#daub in white and work the grey up to the very edge of the white

[autoneurotic]

gnashing my teeth. getting closer.

[inky-duchess]

Fantasy Guide to Architecture

This post has been waiting on the back burner for weeks and during this time of quarantine, I have decided to tackle it. This is probably the longest post I have ever done. I is very tired and hope that I have covered everything from Ancient times to the 19th Century, that will help you guys with your worldbuilding.

Materials

What you build with can be determined by the project you intend, the terrain you build on and the availability of the material. It is one characteristic that we writers can take some some liberties with.

Granite: Granite is an stone formed of Igneous activity near a fissure of the earth or a volcano. Granites come in a wide range of colour, most commonly white, pink, or grey depending on the minerals present. Granite is hard and a durable material to build with. It can be built with without being smoothed but it looks bitchin' and shiny all polished up.

Marble: Probably everyone's go to materials for building grand palaces and temples. Marble is formed when great pressure is placed on limestone. Marble can be easily damaged over time by rain as the calcium in the rock dissolves with the chemicals found in rain. Marble comes in blue, white, green, black, white, red, gray and yellow. Marble is an expensive material to build with, highly sought after for the most important buildings. Marble is easy to carve and shape and polishes to a high gleam. Marble is found at converging plate boundaries.

Obsidian: Obsidian is probably one of the most popular stones mentioned in fantasy works. Obsidian is an igneous rock formed of lava cooling quickly on the earth's surfaces. Obsidian is a very brittle and shiny stone, easy to polish but not quite a good building material but a decorative one.

Limestone: Limestone is made of fragments of marine fossils. Limestone is one of the oldest building materials. Limestone is an easy material to shape but it is easily eroded by rain which leads most limestone monuments looking weathered.

Concrete: Concrete has been around since the Romans. Concrete is formed when aggregate (crushed limstone, gravel or granite mixed with fine dust and sand) is mixed with water. Concrete can be poured into the desired shape making it a cheap and easy building material.

Brick: Brick was one of history's most expensive materials because they took so long to make. Bricks were formed of clay, soil, sand, and lime or concrete and joined together with mortar. The facade of Hampton Court Palace is all of red brick, a statement of wealth in the times.

Glass: Glass is formed of sand heated until it hardens. Glass is an expensive material and for many years, glass could not be found in most buildings as having glass made was very expensive.

Plaster: Plaster is made from gypsum and lime mixed with water. It was used for decoration purposes and to seal walls. A little known fact, children. Castle walls were likely painted with plaster or white render on the interior.

Wattle and Daub: Wattle and daub is a building material formed of woven sticks cemented with a mixture of mud, one of the most common and popular materials throughout time.

Building terms

Arcade: An arcade is a row of arches, supported by columns.

Arch: An arch is a curved feature built to support weight often used for a window or doorway.

Mosaic: Mosaics are a design element that involves using pieces of coloured glass and fitted them together upon the floor or wall to form images.

Frescos: A design element of painting images upon wet plaster.

Buttress: A structure built to reinforce and support a wall.

Column: A column is a pillar of stone or wood built to support a ceiling. We will see more of columns later on.

Eave: Eaves are the edges of overhanging roofs built to allow eater to run off.

Vaulted Ceiling: The vaulted ceilings is a self-supporting arched ceiling, than spans over a chamber or a corridor.

Colonnade: A colonnade is a row of columns joined the entablature.

Entablature: a succession of bands laying atop the tops of columns.

Bay Window: The Bay Window is a window projecting outward from a building.

Courtyard/ Atrium/ Court: The courtyard is an open area surrounded by buildings on all sides

Dome: The dome resembles a hollow half of a sphere set atop walls as a ceiling.

Façade: the exterior side of a building

Gable: The gable is a triangular part of a roof when two intersecting roof slabs meet in the middle.

Hyphen: The hyphen is a smaller building connecting between two larger structures.

Now, let's look at some historical building styles and their characteristics of each Architectural movement.

Classical Style

The classical style of Architecture cannot be grouped into just one period. We have five: Doric (Greek), Ionic (Greek), Corinthian (Greek), Tuscan (Roman) and Composite (Mixed).

Doric: Doric is the oldest of the orders and some argue it is the simplest. The columns of this style are set close together, without bases and carved with concave curves called flutes. The capitals (the top of the column) are plain often built with a curve at the base called an echinus and are topped by a square at the apex called an abacus. The entablature is marked by frieze of vertical channels/triglyphs. In between the channels would be detail of carved marble. The Parthenon in Athens is your best example of Doric architecture.

Ionic: The Ionic style was used for smaller buildings and the interiors. The columns had twin volutes, scroll-like designs on its capital. Between these scrolls, there was a carved curve known as an egg and in this style the entablature is much narrower and the frieze is thick with carvings. The example of Ionic Architecture is the Temple to Athena Nike at the Athens Acropolis.

Corinthian: The Corinthian style has some similarities with the Ionic order, the bases, entablature and columns almost the same but the capital is more ornate its base, column, and entablature, but its capital is far more ornate, commonly carved with depictions of acanthus leaves. The style was more slender than the others on this list, used less for bearing weight but more for decoration. Corinthian style can be found along the top levels of the Colosseum in Rome.

Tuscan: The Tuscan order shares much with the Doric order, but the columns are un-fluted and smooth. The entablature is far simpler, formed without triglyphs or guttae. The columns are capped with round capitals.

Composite: This style is mixed. It features the volutes of the Ionic order and the capitals of the Corinthian order. The volutes are larger in these columns and often more ornate. The column's capital is rather plain. for the capital, with no consistent differences to that above or below the capital.

Islamic Architecture

Islamic architecture is the blanket term for the architectural styles of the buildings most associated with the eponymous faith. The style covers early Islamic times to the present day. Islamic Architecture has some influences from Mesopotamian, Roman, Byzantine, China and the Mongols.

Paradise garden: As gardens are an important symbol in Islam, they are very popular in most Islamic-style buildings. The paradise gardens are commonly symmetrical and often enclosed within walls. The most common style of garden is split into four rectangular with a pond or water feature at the very heart. Paradise gardens commonly have canals, fountains, ponds, pools and fruit trees as the presence of water and scent is essential to a paradise garden.

Sehan: The Sehan is a traditional courtyard. When built at a residence or any place not considered to be a religious site, the sehan is a private courtyard. The sehan will be full of flowering plants, water features snd likely surrounded by walls. The space offers shade, water and protection from summer heat. It was also an area where women might cast off their hijabs as the sehan was considered a private area and the hijab was not required. A sehan is also the term for a courtyard of a mosque. These courtyards would be surrounded by buildings on all sides, yet have no ceiling, leaving it open to the air. Sehans will feature a cleansing pool at the centre, set under a howz, a pavilion to protect the water. The courtyard is used for rituals but also a place of rest and gathering.

Hypostyle Hall: The Hypostyle is a hall, open to the sky and supported by columns leading to a reception hall off the main hall to the right.

Muqarnas : Muqarnas is a type of ornamentation within a dome or a half domed, sometimes called a "honeycomb", or "stalactite" vaulted ceiling. This would be cast from stone, wood, brick or stucco, used to ornament the inside of a dome or cupola. Muqarnas are used to create transitions between spaces, offering a buffer between the spaces.

African Architecture

African Architecture is a very mixed bag and more structurally different and impressive than Hollywood would have you believe. Far beyond the common depictions of primitive buildings, the African nations were among the giants of their time in architecture, no style quite the same as the last but just as breathtaking.

Somali architecture: The Somali were probably had one of Africa's most diverse and impressive architectural styles. Somali Architecture relies heavy on masonry, carving stone to shape the numerous forts, temples, mosques, royal residences, aqueducts and towers. Islamic architecture was the main inspiration for some of the details of the buildings. The Somali used sun-dried bricks, limestone and many other materials to form their impressive buildings, for example the burial monuments called taalo

Ashanti Architecture: The Ashanti style can be found in present day Ghana. The style incorporates walls of plaster formed of mud and designed with bright paint and buildings with a courtyard at the heart, not unlike another examples on this post. The Ashanti also formed their buildings of the favourite method of wattle and daub.

Afrikaner Architecture: This is probably one of the oddest architectural styles to see. Inspired by Dutch settlers (squatters), the buildings of the colony (planters/squatters) of South Africa took on a distinctive Dutch look but with an Afrikaner twist to it making it seem both familiar and strange at the same time.

Rwandan Architecture: The Rwandans commonly built of hardened clay with thatched roofs of dried grass or reeds. Mats of woven reeds carpeted the floors of royal abodes. These residences folded about a large public area known as a karubanda and were often so large that they became almost like a maze, connecting different chambers/huts of all kinds of uses be they residential or for other purposes.

Aksumite Architecture: The Aksumite was an Empire in modern day Ethiopia. The Aksumites created buildings from stone, hewn into place. One only has to look at the example of Bete Medhane Alem to see how imposing it was.

Yoruba Architecture: Yoruba Architecture was made by earth cured until it hardened enough to form into walls, or they used wattle and daub, roofed by timbers slats coated in woven grass or leaves. Each unit divided up parts of the buildings from facilities to residences, all with multiple entrances, connected together.

Igbo Architecture: The Igbo style follows some patterns of the Yoruba architecture, excepting that there are no connected walls and the spacing is not so equal. The closer a unit was to the centre, the more important inhabitants were.

Hausa architecture: Hausa Architecture was formed of monolithic walls coated in plaster. The ceilings and roof of the buildings were in the shape of small domes and early vaulted ceilings of stripped timber and laterite. Hausa Architecture features a single entrance into the building and circular walls.

Nubian Architecture: Nubia, in modern day Ethiopia, was home to the Nubians who were one of the world's most impressive architects at the beginning of the architecture world and probably would be more talked about if it weren't for the Egyptians building monuments only up the road. The Nubians were famous for building the speos, tall tower-like spires carved of stone. The Nubians used a variety of materials and skills to build, for example wattle and daub and mudbrick. The Kingdom of Kush, the people who took over the Nubian Empire was a fan of Egyptian works even if they didn't like them very much. The Kushites began building pyramid-like structures such at the sight of Gebel Barkal

Egyptian Architecture: The Egyptians were the winners of most impressive buildings for s good while. Due to the fact that Egypt was short on wood, Ancient Egyptians returned to building with limestone, granite, mudbrick, sandstone which were commonly painted with bright murals of the gods along with some helpful directions to Anubis's crib. The Egyptians are of course famous for their pyramids but lets not just sit on that bandwagon. Egyptian Architecture sported all kinds of features such as columns, piers, obelisks and carving buildings out of cliff faces as we see at Karnak. The Egyptians are cool because they mapped out their buildings in such a way to adhere to astrological movements meaning on special days if the calendar the temple or monuments were in the right place always. The Egyptians also only build residences on the east bank of the Nile River, for the opposite bank was meant for the dead. The columns of Egyptian where thicker, more bulbous and often had capitals shaped like bundles of papyrus reeds.

Chinese Architecture

Chinese Architecture is probably one of the most recognisable styles in the world. The grandness of Chinese Architecture is imposing and beautiful, as classical today as it was hundreds of years ago.

The Presence of Wood: As China is in an area where earthquakes are common, most of the buildings are were build of wood as it was easy to come across and important as the Ancient Chinese wanted a connection to nature in their homes.

Overhanging Roofs: The most famous feature of the Chinese Architectural style are the tiled roofs, set with wide eaves and upturned corners. The roofs were always tiled with ceramic to protect wood from rotting. The eaves often overhung from the building providing shade.

Symmetrical Layouts: Chinese Architecture is symmetrical. Almost every feature is in perfect balance with its other half.

Fengshui: Fengshui are philosophical principles of how to layout buildings and towns according to harmony lain out in Taoism. This ensured that the occupants in the home where kept in health, happiness, wealth and luck.

One-story: As China is troubled by earthquakes and wood is not a great material for building multi-storied buildings, most Chinese buildings only rise a single floor. Richer families might afford a second floor but the single stories compounds were the norm.

Orientation: The Ancient Chinese believed that the North Star marked out Heaven. So when building their homes and palaces, the northern section was the most important part of the house and housed the heads of the household.

Courtyards: The courtyard was the most important area for the family within the home. The courtyard or siheyuan are often built open to the sky, surrounded by verandas on each side.

Japanese Architecture

Japanese Architecture is famous for its delicacy, smooth beauty and simplistic opulence. Japanese Architecture has been one of the world's most recognisable styles, spanning thousands of years.

Wood as a Common Material: As with the Chinese, the most popular material used by the Japanese is wood. Stone and other materials were not often used because of the presence of earthquakes. Unlike Chinese Architecture, the Japanese did not paint the wood, instead leaving it bare so show the grain.

Screens and sliding doors: The shoji and fusuma are the screens and sliding doors are used in Japanese buildings to divide chambers within the house. The screens were made of light wood and thin parchment, allowing light through the house. The screens and sliding doors were heavier when they where used to shutter off outside features.

Tatami: Tatami mats are used within Japanese households to blanket the floors. They were made of rice straw and rush straw, laid down to cushion the floor.

Verandas: It is a common feature in older Japanese buildings to see a veranda along the outside of the house. Sometimes called an engawa, it acted as an outdoor corridor, often used for resting in.

Genkan: The Genkan was a sunken space between the front door and the rest of the house. This area is meant to separate the home from the outside and is where shoes are discarded before entering.

Nature: As both the Shinto and Buddhist beliefs are great influences upon architecture, there is a strong presence of nature with the architecture. Wood is used for this reason and natural light is prevalent with in the home. The orientation is meant to reflect the best view of the world.

Indian Architecture

India is an architectural goldmine. There are dozens of styles of architecture in the country, some spanning back thousands of years, influenced by other cultures making a heady stew of different styles all as beautiful and striking as the last.

Mughal Architecture: The Mughal architecture blends influences from Islamic, Persian along with native Indian. It was popular between the 16th century -18th century when India was ruled by Mughal Emperors. The Taj Mahal is the best example of this.

Indo-Saracenic Revival Architecture: Indo Saracenic Revival mixes classical Indian architecture, Indo-Islamic architecture, neo-classical and Gothic revival of the 1800s.

Cave Architecture: The cave architecture is probably one of the oldest and most impressive styles of Indian architecture. In third century BC, monks carved temples and buildings into the rock of caves.

Rock-Cut Architecture: The Rock-cut is similar to the cave style, only that the rock cut is carved from a single hunk of natural rock, shaped into buildings and sprawling temples, all carved and set with statues.

Vesara Architecture: Vesara style prevalent in medieval period in India. It is a mixture of the Dravida and the Nagara styles. The tiers of the Vesara style are shorter than the other styles.

Dravidian Architecture: The Dravidian is the southern temple architectural style. The Kovils are an example of prime Dravidian architecture. These monuments are of carved stone, set up in a step like towers like with statues of deities and other important figures adorning them.

Kalinga Architecture: The Kalinga style is the dominant style in the eastern Indian provinces. The Kalinga style is famous for architectural stipulations, iconography and connotations and heavy depictions of legends and myths.

Sikh Architecture: Sikh architecture is probably the most intricate and popular of the styles here. Sikh architecture is famous for its soft lines and details.

Romanesque (6th -11th century/12th)

Romanesque Architecture is a span between the end of Roman Empire to the Gothic style. Taking inspiration from the Roman and Byzantine Empires, the Romanesque period incorporates many of the styles.

Rounded arches: It is here that we see the last of the rounded arches famous in the classical Roman style until the Renaissance. The rounded arches are very popular in this period especially in churches and cathedrals. The rounded arches were often set alongside each other in continuous rows with columns in between.

Details: The most common details are carved floral and foliage symbols with the stonework of the Romanesque buildings. Cable mouldings or twisted rope-like carvings would have framed doorways.

Pillars: The Romanesque columns is commonly plainer than the classical columns, with ornate captials and plain bases. Most columns from this time are rather thick and plain.

Barrel Vaults: A barrel vaulted ceiling is formed when a curved ceiling or a pair of curves (in a pointed ceiling). The ceiling looks rather like half a tunnel, completely smooth and free of ribs, stone channels to strengthen the weight of the ceiling.

Arcading: An arcade is a row of arches in a continual row, supported by columns in a colonnade. Exterior arcades acted as a sheltered passage whilst inside arcades or blind arcades, are set against the wall the arches bricked, the columns and arches protruding from the wall.

Gothic Architecture (12th Century - 16th Century)

The Gothic Architectural style is probably one of the beautiful of the styles on this list and one of most recognisable. The Gothic style is a dramatic, opposing sight and one of the easiest to describe.

Pointed arch: The Gothic style incorporates pointed arches, in the windows and doorways. The arches were likely inspired by pre-Islamic architecture in the east.

Ribbed vault: The ribbed vault of the Gothic age was constructed of pointed arches. The trick with the ribbed vaulted ceiling, is that the pointed arches and channels to bear the weight of the ceiling.

