#depending on whether you think the fire-lady-to-be doing field work

[whetstonefires]

atla flashfic that got over 1k so it gets a readmore!

Pu-On woke up in the middle of the night to a cloaked, masked figure with a naked blade.

"Oh spirits," he squeaked, after a second spent realizing that it wasn't a cast member trying to be funny, and pulled the bedclothes up under his chin like that would help. "I-I'll--" He wasn't sure whether threatening to scream or offering not to was more likely to work out.

"Pu-On Tim?" the figure asked, in a hushed voice that made it hard to tell anything about it except that it wasn't a bass-baritone and it was probably from around Caldera City, or trying to sound that way, which a lot of people did. "Staff scriptmaster with the Ember Island Players? Writer of the play 'The Boy In The Iceburg?'"

"Y...yes?" He hoped that was the right answer. Trying to lie about it didn't seem wise, considering they'd already found his bedroom.

"We're here on behalf of the Fire Lord."

The 'we' made Pu-On take his eyes off the figure at his bedside and realize there was another masked, cloaked figure lurking behind them. Oh, spirits.

"Listen, he wasn't written like that in the previous draft!" he blurted. "I know what you probably heard about the performance version, but that was just a matter of political exigency! I have nothing against Fire Lord Zuko!”

This was a slight exaggeration.

Zuko had figured in the earliest stage of the script as a quixotic, mildly absurd sympathetic figure, only to have to be rewritten with a character arc leading him toward betrayal after the great Tragedy of the North, and then rewritten again as the main hero of the piece, after he redeemed himself at Ba Sing Se.

Then not two weeks from opening night, on the Day of Black Sun, he'd turned on his father and joined forces with the Avatar, and Pu-On had had to hurriedly dig through his old drafts to restore less flattering dialogue, to spare himself having to fully rewrite all Zuko's scenes again. Shun had barely slept for three days getting the rewritten part down. Pu-On had begun to feel personally martyred by Prince Zuko of the ever-changing allegiances.

He might have made him a little more ridiculous than he’d had to, out of aggravation, but mostly in hopes of managing to get a watchable play in the end. A work focusing so much on enemies of the state had had to be the broadest of comedy to begin with, and making the brooding Zuko character fit into that on short notice hadn’t been easy.

And then Sozin's Comet had come, and they had a new Fire Lord.

He'd be lying if he said the possibility of reprisal hadn't crossed his mind, but the new Fire Lord had by and large shown considerable restraint about actions performed under his father's regime, even when he didn't like them. On the other hand, none of that had been personal.

"It was just a matter of political exigency," he wheedled the two masked agents in his bedroom. "The Fire Lord knows his father's laws, whatever I write has always had to conform with national policy."

"Lord Zuko knows," said the agent standing further back. "We're just here to ask you a few questions."

It was more than a few. The questions started on the subect of his loyalties and political opinions, quick darting things trading off quickly from one interrogator to the next, clearly designed to push him past the usual mealy platitudes and into sincerity. Pu-On has always been careful not to have too many sincere political opinions, since they tend to seep into your work and that's how you get dragged off to the coal and sulfur mines, but they wring a surprising amount out of him.

Then without his quite catching the instant of transition they were asking him about the research he did for 'The Boy In The Iceburg,' the various sources he listed as part of the script and how he tracked them down and what he did to get accounts from them, as well as which of a long list of inaccuracies in his script were intentional rhetorical devices and which the result of bad or no information on his part.

Toph the Earthbender's height and gender were bad information he recognized as such by comparison to other sources and used anyway; the mechanism behind her blindsight was pure supposition based on a text about bats. The agents were taking notes now. He found himself flattered, even though he knew this was unwise of him.

Pu-On had always been enthusiastic about his research process. He would have liked to go to university in his youth, if it were achievable for someone from his station of life, and he'd cribbed what academic tricks he could to bolster the story-collecting he'd started as a child haunting wineshops with a notebook of his own.

So he almost forgot to be frightened at some point in this stage of the discussion, sitting fully upright in bed with the bedclothes pooled into his lap and gesticulating for emphasis. “Prince Zuko’s hair!” he said. “Oh, that was a dramatic saga in the version that had to be scrapped last, the information I’d put together on his movements after the Siege of the North showed he was growing it out for the first time since he was thirteen, after obviously cutting his phoenix tail to go into hiding. The…well, anyway, we had to make all new wigs for the actual performances.”

