#confession I downloaded and read the whole book back in may and have been sitting on this comic for a while

[mandiminimojo]

Oh no, he got hot!

[andyet-here-we-are]

I Would Get Into Millions of Accidents Just to See You, Chapter 2 (aka Nurse Geralt AU)

(ao3: x

Chapter 1 Tumblr Link: x )

Geralt is not someone who is an active social media user. He has never been.

Hell, he wouldn’t even use WhatsApp if he didn’t have to.

He thinks that apps like this make people so accessible, and leaves little privacy, and ironically, despite it’s called “social media” it makes people less social. He has lost count of how many times he has seen a group of friends sitting somewhere and scrolling through some apps on their phone or something instead of talking to each other.

Of course, it depends on one’s use, but from what he can tell, whenever you’re online, people tend to think that you have all the time in the world.

So no, thank you very much. He likes his privacy.

Whenever he says that “Social media is for people who don’t have nothing better and important to do,” Ciri just gives him The Look ™ and says: “Okay, boomer.”

He has no idea what the hell it’s supposed to mean, but he is sure it’s not something good.

Once Ciri had downloaded some dating app on his phone without his permission while he was sleeping his ass off after a very tiring night shift. That little match-maker of a girl.

And not only that, but also she had said: “I texted some of the users for you! The ones I thought you might like. One of them seemed nice, I like her energy. So, anyway, long story short, you have a date this weekend. You can thank me later.”

“Excuse me, you did what?!”

Needless to say, Ciri wasn’t allowed to use the internet for three days after that.

“I just want you to be happy,”  on the third day, Ciri had said out of the blue while they were reading I, Robot together —they were both into sci-fi, and reading was a great escape from thinking about all the things going on in life.

“You deserve love. Everyone does. Your whole life is nothing but me and your job, and… You deserve happiness, dad. You deserve love.”

“Come here,” Geralt had said, opening his arms wide for her to embrace him, which Ciri had applied.

“I am happy, pumpkin.”

“You could be happier… If there was someone you loved and dated—”

“Ciri, look. Love is… A beautiful thing.” he started ‘Even though it can be hurtful,’ was left unsaid.

“But love doesn’t necessarily mean the affection between a couple. It doesn’t just mean romantic love. Love can be in many forms, shapes, and different ways. Love of self, of animals, of nature, friends, family… We experience love every day when you think about it. You can find it in everything.  Even in a slice of homemade pie that Mrs. April brought us today.”

“I love pie! But dad, I doubt that if a slice of pie can tell you that you look lovely today. A cutie-pie on the other hand—”

“Ciri, have you been even listening to me?”

“…and a pie can’t run their fingers through your hair-”

Geralt sighs, “Why am I even trying?”

“Deep down you know I’m right. Dad… How about you just… give her a chance? For me? Just see how it goes?”

"Is it gonna make you happy if I do that?”

“So happy!”

“And you’re not gonna do something like that ever again.”

“Promise!”

“Not downloading stupid apps on my phone, and not trying to set me up.”

“You got it, Cap!”

Geralt had met with that woman, and they just didn’t click.

True to her word, Ciri never has done something like that again.

***

Geralt is not someone who likes social media.

But there he is, looking at the musician’s posts instead of sleeping—even though he has to get up early as always tomorrow—scrolling through the app, and feeling like a high school girl with a stupid crush.

He reads every little caption the musician had written.

Surprisingly- well, maybe not so surprisingly- his songs aren’t the only thing he posts about.

He posts about random things; sometimes it’s a pretty flower he came across this morning, sometimes it’s a kitten, a book he is currently reading, food recipes, his drawings, things like that.

His account seems like just his personality.

Filled with all the beautiful colors in the word. Filled with joy, and every little thing he shares feels so sincere. Personal.

[I tried that recipe @Brianricci has sent me and it still feels like there are fireworks in my stomach, so here’s a little drawing for you my life-saver pasta-mate.]

That one makes Geralt smile. Reminds him of that day.

***

“I have something for you, Mr. Should Have Been A Model But Became A Nurse For Some Reason. Not that I’m complaining, for the record. The only thing I have complaints about is your hospital’s awful food. So awful that it should be illegal. A sin, even. You’re sinning whenever you guys force people to eat that food. I can only imagine your staff’s weekly confessing: ‘Forgive me father for I’ve sinned.’

‘What’s wrong, immortal one? What did you do?’

‘Oh, father, even bathing myself in holy water can’t cleanse me from my sins! I made my patient eat that awful food, I had to, father! I had to! I had no choice! But I have faith that I can change that one day!’

‘Faith becomes you. Stay with it. Keep fighting the good fight with all thy might.’

God help him this man is so ridiculous.

“Why are you suddenly Anthony Hopkins from The Rite?”

“Eh, just felt like it,” Jaskier shrugs “Your jello is pretty good though, so, good deed point. And your nurses aren’t half bad either, so I heard.”

Jaskier winks at him.

The audacity of that man.

“Anyway! As I was saying, I have something for you—”

“I have something for you, too, Mr. Pankratz,” Geralt says. He has a good guess about what Jaskier has for him.

A drawing of a flower.

He had heard the staff talking about how the pretty patient in room 242 has been giving flower drawings to pretty much everyone while he was walking around.

“Why thank you, you shouldn’t have! You brought some wine for me or something? For the celebration for my third week here? You’re so kind, my good sir.”

“It’s your medicines.”

“���ever the heartbreaker. I take back everything I said. You’re the devil in disguise.”

After Geralt gives him his medicines, Jaskier pulls a scratch book under his pillow and carefully tears a page from it. He gives it to Geralt.

“I thought I was the devil in disguise?” The nurse says as he takes the drawing from him “Are you sure that you should give demons a flower draw—”

Geralt can’t finish his sentence.

Because what he is looking at certainly is not a flower drawing.

It’s a man who holds a syringe in his hand with a kind smile on his face, and the syringe is filled with cute little hearts.

It’s him.

There’s a giant cactus standing behind him for some reason Geralt finds it hard to understand why.

He has seen the other drawings, and they are nothing like this one. This one looks like Jaskier has tried his hardest to make it perfect. Put everything in it. It’s perfect and detailed as if he had drawn it while looking at Geralt. It also seems familiar for some reason.

“—in conclusion, devils are fallen angels, so…” Geralt hears Jaskier talking.

Yet he is too busy to say something as he keeps looking at the drawing in his hands.

“Ooops, did I go too far with the hearts?”

“Hm.”

“Geralt? Say something, please? Oh God, I broke my nurse. They’re sooo gonna sue me. And I don’t think I can afford a good lawyer, I’ll rot in jails, I’m too young to rot in jails, I can’t be someone’s bitch, I’m not even—”

“May I ask why is there a cactus standing behind me?”

“A comment! Phew! Finally! Well, that would be because you’re just like a cactus.”

Geralt raises an eyebrow.

“Better than being a weed, Dandelion.”

Jaskier holds his hand to his chest and gasps, feigning offense.

“Words hurt, Geralt. Words hurt.

I meant it as, like, let’s face it, you’re kinda prickly on the outside sometimes, but soft on the inside? A cactus in the desert.”

Geralt sighs.

“And now you imply that my hospital is a desert. How nice. What’s next?”

“You don’t like it?”

“It’s okay.”

It’s obviously more than okay, but teasing with the young man is fun, and everyone needs some fun in their lives once in a while.

“If you don’t appreciate my drawing just give it back,” Jaskier makes grabby hands as he pouts like a little kid that just dropped his ice cream,  “I’m pretty sure it’ll look good on my fridge anyway. No trouble for me.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

“I’m not giving this back. Too late, you should’ve thought that before you gave it to me. Can’t take it back now.”

“If you don’t say something nice about my spectacular drawing you can be sure that I’m gonna take it back from your hands even if that means putting up a fight.”

“How bold of you to think that you’re in a condition to put up a fight.”

“You’d be surprised. And if I can’t, your other nurse friends and your fellow patients can do it for me. I haven’t been handing out flower drawings for nothing all day.”

“And you say I am the devil in disguise.”

“I never said I was an angel, have I? Seriously though, you have ten seconds to pay a compliment to my drawing. Ten—”

“ ‘Okay’ was a compliment.”

“I beg to differ, since when ‘okay’ is a compliment? Say that to the Italian chef in Mamma Mia when he asks how is the pasta and see if he takes ‘okay’ as a compliment and doesn’t pour half-full pasta plate over your head, and ruin your favorite bee shirt. Also, nine.”

“That was oddly specific. Did that happen to you?”

“Eight, I have no idea what you’re talking about, I was just being hypothetical. Seven, six—”

“I bet he wouldn’t threaten me with taking my meal back if I did at least.”

“Sev— wait a second I was counting backwards, weren’t I? Where were we? Five!”

“Man, you’re really no good at math.”

“Wanna know what I’m good at? Many things, and fighting happens to be one of them. Four, ” Jaskier attempts to get up from the bed, somehow forgetting about his broken leg for a split second and swears: “Ah, cock!”

Geralt barely holds back a laugh at that one.

“Careful.”

“I can still verbally fight you.”

“You’ve been already doing that for the last five minutes.”

“…three.”

“You never give up, do you?” Geralt rolls his eyes with a smile, “It’s a good drawing. I really like it.”

Another lie.

He doesn’t just like it, he loves it.

But even saying that he likes it is enough to make Jaskier beam at him.

“You gave everyone a flower drawing,” he points out  “but I get a cactus and a drawing of myself, why is that? It must have taken some time to draw this.”

“A special drawing for a special nurse.” Not making eye contact, Jaskier says so softly that Geralt nearly misses it. “Yeah, it sure took some time to draw it, and my schedule was so full because of all the crazy hospital parties you guys keep throwing that I could hardly find the time, but eh, I managed somehow.”

“Sucks that they never invite me to that parties,” the nurse jokes back. “Seriously though, thank you. I appreciate it.”            

“I’d like to draw something for Ciri, too. But I’m saving it for later when I can meet her. You didn’t tell her that I’m here, right?”

“She doesn’t know.”

“Good! Keep it that way.”

***

Smiling at the memory, Geralt rises from his bed to take the drawing from his bedside drawer. No, of course he doesn’t look at it every day, what are you talking about?

If he hadn’t promised Jaskier that he wouldn’t let Ciri know until these two can meet in person, this drawing would be on his wall already.

Maybe next to Ciri’s painting of a white wolf.

He had considered doing so but then decided that it would be wise if he didn’t. No doubt Ciri would figure out it was Jaskier’s drawing as soon as she would see it. It was signed by him, after all. Not that Ciri couldn’t figure it out without the signature.

“What the hell, Geralt” The nurse snorts to himself and runs a hand over his face as he imagines his room filled with the drawings of his daughter, and Jaskier’s. “What are you gonna dream about next? Ciri being a flower girl at your wedding?”

Fuck.

He is totally dreaming about it now.

God, it’s crazy how much he misses him, even though he doesn’t really know him.

Ciri already is crazy about Jaskier, and Geralt looks forward to them to meet, to see how Ciri is going to react when she sees him. He feels like the two would talk non-stop, and he would just listen to them talking about God knows what.

He would have no problem with that; in fact.

“I’ll give him a call tomorrow,” he thinks.

He wants to see Jaskier again.

(Thanks for reading! Sorry for the lack of Jaskier in this chapter, but it was like:

-So, it’s time for you to meet Ciri! 

-Hah, well, I love her, but I don’t think so. Not yet. 

-But Ciri- 

-You can have me as a Flashback Guest in this chapter, nothing more. 

-But my plan wasn’t like this. 

-Too bad, I’m my own character.

Let me know what you think please. Have a good day everyone ~ 💛)

[aiw0lf]

Confessing Wild

Nick Wilde still did not like being in a courtroom. Even now, a year after the academy, and not really being in the courtroom he found himself fidgety. He was currently sitting in the holding room where they put witnesses awaiting their turn on the stand when the prosecution or defense doesn't want them listening to other witness testimony. The long narrow room had two rows of chairs both leaned with their backs to the opposite walls. Maybe his discomfort stemmed from his lack of entertainment. His normally ever-present, ever cheerful partner was in the courtroom. He wasn't worried for her, no one the prosecution had called to be witnesses today had any reason to be worried. Except maybe himself and the vixen on the other end of the room. Zootopia had always been a clinical place for a fox.

The bailiff standing near the door to the main courtroom was a warning to all in the cramped holding space. They most definitely could not talk about what happened to bring them all together. Waiting who knows how long until they had the opportunity to tell the judge and jury what they uncovered six months ago. Leading to quite possibly the biggest scandal in Zootopia since the Bellweather incident.

Nick leaned back in his chair with a yawn. Crossing his arms over his head, closing his eyes and stretching out his legs to cross them at the ankle. There were 3 other mammals in the room with him. All sat on the opposite wall facing the door. Their means of escape.