Buttresses: The flying buttress is designed to support the walls. They are similar to arches and are connected to counter-supports fixed outside the walls.

Stained-Glass Window: This is probably one of the most recognisable and beautiful of the Gothic features. They can be set in round rose windows or in the pointed arches.

Renaissance Architecture (15th Century- 17th Century)

Renaissance architecture was inspired by Ancient Roman and Greek Architecture. Renaissance Architecture is Classical on steroids but has its own flare. The Renaissance was a time for colour and grandeur.

Columns and pilasters: Roman and Greek columns were probably the greatest remix of the Renaissance period. The architecture of this period incorporated the five orders of columns are used: Tuscan, Doric, Ionic, Corinthian and Composite. The columns were used to hold up a structure, support ceilings and adorn facades. Pilasters were columns within a chamber, lining the walls for pure decoration purposes.

Arches: Arches are rounded in this period, having a more natural semi-circular shape at its apex. Arches were a favourite feature of the style, used in windows, arcades or atop columns.

Cupola: Is a small dome-like tower atop a bigger dome or a rooftop meant to allow light and air into the chamber beneath.

Vaulted Ceiling/Barrel Vault: Renaissance vaulted ceilings do not have ribs. Instead they are semi-circular in shape, resting upon a square plain rather than the Gothic preference of rectangular. The barrel vault held by its own weight and would likely be coated in plaster and painted.

Domes: The dome is the architectural feature of the Renaissance. The ceiling curves inwards as it rises, forming a bowl like shape over the chamber below. The dome's revival can be attributed to Brunelleschi and the Herculean feat of placing a dome on the Basilica di Santa Maria del Fiore. The idea was later copied by Bramante who built St. Peter's Basilica.

Frescos: To decorate the insides of Renaissance buildings, frescos (the art of applying wet paint to plaster as it dries) were used to coat the walls and ceilings of the buildings. The finest frescos belong to Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel.

Baroque (1625–1750)

Baroque incorporates some key features of Renaissance architecture, such as those nice columns and domes we saw earlier on. But Baroque takes that to the next level. Everything is higher, bigger, shinier, brighter and more opulent. Some key features of Baroque palaces and buildings would be:

Domes: These domes were a common feature, left over from the Renaissance period. Why throw out a perfectly good bubble roof, I ask you? But Baroque domes were of course, grander. Their interiors were were nearly always painted or gilded, so it drew the eye upwards which is basically the entire trick with Baroque buildings. Domes were not always round in this building style and Eastern European buildings in Poland and Ukraine for example sport pear-shaped domes.

Solomonic columns: Though the idea of columns have been about for years but the solomonic columns but their own twist on it. These columns spiral from beginning to end, often in a s-curved pattern.

Quadratura: Quadratura was the practice of painting the ceilings and walls of a Baroque building with trompe-l'oeil. Most real life versions of this depict angels and gods in the nude. Again this is to draw the eye up.

Mirrors: Mirrors came into popularity during this period as they were a cool way to create depth and light in a chamber. When windows faced the mirrors on the wall, it creates natural light and generally looks bitchin'. Your famous example is the Hall of Mirrors at the Palace of Versailles.

Grand stairways: The grand sweeping staircases became popular in this era, often acting as the centre piece in a hall. The Baroque staircase would be large and opulent, meant for ceremonies and to smoother guests in grandeur.

Cartouche: The cartouche is a design that is created to add some 3D effect to the wall, usually oval in shape with a convex surface and edged with scrollwork. It is used commonly to outline mirrors on the wall or crest doorways just to give a little extra opulence.

Neoclassical (1750s-19th century)

The Neoclassical Period involved grand buildings inspired by the Greek orders, the most popular being the Doric. The main features of Neoclassical architecture involve the simple geometric lines, columns, smooth walls, detailing and flat planed surfaces. The bas-reliefs of the Neoclassical style are smoother and set within tablets, panels and friezes. St. Petersburg is famous for the Neoclassical styles brought in under the reign of Catherine the Great.

Greek Revival (late 18th and early 19th century)

As travel to other nations became easier in this time period, they became to get really into the Ancient Greek aesthetic. During this architectural movement they brought back the gabled roof, the columns and the entablature. The Greek Revival was more prevalent in the US after the Civil War and in Northern Europe.

Hope this helps somewhat @marril96

[criticalthinkingedu-blog]

The Last Leaf

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account!

    So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony."

    At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted.

    That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places."

    Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house.

    One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, grey eyebrow.

    "She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?"

"She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue.

    "Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?"

    "A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind."

    "Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten."

    After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime.

    Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep.

    She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature.

    As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside.

    Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward.

    "Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together.

    Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks.

"What is it, dear?" asked Sue.

    "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now."

    "Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie."

    "Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?"

    "Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self."

    "You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too."

    "Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down."

    "Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly.

    "I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves."

"Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves."

    "Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back."

    Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above.

    Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker.

    Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings.

"Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy."

    "She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet."

    "You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes."

    Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock.

    When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade.

    "Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper.

    Wearily Sue obeyed.

    But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground.

"It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time."

    "Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?"

    But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed.

    The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves.

    When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised.

    The ivy leaf was still there.

    Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove.

    "I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook."

    And hour later she said:

    "Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples."

    The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left.

"Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable."

    The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all."

    And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all.

    "I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

[genewolf]

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[lykegenia]

The Things We Hide Ch.11

The Southern Water Tribe stood for a hundred years against the Fire Nation, indomitable until Sozin’s Comet tipped the balance in Fire Lord Ozai’s favour. Now, as planned, the South is decimated, Chief Hakoda is a puppet on his throne, and Princess Katara is a political prisoner held in the Fire Nation capital to ensure his good behaviour. But Ozai has little time to gloat. A vigilante masquerading as the Blue Spirit is causing unrest among the people, rebel ships still hound his navy, and right under his nose the South’s most powerful waterbender waits with the patience of ice to strike at the very heart of his empire and bring it crashing down.

Chapter 1 on AO3 Masterpost here

Words: 3107 Pairing: Zuko x Katara Chapter Summary: Flashback - the fall of the Southern Water Tribe Chapter warnings: violence, blood, battle scenes, character death - not explicit

With every daub of paint, Katara watched her features disappear. The two pointer digits of her right hand were layered in the pigments of the warrior’s mask passed down to her by tradition, and which she now applied to herself, as tradition demanded. Black for the Sea-wolf’s back, for the merciless nature of the hunter; swirls of white for the eye spots and the underbelly stripe that hid the predator from prey below; grey zigzags for the striped shadows of the water, lines that turned her from mere warrior into an avenging spirit meant to feel neither pain nor anguish. She had learned the lines and patterns well. It was her duty to know them, to feel the battle mask beneath her own face like a second skin, ever since the mantle of the Sea-wolf had been passed to her over a year before.

She had thought herself unworthy of the honour – there were others with more experience and greater skill in battle who could better protect the people – but as she knelt in respect by old Martok’s bedside, the smoke of the traditional whale-fat lamps burning her eyes, he had reached out a gnarled claw to her and gasped his choice, his one remaining eye bright in the darkness of the hut, then brought her close and hissed that soon the people would need the care of a different kind of strength. When the grizzled general died, his words were minded and she learned to apply the warpaint and sing the songs, though all agreed that until she reached her majority, she could not be put in harm’s way. Her teachers trained her harder, the elders bombarded her with lessons, and together they honed her into a finely crafted weapon ready for the day she would become the last line of defence for her people.

She hadn’t thought the day would come so soon.

A fireball exploded nearby. The whole room trembled, the dim light flaring brilliant orange before retreating into the eerie purple shadow made as the red sky filtered through the ice palace’s domed roof. Closer than the last one – she had to hurry. Gritting her teeth, Katara dipped her pinkie finger into the pot of grey paint for the last time, and drew it out to mark her forehead with the crescent moon that would lend her Tui’s strength. The same mark had been painted on the foreheads of the Third Fleet when they set sail two weeks earlier, with Sokka standing brave at the tiller of the flagship.

Another fireball exploded against the palace’s outer walls.

The last item Katara needed to complete her attire was the circlet of Sea-wolf teeth meant to sit over the braids worked into her hair to keep it threaded back from her face. The heirloom clinked as she brushed it with her unpainted fingers, hesitating. Its delicate appearance belied its weight, with so much depending on her. So much could go wrong. If they lost this fight, then the whole Southern Water Tribe, with its centuries of tradition, would fade into nothingness like a snowflake alighting on the sea. If she, the Sea-wolf, failed, then there would be no more Sea-wolves to come after.

Shouts came from the hall outside her room, and she recognised the voice as belonging to her father. Her people needed her – who was she to worry about what-ifs when inaction was the only true road to failure? Her hands steady now, she pinned the circlet into her hair and rose from her vanity, feeling her spine straighten as her warpaint dried and the ancient Sea-wolf’s teeth settled into place. Outside, her phalanx of master waterbenders waited for her instruction. Many of them were scarred from previous battles, and all were older than her, but every one fell into line at her heel as she made her way to the palace steps, where her father waited with his honour guard, grim-faced and armed to the teeth.

“I told your mother to wait with the elders,” he said. When he looked at her, his eyes held no affection, only the respect of one warrior for another.

She would not disappoint his faith in her. “General Hama is waiting for us,” she replied.

The next hours passed in flashes. They fought in blue streets under a bloody sky with fireballs raining down around them. Katara sent up pillars of ice to spear the airships as they descended low enough to make their bombs accurate, and when she found out the gas inside was flammable, she made sure the next puncture struck sparks. Other waterbenders followed her cue, and the airships retreated to find safer targets.

More difficult to hold back were the ground troops the Fire Nation had landed outside the city. They came on sweeping everything before them in fire, not caring if they torched cloth or food stores or living flesh. Some even laughed as they burned away the Southern blockades, thinking that the blue-clad figures running from the flames did so out of fear.

They didn’t know that in the South Pole, the people learned quickly that fighting a blizzard is futile, and that for a waterbender, the first lesson was to use an opponent’s strength against them.

Katara waited for the komodo-riders to slither closer. Heavily armoured infantry followed behind them. A barrier loomed in front of them, a huge wall of opaque ice with the palace a tantalising target just visible over the edge, spurring them on. Already bolstered by their earlier successes, the riders halted their mounts and turned their heads out of the way so they could blast their way through, so eager for their prize they failed to notice the wall was hollow, packed with mines of explosive powder, jars of stockpiled seal fat, and bone-dry moss that would only spread the flames further. It had been Sokka’s idea.

The Fire Nation commander raised his hand to give the order. Above, Katara gestured patience at those who gathered behind her. There was a brief whoosh of heat and fire that danced in her eyes before the first of the mines caught and exploded outwards in a dazing flash of light and noise. Men ran away, their arms waving madly as fire consumed them, while others lay still, bent at unnatural angles among the detritus of the Water Tribe bombs. Katara hadn’t realised how loud the screaming would be.

She gave a silent order, and fog workers shrouded the remaining Fire Nation troops in dense, chilling mist. Several flashes lit the interior of the cloud, but when the commanders realised it couldn’t be safely dispersed with fire, they barked at their soldiers to stand down and ordered a retreat, which was exactly what Katara had been hoping for. She stood on the edge of the building she was using as a vantage point, a figure in black with flying wild hair briefly outlined against the Comet’s tail. The ice dagger in her hand glinted once, then she dropped over the edge, leading the way to the killing field as the Sea-wolf must. She heard the splatter of blood in her wake as she opened the commander’s throat, and with her grim satisfaction came the dull crunch of the snow as he collapsed, dead before he even realised what had happened to him. The other officers fell too, cut down by the rest of Katara’s waterbenders, like the hard kernel of a nut, cracked to reach the softer seed within.

With nobody to give them orders, the already spooked Fire Nation soldiers made easy prey. They didn’t even know they were being goaded. The waterbenders darted among them as shadows through the fog, sometimes darting in with a dagger, other times laughing or leering, before just as quickly pushing off the ground with a pillar of water, back to the relative safety of the rooftops where they couldn’t be seen.

Waterbenders know strength cannot always be met with strength. They could never have matched the Fire Nation, so they didn’t try. Every pass left the infantry more confused, more out of step, and as their confusion grew so did their panic, until at last one could take no more and let loose a gush of flame after a grinning battle mask, and sent up half a dozen of his comrades who stood unseen in the dense fog just a few yards away. It was like setting off another line of bombs, even more effective than the first, and Katara only paused long enough to see the last put out of their misery before she led her phalanx on.

We might win this, she thought as she prowled through her city. There may not be need for Hama’s plan after all. Everywhere she looked, the Fire Nation was being held at bay. Catapults on the city’s inner walls launched fragile mortars filled with pitch and fat so that the firebenders’ abilities became their own undoing; sections of the streets were sunk into the ice and flooded so fast the enemy couldn’t remove their weighty armour and sank, their spark surrendered to the ocean. It was a grisly business, but Katara couldn’t help the savage pride that flared in her chest. Who else had the courage and ingenuity to stand against the Fire Lord? There was a reason the Southern Water Tribe had stood defiant for a hundred years; all those left in the city to fight showed it was defiant still.

A shadow fell across the falling sun. a new fleet of airships, bigger than the last, coming in a broad arrowhead from the sea. The airship leading at the centre was larger than the rest, its prow scrolled with gilt phoenixes wreathed in flame. The Fire Lord. As Katara watched, firebenders walked out onto platforms at the base of the airships, and a wall of flame descended, obliterating everything in its path in a haze of steam. Hatred like Katara had never known surged within her – Ozai was burning his own men along with his enemy!

“Bring them down!” someone shouted, and those not already fighting the enemy in the streets turned their attention upwards.

An airship came down. Another, hit by an explosive catapult shell, was engulfed with the one next to it. Still the Fire Lord came on, burning as he went.

No. This was not how it ended. Hundreds of years of history, a century of defiance, and for what? To be wiped away from the face of the earth like a footprint in a blizzard? Katara felt for ice and water and blood and they came to her, twining around her arms like serpents as she and the other waterbenders sent desperate projectiles of ice hurling into the air. She ordered the others back into the palace, their last stronghold now, loosing a snarl as she dove for the nearest canal.

She felt the currents swirling around her. the salt of the ocean stung her eyes, and shadows of creatures quite not quite of the mortal world danced at the edge of her vision as breath swelled in her lungs. The Fire Lord’s force was a distant hiss of orange light creeping closer.

Her water whip was already forming as she broke from beneath the ice in a funnel, rising too fast for the Fire Lord to follow. He spotted her, but moved too slow. She would get one shot before she had to retreat. Her water whip lashed out, a blade of sheer ice at its tip glinting as it whistled through the air. Her aim was true. She saw the maniacal grin falter with incomprehension, and only reflex saved him as the blade meant to pierce between his eyes missed its target and instead pared his cheek open to the bone.

Whatever passing triumph Katara allowed herself vanished as the Fire Lord’s blast of flame sliced through the funnel holding her in the sky and sent her tumbling to the ice below. She called it to her and slipped under the water again, using it to twist away from the bursts of fire now madly bludgeoning against the water in attempt to avenge Ozai’s ruptured pride. She smiled to herself as she swam easily out of reach, pausing to admire her handiwork only when she surfaced at last outside the palace steps. There was no plan in the Fire Lord’s forces now. Almost half of the ground troops had scattered to escape the wrath of their own leader, and of the airships remaining, many were limping with broken propellers and most had lost their formation.

A second look, however, told Katara the price of such disorder. The capital of the Southern Water Tribe burned. Tongues of gold and orange licked at the buildings despite their protective coating of ice. Where the main market square had sat just that morning there was a bilious mass of black smoke pluming with a stench of fish guts and burned tar, and nearby the flames took on a cerulean hue as the salting warehouses caught. And still the Fire Nation advanced, crippled, but nowhere near destroyed.

Katara hurried to regroup with the others at the barricades.

--

The walls weren’t holding. The Comet’s power was slowly fading, its red bleeding from the night sky to leave behind almost absolute darkness. Even so, its influence was still strong enough that no matter how many layers of ice Katara and her for remaining acolytes threw up, the glacial blue gave way to lilac, then red, then at last to filmy orange, as if she were watching a sunrise rather than the end of the world. So much destruction – the images were seared into her brain. There was no stopping them, they couldn’t be stopped, all that could be hoped for now was one glorious final stand so that someone might remember the bravery of her people.

A hand fell on her shoulder. She turned, puzzled, and floundered for a moment as she looked into a mirror image – another Sea-wolf – and when the apparition spoke with her mother’s voice, her confusion only mounted.

“We have a minute,” Kya said. “Then they will break through. Take Hama and go to the elders. I’ll hold them off here.”

“Mom, what are you –?” Katara shook her head, trying to clear away the fatigue of the battle and understand what was going on. “Why are you dressed like that? It’ll anger the spirits.”