He remembered himself suddenly, clutching the edge of the blanket again. “I didn’t mean any harm,” he added. “Please, tell the Fire Lord…would he like another rewrite? I’d be happy to—” He wouldn’t, he tore that play apart and cobbled it back together again so many times he’d prefer never to look at it again in his life.

In a few years he might go back over his notes and write something entirely new, but he was going to wait for the dust to settle first. Fire Lord Zuko had disrupted his work with dramatic upheavals enough times already. If only current events weren’t so irresistibly exciting; history was so much more accommodating.

(Although even history was currently being heavily rewritten. School curricula were among the many things the new Fire Lord was overturning.)

“Maybe he would,” said the agent in the middle of the room. “You can ask him yourself.”

“I can?”

The agent beside his bed nodded, stuck their knife into what must be a hidden sheath at their hip (note: find out how that’s done, the effects crew would love a new technique for fake stabbings) and reached up to take their mask off.

Revealing a round-faced girl with grey eyes, currently grinning widely at him. “Hi! I’m Ty Lee, and you’re invited to join His Majesty’s intelligence service!”

[imagine-that-one-thing]

Her Majesty. || 7

If You’re A Bird, I’m a Bird.

♔♔♔

I’ve been in and out of sleep for a few hours, my mind is unable to cease thinking about what my mother has said, and I’m still under the weather. I thought I was doing fine but this summer cold is proving to be a pain in my ass. 

I feel Anna’s body move between the sheets and I feel her begin to move with more energy. 

“Anna?” My voice is hoarse while I cock my head to the side to gaze at her. 

She’s still asleep. 

I watch her settle in her sleep and I adjust the sheet over her shoulders before I get comfortable and fall back to dozing in and out of sleep. 

It’s an unexpected gasp, and shift in the bed that alerts me immediately. I open my eyes and notice Anna breathing heavily with her hand gripping the covers. “Hey,” I softly whisper, moving closer as she sits up. “Bad dream?” I question the only logical explanation for her sudden lack of breath and sudden jolts. 

Anastasia nods her head. I caress my hand to her back and rub soothing circles. I’m not quite sure what to do. I’ve never been with her when she has had any sort of bad dream. Whenever I have a bad dream, I usually roll back over and go to sleep, but I can see that she’s quite startled by her dream. “Harry…” Anna begins with a heavy breath, “Where’s Henry?” 

“I don’t know… Would you like me to get you some water?” 

“No… I want you to find Henry.” 

”I can’t, I’m a bodyguard, not a detective. Matthew is handling it. Has he gotten you all worked up again? He won’t find you. He’s harmless.” 

Anastasia shakes her head, “I don’t know about that.” Anastasia grimaces while she sits up a little further and takes in a deep breath. 

I lean over and turn my lamp on, the dim glow illuminating the room immediately and causing Anastasia to groan. “Here we go,” Anna mutters unhappily. I know this isn’t going to end pleasantly. She hates when I do this, but I can’t help it… I can’t act like I don’t care. 

“You’re in pain.” 

“And you’re under the weather. We are both avoiding the obvious.” 

“Christ sake,” I shake my head, tired and irritated with her. 

I know she hates when people fret over her, but it’s my job to do so, literally. Her life is in my hands at the moment, whether she likes it or not, I can’t just turn a blind eye. And as her boyfriend, I can’t go back to sleep knowing that she’s worried over a piece of shit Prince and hurting because she fell off a horse and doesn’t want to have doctors up her ass. “It’s either you tell me or I have to call your doctor. You parents were strict on this rule, and right now, I don’t want to piss the King off. He’s already pissed, and I don’t want to make it worse.” 

“Why is he pissed with you?” Anastasia questions, somewhat shifting the subject. 

The king is pissed off with everybody, he is taking his frustration out on all the staff, right now, he’s having his best go at the security team. Right now, Matthew and I are on the firing line. The king wants Henry’s location, but I’m here; I can’t do much. Matthew can only do so much in a few hours while also being in charge of other security staff. The king is taking his wrath out on everybody— yesterday it was the maids and housekeepers— today it is myself and Matthew— tomorrow it’ll probably be Anastasia again. 

I contemplate telling Anna the truth, I have to draw a line between work and our relationship.

There are some things I keep from her for her own sanity. “Your Dad is mad at the world, I’m trying to defuse situations. So, what’s the matter?” 

“I’m sorry… This whole Henry thing was my fault. It’s all escalating and snowballing.” 

“Anna, stop deflecting.” 

“My side hurts, nothing new.” 

“Can I take a look?” I softly challenge, wanting her permission. 