Two chairs to his left sat a young lamb reading a romantic mystery novel. She was turned away from him and her posture of one leg crossed over the other and shoulders leaned in was an effort to make her already small frame look smaller. She had pushed herself as far away from him and the others as possible. Nick didn't know if it was due to the subject of her book. When they first were escorted into the room the ewe bumped into the door dropping all of her belonging on the ground. Nick, Judy, and the vixen tried to gather everything up and hand it to the frantic female, and Nick so happened to be the one to grab the book from under a chair. The threatening look from the vixen had him swallow the jokes he was going to make. Which would have been his entertainment now with his partner was in the other room.

Directly in front of Nick was his boss. Chief Bogo made no effort to make himself smaller despite the cramped room. The Cape Buffalo was busy playing a game on his phone while intermittently taking calls from the Lieutenant he left in charge of Zootopia Police Department's Precinct 1 for the day and Benjamin Clawhuser, Precinct 1's dispatcher and front desk cheetah. The Lieutenant and Dispatch were not getting along from what Nick could hear in the half conversations he was privy to.

Two seats from Bogo's right sat someone Nick had known longer than anyone in this city save for his own mother. The red vixen sat with her legs in the same position as his own but her arms were holding her phone which she had been typing on most of the time they had been in this room, her emerald eyes focused on the screen in front of her.

If both foxes were walking down the street together most animals who passed them would only see two red foxes and not think anymore, unless they were pray then 9 times out of 10 they would cross the street away from the shifty preditors. They would not see that both Nick and this female had the same piercing green eyes. They would also not see the minute differences between them either. Nick, like most males of any given species, has a brighter coat then the vixen's. His held more orange compared to her strawberry-like coloring. His ears and tail are tipped with black, hers white. In fact, the vixen's fur heald more white than the average red fox but Nick always assumed that was due to her mother being an arctic fox.

The exasperated sigh caused Nick to open his eyes and look the vixen's way.

"That frustrating hu?" He said trying to muffle a chuckle.

"I sware public education is turning out more helpless freshmen every year," she said closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the wall. Her phone left in one hand down on her lap.

"You could always stop teaching." Said the Buffalo. As he turned his phone to the side. His tongue was sticking out of his muzzle and a look of excited concentration told Nick his boss was playing the racing game that almost every officer in the station had downloaded. He saw the same look on his best buddy's faces during morning coffee break more times then he could count. Granted the Buffalo could not wag his tail like the timber wolf could.

Ignoring Bogo completely the female fox made eye contact with Nick and illiterate, "I left my students with a simple take-home assignment since I could not find a Student-Teacher to cover my class, and I have an email box full of the dumbest questions. Does no one do their summer reading assignments anymore?"

Nick busted out laughing, unable to contain himself of his amusement at the ridiculous question. He knew the vixen was 100% serious in her annoyance. At least the Lamb at the other side of the room looked interested in the conversation.

"Oh, Professor I can attest as a former student of yours the answer is no" the sheep bayed.

But before they could all continue to mock the vixen the door opened and hopping in was the light of Nick Wilde's life.

NO Wilde. Partner, friend. That's it, put back on the hustle.

The internal monologue he had to repeat several times a day kicked in before Judy Hopps saw him. He calmed his face to show a half-smile just in time for the first bunny cop's violet eyes to look his way with a warm smile, she turned away from Nick and her smile faded to show more sympathy to the vixen.

"They're calling you next Amie." Judy said her hands bunched up in front of her and ears down.

The vixen stood and smoothed her navy pencil skirt before tugging the matching blazer in place, ears erect on the top of her head. Bogo and the sheep's eyes passed between her and Nick and he knew they were all thinking the same thing. If the prosecution wasn't calling Nick right after his partner then they weren't going to call him at all and hope the defense doesn't notice the 2 foxes with the same name.

Amie walked into the quiet courtroom and didn't waste the sideways glace to check out the gally as she headed to the witness stand. It was certainly filled with reporters trying to get the scoop on the newest "Trial of the Century". She buried the regret that started to bubble for deciding to wear the form-fitting navy suit and not a white lab coat once she saw the todd in the jury box directly in front of her stair her up and down. She sighed internally and pushed her glasses up her muzzle as she reached the bailiff that would swear her in. Once under oath, she climbed the two stairs to the witness stand and gracefully sat to face the prosecutor who stood from behind his table and sauntered in her direction. The Bloodhound buttoned his suit jacket before lifting his eyes to her and asked his first question.

"Please state your full name, title, and occupation for the jury."

"Doctor Amelia Natalie Wilde, I am a professor of Forensic Sciences at Zootopia College and University." As Amie spoke she leaned toward the microphone on the edge of the witness stand.

"What degrees in relation to this case do you hold Doctor?"

She suppressed the chuckle from how painstakingly the questions was worded and instead decided to rattle off the previously approved list as quickly and clearly as possible. In the witness prep she did with the bloodhound they focused on how to not bore the jury by going though her whole educational background but also impress upon them her abilities.

"I have a bachelor's in Forensic Science, a Masters's, and a Doctorate of Forensic Toxicology. I also recently completed a Masters Certificat in Criminal Justice Administration." Emerald eyes passed over the 12 mammals in the jury box. She knew exactly which parts of her education made her not only the perfect expert witness in the case but also why she was asked to do what she did for the ZPD six months ago.

She was sure once the Prosecutor was felt the jury could trust her education he then had to jump the hurdle of proving she was contacted because she was the best option not currently working in the department and not her relation to one of the investigating officers. Hopefully, that relation would not come up.

"Very impressive," the prosecutor's pause was thick in the air leading Amie to look out at the audience to see more than one skeptical face, "do you have a specialty in regards to toxicology, Doctor Wilde?"

Zootopia was not used to foxes with extensive degrees. It happened but rarely in criminal justice. Nick just got on the ZPD force barely a year ago and that would have been a media nightmare if Judy hadn't made sure to highlight how much he helped her with the Nigh Howler attacks. Even as a hero in the city his hiring came with plenty of push back.

"Objection" the defense, a hyena, hackled.

"Under what grounds?" The judge's eyes narrowed on the laughing canine.

"The prosecutor has made it quite clear the Doctor has an impressive education."

The bloodhound turned to the bench and placing on his most innocent face possible "This will be the last question to the doctor's capabilities your honer."

"I will allow it, but this better be the last one, or the female will start to sound like she is bosting. You may answer the question Doctor." The judge, a male koala said with a pass of his hand. Amie clicked her teeth to herself and sat up straighter before answering.

"I am able to identify the most popularly used narcotics on sight" Amie said after she turned from the judge back to the prosecutor.

"Would this ability of yours ever be used in substitute for testing a possible illegal drug sample in a criminal forensics lab?" The Prosecutor's eye went wide. The game had finally begun.

"No."

"Would you ever encourage your students to not test possible evidence in a criminal case because proper toxicology reports are expensive to the ZPD?" With more than little theatrics, the representation of the people turned and walked towards the jury box as he asked this question.

"No."

"And Doctor, If a recently graduated student of yours came to you with knowledge of a high ranking individual in the ZPD Criminal Forensics lab refusing to test evidence; sighting your unusual talent and the price of constantly testing multiple samples, what would you tell that former student to do?" the twist towards her put him directly in front of the jury. As she looked at him she could see their faces. He had them hooked. Now to deliver.

"I would inform that student they needed to report their superior for criminal misconduct." Green eyes meet the heated amber of the hounds and she knew he wasn't going to leave it to her word.

Assistant District Attorney Anthony Roolf crossed the courtroom in seconds to the evidence table and lifted a bag off of it. He read the evidence number off of the bag and walked steadily closer to Amie on the witness stand.

"Doctor Wilde do you recognize this document?" he gently laid the unbagged paper in front of her.

She picked it up and read a few lines to herself. "Yes, it is a print out of an email exchange between myself and Miss. Woolard."

"And what was the context of this conversation?" Roolf pointed to the paper.

"Miss. Woolard, after graduating from ZCU with a Masters in Forensics was working at the ZPD forensic lab in Savanah Central. She had noticed her superior, the head of the lab Mr. Mustelidae" Amie gestured toward the defense table, "excepting evidence. Marking it was tested with the findings of containing illegal narcotics, and then delivering that finding to the Police without ever testing the sample for its true chemical contents."

"OBJECTION!!! The witness is testifying to hearsay!" The hyena practically jumped across the defense table to get to the judge.

The judge slammed his gavel once in warning to the defense before turning eyes to Roolf.

"Doctor Wild is not testifying to hearsay, she is stating the start of the timeline of events that lead up to Mr. Mustelidae's arrest. Without the Doctor receiving this email the injustice occurring in Savanah Central Criminal Forensics Lab may have never come to light."

"I agree." said the irritated marsupial. "Another outburst like that from you Mr. Banzai and I will though you out of my courtroom." Shaking his gavel in the defense's direction.

"Yes sir." The hyena said as he sank back in his chair.

No more of ADA Roolf's questions to Amie were objected too and the questioning continued. Amie described how she knew Miss Woolard from teaching her in several classes and how she responded to the initial email. Insisting the young sheep report the badger who was destroying the sanctity of the criminal justice system. She did not know what transpired after her correspondence with the former student and before Chief Bogo walked into her office with a newly promoted police patrolmammel Wilde, but she did know that once the Cape Buffalo approached her she was going to be dragged into the mess whether she wanted to or not.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Six Months Earlier

Amie was sitting at the professor's desk in an empty classroom grading papers with her headphones in her ears. Her body swayed with the music as she underlined and x'ed papers with a red pen. She was obviously focused on her work to the point Nick wished he wasn't in uniform carrying heavy ZPD equipment standing next to Chief Bogo. He was missing a prim scaring the pants off of the vixen moment. Instead, Chief Bogo cleared his throat loudly. She didn't even stop swaying.

"Ah, yeah boss let me try." after Bogo grunted his approval. Nick put down the equipment and picked up a balled-up piece of paper that didn't make it into the wastebasket. He then expertly pitched it at the vixen's face like the little league superstar he was. It made contact with its intended target. Amie's face reacted instantly as the paper landed in her hands after toppling her glasses and causing an earbud to fall out of her ear. She turned to Nick and Bogo gasping at the insult. She made eye contact with Nick first.

"Why you little. . ." She threw the paperback at Nick. "That is not how you say 'hay I came for an unexpected visit' twerp." Nick caught the paper as it started to sink in front of him a few inches short of his chest. Bogo cleared his throat again causing her to leave her revenge and acknowledge the Chief of ZPD Precinct 1 was addressing her. "I am sorry Doctor this is not a personal call." Nick saw her shoulders slump as she took the males in. Nick realized it was the first time she had seen him in his duty uniform.

"How can I help you, officers?" Amie suddenly sounded more professional then Nick ever heard her, and he watched her present her dissertation.

"Doctor I would like to have a piece of evidence tested on camera," Bogo said gesturing to the film equipment near Nick's feet. Amie's eyes narrowed on Nick and he gave a light shrug. Why Bogo wanted her to do it was plain. She was the best Toxicolgest at the university. Why he dragged Nick across the city to the university to have an expert unconnected to the ZPD test the sample Nick knew but it was an open investigation so could not share with one of the few mammals he trusted with his life.

"I'll have to cancel my 7 o'clock class" Amie clicked away on her phone presumably emailing her students the change in plans. "It will take several hours for the results." She peered out from the side of her eye at the males still in the doorway of the classroom. Bogo lifted an eyebrow but only said "That will be fine."

Nick and the Cheif only arrived on campus at 5 pm and had to stop in with the Campus precinct before locating Amie. It was now 5:45 in the evening. As they left the classroom they found the vixen in she left a note on the Whiteboard.

Doctor Wilde's 6pm lecture canceled. Online discussions still due tonight!!!

Tonight was underlined 3 times, and Nick wondered how many co-eds will complain they didn't know the assignment wasn't pushed back. The three mammals walked down the hall to the elevator and took it down two levels to a floor of just laboratories. Nick tried not to remember his freshman chemistry class that was on this floor but when the old walrus that taught the class passed them he couldn't help but chuckle.

"Hay didn't I light that guys lab coat on fire 7 years ago?" Nick asked once he was out of earshot.

"Yes, and he won't let me live it down. Any time the science department plans a school-wide event he makes sure to say I'm not to go near a bunsen burner." Amie said giving Nick a dirty look. Bogo seamed confused for only a second. Then mumbled under his breath. "So you are related."

Amie stopped in front of a door where though the tinny window near the top only darkness greeted them. Above that door forensics lab, 1 was engraved. She turned the lights on as she strolled in and placed the bag she was carrying on the desk meant for the professors. Nick placed the digital camera case and tripod on the ground next to it and Bogo walked around and whistled.

"No wonder we can't hire you. You have all the shine toys right hear." Bogo said while stopping in front of a piece of machinery Nick couldn't even guess at what it does.