Kya smiled, and the effect was gruesome under the battle mask as she reached out to stroke her daughter’s hair. “The spirits understand; they know what must be done. The Fire Lord wants the Sea-wolf now, more than anyone, and he will not stop or offer any kind of mercy until that hunger is satisfied. I saw you, Katara, we all did. You looked that madman in the eye without flinching, shining like the first glimmer of spring, and then you showed the whole world that he can bleed. You are our people’s hope, and I am so proud of you.”

Still confused, Katara could only stand numb as her mother reached up to kiss the crown of her head, startled when she pulled back and found the band of Sea-wolf teeth circling Kya’s forehead. The blue shell necklace, which Gran-Gran had given to Hakoda to present as a betrothal gift, was folded in her palm.

“Mom…”

On the other side of the barrier, the Fire Nation was breaking through.

“Go find your dad, Sweetie. I’ll handle this.”

“Mom, no…” Realisation caught up with Katara, but her limbs were slow to react as her mother turned away, like she was moving in waterlogged furs, and all too soon Kya was enfolded in the ranks of waterbenders and became just another silhouette against the growing yellow glare.

“No – no! I won’t let you do this!” She hardly felt Hama’s vice-like grip on her shoulder, or the old general’s entreaty to come away. “No!”

Hands grabbed at her, pulled her back as she struggled, as the waterbenders and the royal guard rushed out into the square to face down their impossible odds. Later, she wondered why she didn’t just waterbend them away as they hauled her back, but in the moment her brain was fogged, her eyes blurred with tears, her throat raw from shouting and smoke. She heard the Sea-wolf’s cry ring through a moment of silence, and then it was cut off by a roar of orange light.

“NO!”

She found herself pulled against a broad chest, and calloused palms cradling her head, wrapping her in a scent that all her life had meant strength and safety.

“This has to work, little seal,” Hakoda rasped now, breath shallow. “Don’t make… don’t make it mean nothing.”

Her broken father broke her. She fell weightless into the arms of her attendants, who led her away and wiped the battle mask from her face, unpinned her braids, and bade her kneel with the elders in the throne room, as if she had never had any part of the fighting. There, they waited.

When the final sounds of fighting died away, a herald sauntered in with a banner of undyed silk to ask the surrender of the Southern Water Tribe. Hakoda, sat on his throne of furs and black ice, nodded silently, and moments later the doors parted to reveal the Fire Lord himself, resplendent in robes woven with golden thread, a fireball twisting in his upturned palm. His face held a casual sneer, but his eyes darted around the room and his shoulders bunched beneath his silks, as if not entirely convinced of his victory. He was right to fear. Rage thrummed through Katara’s being like blazing silver wire, holding her rigid in place as she fought the urge to freeze the Fire Lord’s blood in his veins, to shatter him and reveal the hollow centre of his heart. If the moon had been full, she might have been reckless enough to dare the consequences, but she caught her father’s eyes across the room and bowed her head instead, feeling the thin edge of her mother’s necklace cut into her palm.

Be like the ocean, a voice echoed in her ear. The Sea-wolf, hunting rage incarnate. Take its patience, and its depth, and drift. And when the time comes, take its cold, and its indifference, and weave the currents to your design. Choke the life from the monster, and leave his bones to bleach on the sand.

Yes, Katara answered, staring at the slow trickle of blood down the left side of his face. When the time comes, I will be ready.

[greybat]

Weak

Summary: Post-Chariot chapter for Julian’s route. Xixa is at the shop alone, fending off angst. Julian enters, angstily. Things get even angstier. Angst angst angst. Did I mention there’s some angst?

This was supposed to be an indulgent steamy piece, but - apparently - Xixa has adopted some of Julian’s melodrama and the story did its own thing. 

 ヽ(￣д￣;)ノsaveme

Empty and cold, the magic shop hadn’t seen much in the way of customers all day. Xixa cursed the lack of customers. Lack of business meant her thoughts wandered and, right now, they wandered down to the docks. Xixa shut the memory out before it started, forcefully shoving a jar onto a cabinet shelf. No, she wasn’t going to think about that.

Asra was gone, off to the palace, experimenting with a handful of concoctions to ease the Countess’s headaches. Alone, it was so easy for Xixa to dwell on dismal things.

The bell above the door jingled a song of salvation. She turned, a soft smile on her lips, to greet the newcomer. Her heart sputtered.

It was Julian.

“What are you doing here?” Her words came out soft and quick. The urge to run toward him, bury her face in his chest and melt into his body heat clawed through her limbs.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” Julian couldn’t meet her gaze. His hand hovered near the doorknob, an evident battle to leave or stay wobbling through his thoughts. Even from across the store, Xixa could tell he was biting his bottom lip. When he spoke next, his words came strained, on the edge of tears, “I’m so weak.”

The bite of his last words painted the picture for Xixa. He was weak, pathetic. He had broken things off with Xixa to keep her safe and, here he was, fumbling back to her like a doddering puppy. Pain snaked up her chest, sinking into her heart. She didn’t think anything of the sort, but – Asra was right – Julian was his own worst enemy. Not simply a self-saboteur, but a self-deprecating vilifier.

She didn’t want him to have those feelings about himself.

“Just leave,” she heard herself saying. Her voice sounded distant to herself. They were words she didn’t want to let loose from her mouth, but deep down, she knew she had to. The sooner Julian left, the sooner they both could heal from their wayward… whatever they had.

Julian turned a wide eye toward her. Pain pinched his features. “Xixa?”

“Go.” The word came out stiff and harsh. Tears brimmed in her eyes, but Xixa swallowed them down. She just had to tamp them down a few more seconds. Pain bit into her palms, her fingers curled into tight, white-knuckled balls. He’d sprint out that door, soon enough. Find a nice ale to drown himself in, at the Rowdy Raven. What mattered was she was “safe” in his mind. Right?

Unable to take the pained look on his face while her own heart throbbed, Xixa turned her back on him. She returned to putting stock away, fingers trembling. Finally, the bell above the door gave a forlorn jingle. Xixa paused, placing a glass bottle down as she held her breath. The door latched and a harsh sob erupted from her throat, wracking her whole body. Hot tears streamed down her cheeks as cold grief settled in her chest. How could one man trigger such drastic emotions in her?

She pressed a hand to her mouth, muffling her cries. Unbearable heat licked across her face as she pulled her elbows tighter to her body. She attempted to contain herself, control herself, but cracked under intense emotion.

Suddenly, firm hands grasped her shoulders from behind, forcing her to spin around. Xixa turned red-rimmed eyes up toward Julian. Her stomach turned leaden, lips trembling against her palm.

He leered down at her, frustration and hurt painted across his features. His eye darted around her face, taking in her puffy eyes, her saline-slicked cheeks, her reddened nose. When his gaze fell to her hand, still firmly clasped over her mouth, something in his face softened. Gently, his gloved hand lifted Xixa’s hand from her face.

His attention turned toward that extremity. Xixa glanced toward it, eyes catching on exactly what caught his attention. Four red crescents marred her palm, two oozing. He snagged her other hand in his gentle grip, finding four more bloody crescents. The apprentice looked away from his calculating expression, staring at his chest. Deep in the swirl of despondency, a little glimmer of delight and shame from his touch licked at her thoughts.

Julian momentarily released her hands from his grasp, though Xixa kept them up for him. They both knew what he had planned. He pulled his gloves off and dropped them to the floor, encasing her hands in his. His fingers gingerly nudged themselves between hers, his palms hot against hers. She squeezed his hands. Turning her tear-seared gaze to his face, Xixa ached to have more than their hands touch. Julian’s grey eye fixed on her face. A storm of emotions behind his expression. There was a warm softness, amid the pain and irritation and frustration, that struck the apprentice the hardest.

A new round of tears swelled in Xixa’s eyes. Beneath the collar of his coat, she could see the curse mark glow on his throat. The sizzle of magic nipped across her flesh. In seconds, her self-inflicted injuries jumped to Julian’s palms and faded.

They stayed like that for a breath. Their hands entwined, basking in such a minor touch and the beat of each others’ pulse. Julian was the one break the hold. He slid his hands from Xixa’s, bending to pick up his discarded gloves.

Xixa remained silent. The atmosphere still heavy and scented with magic. Her hand came up to her chest, rubbing against the dull throb beneath her sternum. Quietly, afraid to bring his attention to it, she whispered almost too soft to hear, “It still hurts.”

The doctor turned a startled look toward her. Maybe it was her voice or perhaps the thought of his curse no longer working properly. However, when Julian registered the sore spot Xixa rubbed, his shoulders sagged. With a hard swallow, he looked away from her and forced out, “I know. I’m sorry.”

She couldn’t help herself. Her hand drifted to his face, barely skirting her palm across his jawline. Electric delight slid down her arm, bursting into heat at her spine. The man closed his eyes, relaxing into her touch. Xixa knew she shouldn’t have done that. It just made things harder. She wanted to give in, though, wanted to coax him to stay. Or maybe just touch him until she was satisfied.

Which would be never.

“I…” Slowly, he opened his eye, staring owlishly at Xixa. Momentary temptation lit in his gaze. It was obvious he wanted to indulge, to savor what little touches they could eke out. Part of Xixa wanted him to give in. Award her with his kisses and touches and warmth. Make the pain dissipate under the heat of delight. Another part wanted him to stay strong, if only for his own sense of self-worth. A glassy sheen welled up in his eye as he pressed her hand back to her side. He could barely croak out, “I can’t stay.”

Numbness trickled over her. Too much energy, too many emotions, already spent… The apprentice couldn’t find the appropriate words. Heat daubed at the back of her eyes, but – for now – tears wouldn’t fall. She simply nodded glumly.

Julian didn’t move right away. He stared at her, opened his mouth as if to say something, then snapped it shut. With a shake of his head, he stepped away from Xixa. Distance, that’s what he wanted, Xixa gloomily watched him. Decisively, the doctor turned toward the door. Without another look back, determination propelling his feet forward, and the man left the shop.

Xixa’s heart shuddered, unhappily, as that damned bell chimed once more. This time, she knew Julian was gone. The magic shop felt colder and lonelier than ever.

Despite her personal misery, a small flare of pride for him heated her. She hoped, despite her heartache, Julian found some dignity for himself. The edge of her pain softened at that thought as she, very sloppily, closed shop.

[beauvoyr]

Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired | 10

flowering | interlude; the prince and his prisoner

Pairings: Noctis/Reader Genre: Friendship/Romance/Friends-to-Lovers Tags: Fluff, Humor, Eventual Romance, Slow Burn, Abuse, Torture, no beta we die like men, pre-canon a.k.a before FFXV, Chapter Rating: T Crossposted on: AO3 Summary: Rules to join the Lazy People’s Club for the Sleepy and Tired: 1) One must love sleep. Sleep is love. Sleep is life. 2) One must be tired. Physically or emotionally, both are acceptable. 3) One must love video games. Halfhearted interest in video games will result in immediate termination of membership.

Fortunately, Noctis falls into all three categories.

CHAPTER SUMMARY: noctis teaches you what ramen tastes like.

IT STARTS WITH A FRANTIC RUMMAGE through your closet, rifling through each and every article of clothing you possessed. An assortment of shirts and pants, dragged out from the bags. Things that you never thought would see the light will actually see the light today, how about that. Byron’s stack of fashion magazines, ones plastered with Claire Farron on the covers, never taught you this. How does one go about dressing up again? How do you pair up the plaids and the plains? Or what about the patterns with the checkers?

Skirts over pants? Cargos over jeans? Button-up shirts? Or casual sweaters in case it’s cold?

This is an absolute disaster, you groan inwardly as you hoist whatever seems casual enough for a night out—technically, your first night out to the city, to the life of Insomnia.

Minutes later, struggling through a properly fitted cotton shirt and putting one leg after another through a flowy skirt, you grab your purse and checked your credentials. ID, cards, wads of Credit and jingling coins, all set and ready to go. In your haste, you pass a comb through your hair to gather it aside before stalking off to a separate bag than the rest. This is where the rest of your unused shoes came to live, the carefully curated selection of wedges and kitten heels and sandals handpicked by none other than your fashionable butler.

Considering the practicality of the situation whilst simultaneously combating the growing excitement gnawing your nerves, your fingers slink through a pair of strappy sandals, praying fervently the entire ensemble worked out in your favour. Because. Really. Going out with friends. Together. You, and Noctis, and Prompto, for a night out? You, the denied daughter of Andronicus, setting your foot into the dizzying and dazzling nightscape, walking amongst the citizens? Living a life outside these four walls? Completely unheard of.

Yet, here you are.

Standing before the vanity, a gaunt reflection preens in the mirror. Almost unrecognizable from the ghoul in homely shirt and drawstring pants, a picture of a youth in a striped shirt with a chiffon skirt cinching her waist. Hair primly tucked to the side, falling in soft tendrils over the curve of her jaw, guarded by a single clip. Roses blooming on her cheeks, lips lightly parted to unveil a hint of teeth. Clutched in her hands is a decorative wallet, one that sees only its use when the butler comes around, and slung on a finger is a set of sandals, its tangle of ribbons draped over her wrist.

How strange.

She struggles to smile. Your cheeks hurt.

She averts her eyes. You gaze at your ransacked cupboard.

She inhales shakily. Your ribcage rattles at the action.

How strange indeed.

Emotions are wicked weapons in the hands of the untrained; they can hurt even its wielder. Today testifies your inexperience in handling remnants of your emotions despite having discarded most of them in your youth. Your lapse in judgment results in a whirlwind of emotions clouding your composure. Father’s constant berating, spitting out harsh insults to remind you of your place in society. Mother in the tub, her talented fingers spinning a knife on its tip, smiling her endearing smile. White bread sandwiching a chunk of meat, dripping with dressing. Three nibbles and quelling an overwhelming urge to regurgitate, passing the meal to the callused hands of the prince himself. He picks out the veggies, eats, watches you, eats again, and watches you again.

A nap, two comforters, and—

if you’re not good enough for me, i wouldn’t even show up the second time around

—a promise.

You’re good enough, he said. Swallowing away the dryness in your throat, because you’re good enough for him. If your king deems you worthy, that means it’s okay, right? That means you’re okay as you are, you’re okay where you are, and you’re okay just being who you are, right?

what makes you think you are worthy as the head of the andronicus

Because he said so, right?

what if he doesn’t mean it what if he takes it back in the end what if you’re delusional

Your teeth sink into your bottom lip at the thought. Because, truly, if he doesn’t mean it, then you’d rather—

A firm knock on the door is all the warning you get before the door creaks open, and Noctis’ fluffy head peers through the gap. “You ready yet?”

—fight the suffocating hands wrapped around your throat and stomp it down lest it crawls back up again. “Done, Prince. Gimme a sec, I need to grab my phone.”

Hands clicking off the lights to your bedroom, striding past the prince in a few quick steps, you locate your smartphone lying innocently on your worktable. No, your hands aren’t shaking as you slip the smooth device under the zippered confines of your clutch. No, Noctis isn’t staring at your back, still standing where you left him. No, your heart isn’t in your mouth even when you tug the sandals and wrap its dainty ribbons around your calves. No, you tell yourself, you’re not delusional because this is real and every single second is as real as it gets.

Straightening up once more, you wrench the door open and allow yourself the momentary victory of gazing at the panorama of the Crown City’s dusky skies, an ashen grey with its edges heavily daubed in midnight black. Everywhere, the skyscrapers are lit in lights, all glassy sheen with warm streetlights mirrored in their reflection. You grip the doorknob tight, the metal biting into your skin. Soon enough, you’ll be wading through the streets and you’ll be breathing in the crisp night air, just like what all the books talked about.

Turning on your heels, Noctis is already lacing up his boots and standing up, brushing his hands on his cargos. Somewhere underneath the choppy ends of his lengthy bangs, his blue eyes are unreadable. “Let’s go.”

Let’s go.

Let us go.

Three words.

Those three words are enough to make you fight your wavering smile so it’d stick on your face as the prince closes your room behind him, stepping past the hyacinths.

Us.

Not only him.

Us.

HE’S ALREADY WALKING AHEAD, heading towards one of the many lifts scattered in the Citadel, and you hear the pitter-patter of your sandals on the marble floor as you amble after him. It still feels unreal because you’re chasing after Noctis’ broad back, your colourful reflection on the glass panels trailing after his dark figure, fingers pressing in a poke on his shoulder to tell him to slow down a little. He stops in his tracks, makes a face at you, but his pace definitely slowed down a little, just enough for you to skip beside him in one-two steps.

Yet, every brush of chiffon against your knee reminds you this is very real and here you are, standing beside the prince, waiting for the ornate elevator to arrive. A ding! and a shuffle of footsteps later, the red LED panel shows the descent from 56th to 55th, 55th to 54th, 54th passing through 53, 52, 51, like a timer counting the seconds to your freedom. G finally shows up on the screen and Noctis steps out, throwing a glance over his shoulder like he’s making sure you’re following him properly.

Of course you are.