I know she despises when I have to do this, but right now I’m attempting to be her boyfriend. I genuinely care. It’s just a plus that my job has me trained for taking care of her. Anastasia rolls her eyes and lifts her pyjama top up, revealing the side of her body when she took the hardest hit. 

“Doctor wasn’t joking when she said you’d have bruising. Looks like you definitely have bruised ribs. Why must you be so stubborn?” 

“Same reason why you keep trying to cover the fact you’re unwell and still more worried about me. Please, don’t make a big deal of this.” 

“Anna—“ I begin but I stop myself, “Okay,” I sigh, “But if it gets worse, you’ll tell me?” 

“This isn’t a life or death situation. Let’s go back to sleep.” 

“If you insist.” 

“Can you really not find Henry? I feel uneasy about him.” 

“It’s not my field of work. Matthew is working on it. I know a PI and I’ll call him in the morning.” 

“Aren’t they expensive?” Anna questions and I can’t help but chuckle to myself. 

The woman who literally has no reason to worry about money or the cost of things is concerned a PI expensive but doesn’t seem to take into consideration that half the jewellery in her possession is worth thousands of dollars. 

“I’ll handle it and pay for it, stop worrying about things you don’t need to fret over. It’s my job to worry.” I respond. 

I kiss her cheek and move away from her, dismissing the conversation and settling back down into the bed. Anna doesn’t hesitate, instead, she shuffles closer and rests her hand on my chest as she gets comfortable. I stare up at the ceiling, listening to her breaths while I allow my mind to wander. 

I won’t hesitate to find everything I can about Henry. We should have done an intense search on him when he first came into the picture, but the King was adamant that he knew better and knew the family. Sometimes, the king isn’t always right. I should have listened to my gut instinct. Now, all I can do is keep an eye on Henry and keep Anastasia safe and sound. I don’t want her to worry about anything, and as much as I hate to admit things, Henry makes me uneasy as well. I don’t like how he seems to have gone off the deep end over something as small as losing a bet on a horse. It’s almost as though losing a bet and money triggered him to lose the plot. Perhaps, I’m overthinking things, but from the way Anastasia is acting and reacting, I think she feels the same way. 

For now, it’s my job to worry, not hers. I won’t hesitate to take her worries and pain, and I’ll do everything to keep her settled through chaotic storms. I can’t help but feel like the storm is just starting to brew and it’s about to get worse. 

♔♔♔

I find Anastasia relaxing in my mother’s garden, enclosed by the summer flowers that flaunt their beautiful colours even in the moonlight. 

I wander closer to her sitting figure, offering her a modest smile when she stares up at me. Unfortunately, she doesn’t give me her usual grin, instead, she offers me a fake smile that indicates she’s hiding something. 

“Been looking for you for a minute,” I begin, wanting her absolute attention. 

“Sorry,” Anastasia gazes away from my gaze, “Jus’ needed a minute.” 

“What’s wrong?” 

Anastasia grows withdrawn for a moment and I grasp the silence as a time to step closer and sit beside her. I caress a kiss to her cheek before I arrange my arm around her, “You know, whatever has you down won’t last forever. Things will be okay.” I decide to go with words of encouragement, mainly because I know that she is more than likely stressed over more things than I’m even aware of. I know she was working on a few royal duties this afternoon while it rained, I assumed she was responding to letters or keeping up to date on public, political, and cultural affairs. Her job never truly stops. 

Anastasia heavily laments before resting her head on my shoulder, “My father is losing the plot, Harry.” 

“How so?” I challenge. 

I have to admit, I’m not wholly surprised. He seems to have been on a steady decline since last year when word got around that he needed to pass down the crown. 

I have yet to figure out why he is determined to pass the crown down to Anastasia this year or early next year, nobody has heard of a thorough reason. The house staff have their own conspiracy theories, one being that he wants to leave the crown to Anna so that he doesn’t have to handle royal duties anymore. I don’t think that’s the case. I believe there would have to be a solid foundation for what he’s doing. After all, only one British monarch has ever willingly abdicated the throne, and the King wouldn’t make the second unless it were for a better reason than simply not wanting to do royal engagements. He won’t abdicate. He will likely give Anna the title of Princess Regent, putting her in charge of his official duties while he’d get to keep his title as His Majesty the King— of course, that’s if he wants his title. 

“My Dad is being a prick.” 

I chuckle modestly, “Sweetheart, that’s because he’s the King.” 

“That’s no excuse. Are you saying he has always been a prick?” 

I become withdrawn for a minute, debating my answer. “Well… kind of…” I nod my head, “It depends on the day. There’s a reason why the Palace staff don’t enjoy being on his service.” 