"What do you mean? Most of this stuff is a decade old?"

At Amie's words, Nick and Bogo exchanged a look that could only be described as telling. If Amie noticed it while putting on her lab coat she didn't say anything. She taped a piece of paper to the 2 doors of the lab and locked them. Nick figured they said something similar to the note left on the whiteboard in the classroom, and that she locked the doors because most mammals don't read signs. Working in traffic for the past few months solidified that as a fact in Nick's mind for good.

"What do we got?" Nick watched the Cape Buffalo hand the evidence bag to Amie and he started setting up the tripod. She looked at it briefly before handing it back and started sliding around the lab, turning on machinery and setting up equipment in an almost dance performed by someone who knew where everything they needed was and when they would need it.

The camera was rolling in no time and Bogo handed the bag back to Amie after she identified herself for the camera and he himself. She then described the bag as a ZPD evidence bag read off the case number and that it was initially collected by Officer Nicolas P. Wilde and then tested by an Edger Mustelidae, found to be over two grams of pure cocaine. After saying that out loud Amie looked up from the front of the bag and made direct eye contact with Nick. Her face had a professional what the fuck look to it. Nick again shrugged. Amie clicked her teeth and flipped the bag over in her hands to describe the first evidence seal on the bag had not been cut as it should have been by procedure. Instead, the bag according to her appeared to have been ripped open on the side. This time she looked at Bogo, who just nodded.

She did confirm the yellow evidence tape meant to reseal it was covering the possible hole before cutting into the red tape Nick put on the bag that morning before taking it to the Savannah Central lab. Inside of the bag was another much smaller plastic bag with a zip-top. It was as full of a yet to be determined white powder as it was this morning. Amie emptied the contents of the baggie into a small metal bowl and weighed it. Nick zoomed in on the scales readout as Amie read it out loud.

The vixen continued to her examination of the contents of the baggie. Including putting a small sample of if under a microscope before putting some in a test tube with a soluble solution and running it thought the Mass Spectrometer. As the three waited for the computer to finish analyzing Nick, Bogo, and Amie chatted. Mostly Bogo tried to convince Amie to take a position with the ZPD lab and Amie tried to make fun of Nick's uniform. As a patrolmammel he was wearing the same uniform Judy did. Once they became Corporals or higher they would ware the dress blues to work. Like what he wore to his graduation. Nick knew she knew that, but it didn't stop her from teasing.

"Wheres Judy anyway?" Amie finally asked Nick.

"She went to Bunny Burrow to visit her folks." Nick said not giving the Doctor eye contact. The vixen knew from the moment he got off the graduation stage at the academy he had a crush on the bunny, but he did not want her to know how far he let his feeling go. She knew him better than anyone and instead of pushing the subject she just started to hum. The same song she hummed at the picnic his mother brought for after the graduation. Judy and Nick's mom thought the song choice was related to being a cop would give Nick the opportunity to make the world better when the other females commented on the tune.

The computer's chime brought Nick out of his thoughts and had Amie pushing off in her rolly chair to the screen. "Well, it's not coke. Boys" Amie clicked on the mouse twice and started to roll back to the 2 police officers. Midroll she grabbed a freshly printed page off the printer and presented it to Bogo. Nick was already standing and bringing the camera which they left recording to zoom in over Bogo's shoulder. "Corn Starch, Talc, Magnesium, Silicon, and a bunch of other things but what it boils down to is Baby powder. I can't say brand yet, but I could by tomorrow if I downloaded the composition into the product database." Amie stated smugly.

"No need Doctor. Can you email this to me?" Bogo said standing and giving a good stretch.

"Yes, I can Cheif. It was nice working with you." Amie said shaking paws with the buffalo. Amie resealed the evidence with the ZCU evidence tape and handed the bag back to the chief after signing it, and started cleaning up what was left out. Most of what the Doctor used had already been cleaned and put back while they waited on the mass spec.

"Come on Wild. I'll give you a ride back to the precinct." Chie Bogo yawned and looked at his watch. "My wife is going to kill me."

"If you don't mind Chief I'll take the train in the morning. I think I want to grab some bad Chinese food with the Doc." Nick said. Bogo shrugged. Nick's day off was tomorrow so it didn't matter to his boss what he did that night.

________________________________________________________________________________

Present Day

"Doctor Amelia Wilde." The hyena rolled her name over his tong "You wouldn't happen to be related to Officer Nicolas Wilde of the ZPD? The very officer who investigated the allegations your student Miss Woolard place on my client."

Amie was not surprised by the question. If the defense attorney was worth anything he would need to ask that question.

"Yes, I am related to Officer Nicolas Wilde."

"How?" He smirked as he leaned in close to Amie.

"Our fathers were brothers. We are first cousins." Amie did not mention Nick was the closest thing to a little brother she would ever have or that they were very close as kitts.

Banzai started himself on a roll and he wasn't going to stop until Amie's credibility was shredded.

Don't give them an inch honey.

Amie's mother's voice in her country accent said in her mind.

Or they will take a mile.

Amie put on her best nonchalant face and peered at the cackling hyena through hooded bored eyes.

"You said earlier Doctor that you have the ability to tell "the most popularly used narcotics on sight" is that right?" He asked quoting her own words.

"Yes."

"What narcotics are you referring to in this statement?"

"Powdered cocaine, Nepeta cataria or catnip dried or leaf, and heroin from anywhere from liquid to crack." A female somewhere in the room gasped. "Oh, you do not get to turn the tables on me." Amie thought as she tried not to grind her teeth and struggled to keep her face the picture of professional disinterest.

"How did you acquire such a skill?" Every tooth in the Hyenia's head was visible.

Amie wondered if the hyena was banking on her pleading the 5th and thus discrediting her entire account. Instead, she clicked her teeth, sat back in her chair, and looked up at the defense.

"A professor in my doctorate studies would not sign off on your degree unless you can properly identify three illegal substances on sight. I identified every substance he placed on the table during my final exam. There were 5. One of them was lemongrass. I repeat this test as extra credit to my master's students." She watched Banzai's face fall as he moves away from her as if her words burned.

"No more questions for the witness." The defense said and sat down in his chair.

Mustelidae tried to whisper in his defense's ear probably trying to figure out what just happened. As Amie came down from the witness stand she gave a light smile to the jury. What she saw told her two things about the trial going forward. The jury believed her, and Nick was going to be called to the stand by the defense.

_____________________________________________________________________________

Nick was surprised by how long his cousin was out of the room and started to really worry. He didn't know when he got up to start pacing the room, or when Judy's nose started to twitch but combined with Bogo no longer playing his game just answering calls and watching the clock with ears down pressed by his head. Had Nick feel dread climbing up his throat ready to explode when the door finally opened. "Aims! Straight Aim talk to me!" Nick pleaded, calling her by the nickname only he used. The vixen passed him in a daze, ears down tail dragging behind her, she spilled in the chair directly in front of the door as it closed.

"That bad?" The chief asked looking at the door and swallowing hard.

"No, it went rather well actually." She said sitting up straighter ears perking up. "I just really need a beer"

Nick burst out into laughter. "Well good thing I know a place."

[pokemagines]

marth + falling for his retainer

anon asked: “What if Marth had a retainer!s/o that he was falling for? But the s/o can only see themselves serving him”

a/n: i love marth !!!!!!!!! such a soft, soft boy.... will be smashing him I MEAN will be playing as him in smash. pause. --mod touko

literally downloaded fe12 after writing this dskjfjdflsd okay mod touko u need to finish fe9 and fe4 first lmao

he’s royalty, he shouldn’t be falling for someone lower than him. and yet....

you’re so kind to him, tending to his wounds, making sure he’s always healthy... he knows it’s your job, but you do it with such love and kindness, he can’t help falling for you. 

he tries his best to protect you, but you always scold him for doing so. you’re the one who’s supposed to be protecting him, not the other way around.     + “you’re my lord! i can’t have you laying your life down for me! my duty is to protect you at whatever the cost!”       “my position does not make my life worth more than yours... you... you’re important to me, can’t you see?”

it’s so obvious that he has a crush on you like. it’s bad. he gets really shy around you, nervously offering to help you with your duties or giving you extra time off. you, of course, being his retainer just chalk it up to marth being nice (as he always is).    + caeda jokes around with him about his crush. marth gets all blushy and acts like he has no idea what she’s talking about. 

it takes him a while to work up the courage to confess because he really never thinks that you’d see him in a romantic light. (you’ve served for him your whole life, how could you?). you, of course, have dealt with these feelings for a long time, but never acted on them because you knew there was no way you two could be together. at least until...

   “ah, [name]... could i speak to you... in private?” he asks, nervously fiddling with the hilt of falchion. caeda shoots you a wink, squeezing your hand before leaving the two of you alone in the weapons tent. there’s a quiet pause, an uncomfortable tension settling between the two of you. you speak first:

   “of course, milord. do you require something of me?” you smile faintly at him, and he steps closer, cheeks flushing from anxiousness. 

   “nothing is needed of you but... i must tell you something.” deep breaths, marth, he tells himself, swallowing the dread that was starting to creep up on him. naga, why was confessing his feelings so hard? 

   “i’m always ready to listen to you.” you reply, looking at him with concern, “is something wrong?” his face is flushed, he’s nervously shifting, all the tale-tell signs that something is off. you’ve known the prince your whole life, at this point, you could read him like a book.

   “please, let me speak to you... person to person.” he manages a grin, and you give him a funny look. 

   “but milord--”

   “please, call me marth.” he looks at you tenderly, taking your hand in his. “what i’m trying to say is...” he breaks off, studying your facial expressions. you can feel your heart hammer in your ears. he was holding your hand. you had been close to marth before, often sitting shoulder to shoulder or sharing quick hugs after particularly harsh battles but nothing as tender and intimate as this. it was a simple gesture but one that made you feel light-headed. “i have... feelings for you.and if you would have me, i...” 

   you must be dreaming. you feel your head spinning as he looks at you, anxiously awaiting your response. you’d like to be selfish and tell him that you too felt the same way, but it would be improper. a lord and his retainer? it could never happen. as quickly as the euphoria came, reality came crashing down.

   “my-- marth, you know how this would look, right?” you force the words out despite every fiber of your being telling you to go with your gut. “i mean... i’m not royalty, it would be a disgrace for you to marry someone like me!” marth rubs the back of your palm with his hand, his gaze now set on yours. 

   “i’m not one for titles, you know that.” he says, “i don’t care what anyone thinks, i know what my heart is telling me is right and... if you don’t feel the same way, fine, but i don’t want you to hide your feelings because of something as silly as what others may say.”. you swallow the lump in your throat, the ghost of a smile growing on your face.

   “of course, milord i... i, too, share feelings for you.” you flush under his loving gaze, conflicted between your duty and your feelings. why couldn’t this be easy. “but i fear of the repercussions, i don’t want your name disgraced because of me... i care for you far too much for that.” 

   “i understand your worries but you’re much more important to me than the thoughts of others...” he’s so close now that you can almost feel the heat radiating off of him. his eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to your eyes. “may i?” he asks quietly, and you nod gently, closing the gap between the two of you. 

   it’s a quick kiss, but one full of love as marth moves his hand to cup the back of your neck, pulling you in closer just seconds before he pulls away, both of your faces flushed. all your previous doubts seem to melt away when he holds you like this.

   “i don’t know much about the future and what’s in store but... with you by my side, i know we’ll be fine. you make me a better man.” marth says.

   “and i’ll be at your side... supporting you as i always do. you very are dear to me as well, sire.” you echo back his sentiments. 

   “and [name]?” he smiles down at you, blissfully content.

   “yes, milord?”

   “you’ve got to call me marth... i can’t have my future spouse calling me by my title.”

   “of course, mi-- marth.”

[lamptracker]

FIC: Too Much to Ask

Part of what is apparently going to be a series now. The whole boyband!AU thing was supposed to be a one-off. I blame Niall Horan for this. THANKS A BUNCHO, NIALL

Ahem. Anyway, The Boys in the Band is here. 

Without further ado:

FIC: Too Much to Ask (based on the Niall Horan song of the same name)

Series (sigh): The Boys in the Band

Pairing: Sam Holland/Original Character; brief mentions of Tom Holland/Reader too

Summary: Sam meets the girl of his dreams, gets his heart broken, and tries to deal with the aftermath. Takes place mostly before the events of The Boys in the Band but then joins up with it. This summary is shitty. But I like this fic.

Warnings: A little cursing.

Tagged because she says she wants to love me (indirectly, but): @tbholland

Also, I had to go back and edit this because formatting. Ugh.

Sam Holland was in love, once.

He was one-fifth of the popular boy band H5, with his brothers Tom, Harry, and Paddy, and their friend Harrison. He played piano and wrote most of the band’s songs.