Of course you’re following him properly, your feet moving on their own accord, skittering over the monochromatic marbling and catching up to his wide steps. The Citadel’s majestic lobby is empty, save for several staffs standing by the reception counter, sifting through papers and pen. Upon the sight of the prince himself, they stand ramrod straight before folding into a bow, echoing a greeting for him. And Noctis, just casual, lazy Noctis, nods at their general direction as he continues down the aisle.

You wanted to laugh a little. Almost.

Because—really, it’s too surreal when only several months ago, Byron’s pulling your bag and you’re clutching your phone to your chest with glittering chandeliers shining on you and him. Gold pillars entwined with black marble, white accents refracting light. Gilded scrollwork and red carpets, rope barriers cordoning areas only Citadel staffs could access. A ceiling far up there and a space too big for you to fathom since you’re not trapped in a box of four walls anymore.

Here, right here, as Noctis walks past the bowing guards with an air of casualness that only the prince himself could command, you obediently fall into his every step. Curious eyes are on you, lingering a second too long for you to ignore, but they’re silenced by the very fact that you’re together with the prince and he’s throwing one or two looks behind him just to make sure you’re keeping up.

It doesn’t matter when the doormen pull the Citadel’s grand doors for him, fresh night air sweeping through the lobby.

It doesn’t matter when you fall into step right beside Noctis, sandals and boots descending the lengthy expanse of the staircase, a modern day depiction of watercolour fairytale.

It doesn’t matter when the valet steps up, handing Noctis the keys to his Audi, meekly opening the door to the passenger’s side for you.

It doesn’t matter when Noctis gets in from the driver’s half, shutting the door, starting up the engine with a push of a button, and—

“Hold on tight,” he drawls.

—you’ve barely fastened your own seatbelt when he eases the gas pedal, turning the steering wheel around the bend of the road and now you’re off into a foreign world together with him, right in this two-seater.

The guards have already opened the gates for him and he rolls past them with the rumble of his car, blue eyes trained on the road all the while. Twisting on the leather, you catch a glimpse of the sleek LED lighting the dashboard, displaying a street map of Insomnia on its elaborate console. He’s already over 90 mph, and the purr of the engine downright shifts into a guttural growl when he accelerates again, fingers drumming idly on the leather steering. Taking a sharp right away from the Citadel, the car speeds into an empty expressway, where the curving street hangs between glassy skyscrapers.

Underneath the incandescent flickers of streetlights, from the expressway’s vantage point, traveling at only a speed Noctis could handle, Insomnia is a blurry landscape of mammoth buildings against a backdrop of black. A world—his world—and you’re sitting right beside him, hands in your lap. You gaze expectantly at the opulence of the city, drinking in the adrenaline rush from the drive when Noctis throttles again, the decadent roar of his car going under your skin in pinpricks. Everything’s so fast, everything’s so beautiful, and everything’s just so overwhelming until it’s getting a little hard to breathe.

The prince expertly manoeuvres his Audi into another linking expressway, and the overpowering speed, paired with Insomnia’s fragile beauty behind this window, is enough to catch your breath. He takes you past a tall, gaudy building decked in manicured trees, racing past the signboards and empty roads, and slowing down for the briefest moment to glance at your direction before revving the engine up to speed again.

There is a growing tightness around your throat again, like the hands snuck to wrap its sneaky little fingers around your neck.

You’re here in this car, with your future king, off to join a dinner together with Prompto. Isn’t it what you’ve always dreamt of? Sure, it’s just a little dinner between friends, sure it’s probably just Noctis pitying your wretched, sheltered life, but it's your first time doing something like this. Something like going out at night with friends, a prospect utterly unmentionable a scant year or two ago. The benevolent prince extends this exclusive invitation purely out of the kindness of his heart, kindness you are taking advantage of. The prince with the car, whisking you off into a world beyond the meagre stretch of your fingers.

You are undeserving to be here like this, to sit by his side.

From the corners of your eyes, you catch Noctis sneaking a glance, and you return it with a questioning look. As though he’s scalded, he quickly focuses on the road again, gripping the leather tight. It’s a little weird how he’s gone silent all this while. Just like this, behind the wheels, you could map out the lines under his eyes, and the bony knots of his fingers.

You’d never taken a good look at him before. Sure, the newspapers and the Internet are chock full of his portraits. The tabloids are quick to print paparazzi shots of his private life, but nothing expresses a look so intimate like this. Nobody’s seen the small mole on his temple before, concealed carefully behind his unkempt fringe. His lips are thin, downturned, except the rare occasions where he’s mocking Prompto or yawning at Ignis’ incessant mothering. He’s all sleek lines the Astrals composed under a curtain of black, forming a pale beauty bearing the crown of the kingdom.

The car slows down when it’s his turn to catch you staring at him, and there’s obvious discomfort in the way he clears his throat, forearms fraught in veins.

“ ‘sup?” he nonchalantly asks, or tries to be nonchalant anyway. Nimble fingers flick the blinker to exit left, gliding down the ramp.

You don’t have to hide the slow slip of your lips curving into a smile. With him, you don’t have to hide your smiles anymore. Resting against the headrest, you draw a deep breath, exhaling quietly.

“Just hungry, that’s all.”

IT’S PROBABLY NOT A GOOD IDEA to bring you to a place like this, but it’s his favourite hideout with Prompto: A soba stall huddled by the arcades. Nothing like the hazy glow of the low lamps or the sleepy arrangement of simple furniture give off any air of posh classiness. Just good food served in large bowls, rich broth, steaming noodles, and fresh green tea to warm up the spirits; plus, the owner’s known them long enough to recite their favourites by heart. Prompto’s already sitting in one of the booths, waving him over by the side.

“Hey guys!” he chirps, letting you slide into the seat with Noctis in tow. “Dude, I can’t believe you made it out with Noct! Seriously, you need to tag along more often.” He hands you the menu and forgoes Noctis since they’re both regulars who already memorised the entire page anyway, twiddling his idle thumbs. “So, is this your first time out?”

Scanning the dog-eared copy of the menu, you take in the faded prints with a frown. “Uh.” Obviously distracted by their varied selections, because the place serves some of the meanest ramen and soba in town, and that’s coming from Noctis, the pickiest prince in all Lucii history. “Uh no…not really, no. My first time out was with my mother.” You pause, wetting your lips, putting away the plastic sheet. “But I was just a kid, so. Don’t remember much. My second time was with Byron when I was about to move into the Citadel. That’s about it.”

Prompto hums sympathetically, nodding along to your tale. “Third time tonight, huh?”

“First time at night,” you correct him with a vague smile gracing your lips, shrugging. “It’s a bit overwhelming but kinda exciting.”

Prompto flashes you his cheesiest smile and leans in close, all conversational. “I get ya. But it’s okay, take it easy, all right? We’re here with you.”

And the small smile gracing your lips grows bigger by a fraction. “Mhmm. Thank you, Prompto.”

As much as it’s all heartwarming like watching cute dog videos while procrastinating his assignments, there’s no hiding the sullen grumble of Noctis’ stomach rumbling through the conversation. Thankfully, the raucous clamour in the shop drowned it out; if not, Prompto’s sure to bring this up even ten years down the line. Nudging you in the side, you tip your chin to study him curiously, and Noctis taps on the menu. “Thought about what you wanna eat yet?”

That perks you up. Bringing the sheet to his face, your immaculately trimmed fingernail point at some of the dull writings. “Dunno what’s good, Prince. Recommend me something?”

Geez, menu too close to his face much? He lowers your hands with a firm press of his own and you might or might not have pouted a little—if the slight jutting of your bottom lip counts as something. Propping his head with a palm to his cheek, Noctis casts a sidelong glance at your collarbones. “I’ll just get you what I’ll have. You okay with green tea?”

“Tea’s awesome, zero complaints from me.” Your head bobs with every word, and it’s almost funny how you’re trying to be all subtle with your eagerness, even if it’s starting to manifest uncharacteristically in your behaviour. “Please and thank you, Prince.”

With that said, Prompto flags down one of the nearby waiters and a grinning man shows up, a paper and pen readied in his hands. “Two bowls of tonkotsu ramen, one kitsune soba, and three green tea, please.”

“Comin’ right up.”

The waiter shuffles away to slip a paper to the cook, and Noctis notes how you pensively stare after his retreating back. Seconds later, you twist here and there in little tilts of your head, taking in the low lamps dangling by a single wire, the rugged trim of the scratch-worn counters, the sponge sticking out of their booth seats. If Prompto notices anything about your insatiable curiosity, he doesn’t say anything. All he does is to share a cheeky grin with Noctis, eyes flicking back and forth in Prompto Speak™, mouthing stuffs his way. Completely unintelligible stuff because Noctis can’t read lips, damn it.

The moment you trail your finger over the grainy countertop, the blond pipes up. “So! You guys doing anything good later?”

“No idea, I’m just following the Prince around.” You shrug. “No plans.”

Prompto hums at your answer, awaiting Noctis’. That’s obviously a trick question because Noctis is pretty sure they only agreed on dinner since they can’t stay out too late; if not, Gladio’s gonna own their asses come tomorrow morning’s practice session, and he’d very much like to show his Shield a thing or two about respect, damn it. But Prompto’s got that glassy sheen in his baby blue eyes like a chocobo yearning for gyshal greens, rocking his legs nervously under the table, and it takes all of Noctis’ mental faculties to remember this is Prompto he’s talking about.

And turning down Prompto is one thing he never mastered even with five years worth of training.

You’re already looking up at Noctis with wide-eyed interest, almost the spitting image of Prompto, and he swallows whatever protests he’s gonna make. Because two against one is seriously illegal, and he should probably make a law to ban this travesty, goddamn it all.

“Nah,” Noctis grimaces, and he’s starting to regret it already when Prompto’s got that grin going wider than the whole stretch of the Citadel. “…what, there’s something you wanna do?”

And that’s obviously a go.

“Dude dude dude,” Prompto starts gushing in three different inflections, and Noctis barely rolled his eyes just ‘cause oh boy here it comes, “remember that horror-thriller movie I was talking about? The Blind? It’s already out and y’know,” he rubs his nape, tries on an abashed smile like he’s trying to win him over, “you’re my best buddy and all, and we always watch movies together, so I was wondering ifyouwannatagalongwithmetowatchittonight?”

Noctis arches a slim brow. “—wanna what?”

“ ‘cuz buddy,” Prompto ignores him, all elaborate hand gestures that make absolutely no sense in trying to reinforce his point with them, “it’s a real good horror movie and since you’re my best friend—“ like Noctis hasn’t heard of that one before, “—and you got her too, so we can all go watch it together. This is totally not a ploy just ‘cause I’m scared to watch it alone or anything, by the way.”

Right. Totally not a ploy, right.

Prompto’s used this tactic too many times until it’s starting to get all too predictable by now. High school had them scrambling for the cinemas as soon as the last bell rang and they watched their fair share of rom-coms, pseudo horror-thrillers, and space alien operas enough to predict what’s going to trend next season. But graduating high school and starting university courses is another matter altogether. If Gladio isn’t throwing Noctis down the practice mat, Noctis scours the Internet to see if anyone’s uploaded extra slides on his class—and snoring dead asleep is a given afterwards. If Prompto’s not expiring past his back-to-back part-time job at YaruKamera, he drags his feet for a quick jog around the park before dying on his bed come midnight.

So, by right, he is entitled for a movie night since it’s been long overdue, right?

Right. Just for old times’ sake.

“You like horror stuffs?” he hears you ask, and Prompto nods rapidly.

“Totally love ‘em. I can’t stomach some of the squicky parts so I just cover my eyes, but Noct’s pretty good with all the gory things.”

“As long as they’re not bugs, I’m good with that,” Noctis grunts. “Bugs are just—”

“—gross.” Prompto finishes his sentence for him, wholly in sync. “Totally gross. Can’t deal with their creepy crawly legs.” He’s already shuddering at the mental images he conjured, like it’s an apocalypse if Eos gets overrun by giant centipedes or a fleet of beetles. “No bugs for us, no-no. You like bugs?”

“Not sure, can’t really say. I don’t really have an opinion on bugs yet.” Tucking a hand under your chin, you seem to be contemplating more on the matter, and that’s kinda gross because Noctis is pretty sure he can’t go on thinking about wriggling caterpillars for more than a minute without getting nightmares about it. “To be honest, I didn’t get to go out much. I only know bugs on print, but never really saw things like millipedes and stuffs.”

“What about cockroaches?” Prompto outright shudders, a hand over his melodramatic heart, bless him. “Those little jerks are so persistent, Six should smite them. You can blast a whole can on ‘em and they’ll still walk away like it’s hairspray for their antennas.”

That gets you frowning. “Squish them, I guess?”

If the thought of green pus seeping out seems appealing to you, Noctis is more than ready to rest his forehead on the table. “No.”

And Prompto, best buddy Prompto is always there to share his sentiment. Wholeheartedly. Always backing him up, the true buddy he is. “Absolutely no. Gross, dude, gross.”

“Slice them?” you try again—and Noctis almost wants to flick you on your forehead because that’s completely unheard of. “I remember when Byron saw cockroaches on the floor. He’s real good with knives so…” you trail off, looking aside, “yeah, real good aim too. Just one slice and you get two halves with no mess—“

“Aaaaaah, stop, stop!” Prompto squeaks out, squirming in his seat with his hands clapped over his ears. “Dude, no! No way, dude, stop! I knew it that guy’s pretty off in the head but—dude, no. That’s so creepy and gross.”

As much as Noctis wants to share Promoto’s sentiment on how disgusting the imagery can be, he’s a little distracted by something else. Something incredibly transient, mentioned so offhandedly with your own lips.

Pretty good with knives, you said.

How could you talk about something so disturbing without an ounce of emotion? Like it’s a passing thought, nothing weighty at all. Sure, he might be overthinking it, but something doesn’t sound right to him. That or your sense of humour is a chart going off tangent. For someone who utterly despises bugs, Noctis totally doesn’t want to encounter a roach in his room ever again—save for unfortunate spells where his whole place is upturned like a junkyard with stale cups of Nissin fogging the air and Ignis is battling off an army of roaches armed with scrubbing gloves and wielding a can of spray—but slicing them is kind of next-level sadist thing.

They’re saved by the waiter showing up again, expertly balancing the three bowls in his arms and serving them steaming mugs of green tea. That seems to stop the sadistic spiel from your end since you’re distracted by Prompto bringing over your bowl of ramen, rich broth glossy under the mellow lights.

Breaking off his own pair of chopsticks, Noctis slurps up the noodles and tries not to think too much about it.

PROMPTO, THE GOOD BUDDY HE IS, books tickets for everyone. Noctis gets the feeling that even if he turns him down, Prompto’s gonna use you against him, rattling off how this is your first night out with them and ‘Noct should be more of a buddy and let her experience more things, right?’ like that. In hindsight, you’d probably be okay forgoing the movie session since it’s already past nine and he needs to return you to the Citadel because you probably have some sort of undocumented law on how the universe works, starting with no shoes in your room. But there’s something about the way you’re walking that gets his resolve crumbling little by little.

For once, you’re not the slouching, sleepy child dragging yourself from the kitchenette to the worktable, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand. Sick of the fluorescent lights, oversized shirt with its drooping neckline, cradling a mug of hot chocolate, a constant dreamy quality to your voice whenever you talked to him. Like you’re drenched in a reverie you never woke from.

Here, you are the tottering lady chasing after Prompto, who’s darting up Insomnia’s streets and pointing animatedly to the many signboards hanging near the crossroads. An inexperienced woman denied of the world, thirsting after its many sights and sounds, head bobbing along Prompto’s vehement babbles on Uniqlo’s fast fashion and how its ironic portmanteau of Unique Clothing is destroying Insomnia’s street fashion. Bathed in the prismatic lights melting off your skin, gaping at the on-screen ads, fingers trailing over chipped railings, for once, you looked alive.

It’s both a little funny and a little relieving to see you like this.

More like a human, and less like an android of the Andronicus.

Pocketing his hands, Noctis saunters up your side and watches how Prompto pulls you to one of his favourite camera shops, enthused with the work of detailing his part-time job as a photographer in one of the shops downtown. You gasp over the photos in his phone and he’s low-key abashed with your shower of compliments, pulling up one picture after another until he’s finished with his collection. Noctis only snorts when Prompto pockets his phone once more, rubbing his reddening ears.

Then they go up the streets a bit more until they get to the iconic Crown Crossing where all the broad roads intersect, with more LED panels showing ads and more colourful ads. BMW, Audi, Mercedes, all raring in competition. Vivienne Westwood, Bottega Veneta, Louis Vuitton, classy models flouncing on their tiptoes. Lucichrome’s spelled out in big, bold letterings over Crown 109, glinting silver under the streetlights. Tacked over one of the tiled walls, Caelum Via’s poster beckons passersby with its exquisite picture of a sun-drenched bedroom, promising an experience in a hotel like no other. Each and every mundane detail, Noctis knows you’re taking it in with an unseen nod, stowing them away inside that knotty head of yours, probably to be replayed on a later date.