“Is that why you’re never on his service?” 

I don’t know how to answer Anna. It isn’t that I’m never on his service because he’s a prick, it’s more that I just don’t savour being on his service. He can be a very arduous man to keep a watch over. He tends to go against the books and plans on purpose. He doesn’t desire any of the staff listening to too many conversations and will deliberately strive to throw me off his whereabouts. I wouldn’t necessarily say he has secrets, but he definitely likes his privacy and isn’t a fan of me doing my job. “Matthew and I just agree not to have me with your Dad unless he requests me, which is rare.” 

“So, the staff don’t like him?” 

“I don’t think we should discuss this. He does have a say in my wage.” 

“I’ll ask my lady’s maid then,” Anastasia mumbles, “That’s of course if I haven’t been abolished from the monarchy by the time I get home.” 

“What? What happened?” I immediately challenge, uncertain of how she can be abolished from the monarchy. Although, it could work in our favour if it occurred. 

“The King has threatened to take away my title and to make sure I don’t become Queen.” 

As much as I desire to relish in the thought of Anastasia being stripped of her title and not under the thumb of the royal family and monarch, I know that she’s probably upset to hear her father threaten such things. 

“And I know I shouldn’t care and that I don’t really want to go through all this but at the same time… He is being an outright prick for no reason. This Henry situation isn’t my fault.” 

“First of all, sweetheart, the King has no legal authority to alter the succession to the throne. That would require an Act of Parliament,” I inform Anastasia, reminding her of what she already knows. 

“I told him that, he responded with ‘we will see about that.’” … “Henry seems to have my father in a rage.” 

“Is he threatening this because you won’t date Henry or just because he can’t fire palace staff?” I curiously ask, unaware of whether he’s serious or just taking his anger out on Anna since there’s nobody else. I haven’t heard anything from Matthew but I’m also somewhat off the clock, so Matthew won’t bother me unless it’s urgent. 

“I don’t know.” 

“And unless there’s a secret love child, you’re the only one who is eligible for the crown. He can’t do anything,” I continue to explain. 

As bitter as it is, no matter what, Anastasia has no choice but to take the crown. There’s no other heir, she’s the only child of the King and Queen. 

Even if she did want to abdicate for us to be together, where would that leave the monarchy? 

In the hands of a distant cousin or relative? 

Almost every living English citizen is somehow a descendant of an early monarch. 

“I don’t know, Harry. I think Parliament would decide to whom to offer the crown. But surely there has to be someone else in line, I don’t think I can do this. This is becoming a mind game, it’s driving my father insane and it’s stressing me out.” … “I wanted a nice weekend away from it all and it followed me. Are you sure you don’t want to run away together?” Anastasia asks me and for a brief moment, my mind wanders to the ring in my pocket that wants to make an appearance, but a proposal right now isn’t the right time. 

How can I ask her to marry me when she’s gradually going down the rabbit hole of self-destruction because of a monarch who relies on her when she isn’t even Queen. 

“Where would we run off to, my dear?” 

Anastasia lifts her head off my shoulder and stares at me with glossy eyes, “I’d go anywhere with you. Just say the word.” 

She is on the verge of tears and it breaks my heart.

“Well, you said after this Henry charade is over you wanted to come forward with the relationship…” 

“I’d rather run away. We could go to Greece?” Anastasia continues to look at me, wanting an answer. I can’t tell if she’s half-serious or not. “Let’s go to Skopelos.” 

“Anna, I don’t even know where that is.” 

“The small Greek island of Skopelos. Nobody would find us.” 

“You just want to run away without even being married? What would I do for a job? What will you do? The monarch won’t pay for us.” I’m trying to logically process what she’s saying. There’s a small part of me that wants to bring that ring out and propose but logically how could we pull this off? 

We can’t just run off together and fall off the grid. Her father would have everyone looking for her and would presumably kill me with his bare hands. 

“I’m sure there’s a small church somewhere. We could make it all work.”

“We’d need residency permits and a Greek tax-file number, running off to Greece is going to be just as hard.” I think my girlfriend has lost her marbles. 

Anastasia shakes her head, “Never mind,” Anna whispers, a tear managing to fall down her cheek.

“Hey,” I breathe out, pressing the pad of my thumb to the warmth of her cheek, “Don’t  cry, we will work it out, I promise.” 

“How can you promise me that?” 

If only she knew about the damn ring. Things would be different. 

