him very closely. "I have told ye so." And ran a hand over his sons head, feeling for a bump. "Does this faerie of yers have a name?"  

"Claire," Willie said excitedly. "I'll show ye to her." 

He was then dragged to his feet towards the lone elder tree amidst the mossy sprawl of birch and pine, where the woman proclaimed to be faerie was where she'd been left - leaning against the drooping shade. Only now she was grasping a dagger, staring with eyes large and feral at the man in front of her, whose pulse convulsed at his throat.

Jamie's hand flew to the hatchet belted at his waist that could swing at animals twice his size with a graceful ease, but Willie exclaimed, "No Da!" knowing this as well.

"Claire's only scairt of ye! Please dinna hurt her!" The wee lad planted his feet to the grass and threw his arms around Jamie's hoping to weigh it down. Instead the elder reached with his other hand but with the wooden handle pointed at Claire.

"Does my son tell me true? Do ye hold that blade to protect yerself or to harm?" 

Her blurring gaze jumped from Jamie to Willie, whose face had gone ghost-white, yet still he kept true to his word, and moved to stand between her and his father like a devoted knight. With her eyes beginning to sting and an unaccustomed warmth flaring small beneath her breasts, Claire lowered her hand but kept hold of the dagger that had been hidden in the folds of her ruined dress.

Parting her lips she murmured near breathless, "I - I only lost my way." Then all went deathly black and chilling as she fell to the mottled leaves.

"Ye killed her, Da!" Willie cried as he came to Claire's side.

"How could I when I laid no' but eyes upon her?!" But Jamie too sank beside her, with guilt rippling sickly in the pit of his stomach for raising his hand to one who now looked so pitiful and small. Gently, he rested his hand against her ribs, cringing at how he could feel the starving curve of each one, and found  that she did indeed still breathe.

"She's no' dead," Not yet anyway. She made a small sound, a strangled whimper, in unconscious agreement.  

"Then we bring her home, right?" Willie's voice was an anxious plea, as he smoothed Claire's curls from her face.  

"Seems we must as she has no other." 

Jamie then glanced up to the sky where clouds of stormy grey began to billow and whirl, slowly veiling the last orange rays of sunlight. Swiftly, he took off his wool coat and wrapped Claire tight, holding her flushed to the heat of his chest, wondering how she hadn't frozen before being found.

"What about her dagger?" 

The long blade laid off to the side and rather than leaving what had been aimed at his gullet, Jamie belted it aside his hatchet.

As he hoisted her up in his arms and walked down the sloping, steep paths home (with Willie uncharacteristically quiet, but with his lone urgent chant of "Hurry, Da" while casting worried glances his way) Jamie pondered who or what he embraced. This woman with eyes like no other being he'd ever known or dreamed of, yet fragile as any mortal man.

Where did ye come from, lass?

___

A/N:

*Willie is the son of Mary MacNab (deceased) in this world. A lot easier to write good things about her then Geneva.

*The Elder tree symbolizes new life and the fairy realm

Thank you for reading!