The lights go red and the cars stop before the pedestrian crossings. You dart ahead, slipping between the throng of humans, and Prompto squawks as he chases after you, barely managing to catch you by the wrist before you’re off again, already at the other end of the road. He huffs at your small victory, scrunching his nose, and complains at Noctis that you’re too slippery—like catching a strand of ramen between chopsticks. And that little comparison gets you smiling wryly, prancing together by his side as Noctis slows down to let you catch up.

It’s kind of fun, just like this.

They show up at the nearby cinema with only a few minutes to spare. With everyone already full from their early dinner, Prompto flashes his phone over the ticket barriers and pulls you in by your hand. They search for the third hall, going up to the tenth row and trying to seat themselves in the centre. Being the impeccable gentleman Prompto is, he cites ten different reasons why you should sit right in between him and Noctis because ‘the movie’s really scary’ and ‘if you scream, Noct’s gonna punch you in the shoulder’ and that gets Noctis frowning a little because he certainly did not punch Prompto in the cinemas before—it’s usually Prompto who’s crying and clinging onto him for dear life.

Still, the lights dimmed altogether to signal the start of the movie spree, and thirty minutes into the intense build-up, Prompto’s already flinching in his seat. The VFX’s great, if Noctis wants to be nit-picky about the quality, and the plot seems bearable, if not a little clichéd since just almost everyone seems to be getting lost in the Duscae woods and there’s always that creepy caravan that just screams bad things are gonna happen if they stay overnight. Now he’s just waiting to see who’s the first sucker to die, placing his bets on the nosy man with the greasy face.

An hour later, Prompto shrieks along with the crowd when someone gets brutally disembowelled with a kitchen knife, curling up on his chair with his hands slapped permanently over his eyes. Even Noctis grimaces a bit as they showcase the explicit detail of the blind old man digging out a woman’s eyeball like it’s a golf ball stuck in a hole, sparing her no mercy at the tip of his spoon. The messy, gruesome spatter of blood caking the caravan is nauseating, an orchestrated madness with almost every corner of the screen doused in red.

While Prompto’s jerking at every sickening squelch of a metal bat beating into a body, you are calm. Disturbingly calm. Apathetic to the woman’s pained cries, blinking away at the sight of the blind man sawing her body to bits. There is no flinching at all, not even when he strings her up by her neck, choking her around the throat. In fact, your placidity is almost unnerving when you sense Noctis’ eyes on you, turning to meet him partway.

Over the expanse of your skin, painted in red, you are an image of quiet delirium.

Almost unbidden, Noctis drops his gaze to your throat, where the flushed flesh lays bare. If he thinks hard enough, he can recall how your jugular jumps under his thumb, and how easily his hand fits around your neck. And if he tries harder, he knows you’re warm enough to be human, human enough to choke with a squeeze of his hand, just enough for him to remember your frigid skin pressed against his, like you’re draining his warmth to make him yours.

His throat runs dry and he looks away.

”HONESTLY? I REGRET WATCHING THAT,” Prompto bemoans his fate, still holding his head in his hands as they walk towards one of the many parking lots scattered by the LR-Central Subway. It’s past midnight and the roads are emptier where they’re at, a hushed silence sweeping in the air. “Thought it was gonna be bearable but thirty minutes in and I wanted out. Out, like never coming back to Insomnia, burial by the sea sort of thing.”

“Was it that bad?” you ask, genuinely curious. As far as you watched it, the whole movie is tastefully done, given how short some horror flicks could be. “They covered the bases pretty well, if you ask me. The plot’s solid, and we didn’t get cheap cliffhangers at the end. And plus, they gave the blind man a good backstory to show how he came to be. Sure, there were some clichés like the whole ‘getting lost in forest’ trope, but then again, it is a movie.”

Prompto looks like he’d rather be anywhere but here. “Uh. Yeah. I dunno how you could just watch it like that. I don’t even wanna remember the whole thing. Gonna head home and bleach my brain out.”

He’s so honest with his thoughts, it’s almost adorable to see him like this. You shrug, letting him fall back. “Good luck with that. If there's anyone who can do it, it's totally you.”

Noctis, who had been walking ahead, comes to a halt in his tracks and glances over his shoulder at the blond. “Prom, you’re taking the train home?”

“Yep, easier that way,” he chirps, thumbing over at the closest station. “Gotta go now, the sooner I get home, the faster I can pretend the whole movie never existed. See ya guys tomorrow!”

And with a big wave, Prompto crosses the street, his lithe legs carrying him immediately down the steep steps of the subway. He disappears behind a concrete pillar, leaving behind you and Noctis. This must be a common farewell without much fanfare between them, because Noctis is already heading towards his car, drawing out the keys and unlocking the sleek ride with a press of a button. His beautiful Audi, with its fractal of flowers for its sports rim, and the intricate arabesque patterning the sides. RHS 736, the number plate states, an exclusiveness afforded only by the prince himself.

You had to mentally shake yourself a little to realise he’s already getting in, and you’ve been standing there dumbly, all the while admiring the stainless silver finishing. Taking your own seat by his side, you close the door and pull your seatbelt with Noctis gently easing his car out of the parking lot. The easy glide of the wheels on the asphalt is almost hypnotic, lulling your senses with your head lolling aside, watching the lazy drift of the glimmering city blurring behind the window.

All this while, Noctis is silent.

It’s not a strange occurrence, for a lapse of silence like this is enjoyable. He doesn’t pursue any topic relentlessly like Prompto, and spoke only when needed. At most, he’s content to leave you to your thoughts, though there is a certain wariness in the way he rests his eyes on you. Silent, dissecting you inside out, tearing you apart only to put you together again once he achieves comprehension.

“Sleepy?”

Over the thrumming purr of the engine racing down the empty expressway, the prince finally breaks the silence. You glance over just in time to catch the interest in his eyes, and they linger on you for a few seconds before looking straight again, focused on the highway. Sitting up, you glance at the dashboard’s clock and bite back a yawn. “Kinda, just a little bit,” you admit, borderline whisper.

There’s amusement lining Noctis’ voice at your small confession. “Get some sleep for a bit. I’ll wake you up when we get there.” You haven’t missed the small smile on the edge of his lips as he tightens his hold on the steering and revs up the engine to speed down the highway faster. “I don’t drive much since it’s Iggy’s job, so I take naps when he’s behind the wheels. But I kinda enjoy nights out like this.”

While the offer sounds tempting, just a nap surrounded by things that put you at ease—the humming of the engine, the blurring lights over on the streets, the silent companionship from the prince, there’s just something about it that keeps you awake. Just something small, something incredibly insignificant to others, but it means the whole Eos to you.

Leaning your head to the side, you cast him a hazy look, trying to fight off the seductive whispers of sleep in the leather seat. He definitely saw it when his smile turns lopsided, like he’s amused with the sight.

“I dunno, Highness,” you mumble, drooping a little, “I just thought that it’s such a waste if I fall asleep. I want to see this day to the end, because it’s too good to be true.”

Noctis doesn’t answer.

And, honestly, he doesn’t need to anyway.

His comforting presence is more than enough to remind you this is real, this is very real.

Minutes of his driving pass by, and the exhilarating speed remains breathtakingly beautiful as Insomnia deliquesces behind the glassy windows. Leaving behind the city you adore, and the memories you made. The way Prompto bounces on his feet, guiding you under stained glass domes and wrought iron gates. The delicate laces adorning mannequins in the shops, a handbag in its hand. How the prince slurps up his ramen in a very unprincely way.

All too soon, the Citadel looms into view and Noctis slips off the ramp through the opened gates, bringing you to the long stairway before the imposing double doors. He shuts off the engine, getting out. A valet opens the door for you, and Noctis circles around his car as you fumble out of your seat, straightening up after yourself with a shaky yawn. Try as you might, even if you want to deny you’re sleepy, the yawn is solid proof enough that you should march yourself right to bed and call it a night.

Noctis gets the idea and beckons you to follow. Content enough to be led around, you meekly trot after him through the doors and into the icy confines of the Citadel again. The receptionists are long gone by now. All that’s left are you and him, standing before the elevators, waiting for it to arrive. And when it does, you’re yawning again, rubbing your eyes this time, struggling with putting one foot after another. You don’t know whose hand it is that pressed 56, but the lift floats upwards and just like that, he leads you through the winding hallways again, retracing the steps he takes to your room.

Yawning for the nth time again, your overworked muscles strain with the effort of keeping up. As fun as it was, the excitement burnt you out faster than you thought. Noctis throws the door open, putting a hand on your back and slowly guiding you in. “Get some sleep, you look like shit.”

The prince really has a penchant for telling you look like shit, but a witty comeback is lost amidst all your yawns and you grudgingly obey him. Lights clicked on, sandals slipped off, you’re pressing your toes on the pricking chill of the marble again, standing in your workspace once more. A dimly lit Insomnia spreads before you, separated by the glass panes. It’s a picturesque panorama you used to marvel over and over again, but what used to be hopeless yearning morphed into a brilliant dream. The sight itself dissociates you from reality, knowing well that without the prince, you couldn’t have made it out there. His compassion knows no bounds. Truly a prince worth the fights you fought against father, just so he’d be your future.

Noctis still stands in your doorway, hair all mussed up like the usual, but it manages to fall in flattering layers around his face. Dark eyes brush over your entire body; you can tell he’s searching for something, but because it’s him, you find yourself not minding that much. He’s seen you through your cracks, picked you through the pieces. There’s still a lot more to you he hasn’t pried, hasn’t dislocated your limbs and popped your joints.

If he does, the secrets you kept will sully his hands.

As long he does not ask, he does not know. That is your endgame. Willing yourself to meet his eyes, you hold your breath. “Thank you for today, Prince. I really appreciate it.”

And Noctis, just casual, lazy Noctis, rakes a hand through his hair and turns away. His voice is thick with sleep, but you can’t miss the weird little smile there. A weird little smile he gives, for he knows nothing of you. “Yeah sure. See ya tomorrow.”

Tomorrow.

It’s a promise.

[tbc.]

90 miles per hour is about 145 km/h :’D noctis is trying to get himself killed with the protagonist just so they’d ascend the astral plane together for unlimited naps 24/7. they live happily ever after in the afterlife, the end.

also it should be noted that prompto once mentioned he never saw gil before when you first start the game and stop by hammerhead, so it’s implied that insomnia has its own currency as well. i took the liberty to name their insomnian currency as credits (im crap at making currency names ugh)

thank you very much for the overwhelmingly kind responses from you readers! I love reading everyone’s kind words and encouragement for this fic to go on <3  the plot is going to get even more bizarre, starting in the next chapter as things get morally dubious. (side-eyes the preview)

PREVIEW:

Adjusting his grip wrenches another solid gasp from you, and it’s such a pity you’re a wrecked mess right now, not when he knows he can go tighter than that to make you shudder, pretty pink all over. You’ve stopped struggling against him, making desperate, high whines—sounds that he doesn’t know you can make. You’re always so impassive, so aloof, so discreet with your emotions. Seeing you unhinged like this riles him up, gets this itch wanting to be scratched, wants to push your buttons until you break.

[u-dont-care-kms-blog]

The last leaf

In a little district west of Washington Square the streets have run crazy and broken themselves into small strips called "places." These "places" make strange angles and curves. One Street crosses itself a time or two. An artist once discovered a valuable possibility in this street. Suppose a collector with a bill for paints, paper and canvas should, in traversing this route, suddenly meet himself coming back, without a cent having been paid on account! So, to quaint old Greenwich Village the art people soon came prowling, hunting for north windows and eighteenth-century gables and Dutch attics and low rents. Then they imported some pewter mugs and a chafing dish or two from Sixth Avenue, and became a "colony." At the top of a squatty, three-story brick Sue and Johnsy had their studio. "Johnsy" was familiar for Joanna. One was from Maine; the other from California. They had met at the table d'hôte of an Eighth Street "Delmonico's," and found their tastes in art, chicory salad and bishop sleeves so congenial that the joint studio resulted. That was in May. In November a cold, unseen stranger, whom the doctors called Pneumonia, stalked about the colony, touching one here and there with his icy fingers. Over on the east side this ravager strode boldly, smiting his victims by scores, but his feet trod slowly through the maze of the narrow and moss-grown "places." Mr. Pneumonia was not what you would call a chivalric old gentleman. A mite of a little woman with blood thinned by California zephyrs was hardly fair game for the red-fisted, short-breathed old duffer. But Johnsy he smote; and she lay, scarcely moving, on her painted iron bedstead, looking through the small Dutch window-panes at the blank side of the next brick house. One morning the busy doctor invited Sue into the hallway with a shaggy, grey eyebrow. "She has one chance in - let us say, ten," he said, as he shook down the mercury in his clinical thermometer. " And that chance is for her to want to live. This way people have of lining-u on the side of the undertaker makes the entire pharmacopoeia look silly. Your little lady has made up her mind that she's not going to get well. Has she anything on her mind?" "She - she wanted to paint the Bay of Naples some day." said Sue. "Paint? - bosh! Has she anything on her mind worth thinking twice - a man for instance?" "A man?" said Sue, with a jew's-harp twang in her voice. "Is a man worth - but, no, doctor; there is nothing of the kind." "Well, it is the weakness, then," said the doctor. "I will do all that science, so far as it may filter through my efforts, can accomplish. But whenever my patient begins to count the carriages in her funeral procession I subtract 50 per cent from the curative power of medicines. If you will get her to ask one question about the new winter styles in cloak sleeves I will promise you a one-in-five chance for her, instead of one in ten." After the doctor had gone Sue went into the workroom and cried a Japanese napkin to a pulp. Then she swaggered into Johnsy's room with her drawing board, whistling ragtime. Johnsy lay, scarcely making a ripple under the bedclothes, with her face toward the window. Sue stopped whistling, thinking she was asleep. She arranged her board and began a pen-and-ink drawing to illustrate a magazine story. Young artists must pave their way to Art by drawing pictures for magazine stories that young authors write to pave their way to Literature. As Sue was sketching a pair of elegant horseshow riding trousers and a monocle of the figure of the hero, an Idaho cowboy, she heard a low sound, several times repeated. She went quickly to the bedside. Johnsy's eyes were open wide. She was looking out the window and counting - counting backward. "Twelve," she said, and little later "eleven"; and then "ten," and "nine"; and then "eight" and "seven", almost together. Sue look solicitously out of the window. What was there to count? There was only a bare, dreary yard to be seen, and the blank side of the brick house twenty feet away. An old, old ivy vine, gnarled and decayed at the roots, climbed half way up the brick wall. The cold breath of autumn had stricken its leaves from the vine until its skeleton branches clung, almost bare, to the crumbling bricks. "What is it, dear?" asked Sue. "Six," said Johnsy, in almost a whisper. "They're falling faster now. Three days ago there were almost a hundred. It made my head ache to count them. But now it's easy. There goes another one. There are only five left now." "Five what, dear? Tell your Sudie." "Leaves. On the ivy vine. When the last one falls I must go, too. I've known that for three days. Didn't the doctor tell you?" "Oh, I never heard of such nonsense," complained Sue, with magnificent scorn. "What have old ivy leaves to do with your getting well? And you used to love that vine so, you naughty girl. Don't be a goosey. Why, the doctor told me this morning that your chances for getting well real soon were - let's see exactly what he said - he said the chances were ten to one! Why, that's almost as good a chance as we have in New York when we ride on the street cars or walk past a new building. Try to take some broth now, and let Sudie go back to her drawing, so she can sell the editor man with it, and buy port wine for her sick child, and pork chops for her greedy self." "You needn't get any more wine," said Johnsy, keeping her eyes fixed out the window. "There goes another. No, I don't want any broth. That leaves just four. I want to see the last one fall before it gets dark. Then I'll go, too." "Johnsy, dear," said Sue, bending over her, "will you promise me to keep your eyes closed, and not look out the window until I am done working? I must hand those drawings in by to-morrow. I need the light, or I would draw the shade down." "Couldn't you draw in the other room?" asked Johnsy, coldly. "I'd rather be here by you," said Sue. "Beside, I don't want you to keep looking at those silly ivy leaves." "Tell me as soon as you have finished," said Johnsy, closing her eyes, and lying white and still as fallen statue, "because I want to see the last one fall. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of thinking. I want to turn loose my hold on everything, and go sailing down, down, just like one of those poor, tired leaves." "Try to sleep," said Sue. "I must call Behrman up to be my model for the old hermit miner. I'll not be gone a minute. Don't try to move 'til I come back." Old Behrman was a painter who lived on the ground floor beneath them. He was past sixty and had a Michael Angelo's Moses beard curling down from the head of a satyr along with the body of an imp. Behrman was a failure in art. Forty years he had wielded the brush without getting near enough to touch the hem of his Mistress's robe. He had been always about to paint a masterpiece, but had never yet begun it. For several years he had painted nothing except now and then a daub in the line of commerce or advertising. He earned a little by serving as a model to those young artists in the colony who could not pay the price of a professional. He drank gin to excess, and still talked of his coming masterpiece. For the rest he was a fierce little old man, who scoffed terribly at softness in any one, and who regarded himself as especial mastiff-in-waiting to protect the two young artists in the studio above. Sue found Behrman smelling strongly of juniper berries in his dimly lighted den below. In one corner was a blank canvas on an easel that had been waiting there for twenty-five years to receive the first line of the masterpiece. She told him of Johnsy's fancy, and how she feared she would, indeed, light and fragile as a leaf herself, float away, when her slight hold upon the world grew weaker. Old Behrman, with his red eyes plainly streaming, shouted his contempt and derision for such idiotic imaginings. "Vass!" he cried. "Is dere people in de world mit der foolishness to die because leafs dey drop off from a confounded vine? I haf not heard of such a thing. No, I will not bose as a model for your fool hermit-dunderhead. Vy do you allow dot silly pusiness to come in der brain of her? Ach, dot poor leetle Miss Yohnsy." "She is very ill and weak," said Sue, "and the fever has left her mind morbid and full of strange fancies. Very well, Mr. Behrman, if you do not care to pose for me, you needn't. But I think you are a horrid old - old flibbertigibbet." "You are just like a woman!" yelled Behrman. "Who said I will not bose? Go on. I come mit you. For half an hour I haf peen trying to say dot I am ready to bose. Gott! dis is not any blace in which one so goot as Miss Yohnsy shall lie sick. Some day I vill baint a masterpiece, and ve shall all go away. Gott! yes." Johnsy was sleeping when they went upstairs. Sue pulled the shade down to the window-sill, and motioned Behrman into the other room. In there they peered out the window fearfully at the ivy vine. Then they looked at each other for a moment without speaking. A persistent, cold rain was falling, mingled with snow. Behrman, in his old blue shirt, took his seat as the hermit miner on an upturned kettle for a rock. When Sue awoke from an hour's sleep the next morning she found Johnsy with dull, wide-open eyes staring at the drawn green shade. "Pull it up; I want to see," she ordered, in a whisper. Wearily Sue obeyed. But, lo! after the beating rain and fierce gusts of wind that had endured through the livelong night, there yet stood out against the brick wall one ivy leaf. It was the last one on the vine. Still dark green near its stem, with its serrated edges tinted with the yellow of dissolution and decay, it hung bravely from the branch some twenty feet above the ground. "It is the last one," said Johnsy. "I thought it would surely fall during the night. I heard the wind. It will fall to-day, and I shall die at the same time." "Dear, dear!" said Sue, leaning her worn face down to the pillow, "think of me, if you won't think of yourself. What would I do?" But Johnsy did not answer. The lonesomest thing in all the world is a soul when it is making ready to go on its mysterious, far journey. The fancy seemed to possess her more strongly as one by one the ties that bound her to friendship and to earth were loosed. The day wore away, and even through the twilight they could see the lone ivy leaf clinging to its stem against the wall. And then, with the coming of the night the north wind was again loosed, while the rain still beat against the windows and pattered down from the low Dutch eaves. When it was light enough Johnsy, the merciless, commanded that the shade be raised. The ivy leaf was still there. Johnsy lay for a long time looking at it. And then she called to Sue, who was stirring her chicken broth over the gas stove. "I've been a bad girl, Sudie," said Johnsy. "Something has made that last leaf stay there to show me how wicked I was. It is a sin to want to die. You may bring a me a little broth now, and some milk with a little port in it, and - no; bring me a hand-mirror first, and then pack some pillows about me, and I will sit up and watch you cook." And hour later she said: "Sudie, some day I hope to paint the Bay of Naples." The doctor came in the afternoon, and Sue had an excuse to go into the hallway as he left. "Even chances," said the doctor, taking Sue's thin, shaking hand in his. "With good nursing you'll win." And now I must see another case I have downstairs. Behrman, his name is - some kind of an artist, I believe. Pneumonia, too. He is an old, weak man, and the attack is acute. There is no hope for him; but he goes to the hospital to-day to be made more comfortable." The next day the doctor said to Sue: "She's out of danger. You won. Nutrition and care now - that's all." And that afternoon Sue came to the bed where Johnsy lay, contentedly knitting a very blue and very useless woollen shoulder scarf, and put one arm around her, pillows and all. "I have something to tell you, white mouse," she said. "Mr. Behrman died of pneumonia to-day in the hospital. He was ill only two days. The janitor found him the morning of the first day in his room downstairs helpless with pain. His shoes and clothing were wet through and icy cold. They couldn't imagine where he had been on such a dreadful night. And then they found a lantern, still lighted, and a ladder that had been dragged from its place, and some scattered brushes, and a palette with green and yellow colours mixed on it, and - look out the window, dear, at the last ivy leaf on the wall. Didn't you wonder why it never fluttered or moved when the wind blew? Ah, darling, it's Behrman's masterpiece - he painted it there the night that the last leaf fell."