“I just can,” I respond. Every part of me wants to propose right here, right now. But she deserves something better than a proposal while she is upset. She deserves something nicer than this. “I promise that things will be okay. You and I will work it out.” 

“What about the monarchy?” 

“All due respects, but fuck the monarchy. Right now, you are my priority, not everyone else. Darling, I will make things right, have faith in me.” I wipe a few more tears away from her cheeks and she grants me a small smile. “How about we go inside? Play some Scrabble? Watch a movie? Something?” I offer, gesturing towards the house. 

Anastasia nods, standing to her feet, waiting for me. I stand up and I take her hand before I gently lead her inside the house. 

It’s when I step inside my mother’s house and let go of Anna’s hand so she can make her way towards my mother, that I realise, there is a chance Anastaisa and I may not get the chance to have a small, ordinary house together. If we get married and she is the Queen, we would be living the high lifestyle, living in the Palaces. There would be no ordinary home that could use with some fixing up. We wouldn’t do mundane things. Life would be different, that’s for sure. 

Would we manage to live life together by the rules of the monarch? 

Would she manage to have the best of both worlds and balance a sense of normalcy?

♔♔♔

Anastasia’s POV.

The cool breeze from the ceiling fan taps against my skin and I nestle further into the delicate covers of the bed. I leisurely open my eyes, a dull ray of sunshine peeking through the curtains. I tilt my head to the side, Harry’s still fast asleep. It’s rare that I’m ever awake before him. He’s usually out of my bed by five in the morning when we are at the Palace, for obvious reasons. And even when he has no reason to hurry away, he still tends to be the first one awake. 

I know he’s exhausted, dealing with the palace isn’t the easiest of tasks and having to look after myself and anyone else isn’t easy. He’s constantly working without much of a break. He’s still under the weather, as much as he hates to admit it. It’s nothing major, but it is still enough for him to need the extra sleep. I’m not quite sure what time he came to bed last night. After a quick game of scrabble, we started a movie, unfortunately, after twenty minutes, his phone went off with a call and he excused himself. I can only assume Matthew was the one calling. Matthew has a knack for calling at the most inconvenient of times. I tried to wait up for him but by the time he got off the phone, I was already in bed. I’m not sure what happened after his quick kiss goodnight. 

The man that lies beside me, peacefully sleeping, is wholeheartedly the best thing to have walked into my life. I’m not sure where I went right to deserve him. To be honest, sometimes I don’t think I deserve him. Somehow, he never takes the easy way out, he stays. He has seen me at my best, he has seen me at my worst, and has yet to run for the hills. Most men by now would have thrown in the towel and found someone else. By the grace of God, Harry stays. 

I spend the early morning helping Harry’s Mum with the animals, giving them their morning feeds and making sure everybody has water before the day gets too hot. I don’t assume I was much help, but I did try. 

I wander into the bedroom just as Harry is placing the last pillow on the bed, he turns to glance at me and raises a brow, “What happened to you?” He gestures up and down, taking note of my mud-covered jeans and grass-stained t-shirt. “Please tell me you didn’t take a fall.” 

I shake my head, “Did you know horses like to nibble on clothes? I didn’t…. Also, the goats… uh… they’re not charming at their morning feeds.” 

“Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine, just a bit of mud. The princess is fine, relax.” I inform him, with a nod. I understand he just cares, but he needs to relax, a little mud never hurt anyone. “I was wondering if we could leave the house? See where you’re from?” 

“I assume my mother put you up to this?” 

“She may have mentioned some nice places.” 

“Hmmmm, I don’t know, Anna.” Harry responds with uncertainty to his voice, “I just don’t know if it’s a good idea.” 

“We are in the middle of nowhere; what could possibly happen?” 

I am aware that anything could quite literally happen, it is me we are talking about, I do not have the best of luck with things. It would be my luck something out of the blue happens and pushes me into some sort of lockdown.

Harry rubs his temples and looks at me before dropping his hands to his side, “Let me have my coffee first and then we can figure something out, okay?” 

“You said we could be normal.” I remind him of the fact he specifically said I could be normal out here. I had it in my mind that we would be able to be more free, we could walk in and out of stores, go to parks, the beach or really anything.

Harry nods his head, “I know, let me have coffee and then we can decide on where to go, okay?” Harry presses a kiss to my forehead, “I love you.” 

“Do I get a say in this or are we still doing the whole Princess act thing?” I question with furrowed brows, irritated that the normal weekend I have been promised is consisting of my father pulling strings from the palace and Harry acting as though he’s still on duty and my bodyguard. 