The female fans loved him. He was sensitive and quiet and didn’t like going out much - he would much rather stay at home and read or watch Netflix.

He could have any girl he wanted.

But he only wanted Molly.

Molly had joined them for this particular tour as their wardrobe manager after their old wardrobe manager, Miguel, had to drop out.

“Everyone, this is Molly,” (y/n), their tour manager, had said. “Miguel decided it would be a good idea to go skiing on his off day, and broke his leg. So Molly’s taking over for him.”

Sam was immediately drawn to her. Slightly wavy, shoulder-length red hair. Sparkling green eyes. A smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Big, beautiful smile that could have lit up the sun.

At first, Sam was too shy to ask her out. His twin, Harry, was the one that pushed him into doing it. In typical Harry fashion, he’d said: “What’s the worst that could happen? She says no? Then I can date her.”

“You like her too?” Sam had asked.

“Not really. But I’d bet if she doesn’t go out with you, she’d go out with me.”

“Cocky little shit.” Sam smacked him upside the head.

But, armed with the fear that she may wind up actually dating Harry, he asked her to dinner; she readily agreed.

And things were wonderful. They loved going on long walks together, holding hands and talking. They watched a lot of Netflix together. They loved debating about their favorite shows (a big one was The Defenders - Molly hated Danny Rand with a passion; Sam didn’t mind him so much but didn’t like Colleen). Sometimes, when neither of them could sleep, they’d sit in the common area of the tour bus and watch the sunrise together and have a nearly-identical conversation every time:

“Oh, Sam. Look at that sunrise. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Not nearly as beautiful as you are, love.” And he would kiss her softly and she’d fall asleep with her head on his shoulder. He would just stare at her, taking in her beautiful face as she slept, running his fingers through her hair until he fell asleep himself.

When they’d stay at a hotel, (y/n) would book them separate rooms but they only ever used one. They’d start with trying to find something on TV but always end up making love. With Sam, it was never rushed or sloppy; he preferred being slow and passionate and making it last far into the night. He would always take his time and make sure Molly was satisfied.

And she always was.

Their nine month anniversary was approaching, and their tour was about three-quarters of the way over. Sam had shared his big plans for the evening with his twin brother:

“I’m going to ask her to move in with me after the tour is over,” He’d said excitedly.

“To do what?” Harry asked.

Sam scrunched up his face. “Um...what do you mean, to do what? To live in my house. With me. Then we’d be...you know...living together. I have so many songs I want to write about her, Harry, and it’d be easiest if she were with me.”

“Wow. You’re really serious about this girl, aren’t you?”

“I am, Harry. I really think she’s the one.”

That night at dinner, however, Sam got the shock of his life.

“I have something to tell you,” Molly said.

“Me too. But you first, darling.” Sam smiled and took her hand; to his surprise, she’d let go almost as quickly as he’d grasped it.

“Um… I can’t be with you anymore.”

Sam’s heart dropped.

“What do you mean?”

“I’ve met someone else.”

“Oh.” Sam felt as though someone had grabbed his heart and squeezed it until it stopped beating.

“His name’s Calum, he-”

“You mean the lighting guy that joined two months ago?”

“Yeah. But you-”

“No, Molly, it’s okay. You don’t need to explain yourself to me. I just...I thought things were going really well between us. Was it...did I do something?”

Molly bit her lip. “No, you haven’t done anything. I just...it’s me, Sam. I don’t know what I want. But I think I want Calum. I want you too, but...”

“I want you. All of you. Your heart, everything.”

Molly sighed. “I can’t give you that anymore, Sam. I think I’ve fallen for him. So… I’m sorry.” She reached up and smoothed a lock of hair behind his ear. “Now, what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“I...not important. I have to be going anyway. Goodbye, Molly.” And with that, he’d left some cash on the table to pay for dinner and left. He felt a little bad leaving her at the restaurant all by herself, but he was too heartbroken to care. Blinking back tears, he called an Uber and went to the hotel.

When he got back to the hotel, he went straight for his older brother Tom’s room.

“Hey, Sam! Harry said you were going to ask-”

“She broke up with me.”

Tom’s jaw practically hit the floor. “What?!”

“Met someone else, she says. The new lighting guy.”

“Calum?” Tom snorted. “That guy’s a wanker.”

“I know that. I just… I love her, Tom. I thought she loved me too. I...she said she didn’t know what she wanted. But I know what I want, I want her.”

“Are you going to start crying?”

“Yeah.”

Tom immediately got up and wrapped his younger brother in a tight embrace; Sam, who had been holding the tears in since Molly’s confession, finally let them out.

Sam didn’t sleep for about a week after the breakup. He’d just sit in the common area of the tour bus, staring out the window, watching the shadows of buildings as they flew by. He found that he quite liked long stretches of country road. They were bleak, desolate. Lonely. Like he felt.

“Can’t sleep, eh?” Harry asked him one night, two months after.

“Plenty of time to do that when I’m dead.” Sam sighed, leaning his head against the window. It was easier to fall asleep, but he still had trouble sometimes. “Kind of wish I was.”

Harry snorted. “Melodramatic much? Just get over her, man.”

“Don’t you think I’m trying?” Sam kicked at him haphazardly. “I love her. Still. She was the best thing that ever happened to me, and she’s just gone. Only thing that’s keeping me going is that little sliver of hope that she’ll just walk back in and ask me to take her back. Which I don’t think is too much to ask.”

“Would you take her back, even after she did this to you?”

“In a heartbeat.”

“Even after we have to see her all the time, and she’s with Calum?”

Sam hadn’t considered that.

“Well… I just… I don’t know. If it ever comes to that, I guess I’ll just have to see what I do.”

“But what if that never happens? Look, Sam. I’m not great at relationships. I don’t think I’ve ever had one that lasted longer than a cough drop, to be honest. So I can’t give you any good advice, really.” Harry wrapped an arm around his minutes-older brother. “But I can maybe help you cope a tiny bit. Why not write about it?”

“Like a song?”

“No, dipshit, a grocery list. Yes, a song.” Harry smiled at him. “Go to your bunk, try to get some sleep, then write the words when you wake up. Music you can figure out later.”

“That’s actually a really good idea. Thanks, Harry.”

After he woke up, Sam immediately grabbed a pen and paper and started writing:

Waiting here for someone

Only yesterday we were on the run

You smile back at me and your face lit up the sun

Now I'm waiting here for someone

And oh, love, do you feel this rough?

Why's it only you I'm thinking of

My shadow's dancing

Without you for the first time

My heart is hoping

You'll walk right in tonight

And tell me there are things that you regret

'Cause if I'm being honest I ain't over you yet

It's all I'm asking

Is it too much to ask?

“That’s great so far, Sam,” Harry said when Sam showed him his first batch of lyrics.

Smiling, Sam wrote some more:

Someone's moving outside

The lights come on and down the drive

I forget you're not here when I close my eyes

Do you still think of me sometimes?

And oh, love, watch the sun coming up

Don't it feel fucked up we're not in love

When they got to their next tour stop, he plunked out a tune on the piano; Tom and Harrison overheard and practically begged him to record it.

“I don’t know,” Sam said warily. “It’s awfully personal.”

“Oh, come on, Sam. It’s beautiful,” Tom argued.

“And I think it’ll be a big hit,” Harrison added.

Sam sighed. “I don’t think it’ll go anywhere, but fine. One catch, though, I get to do vocals.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it any other way,” Tom said.

(Y/n) found him a recording studio and he recorded it that night. The record label released it a week later. And a week after that…

“Sam! Sam! Did you see this?!” Paddy practically sprinted into the dressing room, waving his phone.

“See what?” Sam took Paddy’s phone and read the article out loud. “H5’s heartbreaking new ballad, ‘Too Much to Ask’ has reached number one on the charts. Just one week after its release, it’s the fastest one of their singles to reach the number one spot. Their previous record was three weeks, with their single ‘Kingston Girls.’ Tom Holland or Harrison Osterfield usually take lead vocals on H5’s hits. But for this one Sam Holland, who also wrote this song, takes over. You can hear the vulnerability and heartbreak in his voice, as if he’s actually lived out his words. If you haven’t downloaded this one yet, what on Earth are you waiting for? Also, H5, give Sam more lead vocals!”

“You’re amazing, Sam!” Paddy shouted, giving his older brother a big hug.

Sam just smiled. He was glad to have contributed to yet another hit song. He just wished he’d never had to write it.

Wardrobe fittings were still hard. Sam usually was dressed by Molly’s assistant, but he couldn’t avoid seeing Molly. He’d catch her eye, and she’d give him a quick, sad smile before she shyly looked away.

He would think about when that smile was wider, brighter, accompanied by a laugh. He’d wondered where it had gone, if he’d ever get to see it again.

He knew he had to stop dwelling on this. But it was hard.

Especially after they ran into each other in the hallway one night before a show, on what would have been their thirteen month anniversary.

“Oh, hi, Sam,” Molly said. She smiled softly at him.

“Hi, Molly,” he said, nodding.

“How’re you doing?” she asked. There was a hint of concern in her voice, but Sam knew better. She was just asking to be polite.

Sam shook his head. “Honestly, Molly? I’m not doing that well. It’s… I loved you. So much. To be completely honest with you, I still do. I am in no way over you.” He sighed. “There. I know you wanted to hear that I’m doing just fine without you, but I can’t lie to you. I’m miserable. I do wish the best for you, and I hope you and Calum are happy together. Maybe someday I’ll get there.”

Molly stood in the middle of the hall, stunned, as Sam brushed past her to meet the hairstylist.

“You’re getting over this,” Harry announced the same night. In order to help his brother get over it, Harry had dragged him out to a club.

Sam snorted as he sipped his drink. He hated clubs. Too loud, too many drunk people, too many Justin Bieber songs, too much going on at once.

“I’m doing fine, Harry.”

“You bloody are not. Look, here are two girls. I’ve been chatting up Hailey, but here’s her friend Kelsey. Now, talk to her. Flirt with her. Hook up with her, hell, I don’t care. Do something.”

Sam rolled his eyes and put his drink down. “Fine. Hi, Kelsey, I’m-”

“Sam Holland. I know.” She put her drink down.

She was pretty enough, Sam thought to himself. Long brown hair, nice smile. She wasn’t Molly, but she was pretty in her own way.

“Look,” Kelsey said. “I’m not really interested in a relationship. I just want one night of meaningless sex.”

Sam chuckled softly. “Straightforward, are we?”

“I know what I want.” Kelsey brushed her fingers over his cheek. “And right now, all I want is you.”

Well, Sam couldn’t say no to that one.

He grabbed her face in his hands and kissed her, hard.

“My hotel room. Now,” he growled.

The sex was...well, it was definitely meaningless. Sam always took his time with Molly. But with Kelsey, he just wanted it to be over. He’d closed his eyes and tried to pretend that Kelsey was Molly. But it just didn’t work.

After it was over, Kelsey said it was “pretty good, but you seem distracted, Sam.”

Sam sighed as he pulled his boxers back on. “I got out of a relationship not long ago. I thought she was the one. She thought otherwise. Harry thought maybe if I hooked up with another girl I’d forget about her, but… I can’t. I used you, and I’m so sorry.”

Kelsey kissed his cheek. “It’s okay. I used you to get over my ex, anyway. Hey, maybe you know him. He’s a lighting guy for you guys, Calum?”

Sam groaned. “Small fucking world. That’s who she left me for.”

“We’re just two peas, aren’t we?” Kelsey laughed.

Sam, despite the situation, chuckled. “I guess.”

A long pause hung in the air.

“I still don’t want a relationship,” Kelsey said, punctuating the air with honesty.

“Me neither. Did I help you get over Calum?”

“Not really.”

Sam hummed to himself. “Figures. It was nice to meet you, though.”

“Yeah. I hope you find the peace you’re looking for, Sam.” She kissed him softly and left.

Sam flopped back onto the pillow and sighed. This was getting ridiculous.

Then...the whole situation with (y/n).

Honestly, it was more of a fight between Harrison, Tom, and Harry. He just sort of got...swept into it.

“Sam!” Harry had said one night, after a show. “You’d date (y/n) if you had the chance, right?”

“Err… I don’t know. I’m still holding out hope for-”

Harry scoffed. “Yes, I know. But supposing (y/n) asks you out. Would you go?”

Sam thought about this for a moment. It would be nice to go out with someone again. And (y/n) seemed nice enough. She wasn’t Molly, but she was sweet, and funny, and super smart.

“Maybe,” Sam replied.

And, as far as Harry was concerned, that was enough to seal Sam’s involvement in the whole thing.

So there they were, sitting on the couch in the dressing room. Tom, Harrison, and Harry were arguing over which one of them would get to date (y/n). Sam was just trying to get the fighting to stop. (Y/n) had turned the lights back on and Harry had just admitted he’d only wanted to date her so the other guys wouldn’t have a chance.

“Sam Holland, please present your argument,” (Y/n) said.