[inexpensiveprogress]

Keith Henderson’s War Diaries.

In the copy of The Listener from March 1941, there is a piece by the artist Keith Henderson on his first year as a War Artist with the Air Ministry. 

Before any artists had been appointed by the Air Ministry, William Rothenstein had requested permission to make portraits of airmen at bases in Scotland. Rothenstein pre-empted Keith Henderson, the official artist, in working at Leuchars base, which meant there was nothing for Henderson to do; Rothenstein was often referred to in print as an “official artist”, although at this time, it was not the case.

Henderson was one of the first two artists, alongside Paul Nash, appointed as a full-time salaried artist to the Air Ministry by the War Artists’ Advisory Committee, WAAC. Rothenstein’s work ended up with Henderson having to concentrate on ground crew, aircraft hangars, repair shops and runways for subjects. Although the painting ‘An Improvised Test of an Under-carriage’ provoked fury in the Air Ministry and contributed to Henderson’s six-month contract not being extended, it was among the artworks shown at the first WAAC ‘Britain at War’ exhibition at the Museum of Modern Art in New York in May 1941. The painting shows a man jumping up and down on the wing of a Lockheed-Hudson to test the undercarriage.

Keith Henderson was a Scottish painter who worked in both oils and watercolours, and who is known for his book illustrations and his poster work. He had a long professional career that included periods as a war artist in both the First World War, in which he served in the trenches, and in the Second World War. The muted colours and tones of his work remind me of Eric Ravilious, it is that style too, but Henderson’s work was between Ravilious and Christopher R. W. Nevinson.

 Keith Henderson - An Air View of Montrose, Angus, 1940.

War-time notes of a Peaceful Artist.

Turning over the pages of a diary that I began last April on being appointed one of the two official artists to the Air Ministry, I now read over passages here and there with reminiscent amusement and, yes, a certain genuine pleasure too. During the last war I kept a diary, not only while with my regiment but after being seconded to Intelligence with the XV Corps Squadron, and then Fifth Army Headquarters. The new diary, the one for this war, begins: 

 Keith Henderson - A North-East Coast Aerodrome, 1940.

April 19, 1940. Started with Helen from home yesterday evening towards the east coast, leaving snow on our Lochaber mountains and daffodils under the wintry trees. Curlews calling from every direction. Tomorrow… 

April 20. This my first day of official duty has been a hideous failure. A guard at the aerodrome entrance, I drive in superior and nonchalant, returning the sentry’s salute. On to the Orderly Room. Adjutant, Commanding Officer, Intelligence Officers. Nervous as a cat, I hope they will not see through my calm affability. Cigarettes and a stroll towards the Mess. The ante-room is enormous: African buck, markhor, and other trophies of the chase branch out one above the other towards a lofty ceiling. The leather armchairs are so ample that officers reclining in them appear to be asleep. Crowds of others standing about, all very much alike. They observe that the Commanding Officer has a guest. Introductions, a glass of sherry. Presently through swing doors into the Mess Room, which is enormous. Lunch with one of the Wing Commanders, very friendly. But the afternoon, oh, the afternoon was hell. During a conducted tour round the hangars  l saw nothing whatever that I particularly wanted to paint. The wind was hideously cold, the light bleak, and I had an exhausting stomach-ache. Violent and continuous noises of engines being tested. No ideas. 

 Keith Henderson - Night: An Air Gunner in Auction Turret, 1940.

April 22. Serene spring weather. All has gone well, so well that I’have had to steady myself with thoughts of the horror of the conquered in Poland, Norway, and elsewhere. A man’s philosophy is usually in accord’ with his circumstances, both interior and exterior. Optimists do not have stomach-aches. Mine had vanished. From the high control tower at least three marvellous possibilities appeared. Two sinister and monstrous bombers were awkwardly entering their hangar. They have the eyes, the mouths, legs, bodies, wings of elephantine obscene. insects, but stupid insects. Prod them and they will not move away or retaliate. There is no mind within. They are utterly vacant. I must paint them like that. How lucky am I to have been appointed to this delightful work. 

April 24. Three pictures have now been begun. I am using a monochrome mixture of white, yellow-ochre, and a little raw umber. This will make any alterations to the composition easier before a more or less rapid final painting begins. 

 Keith Henderson - Study of Royal Air Force Machine Gunmen, 1939.

May 5. From the ground this strangely retarded spring is at last clearly visible. Trees are in bud and millions of small dowers give an impression of Chaucerian gaiety. Up in the air scarcely any of this tiny brilliance shows yet. There are just stretches of moorland and of ploughland in various shades of pale buff and maroon, with here a diaper dressing of lime, there a flutter of gulls, a few sombre forestry plantations and many lesser woods wherein only'an occasional pale willow is conspicuous, old stone farmhouses with their haystacks in rows, a ruin near a newer castellated mansion, small lochs all silvery grey, an appearance of desertion far and wide. From the air the earth has no flowers. Eastward is the wonderful coast-line, red sandstone mostly, fretted away into natural arches and pinnacles. The jade green sea is as lovely from above as I remember it in the last war. Those white festooned breakers along the Beaches seem without sound.

 Keith Henderson - An Improvised Test of an Undercarriage, 1940.

May 6. Today I tried the experiment of taking up more than mere notebooks. I took a canvas, a dozen brushes and a full set palette. The Palette was disastrous. Within a few moments of taking off, I noticed Indian red on my sleeve. The observer crept forward to the navigator’s seat where I was, and shouted into my ear, ‘Have you got everything you want?’ ‘Yes, thank you’ I shouted back, ‘but you have got some ultramarine on your cheek. I remembered noticing an air gunner holding the palette at a dangerously acute angle as he handed it to someone. And worse. Nearly all the so carefully arranged large clumps of paint round the palette’s edge were, I saw now with dismay, gone. They had evidently slipped off or been smeared off. But I could not be Without them. They must be found, scraped up penuriously from the floor or anywhere. Then I saw the legs of the air gunner. My precious cadmium red! The observer, the pilot even, all were strangely daubed handed round proved in that cramped space more distributive than cleansing. Their hands, their faces, their flying kit were crimson, blue, white, black, yellow, or tartan. It was a great success.

Keith Henderson - Camouflage Hangars and Gas Gong, 1940.

May 7. My bedroom at the aerodrome is quite comfortable. I shall never forget my astonishment when an efficient batman offered me early tea. I was then getting up at 4 am. for a dawn picture. This morning it had to be 3.30. As we rose into the upper air through ground mist three swans also rose through the ground mist. They Hew north. I found myself thinking: ‘Where exactly is the centre of the Universe?’ And I answered myself: ‘ Wherever you happen to be at the moment’. In mid air ’the centre of the Universe is definitely not on the earth’s surface. All who fly will agree about that. Suppose yourself flying west. You wish to turn south. The great rigid wings slant over. But for all the planetary pull of gravitation, it is not the aircraft which appears to be askew. Not at all. The earth on the other hand has gone mad. It has heaved itself up, sea and all, steeply into space, a huge menacing wave that will not subside until the dial shows the wings horizontal. They will be in a moment. Now they are. Now the earth is itself again, flat, detached inhuman, without laughter or any birds singing. 

May 8. A letter from the Air Ministry. I wrote some time ago 'asking for permission to go to Narvik or Stavanger on a bombing raid’. The Air Commodore at Whitehall answers, ‘Under present conditions it is quite out of the question that you should visit Norway‘. Right. Well, that exonerates me. I am certainly not going to do fancy war pictures from photographs and descriptions. 

Keith Henderson - Loading Gantry for Pluto, 1940.

May 9. Home for another short rest, tired. No, not depressed. There must be no regretting all that I have not accomplished, but simply a ‘proud delight in all that I have accomplished. Let me be luxuriously lazy. For several days on end I need not do anything. I loll in this white window Seat looking down the length of the room towards Aunt Nell‘s two rococo mirrors on either side of the Chinese lacquer cabinet. One of the dogs in the farmyard barks. I love the faint pink, wallpaper with its bunches of blue-grey and white flowers. I am happy. I think I have been asleep. I must go and see how things are coming on in the walled garden. 

May 11. Back at the aerodrome. The usual crowds assemble as soon as I set up my easel for a large picture to be called ‘Repairs to a Bomber’. Since last night when I came round to see that all was in order, the men have produced, in the most frightful raw flat yellow, on the side of the particular aircraft that I am painting, a huge figure of Donald Duck. They want me to put this into the picture, but I really cannot. It would spoil the whole thing. The effort to find words that might show them why it would spoil the whole thing is almost too much during working hours. 

 Keith Henderson - Dawn: Leaving for North Sea Patrol, 1940.

May 12. On other machines they have now painted other grotesques, including the wholly inexcusable Popeye. A sergeant pilot says that these effigies will 'cheer up the Jerries’. And this while the news becomes more serious than any news ever announced in the world before.

 Keith Henderson - Wings over Scotland, 1940.

May 16. While I was touching in the ‘horns’ of the bomber a young pilot who had been standing beside me asked: ‘How do you begin a picture?’ My answer, which was regrettably long, failed to give satisfaction. I could feel that. There was silence; and then - would I come for a flit with him? When? This afternoon? Well, I did rather want to get on with that thing of the coastline…. He went off at once and came back to say that all had been fixed. We were to go in the Jewel. On my way to the Mess I reflected that a machine called the Jewel sounded pleasantly airworthy. Later I discovered my mistake. Not Jewel, but Dual, a machine with dual control. ‘You must take a turn’, he offered. I made no answer, doubtful as to what this implied. When the parachutes and Mae Wests and other paraphernalia for all concerned are collected we drive across to the Dual. The engines have of course been sending out dust gales to the rear for a good while. We heave ourselves in. Before taking off, the pilot looks round and holds up his right thumb. The rest of the crew hold up theirs. All is well. The noise increases, is doubled, trebled, deafening in spite of ear plugs. We are moving forward, moving more swiftly. We have left the ground. As soon as we are at the right height I begin sketching. The time goes by. I muse vaguely about art meanwhile. Art is more than national, more than international; it is supernatural-magic-always* has been since cave days, always will be. There. The drawings are finished. We may return. Presently the pilot nudges my elbow. I am sitting on the learner’s seat close beside him. What is it now? What? He points to the controls and points at me. Does he mean that I am to ‘take a turn’? I hesitate. His reply to my very sensible hesitation is to cross his arms and lean heavily with his head on one side as if sound asleep. Something must be done. I seize the crescent. He is awake again, ready. We have lost height. I pull back. We rise, rise higher. The North Sea is empty of shipping. No, there’s a distant convoy. So it is. This is rather delightful. At a pinch, if the pilot were to become a casualty, could I carry on ? I might, I really might. But I certainly could not land. I should just have to go on and on, flying round the world indefinitely.

 Keith Henderson - Repairs to a Bomber, 1941.

May 23. Abbeville fallen. Boulogne fallen. Well, as to our next move, that rests with the Higher Command, not with me. Defeat ? That is an idea that I’ve never even glanced at. Have any of us ? Probably not. Better not. In the evening I have just finished a life of Wallenstein, and am beginning Lady Mary Wortley Montague’s Letters.

June 13. At home fér another rest. More carrots sown and the artichokes, thinned out to three feet apart, should do well. The Germans are only sixteen miles from Paris. 

 Keith Henderson - Gas Practice in a Hangar, 1940.

June 14. The first flowers of Campanula Carpatica have appeared, and Helen this afternoon made a delicious cinnamon cake. All down the steep brae towards the river there are foxgloves in full bloom. While raking beechmast into heaps on either side of the drive, I have been watching the cows. They are let out from the byre. They walk very slowly for about five yards, looking straight ahead. Then one of them stops. Gradually they all stop. Why? Two of them move slowly forward a few steps. A long pause. A few others follow and stop again. Another long pause. Do they want to go anywhere in particular? Why need they? A strawberry Ayrshire slowly turns her head. She looks at me for a long while without interest. Then she turns away, having learned nothing. They have nothing to do all day long. A black Galloway, with bracken in her tail, sits down, slowly and heavily. Five minutes later a polled Angus sits down, slowly and heavily. At the end of half-an-hour they have all sat down. Absolute peace here, and news has just come that the Germans have entered Paris.