Harry sighs. “Darling, please, just let me get some coffee… I promise we will leave the property today.” … “I am not trying to be a prick, I am not trying to be your security guard. I just… I just need coffee.” Harry continues to emphasize his need for coffee. 

I nod my head, dropping the subject as I turn on my heel and walk out of his bedroom. I decide to get a head start on getting him his coffee, it is the least I can do for him. I know he was up for most of the night working, and I know it probably isn’t easy being all the way up here while his security team is back home. I know there are a lot of things that could happen that probably runs through his head. I also know I am not always easy to deal with. 

I stand in front of his mother’s coffee machine, bewildered on how the contraption works. I tilt my head to the side, suddenly feeling like a privileged idiot; I have never had to make my own coffee before, nor do I even know how to. It is always poured for me or made for me. I place a cup under where I assume the coffee pours from and I hold my breath as I press one of the button in hopes that it brews coffee. I am out of my element. 

I hear chuckles from behind me and I turn around to see Harry smirking as he sits upon the stool at the counter. “Don’t mind me, just sitting, love,” Harry informs me, trying to hold back his chuckles. 

I bite my lip and heavily sigh, watching as the brewed coffee fills the coffee cup, but I don’t think he wants straight coffee. 

“At the risk of sounding like a privileged princess, Harry, I have never made coffee,” I begin with a soft voice, embarrassed as I look at him. 

He holds back his chuckles and nods his head, promptly removing himself from his position at the counter and walking around to me. “Sweetheart,” Harry begins, pressing a kiss to my forehead, “What are you trying to make?” 

“You a coffee… I just… Where does the milk go? What do all these buttons do? What happened to just having tea? Do people not just make a pot of coffee?” 

“Some of us need a little kick of caffeine in the morning. Some, not all. Here, to make a cappuccino you froth the milk like this,” Harry takes the stainless steel container holding the milk, showing me how to froth the milk like they do in coffee stores. 

“Why is this contraption a thing? Is this a normal thing?” 

Harry laughs, “For some, it is normal. The palace has one, your mother loves it. Convinced me to buy this one for my Mum.” Harry gestures towards the expresso machine as Harry works his magic. “Glad that you still live in the old times of no expresso machines.” 

“I thought they were only in coffee shops.” 

“You need to leave the palace more,” Harry comments, placing the stainless-steel container on the counter. “Here, you can pour the milk into the cop. Gonna have to teach you how I like my coffee,” Harry winks playfully, “Or, perhaps, we will leave it to me to make morning coffees,” Harry gently pokes fun at me. 

I roll my eyes at him and I pour the milk into his cup, quite proud of myself for not managing to make a mess of things.   

♔♔♔

The warm breeze whistles through my hair and the sound of the ocean crashing against the shore becomes music to my ears. It has been a while since I have had the opportunity to stand on the beach without a care in the world, and without having to look over my shoulder to make sure nobody is taking pictures. For the first time in quite a long time, I have a sense of being normal. The sand nestles between my toes, I take a deep breath of the salty air as I tilt my head to the side and glance over at Harry. 

A smile spreads across his pink lips and he stares at me with awe in his eyes. Lord, I’m one lucky girl to get to stare back at the man I’m entirely in love with. We may have our ups and downs, we might not have a conventional relationship, but there’s no other man I’d want to be with, there’s nobody else I’d want to be standing on a beach with. 

Harry takes my hand and we wander closer to the water’s edge until the tip of my toes finally hit the tepid water. I let out a heavy breath, more so relieved and belatedly, happy. “I’d give anything to be able to feel like this more.” 

“Feel like what?” Harry questions, guiding us to stroll along the water's edge. 

I grin to myself, taking note of the birds soaring high over the ocean, “Like a bird,” I chuckle to myself, well aware my description is not ordinary, then again, I’m not ordinary either, “Free and happy,” I respond. “There’s no restraints, no duties, no photographers, I could run into the ocean with my clothes on and nobody would give a damn,” I gladly smile. 

Harry smirks and lets go of my hand, “Well, go on.” Harry gestures towards the water, “By all means, darling, enter the water with your clothes on, be a bird.” 

I shake my head and gesture for him to join me as I step into the water, loving the way it feels to have the sand move under my feet and the water dance around my calves, “Harry, join me.” 

Harry shakes his head, “Not a chance in hell, love.” Harry chuckles, his hands in his pockets as he stands at the edge, the water barely missing his toes. 

“Do you think I could've been a bird?” 

“Oh, god. No. Don’t—“ 

“Say it! Say I'm a bird,” I insist, well aware of what I’m doing. 