To be honest, Sam didn’t really have one prepared. But he could come up with one.

He thought about this for a moment, then decided he’d go with: “You are fun, and smart, and sweet. I’m not quite over Molly yet, but I think with the right girl I could maybe finally get over her. And to be honest, you might be her.”

He was just about to say this, when the door opened…

...and Molly walked in.

“Molly?” he asked.

(y/n) shot him a confused look. “Molly? What? No. I’m (y/n), what are you…”

“Um, look behind you,” Tom replied, pointing at Molly.

Molly smiled sadly at Sam. “Hi, Sam. Um...I hope I’m not interrupting. I just came to tell you that I’m sorry. I am so sorry for everything I put you through. You got a great song out of it, sure, but to be honest I can’t live with myself. Calum was nice. But he isn’t you. Can we… can we please start over?”

Sam froze for a moment.

This was it.

The moment he’d been hoping for.

He’d been waiting months for Molly to walk into a room, look him in the eye, tell him her relationship with Calum was a mistake and ask for a new start with him.

Part of him wanted to scoff, tell her to go to Hell, and grab (y/n) by the face and kiss her just to stick it to Molly. For the months of hell he’d had to endure because of her. For the pain she’d caused.

But his heart knew better. It knew what it wanted. And even after everything, it wanted Molly.

He got up from his seat and walked over to her, brushing past (y/n) as he did so.

“Oh, excuse me, (y/n),” he said quietly.

When Sam reached her, he let his heart decide what to do.

He grabbed her by the waist, dipped his head down, and kissed her deeply. She froze at first but soon melted into the kiss, reaching a hand up to run her fingers through his short brown hair.

“Of course we can,” he said, after they parted. “I love you, Molly. Would you care for a walk?”

“I’d love that.”

Smiling, Sam reached down and intertwined his fingers with hers. As they left the dressing room, he called out over his shoulder: “Oh yeah, I’m out too.”

“Out of what?” Molly asked as they made their way outside.

“Oh, Harry and Tom and Harrison have been fighting over (y/n). I’m not totally sure what happened but I got mixed up in it too. I didn’t want her, though, I only want you.”

Molly smiled at him.  “Look, Sam, I truly am sorry. I didn’t know what I wanted. And like I said, things with Calum were...good. But they were never as great as when I was with you.” She stopped for a moment, sadly tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “I wouldn’t have been surprised if you’d said no. I know what I did was terrible. Harry said you were pretty torn up about it. And I couldn’t live with knowing that I caused that.”

Sam cupped her cheek with his hand and kissed her softly.

“I forgive you.”

“What were you going to tell me that night?” Molly asked.

Sam chuckled. “I was going to ask you to move in with me after the tour was over.”

“Does that offer still stand?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes.”

“We do need to talk about one thing, though.”

Molly nodded. “Right. Yes, Calum and I did sleep together.”

“I figured. A few weeks back Harry set me up with a random girl at a bar, and we hooked up. Turned out to be Calum’s ex.”

“Kelsey?”

“Yeah. She was perfectly nice but...being with her made me realize that I don’t want to be with anyone other than you ever again.”

Molly grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and pulled him in for a firm kiss. “I don’t want to be with anyone other than you. I love you, Sam.”

“I love you, Molly.”

Neither of them could sleep that night. They sat in the common area for hours, talking quietly and staring out the window. Sam found that the long, lonesome stretches of country roads didn’t quite appeal to him the way they did after Molly left him.

“Oh, look, Sam. The sunrise.” Molly pointed. “Isn’t it beautiful?”

Sam pulled her closer to him. “Not nearly as beautiful as you, darling.”

She sat up, turning to face him. “That’s what did it.”

“What did what?”

Molly smiled. “That’s what made me realize you were the one. Calum and I were on the staff bus, watching the sunrise. I said, ‘Oh, look. Isn’t it beautiful?’ and he just said, ‘Most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.’ And that’s when I knew it was you. Because, silly as it sounds, you think I’m prettier than a sunrise and he doesn’t. He treated me like a princess, but you treat me like a queen.”

Sam pulled her back into his chest. “Thank you for coming back to me. But, um, please don’t leave me again.”

“Don’t plan to.” She settled her head into the crook of his neck. “I love you, Sam.”

“I love you, Molly.” He pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead as they both drifted off to sleep, smiles of contentment on both of their faces.

A few moments later, (y/n) walked through the common area so she could put on a pot of coffee. Yawning, she paused at the couch in front of the window. She took in the sight of Sam, asleep, with an also-sleeping Molly in his arms. (y/n) put her hand over her heart and smiled.

“What’cha lookin’ at, love?” Tom asked sleepily, coming up behind (y/n) and wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Look at them.” (Y/n) pointed at the sleeping couple. “It’s so nice to see Sam happy again, isn’t it?”

Tom kissed her temple softly. “It surely is. Now, how about that coffee?”

“I want some sugar first,” she replied, turning around so she could kiss him.

“What a goof.” But Tom was all too happy to oblige.

So, it was true. Sam Holland was in love once. He just never found his way out of it.

And he didn’t want to, ever again.

He didn’t think that was too much to ask.

[kayawagner]

The Princess Bride RPG

OK, so to be fair I gave The Princess Bride Role Playing Game the fastest of once overs before discarding it. Remember that I am a Rolemaster GM at heart and it was fairly obvious that The Princess Bride was not going to give me bloody disembowelments and detailed character creation. It didn’t look like there was going to be a much necromancy going on either, which is a current ongoing discussion over on my own blog.

On the other hand, if I put my own wants and prejudices to one side I think The Princess Bride deserves a fair review.

The usual caveat is that I have only read the freebie Quick Start Rules and you can download them for free from RPGNow.

So obviously this game is derived from the 1987 movie of the same game and much of the art comes from the movie. I think this is a good thing in multiple ways. I like the movies with tie in games. It helps everybody envision the same settings, key NPCs and even magical effects. If you haven’t seen the movie there is a book of the same name which came first. I confess I have not read either the book nor seen the movie.

So The Princess Bride is FUDGE based, which is a good thing, but also uses a 3d6 to FUDGE Dice conversion so you can play without the dedicated +/- FUDGE dice. I think this is a good touch. For a quick start book especially, taking the weird dice requirement away makes the game much more accessible. I used to play Champions/Hero System a lot and I know that there is a very pleasing feel to 3d6 and the 18 is rare enough to have the special feeling but common enough to happen at least once a session at least.

The writers have gone with just three attributes, twenty six skills, fifteen gifts and ten inconveniences (faults). I like skill driven characters but I cannot help but feel that just three attributes is too few. It is not that I feel that more attributes add more to a game mechanically but in differentiating one PC from the next they can play an important role. It is not possible to play someone who is naive AND observant in The Princess Bride as both a single attribute overs all aspects of intelligences, alertness and perception. On the plus side in describing how the attributes work and their ingame effects are directly related to the movie characters as in “Your character can have a high Body level and simply be very fit, but not necessarily huge: like Westley, for example.”

There is a skill in The Princess Bride called Blave. I had to google the word as I didn’t actually know what it meant. I was going to criticise the game for using such an obscure word for such a common skill. It turns out that every single definition of Blave relates directly back to The Princess Bride and quotes the book or movie. So this is a setting related word. If you are interested the Blave skill relates to gambling and bluffing and likewise Jouking relates to dodging.

So here is the first bit that I found truly cringeworthy. The Princess Bride has renamed FUDGE or FATE points to Grandpa, wait! Points. To quote the game “So if the dice just killed your character, there will probably be a moment of silence at the table. At that point, any player can say, “Grandpa, wait!” and push a token toward the GM representing a Grandpa Wait point.” I had to read that bit over just to make sure I had it right.

The Grandpa Wait points are a simple renaming of the standard FATE point mechanic in every other way except the cringy name.

The combat system as presented is very neat and tidy. I don’t really know the world of The Princess Bride but there are absolutely no mentions of non human foes or natural weapons so no guard dogs or other beasties. This is just the quickstart booklet so those rules could easily be in the full rules. I do like the damage track method of recording damage. As a way of recording damage it very neatly allows for escalating severity of wounds. The lightest wound is “It’s just a scratch” but once you have had that three times it automatically escalates to hurt, very hurt and so on. It is possible with a big weapon and a great roll to go from untouched to “incapacitated” which is one of the things I have always liked about my ‘home system’.

Up until this point in the rules everything in the rule book has been adjective based, skills are listed as Great, Good, Fair and Poor etc. When Situational Rolls are introduced these lead with numerical values -4 to +4. So for now it is numbers first. It then tries to massage the adjective labels into this system and it feels really square peg/round whole. I know that Situational Rolls are core FUDGE but in the core rulebook they get just a single paragraph and sits alongside tossing a coin or rolling a single d6 as aids for the GM to get random answers. I found that by leading with the numeric scale when everything else had been adjective based creates the impression that the adjectives don’t really work. The description of the adjective system then looks a bit laboured. If writers had stuck with the adjective system right from the off then this section would have been neater and less clunky.

On a personal note, I don’t think that resolving things by dice roll is to be encouraged. What I mean by that is; if a player asks ‘Are there any innocent bystanders on the street?’ then that is a potentially really important question. The Princess Bride says “You should usually roll them in the open, except in cases where it might reveal more information than the party would logically have.” So instantly the characters know that whether the person is there or not is just chance, but the next time if you say “Yes, there is someone standing on the corner.” They know you didn’t roll for that so it must be important. Logically then you would sometimes create red herrings of false information to stop your players inferring from what you rolled and what wasn’t rolled. So now you are sometimes rolling the dice when you know the answer to fool your players, sometimes you are rolling the dice because you don’t know the answer and sometimes you are not rolling the dice because they may come up with a wrong answer and the players will have seen the result. That last one is something like Player: “What are the chances of there being a horse I can hire?” Dice roll -4, GM: “Yes, there is a really impressive stallion just being walked out of the livery.” Player: “Really?!!” To be fair the rules do work but I personally do not think anyone should be rolling dice in front of the players. It is the GMs role to create a believable world and chucking the dice around does not do that.

The remainder of the The Princess Bride quickstart pdf is the a sample adventure and pregen characters. That I am not going to go into as I don’t want to give anything away but only to say that it remains true to the setting material as far as I can tell and is clearly aimed as a first adventure and new players and GMs.

As a final note I would like to point out that this looks like it is going to be a really popular game with its target audience. The kickstarter has over 1,000 backers and has raised over $78,000. You can be fairly certain that any problems with the game are more likely with me than with the game, if you are part of the target audience. There is just not quite enough disembowelling for my tastes.

Related posts:

Dark Fantasy

FATE review

Lamentations of the Flame Princess–A few thoughts

The Princess Bride RPG published first on https://supergalaxyrom.tumblr.com

[thejoydaily-blog]

You Will Be Eaten by Cannibals! Lessons from the Life of John G. Paton

Courage in the Cause of Missions

You Will Be Eaten by Cannibals! Lessons from the Life of John G. Paton

Courage in the Cause of Missions

2000 Bethlehem Conference for Pastors

Resource by John Piper

Topic: Biography

Download the free eBook based on this biographical sketch of John Paton.

In 1606, a chain of eighty islands in the South Pacific was discovered by Fernandez de Quiros of Spain. In 1773, the Islands were explored by Captain James Cook and named the New Hebrides because of the similarities with the Hebrides Islands off the Northwest coast of Scotland. In 1980, the New Hebrides gained its independence from Britain and France and was named Vanuatu. The chain of Islands is about 450 miles long. If you draw a line straight from Honolulu to Sydney, it will cut through Port Vila, the capital of Vanuatu, two thirds of the way between Hawaii and Australia. The population today is about 190,000.

To the best of our knowledge, the New Hebrides had no Christian influence before John Williams and James Harris from the London Missionary Society landed in 1839. Both of these missionaries were killed and eaten by cannibals on the island of Erromanga on November 20 of that year, only minutes after going ashore. Forty-eight years later John Paton wrote, “Thus were the New Hebrides baptized with the blood of martyrs; and Christ thereby told the whole Christian world that he claimed these islands as His own” (p.75; All page references in the text refer to John G. Paton: Missionary to the New Hebredes, An Autobiography Edited by His Brother [Edinburgh: The Banner of Truth Trust, 1965, orig. 1889], 1891).

The London Missionary Society sent another team to the Island of Tanna in 1842, and these missionaries were driven off within seven months. But on the Island of Aneityum, John Geddie from the Presbyterian church in Nova Scotia (coming in 1848) and John Inglis from The Reformed Presbyterian Church in Scotland (coming in 1852) saw amazing fruit, so that by 1854 “about 3,500 savages (more than half the population [Kenneth Scott Latourette, A History of the Expansion of Christianity, The Great Century: The Americas, Australasia and Africa, 1800 AD to 1914 AD. (Grand Rapids: Zondervan Publishing House, 1970, orig. 1943), p. 228.]) threw away their idols, renouncing their heathen customs and avowing themselves to be worshippers of the true Jehovah God” (p. 77). When Geddie died in 1872, all the population of Aneityum was said to be Christians (George Patterson, Missionary Life among the Cannibals: Being the Life of the Rev. John Geddie, D.D., First Missionary to the New Hebrides; with the History of the Nova Scotia Presbyterian Mission on that Group(Toronto: James Campbell and Son, 1882), p. 508.).