 Keith Henderson - Ascent of the Met Balloon, 1940.

So the diary goes on - a continual contrast between busy warlike aerodromes and exquisite days on leave. That was almost a year ago. How angry we felt then and how obstinate. Today, even more angry and more obstinate, we are surely, I think, feeling much more hopeful. -

The painting ‘An Improvised Test of an Under-carriage’ provoked fury in the Air Ministry and his six month contract as a war artist had come to an end. His work was exhibited at the time but unlike Eric Ravilious his work has more or less been ignored.

*not a typo.

[travelguideworldtour-blog]

Hamburg Travel Guide – Tips for Visiting Hamburg

Hamburg Travel Guide

Hamburg is a city that represents one of sixteen Lands of Germany. The city is located on the bank of the Elba River near the Northern Sea. Hamburg is the second largest city of Germany after Berlin and the seventh largest city in whole European Union. Moreover, this is the most populated city of Europe that is not a capital. In 2008 the population of Hamburg estimated 1 773 218 people. Besides its own flag and emblem, Hamburg has its own hymn. This is very rare for cities.

Best Things to Do in Hamburg

Elbphilharmonie

The Elbphilharmonie has been the biggest populated construction at over 100 meters of Hamburg. Despite its dimensions, the endeavor from Herzog & de Meuron includes a light quality, and its own profile was compared to the sails of even a quartz crystal or a boat, waves. On this facade are approximately 1000 windows that are curved, also towards the very best an observation deck and cafe that is glossy both available to people. The fantastic Concert Hall includes space for 2,100 audiences of course that you owe it to yourself to listen to that the Elbphilharmonie Orchestra play one of the most acoustical places when you like music.

St Pauli

St Pauli is likely to soon be quite a rude awakening In the event you begin hoping that a corporate district. The quarter east of descending and the guts to the Elbe is rough around the edges along with also daubed in neon and graffiti. The Reeperbahn is well known, along with also its own particular pornography shops, a parade of strip nightclubs and prostitutes need mention. However, you might not have more fun at a particular date on this particular street, no matter St Pauli ambiance, and also your preference in music which makes it an excellent place.

  Hamburg Rathaus

Hamburg’s city hall can be as stirring as they have come, also reflects generosity and the wealth of a Germany towards the conclusion of this 19thcentury. The structure to the facade is Neo-Renaissance, and also the tower at the center adheres to 112 meters. There are exhibits indoors, which can be free to view and also you’re able to proceed right to the courtyard, that includes a fountain. Or you may pay a fee and choose an hourlong tour. The inner comprises more of a Historicist design as a new room was discovered from the tower at 1971, plus a few of its points would be that the number of chambers indoors: 647 at the very final count.

  Speicherstadt

Work began to get its port when Hamburg combined the habits zone in 1888. Storage centers were constructed and residential quarters around the Zollkanal have removed also a Gothic structure on oak piles. Shielded as a World Heritage Site, Town or the Speicherstadt of Warehouses comes with a feeling all of its own, which is enough to walk through those canyons, crossing the canals and scattering the ribbon that is glistening onto the facades. A number of the warehouses have been changed into flats, and the others are guest attractions, even while their purpose still fills, keeping coffee, tea, coffee, and spices.

  Kunsthalle Hamburg

A walk from the Hauptbahnhof, between Außenalster and also your Binnenalster, is among the largest and wealthiest museums of Germany. It’s no exaggeration to state that the Kunsthalle has enough to keep you under its charm for a day: There are masters such as Goya, Rembrandt, Rubens, Lucas Cranach younger and Canaletto. Subsequently, Max Liebermann, Caspar David Friedrich, Manet, Degas, and Gauguin are a Few of the luminaries from the gallery. Stepping into the gallery and artwork that is modern the titles keep coming, such as Francis Bacon, Paul Klee, Kirchner Picasso, Moving Forward to Tracey Emin, Warhol, and Joseph Beuys.

  HafenCity

HafenCity can be. Founded on land at the Elbe, HafenCity will continue to grow producing houses for occupations and 12,000 people to get as much as 40,000. Already a chunk of this interface was regenerated, and away from the legacy quarter that the structure is cutting-edge and creative. Think apartment complexes glistening office cubes and leisure conveniences, all equipped to their waterfront location with panache and sensitivity. Up to now, the sight would be.

  Planten un Blomen

Planten un Blomen, 4-7 hectares of botanical plantations and lawns, gardens, ponds, greenhouses are going to be next to the top In the event that you had to create a set of the best parts of Europe. From the green folds of the park may be. Allow time for you to poke the five greenhouses: the greatest, the Schaugewächshaus contains plants from Mediterranean climes and comprises lavender trees, palms, and laurels. Just could be teeming with succulent plants out of desert climates, that your Kakteenhaus. Away from the park in summer, once the garden is in blossom, the apothecary is fragrant and the musical viewer injects magical into the spectacle.

  Jungfernstieg

At Hamburg’s industrial and dynamic center, Jungfernstieg can be really just actually a waterfront promenade in the Binnenlaster. The name arises from a historical heritage of wealthy Hanseaten families parading their unwed daughters (Jungfern) for eligible bachelors. Landward you can find shops and flagship shops just such as the Alsterhaus in Historicist structures and neoclassical. Begin to see the white arcade which outlines the Kleine Alster off into the other side, built at the exact center of the 19thcentury. Fronting that the Binnenlaster is actually just a patio where you are able to bask in sunlight in summer check out the waterjet or tuck to a cafe and coffee (Kopenhagener or even Franzbrötchen) in the glass Alster Pavillion.

  Außenalster

A little bit of information about Hamburg is this one city has more bridges than Venice, Amsterdam and London combined. A number of the cross over the tangle of rivers and canals which feed into this lake’s end at their city’s midpoint. The beaches of this Außenalster, separated out of the Binnenalster that is more compact by the Kennedy Bridge, are just one park. Joggers arrive at squeeze into their morning practice and friends match for coffee at a few of the kiosks and pubs on the banks. Rivers at the top components of the lake and All those canals float through the most quarters of Hamburg. You’re going to have the ability to employ a kayak or rowboat in Osterbekkanal to navigate the entire city at away when the weather hot.

  Treppenviertel Blankenese

Catch the S Bahn or ferry into the quaint neighborhood ten km from town center above the bank of the Elbe. Treppenviertel literally means”Stairs Quarter” and that is where this area’s allure comes in. That the Treppenviertel is actually really just insanity of winding alleys, interlinked by stairways and surrounded by exquisite houses. These accumulate to a lot significantly more than 5,000 steps, and also do not be shocked if interest leads one to walk all of them until you’ve got to prevent for refreshment beside your Elbe. The Blankenese is among those places in the lake.

When to visit in Hamburg

Summer strikes at Hamburg and departs in September. Between the weeks, then you can get fine sight-seeing requirements (and fantastic weather for sanctuary cruises). The beer gardens by the lake will likely probably be filled, and street festivals would soon probably be ubiquitous. April and May might possibly be better, together using room prices and more silent museums and museums, if you’d like a vacation. Xmas is a significant event in Germany, therefore breaks could function.

Where to shop in Hamburg

For designer stores, go in Hamburg, Grosse Bleichen and Neuer Jungfernstieg Wall and Ufer Strasse. Home the shops, less costly shopping roads, are Mönckebergstrasse and Spitalstrasse.

Department Shops

ALSTERHAUS

Hamburg, jungfernstieg 16 20. Alsterhaus, found in Hamburg using a few of the very prestigious shopping streets, is a newly renovated buying place. The section store stocks everything from makeup by Acqua di Parma to fashion from China and Max Mara. Open Monsat.

  HANSE VIERTEL

Hamburg, poststrasse 3 3. Even the Hanse Viertel Galerie is a number 200m full of boutiques and long – for example Falke Lacoste and Stefanel – and also a scattering of. Open Monsat.

  Fashion

ESCADA

Neuer Wall 32, Hamburg. Wolfgang and Margaretha Ley, created Escada, a style tag in 1976, also was famous for its collections and perfumes.

  JIL SANDER

Neuer Wall 43, Hamburg. The Hamburg shop of Italian style house Jil Sander is delightfully a trip in the event that you fail to spend the money on clothes. The decoration is white, black and grey, and compliments the clothes.

  THOMAS-I-PUNKT

Hamburg, hardenstrasse 9. A look Thomas-i-Punkt, for a crowd, sells clothes and coaches to accommodate people and boys.

    Foods You Must Try While Visiting Hamburg

Fischbrötchen

The fish roster that is humble is a bite. The sandwich is normally created using pickled herring (bismarckhering) or soused herring (matjes), a few onions, pickles along with remoulade sauce. However, the options are as varied because the food racks which provide them. You might get North Sea fish or fish patty, fish or crabmeat. The fischbrötchen tastes better when eaten while enjoying views of the North Seas or the River Elbe’s end on the mind.

  Finkenwerder Scholle

This fish dish is named. Plaice (Scholle) is roasted or pan-fried with onions, tomatoes, and beans out of the North Sea. Plaice is among the very often eaten seeds in Northern Germany, also was the important component in chips and fish. Plaice is now rare in oceans, however, walk across the roads of Finkenwerder Nowadays, and you’ll discover restaurants.

  Labskaus

Look no farther than labskaus, if you would like to sample sailor and seamen fare. This dish is created using herring gherkin, beetroot and egg functioned as sides, of beef, mashed potatoes and onions. Variations with the meal are served even and over Scandinavia yet in Liverpool, UK, where it’s referred to as’scouse’. The labskaus isn’t anything but a dish, however, dare to dig, along with your preferences will thank you.

  Grünkohl

During winter months, kale — famous as grünkohl in Western — is traditionally served over North Germany in a way unsuited as a super-food. Kale is stewed for hours and served against all the sides of fried or boiled potatoes, in addition to kinds of sausage. The carrot season starts following the initial winter and is distinguished by sets of colleagues or friends performing a ‘kohlfahrt’ — an excursion that is cabbage literally. They walk for hours playing with drinking matches and finish your day at a restaurant by simply dancing before dawn and ingestion too because their bellies may hold.

  Aalsuppe

This Hamburg eel soup’s recipe goes back into a feast from 1788. A few asserts that dish contained no eel, however, has been made out of legumes. Nowadays, this soup is traditionally cooked together with vegetable beef, meat broth fresh fruit, and dumplings, in addition to some eel. A few assert the latter was inserted to avoid disappointing and confusing that the city guests. The soup is served as a major route.

  Rote Grütze

Once you’re finished sampling the fish and meat dishes, then treat your self as an instance, with the cooked out of summer tomatoes and served with vanilla sauce, milk or ice cream. The Danes attracted to the spot this dish, however, has turned into a staple of the cuisine. While red is the shade of this fresh fruit dish varieties may be seen on several restaurant and café selections.

  Franzbrötchen

There is A community specialty your franzbrötchen. You may not get these sweet beers that can be made out of cinnamon, somewhere else in Hamburg and its neighboring cities and a great deal of butter. Because the story goes, the croissant introduced throughout the job of Napoleon’s troops motivated their invention. Traditionally made with cinnamon and sugar, now bakeries provide you various kinds of franzbrötchen, such as with pumpkin seeds or marzipan, chocolate bits.

Hamburg Travel Guide – Tips for Visiting Hamburg

[readbookywooks]

Jon

Sam?" Jon called softly.

The air smelled of paper and dust and years. Before him, tall wooden shelves rose up into dimness, crammed with leatherbound books and bins of ancient scrolls. A faint yellow glow filtered through the stacks from some hidden lamp. Jon blew out the taper he carried, preferring not to risk an open flame amidst so much old dry paper. Instead he followed the light, wending his way down the narrow aisles beneath barrel-vaulted ceilings. All in black, he was a shadow among shadows, dark of hair, long of face, grey of eye. Black moleskin gloves covered his hands; the right because it was burned, the left because a man felt half a fool wearing only one glove.

Samwell Tarly sat hunched over a table in a niche carved into the stone of the wall. The glow came from the lamp hung over his head. He looked up at the sound of Jon's steps.

"Have you been here all night?"

"Have I?" Sam looked startled.

"You didn't break your fast with us, and your bed hadn't been slept in." Rast suggested that maybe Sam had deserted, but Jon never believed it. Desertion required its own sort of courage, and Sam had little enough of that.

"Is it morning? Down here there's no way to know."

"Sam, you're a sweet fool," Jon said. "You'll miss that bed when we're sleeping on the cold hard ground, I promise you."

Sam yawned. "Maester Aemon sent me to find maps for the Lord Commander. I never thought . . . Jon, the books, have you ever seen their like? There are thousands!"

He gazed about him. "The library at Winterfell has more than a hundred. Did you find the maps?"

"Oh, yes." Sam's hand swept over the table, fingers plump as sausages indicating the clutter of books and scrolls before him. "A dozen, at the least." He unfolded a square of parchment. "The paint has faded, but you can see where the mapmaker marked the sites of wildling villages, and there's another book . . . where is it now? I was reading it a moment ago." He shoved some scrolls aside to reveal a dusty volume bound in rotted leather. "This," he said reverently, "is the account of a journey from the Shadow Tower all the way to Lorn Point on the Frozen Shore, written by a ranger named Redwyn. It's not dated, but he mentions a Dorren Stark as King in the North, so it must be from before the Conquest. Jon, they fought giants! Redwyn even traded with the children of the forest, it's all here." Ever so delicately, he turned pages with a finger. "He drew maps as well, see . . . "

"Maybe you could write an account of our ranging, Sam."

He'd meant to sound encouraging, but it was the wrong thing to say. The last thing Sam needed was to be reminded of what faced them on the morrow. He shuffled the scrolls about aimlessly. "There's more maps. If I had time to search . . . everything's a jumble. I could set it all to order, though; I know I could, but it would take time . . . well, years, in truth."

"Mormont wanted those maps a little sooner than that." Jon plucked a scroll from a bin, blew off the worst of the dust. A corner flaked off between his fingers as he unrolled it. "Look, this one is crumbling," he said, frowning over the faded script.

"Be gentle." Sam came around the table and took the scroll from his hand, holding it as if it were a wounded animal. "The important books used to be copied over when they needed them. Some of the oldest have been copied half a hundred times, probably."

"Well, don't bother copying that one. Twenty-three barrels of pickled cod, eighteen jars of fish oil, a cask of salt . . . "

"An inventory," Sam said, "or perhaps a bill of sale."

"Who cares how much pickled cod they ate six hundred years ago?" Jon wondered.

"I would." Sam carefully replaced the scroll in the bin from which Jon had plucked it. "You can learn so much from ledgers like that, truly you can. it can tell you how many men were in the Night's Watch then, how they lived, what they ate . . . "

"They ate food," said Jon, "and they lived as we live."

"You'd be surprised. This vault is a treasure, Jon."

"If you say so." Jon was doubtful. Treasure meant gold, silver, and jewels, not dust, spiders, and rotting leather.

"I do," the fat boy blurted. He was older than Jon, a man grown by law, but it was hard to think of him as anything but a boy. "I found drawings of the faces in the trees, and a book about the tongue of the children of the forest . . . works that even the Citadel doesn't have, scrolls from old Valyria, counts of the seasons written by maesters dead a thousand years . . . "

"The books will still be here when we return."

"If we return . . . "

"The Old Bear is taking two hundred seasoned men, three-quarters of them rangers. Qhorin Halfhand will be bringing another hundred brothers from the Shadow Tower. You'll be as safe as if you were back in your lord father's castle at Horn Hill."

Samwell Tarly managed a sad little smile. "I was never very safe in my father's castle either."

The gods play cruel jests, Jon thought. Pyp and Toad, all a lather to be a part of the great ranging, were to remain at Castle Black. It was Samwell Tarly, the self-proclaimed coward, grossly fat, timid, and near as bad a rider as he was with a sword, who must face the haunted forest. The Old Bear was taking two cages of ravens, so they might send back word as they went. Maester Aemon was blind and far too frail to ride with them, so his steward must go in his place. "We need you for the ravens, Sam. And someone has to help me keep Grenn humble."

Sam's chins quivered. "You could care for the ravens, or Grenn could, or anyone," he said with a thin edge of desperation in his voice. "I could show you how. You know your letters too, you could write down Lord Mormont's messages as well as I."

"I'm the Old Bear's steward. I'll need to squire for him, tend his horse, set up his tent; I won't have time to watch over birds as well. Sam, you said the words. You're a brother of the Night's Watch now."

"A brother of the Night's Watch shouldn't be so scared."