Harry brings his bottom lip between his teeth and he glances around. 

“Anastasia, you, my darling, are bonkers.” 

“Say I’m a bird!” 

“That would mean admitting I’ve watched a romantic movie.” Harry shakes his head, watching me as I shrug my shoulders and walk further to the sandbar the tide has exposed. 

I spin around, allowing my dress to dance around me. I glance over my shoulder and see Harry shuffling closer, his hands still in his pockets. 

My feet dance at the edge of the sand bar, thoroughly relishing the freedom, “Tell me.” 

“Tell you, what?” Harry questions, stepping closer to me. 

“Quote my favourite movie.” 

Harry rolls his eyes playfully, “I’d never do such thing.” 

I gasp, stepping away from him with a laugh escaping my lips, “Darling,” Harry laughs, reaching out and wrapping his hand around my wrist, causing me to laugh louder as I playfully attempt to pull away from him. Harry tenderly tugs on me and forces me to face him, “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird,” Harry recites the line and I draw my hair away from my face, still giggling like a schoolgirl. I beam at Harry and he smiles back at me, his eyes bright and full of more love than I could ever imagine. “If you’re a bird, I’m a bird. Anastasia, I’ll be anything you need me to be, and I’ll go anywhere I need to go. I’d walk to the end of the earth if it meant being with you; I’ll do everything that it takes, I’ll fight any battle thrown at me, I’ll fight for you and for us. I’ll protect you, at all costs. Darling, I love you, and I honestly couldn’t imagine this life without you.” Harry’s sweet words take me by surprise. 

Harry clears his throat and bites his lip as he gets down on one knee. 

I stare at him, stunned. Is this— is this happening? 

“It won’t be easy, but I promise to love you through everything. Princess Anastasia Annette Leanor, Duchess of Edinburgh, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?” 

As the man I’m madly in love with opens the ring box, I can’t help but think about the fact that it would be MY honour to marry him. He is my knight in shining armour, in more ways than one. He’s everything to me. Perhaps, I haven’t always been gracious to him, nor have I always made things easy. The monarch doesn’t make things easy, but this isn’t the monarch's decision. This is mine. For the first time in a long time, I feel free, and for the first time in a long time, I’m going against all traditions and rules; I’m going against the monarch. 

“Yes… Of course. Yes. Harry.” I can’t contain my excitement; how could I ever say no to a proper proposal? 

Harry slides the ring on my finger and for the first time in forever, everything is perfectly right in the world. Before I can blink, I’m wrapped in his arms and he’s spinning me around, “I love you,” he whispers, bringing me to a stop and placing me down. 

“I love you,” I whisper, gazing at him like he has hung the stars in the sky and moved all the oceans just for me. I lean up and kiss him, slowly and sweetly— nothing else in the world matters. 

[buzzdixonwriter]

I've Told You A Million Times To Avoid Cliches Like The Plague

Recently a year old re-print of a 1959 Writer’s Digest article by Donald Westlake started circulating on social media.

First off, if you don’t know who Donald Westlake is, go find out.  You like rough edge crime stories, try his Parker books published under his Richard Stark pseudonym; you like funny crime, dig up the Dortmunder series under his own name; you like odd ball history, check out Under An English Heaven “being a true recital of the events leading up to and down from the British invasion of Anguilla on March 19th, 1969 in which no one was killed but many people were embarrassed.”

Second, Westlake was a serious writer in that he took the craft of writing Very Seriously indeed, no matter how light hearted and funny some of his books could be.  He wrote a blistering letter (later turned into an essay) in the fanzine Xero (starts on page 97) where he excoriated  the sci-fi field of the era as being neither artistically nor commercially viable.*

So who am I to challenge this master’s assertions?

Well, I take the craft of writing Very Seriously indeed myself, and to quote a late, lamented friend:  “Fools rush in, and there we are…”

The Writer’s Digest article is a mixed bag, partially a quick off-the-cuff job for a few bucks, partially a valid observation on pitfalls in writing popular fiction in September of 1959.

Bear the date in mind, it’s crucial to this discussion.

This was an era when Americans read a lot.  Millions of people subscribed to The Saturday Evening Post or dozens of other slick magazines (not to mention the digests, which are what the form the old genre pulps mutated into), and this meant each week dozens of new short stories or serialized novels were available to them (and that’s not counting non-fiction).

Westlake in 1959 was commenting on an over saturated market, one where too many writers and editors simply replayed old tropes over again and again because they knew a significant portion of their audience felt comfortable with them (this is particularly true in the slicks, more so than the digests).