This is part of a great work God was doing in the South Sea Islands in those days. In 1887 Paton recorded the wider triumphs of the gospel. When certain people argued that the Aborigines of Autstralia were subhuman and incapable of conversion or civilization Paton fought back with mission facts as well as biblical truth.

Recall . . . what the Gospel has done for the near kindred of these same Aborigines. On our own Aneityum, 3,500 Cannibals have been lead to renounce their heathenism . . . In Fiji, 79,000 Cannibals have been brought under the influence of the Gospel; and 13,000 members of the Churches are professing to live and work for Jesus. In Samoa, 34,000 Cannibals have professed Christianity; and in nineteen years, its College has sent forth 206 Native teachers and evangelists. On our New Hebrides, more than 12,000 Cannibals have been brought to sit at the feet of Christ, through I mean not to say that they are all model Christians; and 133 of the Natives have been trained and sent forth as teachers and preachers of the Gospel. (p. 265)

This is the remarkable missionary context for the life and ministry of John G. Paton, who was born near Dumfries, Scotland, on the 24th of May, 1824. He sailed for the New Hebrides (via Australia) with his wife Mary on April 16, 1858, at the age of 33. They reached their appointed island of Tanna on November 5, and in March the next year both his wife and his newborn son died of the fever. He served alone on the island for the next four years under incredible circumstances of constant danger until he was driven off the island in February, 1862.

For the next four years he did extraordinarily effective mobilization work for the Presbyterian mission to the New Hebrides, travelling around Australia and Great Britain. He married again in 1864, and took his wife, Margaret, back this time to the smaller island of Aniwa (“It measures scarcely seven miles by two,” p. 312). They labored together for 41 years until Margaret died in 1905 when John Paton was 81.

When they came to Aniwa in November, 1866, they saw the destitution of the islanders. It will help us appreciate the magnitude of their labors and the wonders of their fruitfulness if we see some of what they faced.

The natives were cannibals and occasionally ate the flesh of their defeated foes. They practiced infanticide and widow sacrifice, killing the widows of deceased men so that they could serve their husbands in the next world (pp. 69, 334).

Their worship was entirely a service of fear, its aim being to propitiate this or that Evil spirit, to prevent calamity or to secure revenge. They deified their Chiefs . . . so that almost every village or tribe had its own Sacred Man. . . . They exercised an extraordinary influence for evil, these village or tribal priests, and were believed to have the disposal of life and death through their sacred ceremonies. . . . They also worshipped the spirits of departed ancestors and heroes, through their material idols of wood and stone. . . . They feared the spirits and sought their aid; especially seeking to propitiate those who presided over war and peace, famine and plenty, health and sickness, destruction and prosperity, life and death. Their whole worship was one of slavish fear; and, so far as ever I could learn, they had no idea of a God of mercy or grace. (p. 72; This description was made of the natives on the island of Tanna, but applies equally well to the conditions on the nearby island of Aniwa.)

Paton admitted that at times his heart wavered as he wondered whether these people could be brought to the point of weaving Christian ideas into the spiritual consciousness of their lives (p. 74). But he took heart from the power of the gospel and from the fact that thousands on Aneityum had come to Christ.

So he learned the language and reduced it to writing (p. 319). He built orphanages (“We trained these young people for Jesus” p. 317). “Mrs. Paton taught a class of about fifty women and girls. They became experts at sewing, singing and plaiting hats, and reading” (p. 377). They “trained the Teachers . . . translated and printed and expounded the Scriptures . . . ministered to the sick and dying . . . dispensed medicines every day . . . taught them the use of tools . . .” etc. (p. 378). They held worship services every Lord’s Day and sent native teachers to all the villages to preach the gospel.

In the next fifteen years, John and Margaret Paton saw the entire island of Aniwa turn to Christ. Years later he wrote, “I claimed Aniwa for Jesus, and by the grace of God Aniwa now worships at the Savior’s feet” (p. 312). When he was 73 years old and travelling around the world trumpeting the cause of missions in the South Seas, he was still ministering to his beloved Aniwan people and “published the New Testament in the Aniwan Language” in 1897 (Ralph Bell, John G. Paton: Missionary to the New Hebrides (Butler, IN: The Highley Press, 1957), p. 238.). Even to his death he was translating hymns and catechisms (Ibid., 238) and creating a dictionary for his people even when he couldn’t be with them any more (p. 451).

During his years of labor on the islands Paton kept a journal and notebooks and letters from which he wrote his Autobiography in three parts from 1887 to 1898. Almost all we know of his work comes from that book, which is available in one volume now from the Banner of Truth Trust.

Paton outlived his second wife by two years and died in Australia on January 28, 1907.

Today, 93 years after the death of John Paton, about 85% of the population of Vanuatu identifies itself as Christian, perhaps 21% of the population being evangelical (Patrick Johnstone, Operation World (Grand Rapids: Zondervan Publishing House, 1993), p. 572.). The sacrifices and the legacy of the missionaries to the New Hebrides are stunning, and John G. Paton stands out as one of the great ones.

What Kinds of Circumstances Called for Courage in Paton’s Life?

The title of this message is “‘You Will Be Eaten By Cannibals!’ Courage in the Cause of World Missions: Lessons from the Life of John G. Paton.” So that is the focus of what I want to say. I conceive the rest of this message in three parts: (1) What kinds of circumstances called for courage in Paton’s life? (2) What did his courage achieve? (3) Where did his courage come from?

He had courage to overcome the criticism he received from respected elders for going to the New Hebrides.

A Mr. Dickson exploded, “The cannibals! You will be eaten by cannibals!” The memory of Williams and Harris on Erromanga was only 19 years old. But to this Paton responded:

Mr. Dickson, you are advanced in years now, and your own prospect is soon to be laid in the grave, there to be eaten by worms; I confess to you, that if I can but live and die serving and honoring the Lord Jesus, it will make no difference to me whether I am eaten by Cannibals or by worms; and in the Great Day my Resurrection body will rise as fair as yours in the likeness of our risen Redeemer. (p. 56)

This is the kind of in-your-face spiritual moxie that would mark Paton’s whole life. It’s a big part of what makes reading his story so invigorating.

Another kind of criticism for going was that he would be leaving a very fruitful ministry. Paton had served for ten years as a city Missionary in urban Glasgow among the lower income people with tremendous success and hundreds of unchurched people were attending his classes and services during the week. One of his loved professors of divinity and minister of the congregation where he had served as an elder tried to persuade him to stay in that ministry. He reported that he argued that

Green Street Church was doubtless the sphere for which God had given me peculiar qualifications, and in which He had so largely blessed my labors; that if I left those now attending my Classes and Meetings, they might be scattered, and many of them would probably fall away; that I was leaving certainty for uncertainty - work in which God had made me greatly useful, for work in which I might fail to be useful, and only throw away my life amongst Cannibals. (p. 55)

In fact Paton says, “The opposition was so strong from nearly all, and many of them warm Christian friends, that I was sorely tempted to question whether I was carrying out the Divine will, or only some headstrong wish of my own. This also caused me much anxiety, and drove me close to God in prayer” (p. 56). We will see shortly how he rose above these temptations to turn back.

He had courage to risk losing his loved ones and to press on when he did in fact lose them.

He and his wife arrived on the island of Tanna November 5, 1858, and Mary was pregnant. The baby was born February 12, 1859. “Our island-exile thrilled with joy! But the greatest of sorrows was treading hard upon the heels of that great joy!” (p. 79). Mary had reaped attacks of ague and fever and pneumonia and diarrhea with delirium for two weeks.

Then in a moment, altogether unexpectedly, she died on March third. To crown my sorrows, and complete my loneliness, the dear baby-boy, whom we had named after her father, Peter Robert Robson, was taken from me after one week’s sickness, on the 20th of March. Let those who have ever passed through any similar darkness as of midnight feel for me; as for all others, it would be more than vain to try to paint my sorrows! (p. 79)

He dug the two graves with his own hands and buried them by the house he had built.

Stunned by that dreadful loss, in entering upon this field of labor to which the Lord had Himself so evidently led me, my reason seemed for a time almost to give way. The ever-merciful Lord sustained me . . . and that spot became my sacred and much- frequented shrine, during all the following months and years when I labored on for the salvation of the savage Islanders amidst difficulties, dangers, and deaths. . . . But for Jesus, and the fellowship he vouchsafed to me there, I must have gone mad and died beside the lonely grave! (p. 80)

The courage to risk the loss was one thing. But the courage to experience the loss and press on alone was supernatural. “I felt her loss beyond all conception or description, in that dark land. It was very difficult to be resigned, left alone, and in sorrowful circumstances; but feeling immovably assured that my God and father was too wise and loving to err in anything that he does or permits, I looked up to the Lord for help, and struggled on in His work” (p. 85). Here we get a glimpse of the theology that we will see underneath this man’s massive courage and toil. “I do not pretend to see through the mystery of such visitations – wherein God calls away the young, the promising, and those sorely needed for his service here; but this I do know and feel, that, in the light of such dispensations, it becomes us all to love and serve our blessed Lord Jesus so that we may be ready at his call for death and eternity” (p. 85).

He had courage to risk his own sickness in a foreign land with no doctors and no escape.

“Fever and ague had attacked me fourteen times severely” (p. 105). In view of his wife’s death he never knew when any one of these attacks would mean his own death. Imagine struggling with a life-and-death sickness over and over with only one Christian native friend named Abraham who had come with him to the island to help him.

For example, as he was building a new house to get to higher, healthier ground, he collapsed with the fever on his way up the steep hill from the coast: “When about two-thirds up the hill I became so faint that I concluded I was dying. Lying down on the ground, sloped against the root of a tree to keep me from rolling to the bottom, I took farewell of old Abraham, of my mission work, and of everything around! In this weak state I lay, watched over by my faithful companion, and fell into a quiet sleep” (p. 106). He revived and was restored. But only great courage could press on month after month, year after year, knowing that the fever that took his wife and son lay at the door.

And it’s not as if these dangers were only during one season at the beginning of his missionary life. Fifteen years later with another wife and another child on another island, he records, “During the hurricanes, from January to April, 1873, when the Dayspring [the mission ship] was wrecked, we lost a darling child by death, my dear wife had a protracted illness, and I was brought very low with severe rheumatic fever . . . and was reported as dying” (p. 384).

The most common demand for courage was the almost constant threat to his life from the hostilities of the natives.

This is what makes his Autobiography read like a thriller. In his first four years on Tanna when he was all alone, he moved from one savage crisis to the next. One wonders how his mind kept from snapping, as he never knew when his house would be surrounded with angry natives or his party would be ambushed along the way. How do you survive when there is no kickback time? No unwinding. No sure refuge on earth. “Our continuous danger caused me now oftentimes to sleep with my clothes on, that I might start at a moment’s warning. May faithful dog Clutha would give a sharp bark and awake me. . . . God made them fear this precious creature, and often used her in saving our lives” (p. 178).

My enemies seldom slackened their hateful designs against my life, however calmed or baffled for the moment. . . . A wild chief followed me around for four hours with his loaded musket, and, though often directed towards me, God restrained his hand. I spoke kindly to him, and attended to my work as if he had not been there, fully persuaded that my God had placed me there, and would protect me till my allotted task was finished. Looking up in unceasing prayer to our dear Lord Jesus, I left all in his hands, and felt immortal till my work was done. Trials and hairbreadth escapes strengthened my faith, and seemed only to nerve me for more to follow; and they did tread swiftly upon each other’s heels. (p. 117)

One of the most remarkable things about Paton’s dealing with danger is the gutsy forthrightness with which he spoke to his assailants. He often rebuked them to their faces and scolded them for their bad behavior even as they held the ax over his head.