"We're all scared. We'd be fools if we weren't." Too many rangers had been lost the past two years, even Benjen Stark, Jon's uncle. They had found two of his uncle's men in the wood, slain, but the corpses had risen in the chill of night. Jon's burnt fingers twitched as he remembered. He still saw the wight in his dreams, dead Othor with the burning blue eyes and the cold black hands, but that was the last thing Sam needed to be reminded of. "There's no shame in fear, my father told me, what matters is how we face it. Come, I'll help you gather up the maps."

Sam nodded unhappily. The shelves were so closely spaced that they had to walk single file as they left. The vault opened onto one of the tunnels the brothers called the wormwalks, winding subterranean passages that linked the keeps and towers of Castle Black under the earth. In summer the wormwalks were seldom used, save by rats and other vermin, but winter was a different matter. When the snows drifted forty and fifty feet high and the ice winds came howling out of the north, the tunnels were all that held Castle Black together.

Soon, Jon thought as they climbed. He'd seen the harbinger that had come to Maester Aemon with word of summer's end, the great raven of the Citadel, white and silent as Ghost. He had seen a winter once, when he was very young, but everyone agreed that it had been a short one, and mild. This one would be different. He could feel it in his bones.

The steep stone steps had Sam puffing like a blacksmith's bellows by the time they reached the surface. They emerged into a brisk wind that made Jon's cloak swirl and snap. Ghost was stretched out asleep beneath the wattle-and-daub wall of the granary, but he woke when Jon appeared, bushy white tail held stiffly upright as he trotted to them.

Sam squinted up at the Wall. It loomed above them, an icy cliff seven hundred feet high. Sometimes it seemed to Jon almost a living thing, with moods of its own. The color of the ice was wont to change with every shift of the light. Now it was the deep blue of frozen rivers, now the dirty white of old snow, and when a cloud passed before the sun it darkened to the pale grey of pitted stone. The Wall stretched east and west as far as the eye could see, so huge that it shrunk the timbered keeps and stone towers of the castle to insignificance. It was the end of the world.

And we are going beyond it.

The morning sky was streaked by thin grey clouds, but the pale red line was there behind them. The black brothers had dubbed the wanderer Mormont's Torch, saying (only half in jest) that the gods must have sent it to light the old man's way through the haunted forest.

"The comet's so bright you can see it by day now," Sam said, shading his eyes with a fistful of books.

"Never mind about comets, it's maps the Old Bear wants."

Ghost loped ahead of them. The grounds seemed deserted this morning, with so many rangers off at the brothel in Mole's Town, digging for buried treasure and drinking themselves blind. Grenn had gone with them. Pyp and Halder and Toad had offered to buy him his first woman to celebrate his first ranging. They'd wanted Jon and Sam to come as well, but Sam was almost as frightened of whores as he was of the haunted forest, and Jon had wanted no part of it. "Do what you want," he told Toad, "I took a vow."

As they passed the sept, he heard voices raised in song. Some men want whores on the eve of battle, and some want gods. Jon wondered who felt better afterward. The sept tempted him no more than the brothel; his own gods kept their temples in the wild places, where the weirwoods spread their bone-white branches. The Seven have no power beyond the Wall, he thought, but my gods will be waiting.

Outside the armory, Ser Endrew Tarth was working with some raw recruits. They'd come in last night with Conwy, one of the wandering crows who roamed the Seven Kingdoms collecting men for the Wall. This new crop consisted of a greybeard leaning on a staff, two blond boys with the look of brothers, a foppish youth in soiled satin, a raggy man with a clubfoot, and some grinning loon who must have fancied himself a warrior. Ser Endrew was showing him the error of that presumption. He was a gentler master-at-arms than Ser Alliser Thorne had been, but his lessons would still raise bruises. Sam winced at every blow, but Jon Snow watched the swordplay closely.

"What do you make of them, Snow?" Donal Noye stood in the door of his armory, bare-chested under a leather apron, the stump of his left arm uncovered for once. With his big gut and barrel chest, his flat nose and bristly black jaw, Noyc did not make a pretty sight, but he was a welcome one nonetheless. The armorer had proved himself a good friend.

"They smell of summer," Jon said as Ser Endrew bullrushed his foe and knocked him sprawling. "Where did Conwy find them?"

"A lord's dungeon near Gulltown," the smith replied. "A brigand, a barber, a beggar, two orphans, and a boy whore. With such do we defend the realms of men."

"They'll do." Jon gave Sam a private smile. "We did."

Noye drew him closer. "You've heard these tidings of your brother?"

"Last night." Conwy and his charges had brought the news north with them, and the talk in the common room had been of little else. Jon was still not certain how he felt about it. Robb a king? The brother he'd played with, fought with, shared his first cup of wine with? But not mother's milk, no. So now Robb will sip summerwine from jeweled goblets, while I'm kneeling beside some stream sucking snowmelt from cupped hands. "Robb will make a good king," he said loyally.

"Will he now?" The smith eyed him frankly. "I hope that's so, boy, but once I might have said the same of Robert."

"They say you forged his warhammer," Jon remembered.

"Aye. I was his man, a Baratheon man, smith and armorer at Storm's End until I lost the arm. I'm old enough to remember Lord Steffon before the sea took him, and I knew those three sons of his since they got their names. I tell you this—Robert was never the same after he put on that crown. Some men are like swords, made for fighting. Hang them up and they go to rust."

"And his brothers?" Jon asked.

The armorer considered that a moment. "Robert was the true steel. Stannis is pure iron, black and hard and strong, yes, but brittle, the way iron gets. He'll break before he bends. And Renly, that one, he's copper, bright and shiny, pretty to look at but not worth all that much at the end of the day."

And what metal is Robb? Jon did not ask. Noye was a Baratheon man; likely he thought Joffrey the lawful king and Robb a traitor. Among the brotherhood of the Night's Watch, there was an unspoken pact never to probe too deeply into such matters. Men came to the Wall from all of the Seven Kingdoms, and old loves and loyalties were not easily forgotten, no matter how many oaths a man swore . . . as Jon himself had good reason to know. Even Sam—his father's House was sworn to Highgarden, whose Lord Tyrell supported King Renly. Best not to talk of such things. The Night's Watch took no sides. "Lord Mormont awaits us," Jon said.

"I won't keep you from the Old Bear." Noye clapped him on the shoulder and smiled. "May the gods go with you on the morrow, Snow. You bring back that uncle of yours, you hear?"

"We will," Jon promised him.

Lord Commander Mormont had taken up residence in the King's Tower after the fire had gutted his own. Jon left Ghost with the guards outside the door. "More stairs," said Sam miserably as they started up. "I hate stairs."

"Well, that's one thing we won't face in the wood."

When they entered the solar, the raven spied them at once. "Snow!" the bird shrieked. Mormont broke off his conversation. "Took you long enough with those maps." He pushed the remains of breakfast out of the way to make room on the table. "Put them here. I'll have a look at them later."

Thoren Smallwood, a sinewy ranger with a weak chin and a weaker mouth hidden under a thin scraggle of beard, gave Jon and Sam a cool look. He had been one of Alliser Thorne's henchmen, and had no love for either of them. "The Lord Commander's place is at Castle Black, lording and commanding," he told Mormont, ignoring the newcomers, "it seems to me."

The raven flapped big black wings. "Me, me, me."

"If you are ever Lord Commander, you may do as you please," Mormont told the ranger, "but it seems to me that I have not died yet, nor have the brothers put you in my place."

"I'm First Ranger now, with Ben Stark lost and Ser Jaremy killed," Smallwood said stubbornly. "The command should be mine."

Mormont would have none of it. "I sent out Ben Stark, and Ser Waymar before him. I do not mean to send you after them and sit wondering how long I must wait before I give you up for lost as well." He pointed. "And Stark remains First Ranger until we know for a certainty that he is dead. Should that day come, it will be me who names his successor, not you. Now stop wasting my time. We ride at first light, or have you forgotten?"

Smallwood pushed to his feet. "As my lord commands." On the way out, he frowned at Jon, as if it were somehow his fault.

"First Ranger!" The Old Bear's eyes lighted on Sam. "I'd sooner name you First Ranger. He has the effrontery to tell me to my face that I'm too old to ride with him. Do I look old to you, boy?" The hair that had retreated from Mormont's spotted scalp had regrouped beneath his chin in a shaggy grey beard that covered much of his chest. He thumped it hard. "Do I look frail?"

Sam opened his mouth, gave a little squeak. The Old Bear terrified him. "No, my lord," Jon offered quickly. "You look strong as a . . . a . . . "

"Don't cozen me, Snow, you know I won't have it. Let me have a look at these maps." Mormont pawed through them brusquely, giving each no more than a glance and a grunt. "Was this all you could find?"

"I . . . m-m-my lord," Sam stammered, "there . . . there were more, b-b-but . . . the dis-disorder . . . "

"These are old," Mormont complained, and his raven echoed him with a sharp cry of "Old, old."

"The villages may come and go, but the hills and rivers will be in the same places," Jon pointed out.

"True enough. Have you chosen your ravens yet, Tarly?"

"M-m-maester Aemon m-means to p-pick them come evenfall, after the f-f-feeding."

"I'll have his best. Smart birds, and strong."

"Strong," his own bird said, preening. "Strong, strong."

"If it happens that we're all butchered out there, I mean for my successor to know where and how we died."

Talk of butchery reduced Samwell Tarly to speechlessness. Mormont leaned forward. "Tarly, when I was a lad half your age, my lady mother told me that if I stood about with my mouth open, a weasel was like to mistake it for his lair and run down my throat. If you have something to say, say it. Otherwise, beware of weasels." He waved a brusque dismissal. "Off with you, I'm too busy for folly. No doubt the maester has some work you can do."

Sam swallowed, stepped back, and scurried out so quickly he almost tripped over the rushes.

"Is that boy as big a fool as he seems?" the Lord Commander asked when he'd gone. "Fool," the raven complained. Mormont did not wait for Jon to answer. "His lord father stands high in King Renly's councils, and I had half a notion to dispatch him . . . no, best not. Renly is not like to heed a quaking fat boy. I'll send Ser Arnell. He's a deal steadier, and his mother was one of the green-apple Fossoways."

"If it please my lord, what would you have of King Renly?"

"The same things I'd have of all of them, lad. Men, horses, swords, armor, grain, cheese, wine, wool, nails . . . the Night's Watch is not proud, we take what is offered." His fingers drummed against the roughhewn planks of the table. "If the winds have been kind, Ser Alliser should reach King's Landing by the turn of the moon, but whether this boy Joffrey will pay him any heed, I do not know. House Lannister has never been a friend to the Watch."

"Thorne has the wight's hand to show them." A grisly pale thing with black fingers, it was, that twitched and stirred in its jar as if it were still alive.

"Would that we had another hand to send to Renly."

"Dywen says you can find anything beyond the Wall."

"Aye, Dywen says. And the last time he went ranging, he says he saw a bear fifteen feet tall." Mormont snorted. "My sister is said to have taken a bear for her lover. I'd believe that before I'd believe one fifteen feet tall. Though in a world where dead come walking . . . ah, even so, a man must believe his eyes. I have seen the dead walk. I've not seen any giant bears." He gave Jon a long, searching look. "But we were speaking of hands. How is yours?"

"Better." Jon peeled off his moleskin glove and showed him. Scars covered his arm halfway to the elbow, and the mottled pink flesh still felt tight and tender, but it was healing. "It itches, though. Maester Aemon says that's good. He gave me a salve to take with me when we ride."

"You can wield Longclaw despite the pain?"

"Well enough." Jon flexed his fingers, opening and closing his fist the way the maester had shown him. "I'm to work the fingers every day to keep them nimble, as Maester Aemon said."

"Blind he may be, but Aemon knows what he's about. I pray the gods let us keep him another twenty years. Do you know that he might have been king?"

Jon was taken by surprise. "He told me his father was king, but not . . . I thought him perhaps a younger son."

"So he was. His father's father was Daeron Targaryen, the Second of His Name, who brought Dorne into the realm. Part of the pact was that he wed a Dornish princess. She gave him four sons. Aemon's father Maekar was the youngest of those, and Aemon was his third son. Mind you, all this happened long before I was born, ancient as Smallwood would make me."

"Maester Aemon was named for the Dragonknight."

"So he was. Some say Prince Aemon was King Daeron's true father, not Aegon the Unworthy. Be that as it may, our Aemon lacked the Dragonknight's martial nature. He likes to say he had a slow sword but quick wits. Small wonder his grandfather packed him off to the Citadel. He was nine or ten, I believe . . . and ninth or tenth in the line of succession as well."

Maester Aemon had counted more than a hundred name days, Jon knew. Frail, shrunken, wizened, and blind, it was hard to imagine him as a little boy no older than Arya.

Mormont continued. "Aemon was at his books when the eldest of his uncles, the heir apparent, was slain in a tourney mishap. He left two sons, but they followed him to the grave not long after, during the Great Spring Sickness. King Daeron was also taken, so the crown passed to Daeron's second son, Aerys."

"The Mad King?" Jon was confused. Aerys had been king before Robert, that wasn't so long ago.

"No, this was Aerys the First. The one Robert deposed was the second of that name."

"How long ago was this?"

"Eighty years or close enough," the Old Bear said, "and no, I still hadn't been born, though Aemon had forged half a dozen links of his maester's chain by then. Aerys wed his own sister, as the Targaryens were wont to do, and reigned for ten or twelve years. Aemon took his vows and left the Citadel to serve at some lordling's court . . . until his royal uncle died without issue. The Iron Throne passed to the last of King Daeron's four sons. That was Maekar, Aemon's father. The new king summoned all his sons to court and would have made Aemon part of his councils, but he refused, saying that would usurp the place rightly belonging to the Grand Maester. Instead he served at the keep of his eldest brother, another Daeron. Well, that one died too, leaving only a feeble-witted daughter as heir. Some pox he caught from a whore, I believe. The next brother was Aerion."

"Aerion the Monstrous?" Jon knew that name. "The Prince Who Thought He Was a Dragon" was one of Old Nan's more gruesome tales. His little brother Bran had loved it.

"The very one, though he named himself Aerion Brightflame. One night, in his cups, he drank a jar of wildfire, after telling his friends it would transform him into a dragon, but the gods were kind and it transformed him into a corpse. Not quite a year after, King Maekar died in battle against an outlaw lord."

Jon was not entirely innocent of the history of the realm; his own maester had seen to that. "That was the year of the Great Council," he said. "The lords passed over Prince Aerion's infant son and Prince Daeron's daughter and gave the crown to Aegon."

"Yes and no. First they offered it, quietly, to Aemon. And quietly he refused. The gods meant for him to serve, not to rule, he told them. He had sworn a vow and would not break it, though the High Septon himself offered to absolve him. Well, no sane man wanted any blood of Aerion's on the throne, and Daeron's girl was a lackwit besides being female, so they had no choice but to turn to Aemon's younger brother—Aegon, the Fifth of His Name. Aegon the Unlikely, they called him, born the fourth son of a fourth son. Aemon knew, and rightly, that if he remained at court those who disliked his brother's rule would seek to use him, so he came to the Wall. And here he has remained, while his brother and his brother's son and his son each reigned and died in turn, until Jaime Lannister put an end to the line of the Dragonkings."

"King," croaked the raven. The bird flapped across the solar to land on Mormont's shoulder. "King," it said again, strutting back and forth.

"He likes that word," Jon said, smiling.

"An easy word to say. An easy word to like."

"King," the bird said again.

"I think he means for you to have a crown, my lord."

"The realm has three kings already, and that's two too many for my liking." Mormont stroked the raven under the beak with a finger, but all the while his eyes never left Jon Snow.

It made him feel odd. "My lord, why have you told me this, about Maester Aemon?"

"Must I have a reason?" Mormont shifted in his seat, frowning. "Your brother Robb has been crowned King in the North. You and Aemon have that in common. A king for a brother."

"And this too," said Jon. "A vow."

The Old Bear gave a loud snort, and the raven took flight, flapping in a circle about the room, "Give me a man for every vow I've seen broken and the Wall will never lack for defenders."

"I've always known that Robb would be Lord of Winterfell."

Mormont gave a whistle, and the bird flew to him again and settled on his arm. "A lord's one thing, a king's another." He offered the raven a handful of corn from his pocket. "They will garb your brother Robb in silks, satins, and velvets of a hundred different colors, while you live and die in black ringmail. He will wed some beautiful princess and father sons on her. You'll have no wife, nor will you ever hold a child of your own blood in your arms. Robb will rule, you will serve. Men will call you a crow. Him they'll call Your Grace. Singers will praise every little thing he does, while your greatest deeds all go unsung. Tell me that none of this troubles you, Jon . . . and I'll name you a liar, and know I have the truth of it."

Jon drew himself up, taut as a bowstring. "And if it did trouble me, what might I do, bastard as I am?"

"What will you do?" Mormont asked. "Bastard as you are?"

"Be troubled," said Jon, "and keep my vows."