One morning at daybreak I found my house surrounded by armed men, and a chief intimated that they had assembled to take my life. Seeing that I was entirely in their hands, I knelt down and gave myself away body and soul to the Lord Jesus, for what seemed the last time on earth. Rising, I went out to them, and began calmly talking about their unkind treatment of me and contrasting it with all my conduct towards them. . . . At last some of the Chiefs, who had attended the Worship, rose and said, “Our conduct has been bad; but now we will fight for you, and kill all those who hate you.” (p. 115)

[Once] when natives in large numbers were assembled at my house, a man furiously rushed on me with his axe but a Kaserumini Chief snatched a spade with which I had been working, and dexterously defended me from instant death. Life in such circumstances led me to cling very near to the Lord Jesus; I knew not, for one brief hour, when or how attack might be made; and yet, with my trembling hand clasped in the hand once nailed on Calvary, and now swaying the scepter of the universe, calmness and peace and resignation abode in my soul. (p. 117)

As his courage increased and his deliverances were multiplied, he would make it his aim to keep warring factions separated, and would throw himself between them and argue for peace. “Going amongst them every day, I did my utmost to stop hostilities, setting the evils of war before them, and pleading with the leading men to renounce it” (p. 139). He would go to visit his enemies when they were sick and wanted his help, never knowing what was an ambush and what was not.

Once a native named Ian called Paton to his sick bed, and as Paton leaned over him, he pulled a dagger and held it to Paton’s heart.

I durst neither move nor speak, except that my heart kept praying to the Lord to spare me, or if my time was come to take me home to Glory with Himself. There passed a few moments of awful suspense. My sight went and came. Not a word had been spoken, except to Jesus; and then Ian wheeled the knife around, thrust it into the sugar cane leaf. And cried to me, “Go, go quickly!” . . . I ran for my life a weary four miles till I reached the Mission House, faint, yet praising God for such a deliverance (p.191).

One last call for courage that I will mention is the need for courage in the face of criticism that he did not have courage to die.

After four years, the entire island population rose against Paton, blaming him for an epidemic, and made siege against him and his little band of Christians. There were spectacular close calls and a miraculous deliverance from fire by wind and rain (p. 215), and finally a wonderful answer to prayer as a ship arrived just in time to take him off the island.

In response to this, after four years of risking his life hundreds of times and losing his wife and child, he recounts this incident:

Conscious that I had, to the last inch of life, tried to do my duty, I left all results in the hands of my only Lord, and all criticisms to His unerring judgment. Hard things also were occasionally spoken to my face. One dear friend, for instance, said, “You should not have left. You should have stood at the post of duty till you fell. It would have been to your honor, and better for the cause of the Mission, had you been killed at the post of duty like the Gordons and others.” (p. 223)

Oh, how easy it would have been for him to respond by walking away from the mission at a moment like that. But courage pressed on for another four decades of fruitful ministry on the island of Aniwa and around the world.

What Did His Courage Achieve?

We have already seen one main answer to this question, namely,

The entire island of Aniwa turned to Christ.

Four years of seemingly fruitless and costly labor on Tanna could have meant the end of Paton’s missionary life. He could have remembered that in Glasgow for ten years he had had unprecedented success as an urban missionary. Now for four years he seemed to have accomplished nothing and he lost his wife and child in the process. But instead of going home, he turned his missionary heart to Aniwa. And this time the story was different. “I claimed Aniwa for Jesus, and by the grace of God, Aniwa now worships at the Savior’s feet” (p. 312).

The courageous endurance on Tanna resulted in a story that awakened thousands to the call of missions and strengthened the home church.

The reason Paton wrote the second volume of his Autobiography, he says, was to record God’s “marvelous goodness in using my humble voice and pen, and the story of my life, for interesting thousands and tens of thousands in the work of Missions” (p. 220). And the influence goes on today – even in this room right now.

Oftentimes, while passing through the perils and defeats of my first four years in the Mission-field on Tanna, I wondered . . . why God permitted such things. But on looking back now, I already clearly perceive . . . that the Lord was thereby preparing me for doing, and providing me materials wherewith to accomplish, the best work of all my life, namely the kindling of the heart of Australian Presbyterianism with a living affection for these Islanders of their own Southern Seas . . . and in being the instrument under God of sending out Missionary after Missionary to the New Hebrides, to claim another island and still another for Jesus. That work, and all that may spring from it in Time and Eternity, never could have been accomplished by me but for first the sufferings and then the story of my Tanna enterprise! (pp. 222–223)

And the awakening was not just in Australia, but in Scotland and around the world. For example, he tells us what the effect of his home tour was on his own small Reformed Presbyterian Church after his four years of pain and seeming fruitlessness on Tanna. “I was . . . filled with a high passion of gratitude to be able to proclaim, at the close of my tour . . . that of all her ordained Ministers, one in every six was a Missionary of the Cross!” (p. 280). Indeed the effects at home were far more widespread than that – and here is a lesson for all churches.

Nor did the dear old Church thus cripple herself; on the contrary, her zeal for Missions accompanied, if not caused, unwonted prosperity at home. New waves of liberality passed over the heart of her people. Debts that had burdened many of the Churches and Manses were swept away. Additional Congregations were organized. And in May, 1876, the Reformed Presbyterian Church entered into an honorable and independent Union with her larger, wealthier, and more progressive sister, the Free Church of Scotland. (p. 280)

In other words, the courageous perseverance of John Paton on Tanna, in spite of apparent fruitlessness, bore fruit in blessing for the mission field and for the church at home in ways he could have never dreamed in the midst of his dangers.

Another one of those good effects was to vindicate the power of the gospel to convert the hardest people.

Paton had an eye to the sophisticated European despisers of the gospel as he wrote the story of his life. He wanted to give evidence to skeptical modern men that the gospel can and does transform the most unlikely people and their societies.

So in his Autobiography he tells stories of particular converts like Kowia, a chief on Tanna. When he was dying he came to say farewell to Paton.

“Farewell, Missi, I am very near death now; we will meet again in Jesus and with Jesus!” . . . Abraham sustained him, tottering to the place of graves; there he lay down . . . and slept in Jesus; and there the faithful Abraham buried him beside his wife and children. Thus died a man who had been a cannibal chief, but by the grace of God and the love of Jesus changed, transfigured into a character of light and beauty. What think ye of this, ye skeptics as to the reality of conversion? . . . I knew that day, and I know now, that there is one soul at least from Tanna to sing the glories of Jesus in Heaven — and, oh, the rapture when I meet him there! (p. 160)

And then, of course, there was old Abraham himself. He was not one of Paton’s converts, but he was a converted cannibal from Aneityum and Paton’s absolutely trustworthy helper on Tanna during all his time there. So Paton writes again in witness to European skeptics:

When I have read or heard the shallow objections of irreligious scribblers and talkers, hinting that there was no reality in conversions, and that mission effort was but waste, oh, how my heart has yearned to plant them just one week on Tanna, with the “natural” man all around in the person of Cannibal and Heathen, and only the one “spiritual” man in the person of the converted Abraham, nursing them, feeding them, saving them ‘for the love Jesus’ - that I might just learn how many hours it took to convince them that Christ in man was a reality after all! All the skepticism of Europe would hide its head in foolish shame; and all its doubts would dissolve under one glance of the new light that Jesus, and Jesus alone, pours from the converted Cannibal’s eye. (p. 107)

The list could go on as to what Paton’s courage achieved because in reality our second and third question overlap. What his courage achieved was, in fact, a vindication of the value of all that produced his courage. So let’s turn to that, rather than lengthen the list here.

Where Did this Courage Come From? What Was Its Origin?

The answer he would want us to say is: It came from God. But he would also want us to see what precious means God used and, if possible, apply them to ourselves and our situation.

His courage came from his father.

The tribute Paton pays to his godly father is worth the price of the Autobiography, even if you don’t read anything else. Maybe it’s because I have a daughter and four sons, but I wept as I read this section, it filled me with such longing to be a father like this.

There was a small room, the “closet” where his father would go for prayer, as a rule after each meal. The eleven children knew it and they reverenced the spot and learned something profound about God. The impact on John Paton was immense.

Though everything else in religion were by some unthinkable catastrophe to be swept out of memory, were blotted from my understanding, my soul would wander back to those early scenes, and shut itself up once again in that Sanctuary Closet, and, hearing still the echoes of those cries to God, would hurl back all doubt with the victorious appeal, “He walked with God, why may not I?” (p. 8)

How much my father’s prayers at this time impressed me I can never explain, nor could any stranger understand. When, on his knees and all of us kneeling around him in Family Worship, he poured out his whole soul with tears for the conversion of the Heathen world to the service of Jesus, and for every personal and domestic need, we all felt as if in the presence of the living Savior, and learned to know and love him as our Divine friend. (p. 21)

One scene best captures the depth of love between John and his father and the power of the impact on John’s life of uncompromising courage and purity. The time came for the young Paton to leave home and go to Glasgow to attend divinity school and become a city missionary in his early twenties. From his hometown of Torthorwald to the train station at Kilmarnock was a forty-mile walk. Forty years later Paton wrote,

My dear father walked with me the first six miles of the way. His counsels and tears and heavenly conversation on that parting journey are fresh in my heart as if it had been but yesterday; and tears are on my cheeks as freely now as then, whenever memory steals me away to the scene. For the last half mile or so we walked on together in almost unbroken silence – my father, as was often his custom, carrying hat in hand, while his long flowing yellow hair (then yellow, but in later years white as snow) streamed like a girl’s down his shoulders. His lips kept moving in silent prayers for me; and his tears fell fast when our eyes met each other in looks for which all speech was vain! We halted on reaching the appointed parting place; he grasped my hand firmly for a minute in silence, and then solemnly and affectionately said: “God bless you, my son! Your father’s God prosper you, and keep you from all evil!”

Unable to say more, his lips kept moving in silent prayer; in tears we embraced, and parted. I ran off as fast as I could; and, when about to turn a corner in the road where he would lose sight of me, I looked back and saw him still standing with head uncovered where I had left him – gazing after me. Waving my hat in adieu, I rounded the corner and out of sight in an instant. But my heart was too full and sore to carry me further, so I darted into the side of the road and wept for a time. Then, rising up cautiously, I climbed the dike to see if he yet stood where I had left him; and just at that moment I caught a glimpse of him climbing the dyke and looking out for me! He did not see me, and after he gazed eagerly in my direction for a while, he got down, set his face toward home, and began to return - his head still uncovered, and his heart, I felt sure, still rising in prayers for me. I watched through blinding tears, till his form faded from my gaze; and then, hastening on my way, vowed deeply and oft, by the help of God, to live and act so as never to grieve or dishonor such a father and mother as he had given me. (pp. 25–26)

The impact of his father’s faith and prayer and love and discipline was immeasurable. So much more could be said.

His courage came from a deep sense of divine calling.

Before he was twelve years old, Paton says, “I had given my soul to God, and was resolved to aim at being a missionary of the cross, or a minister of the gospel” (p. 21). As he came to the end of his studies in divinity in Glasgow at the age of 32, he says, “I continually heard . . . the wail of the perishing Heathen in the South Seas; and I saw that few were caring for them, while I well knew that many would be ready to take up my work in Calton” (p. 52). “The Lord kept saying within me, ‘Since none better qualified can be got, rise and offer yourself!’“

When he was criticized for leaving a fruitful ministry, one crucial event sealed his sense of calling, namely, a word from his parents:

Heretofore we feared to bias you, but now we must tell you why we praise God for the decision to which you have been led. Your father’s heart was set upon being a Minister, but other claims forced him to give it up. When you were given to them, your father and mother laid you upon the altar, their first-born, to be consecrated, if God saw fit, as a Missionary of the Cross; and it has been their constant prayer that you might be prepared, qualified, and led to this very decision; and we pray with all our heart that the Lord may accept your offering, long spare you, and give you many souls from the Heathen World for your hire. (p. 57) In response to that Paton wrote, “From the moment, every doubt as to my path of duty forever vanished. I saw the hand of God very visibly, not only preparing me before, but now leading me to, the Foreign Mission field” (p. 57). That sense of duty and calling bred in him an undaunted courage that would never look back.

His courage came from a sense of holy heritage in his church.

Paton was part of the Reformed Presbyterian Church of Scotland, one of the oldest but smallest protestant churches. It traced its lineage back to the Scottish Covenanters and had in it a strong sense of valor for the cause of the great truths of the Reformation. Paton once wrote, “I am more proud that the blood of Martyrs is in my veins, and their truths in my heart, than other men can be of noble pedigree or royal names” (p. 280).

The truths he has in mind are the robust doctrines of Calvinism. He said in his Autobiography, “I am by conviction a strong Calvinist” (p. 195). For him this meant, as we have seen, a strong confidence that God can and will change the hearts of the most unlikely people. His Reformed doctrine of regeneration was crucial here in maintaining his courage in the face of humanly impossible odds. Commenting on the conversion of one native, he said, “Regeneration is the sole work of the Holy Spirit in the human heart and soul, and is in every case one and the same. Conversion, on the other hand, bringing into play the action also of the human will, is never absolutely the same perhaps in even two souls” (p. 372). “Oh, Jesus! To Thee alone be all the glory. Thou hast the key to unlock every heart that Thou has created” (p. 373).

In other words, Calvinism, contrary to all misrepresentation, was not a hindrance to missions but the hope of missions for John Paton and hundreds of other missionaries like him. So it’s not surprising that the fourth source of courage for Paton was

His confidence in the sovereignty of God controlling all adversities.

We have already seen the words he wrote over his wife and child’s grave: “Feeling immovably assured that my God and father was too wise and loving to err in anything that he does or permits, I looked up to the Lord for help, and struggled on in His work” (p. 85).

Over and over this faith sustained him in the most threatening and frightening situations. As he was trying to escape from Tanna at the end of four years of dangers, he and Abraham were surrounded by raging natives who kept urging each other to strike the first blow.

My heart rose up to the Lord Jesus; I saw Him watching all the scene. My peace came back to me like a wave from God. I realized that I was immortal till my Master’s work with me was done. The assurance came to me, as if a voice out of Heaven had spoken, that not a musket would be fired to wound us, not a club prevail to strike us, not a spear leave the hand in which it was held vibrating to be thrown, not an arrow leave the bow, or a killing stone the fingers, without the permission of Jesus Christ, whose is all power in Heaven and on Earth. He rules all Nature, animate and inanimate, and restrains even the Savage of the South Seas. (p. 207)

After getting away with his life and losing everything that he had on earth (“my little earthly All”), instead of despairing or pouting or being paralyzed with self-pity, he moved forward expecting to see God’s good purpose in time – which he saw in the ministry that opened to him, first of missions mobilization and then of work on Aniwa: “Often since have I thought that the Lord stripped me thus bare of all these interests, that I might with undistracted mind devote my entire energy to the special work soon to be carved out for me, and of which at this moment neither I nor anyone had ever dreamed” (p. 220).

Year after year, “disappointments and successes were strangely intermingled” (p. 247) in his life. There was no long period of time, it seems, where life was very easy. And we would distort the man if we said there were no low moments. “I felt so disappointed, so miserable,” he wrote about one period of his travels, “that I wished I had been in my grave with my dear departed and my brethren on the Islands who had fallen around me” (p. 232). It was not always easy after the words, “The Lord has taken away,” to add the words, “Blessed be the name of the Lord.” But the way out was clear, and he used it again and again. When the mission ship, Dayspring, that he had worked so hard to fund, was sunk in a storm, he wrote:

Whatever trials have befallen me in my Earthly Pilgrimage, I have never had the trial of doubting that perhaps, after all, Jesus had made some mistake. No! my blessed Lord Jesus makes no mistakes! When we see all His meaning, we shall then understand, what now we can only trustfully believe that all is well — best for us, best for the cause most dear to us, best for the good of others and the glory of God. (p. 488)

Near the end of his life, at age 79, he was back on his beloved island Aniwa. “I cannot visit the villages, or go among the people and the sick, as formerly, owing to an increased feebleness in my legs and lumbago. Which is painful for the last fortnight. But all is as our Master sends it, and we submit thankfully, as all is nothing to what we deserve; and adored be our God. We have in our dear Lord Jesus [grace] for peace and joy in all circumstances” (Ralph Bell, John G. Paton, p. 238).

His courage came through a kind of praying that submitted to God’s sovereign wisdom.

How do you claim the promises of God for protection when your wife was equally faithful but, rather than being protected, died; and when the Gordons on Erromanga were equally trusting in those promises and were martyred?

Mr. and Mrs. G. N. Gordon were killed on Erromanga on May 20, 1861. They had labored four years on the island when they walked into an ambush. “A blow was aimed at him with a tomahawk, which he caught; the other man struck, but his weapon was also caught. One of the tomahawks was then wrenched out of his grasp. Next moment, a blow on the spine laid the dear Missionary low, and a second on the neck almost severed the head from the body.” Mrs. Gordon came running to see the noise and “Ouben slipped stealthily behind here, sank his tomahawk into her back and with another blow almost severed her head! This was the fate of those two devoted servants of the Lord; loving in their lives and in their deaths not divided, their spirits, wearing the crown of martyrdom, entered Glory together, to be welcomed by Williams and Harris, whose blood was shed near the same now hallowed spot for the name and the cause of Jesus” (p. 166).

Paton had learned the answer to this question from listening to his mother pray, even before he leaned the theology that supports it. When the potato crop failed in Scotland, Mrs. Paton said to her children, “Oh my children, love your Heavenly Father, tell him in faith and prayer all your needs, and he will supply your wants so far as it shall be for your good and His glory” (p. 22). Compare this way of praying with the way Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego faced the fiery furnace in Daniel 3:17–18, “God whom we serve is able to deliver us from the furnace of blazing fire; and He will deliver us out of your hand, O king. But even if He does not, let it be known to you, O king, that we are not going to serve your gods or worship the golden image that you have set up.”

This is what Paton trusted God for in claiming the promises: that God would do what was for Paton’s good and for his own glory.

His courage when he was surrounded by armed natives came through a kind of praying that claimed the promises under the overarching submission to God’s wisdom as to what would work most for God’s glory and his good.

I . . . assured them that I was not afraid to die, for at death my Savior would take me to be with Himself in Heaven, and to be far happier than I had ever been on Earth. I then lifted up my hands and eyes to the Heavens, and prayed aloud for Jesus . . . either to protect me or to take me home to Glory as He saw to be for the best. (p. 164)

That was how he prayed again and again: “Protect me or . . . take me home to Glory as you see to be for the best.” He knew that Jesus had promised suffering and martyrdom to some of his servants (Luke 11:49; 21:12–18). So the promises he claimed were both: either protect me or take me home in a way that will glorify you and do good for others.

This meant that, in one sense, life was not simple. If God may rescue us for his glory, or let us be killed for his glory, which way to turn in self-preservation was not an easy question to answer.

To know what was best to be done, in such trying circumstances, was an abiding perplexity. To have left altogether, when so surrounded by perils and enemies, at first seemed the wisest course, and was the repeated advice of many friends. But again, I had acquired the language, and had gained a considerable influence amongst the Natives, and there were a number warmly attached both to myself and to the Worship. To have left would have been to lose all, which to me was heart-rending; therefore, risking all with Jesus, I held on while the hope of being spared longer had not absolutely and entirely vanished (p. 173).

After one harrowing journey he wrote, “Had it not been for the assurance that . . . in every path of duty He would carry me through or dispose of me therein for His glory, I could never have undertaken either journey” (p. 148).

Often have I seized the pointed barrel and directed it upwards, or, pleading with my assailant, uncapped his musket in the struggle. At other times, nothing could be said, nothing done, but stand still in silent prayer, asking to protect us or to prepare us for going home to His glory. He fulfilled His own promise — I will not fail thee nor forsake thee.(pp. 329–330)

The peace God gave him in these crises was not the peace of sure escape but the peace that God is good and wise and omnipotent and will do all things well. “We felt that God was near, and omnipotent to do what seemed best in his sight” (p. 197).

Did ever mother run more quickly to protect her crying child in danger’s hour, than the Lord Jesus hastens to answer believing prayer and send help to His servants in His own good time and way, so far as it shall be for His glory and their good? (p. 164, emphasis added)

Paton taught his helpers to pray this way as well, and we hear the same faith and prayer in Abraham, his trustworthy Aneityumese servant.

O Lord, our Heavenly Father, they have murdered Thy servants on Erromanga. They have banished the Aneityumese from dark Tanna. And now they want to kill Missi Paton and me. Our great King, protect us, and make their hearts soft and sweet to Thy Worship. Or, if they are permitted to kill us, do not Thou hate us, but wash us in the blood of Thy dear Son Jesus Christ. . . . Make us two and all Thy servants strong for Thee and for Thy Worship; and if they kill us now, let us die together in Thy good work, like Thy servants Missi Gordon the man and Missi Gordon the woman. (p. 171)

His courage came from a joy in God that he knew could not be surpassed anywhere in any other ministry.

Oh that the pleasure-seeking men and women of the world could only taste and feel the real joy of those who know and love the true God – a heritage which the world . . . cannot give to them, but which the poorest and humblest followers of Jesus inherit and enjoy! (p. 78)

My heart often says within itself — when, when will men’s eyes at home be opened? When will the rich and the learned . . . renounce their shallow frivolities, and go to live amongst the poor, the ignorant, the outcast, and the lost, and write their eternal fame on the souls by them blessed and brought to the Savior? Those who have tasted this highest joy, “The joy of the Lord,” will never again ask — Is Life worth living?

He goes on to expand the ground of this joy:

Life, any life, would be well spent, under any conceivable conditions, in bringing one human soul to know and love and serve God and His Son, and thereby securing for yourself at least one temple where your name and memory would be held for ever and for ever in affectionate praise — a regenerated Heart in heaven. That fame will prove immortal, when all the poems and monuments and pyramids of Earth have gone into dust. (pp. 411–412)

Near the end of his life he wrote about the joy that carried him on and about his hope that his own children would undertake the same mission and find the same joy:

Let me record my immovable conviction that this is the noblest service in which any human being, can spend or be spent; and that, if God gave me back my life to be lived over again, I would without one quiver of hesitation lay it on the altar to Christ, that He might use it as before in similar ministries of love, especially amongst those who have never yet heard the Name of Jesus. Nothing that has been endured, and nothing that can now befall me, makes me tremble — on the contrary, I deeply rejoice — when I breathe the prayer that it may please the blessed Lord to turn the hearts of all my children to the Mission Field and that He may open up their way and make it their pride and joy to live and die in carrying Jesus and His Gospel into the heart of the Heathen World! (p. 444, emphasis added)

Where did the joy of John G. Paton most deeply repose? The answer, it seems, is that it rested most deeply in the experience of personal communion with Jesus Christ mediated through the promise, “Lo, I am with you alway.” Therefore, the final source of his courage I would mention is that

His courage came from personal fellowship with Jesus through faith in his promise, especially on the brink of eternity.

The promise had been given precisely in the context of the Great Commission: “Go and make disciples of all nations . . . and Lo, I am with you always, even to the end of the age” (Matthew 28:19–20). More than any other promise, this one brought Jesus close and real to John Paton in all his dangers. After the measles epidemic that killed thousands on the islands, and for which the missionaries were blamed, he wrote: “During the crisis, I felt generally calm, and firm of soul, standing erect and with my whole weight on the promise, ‘Lo! I am with you alway.’ Precious promise! How often I adore Jesus for it, and rejoice in it! Blessed be his name” (p. 154).

The power this promise had to make Christ real to Paton in hours of crisis was unlike any other Scripture or prayer:

Without that abiding consciousness of the presence and power of my dear Lord and Savior, nothing else in all the world could have preserved me from losing my reason and perishing miserably. In his words, “Lo, I am with you alway, even unto the end of the world,” became to me so real that it would not have startled me to behold Him, as Stephen did, gazing down upon the scene. I felt His supporting power. . . . It is the sober truth, and it comes back to me sweetly after 20 years, that I had my nearest and dearest glimpses of the face and smiles of my blessed Lord in those dread moments when musket, club, or spear was being leveled at my life. Oh the bliss of living and enduring, as seeing “Him who is invisible”! (p. 117)

My constant custom was, in order to prevent war, to run right in between the contending parties. My faith enabled me to grasp and realize the promise, ‘Lo, I am with you alway.’ In Jesus I felt invulnerable and immortal, so long as I was doing his work. And I can truly say, that these were the moments when I felt my Savior to be most truly and sensibly present, inspiring and empowering me. (p. 342)

One of the most powerful paragraphs in his Autobiography describes his experience of hiding in a tree, at the mercy of an unreliable chief, as hundreds of angry natives hunted him for his life. What he experienced there was the deepest source of Paton’s joy and courage. In fact, I would dare to say that to share this experience and call others to enjoy it was the reason that he wrote the story of his life.

I pity from the depth of my heart every human being, who, from whatever cause, is a stranger to the most ennobling, uplifting, and consoling experience that can come to the soul of man — blessed communion with the Father of our Spirits, through gracious union with the Lord Jesus Christ. (p. 359)

He began his Autobiography with the words, “What I write here is for the glory of God” (p. 2). That is true. But God gets glory when his Son is exalted. And his Son his exalted when we cherish him above all things. That is what this story is about.

Being entirely at the mercy of such doubtful and vacillating friends, I, though perplexed, felt it best to obey. I climbed into the tree and was left there alone in the bush. The hours I spent there live all before me as if it were but of yesterday. I heard the frequent discharging of muskets, and the yells of the Savages. Yet I sat there among the branches, as safe as in the arms of Jesus. Never, in all my sorrows, did my Lord draw nearer to me, and speak more soothingly in my soul, than when the moonlight flickered among those chestnut leaves, and the night air played on my throbbing brow, as I told all my heart to Jesus. Alone, yet not alone! If it be to glorify my God, I will not grudge to spend many nights alone in such a tree, to feel again my Savior’s spiritual presence, to enjoy His consoling fellowship. If thus thrown back upon your own soul, alone, all alone, in the midnight, in the bush, in the very embrace of death itself, have you a Friend that will not fail you then? (p. 200)