Westlake divides his 36 plots into three groups:  Mysteries, science fiction, and slicks.

My first quibble lays in what Westlake means when he says “plot”.

From the original article:

“A plot is a planned series of connected events, building through conflict to a crisis and ending in a satisfactory conclusion. A formula is a particular plot which has become stale through over-use.

“My own working definition of plot is what I call “5C.” First, a character. Anybody at all, from Hemingway’s old man to Salinger’s teenager. Second, conflict. Something for that character to get upset about, and for the reader to get upset about through the character. Third, complications. If the story runs too smoothly, without any trouble for the character, the reader isn’t going to get awfully interested in what’s going on. Fourth, climax. The opposing forces in conflict are brought together. Like the fissionable material in an H-bomb and there’s an explosion. Fifth, conclusion. The result of the explosion is known, the conflict is over, the character has either won or lost, and there are no questions left unanswered.

“5C: Character. Conflict. Complications. Climax. Conclusion.”

All well and good, but in his article Westlake provides almost no examples of same.

To me, a plot is a quick summary of a story that lays out beginning, middle, and end:   G.I. Joe captures a Cobra secret weapon but doesn’t realize what it is.  Cobra needs to get the weapon back without alerting the Joes to its potential, and the Joes must figure out what Cobra is after before they can get their hands on it.

(There’s a lot you can do with that plot.  It can be a slam-bang action oriented story, a techno thriller, or a slapstick farce depending on your angle of attack.)

What Westlake presents are more along the lines of story springboards:  ”What would happen if…”

A lot of the situations Westlake presents are rife with potential: “John Smith is sitting in the park, feeding the other squirrels, when a beautiful girl runs up, kisses him, and whispers, ‘Pretend you know me.’”

Okay, let’s list the possibilities, shall we?

She’s being stalked by a creepy guy and needs protection…

She’s been hired to set Smith up for some reason…

She’s mentally disturbed from trauma in her past…

She’s a flipping psycho intending to kill Smith…

She’s a secret agent slipping a secret code in Smith’s pocket…

She’s a silly college girl doing this on a dare, unaware Smith is a serial killer…

Six stories right off the top of my head, and each one could be played in several different ways, from deadly serious to over the top farce.

That’s a lot of potential in a single trope.

Here’s another: “John Smith, private eye, is sitting at his desk, when Marshall Bigelow, thimble tycoon, trundles in waving thousand-dollar bills and shouting, ‘My daughter has disappeared!’”

Well, d’uh, isn’t that what private eyes do?  Find missing people?  Or uncover who committed a crime when people don’t want the police involved?  Or find out if a spouse is cheating?

Name a private eye story that doesn’t play off some variant of this.  From Murder, My Sweet to Harper to Shaft, hiring a private eye to find a missing person is a perfect way to get a story started.  “You find my Velma.”

Of the dozen story springboards he offers in his mystery section, none are unworkable, though two remain overly familiar to this day and probably are best avoided unless the writer can provide some incredible new spin.  

The science fiction section is more problematic, and here’s where I suspect Westlake was slumming (there ought to be an article on the type of articles one shouldn’t write for Writer’s Digest that includes articles like the one Westlake wrote).

Seven of the eleven clearly reference classics of the genre, and if this wasn’t a deliberate dig at those authors on Westlake’s part, one can only argue that while they may be shopworn now due to retreads by the untalented, these ideas remain strong enough to support a good story.

The other four remain headscratchers.  Two -- Adam & Eve and “atoms are tiny solar systems” -- are indeed hoary old ideas, burned off by EC comics earlier in the decade. 

I can’t say there weren’t thirteen year old aspiring sci-fi writers who submitted these to publishers and editors back in the day, but they seem more likely to have been found on the pages of fanzines (i.e., what sci-fi geeks had before the Internet) than a professional slush pile.

We know Westlake was active to some degree in sci-fi fandom of that era; could those two tropes have come from seeing those stories in the pages of amateur magazines?

The remaining two ideas represent a ribald attitude I don’t recall seeing in sci-fi digests of that era.

Oh, sex was starting to rear its beautiful head in science fiction, and there were a few cutting edge stories, but these two seem more like set ups for smutty fanfic, not genuine submissions of the time.

Again, something I’d expect to see in a fanzine, not a professional market.

Like I said, I think this tips off that Westlake is having us on, that this whole article came off the top of his head in a matter of minutes instead of being carefully thought out.

On the other hand, his critique of slick magazine fiction seems pretty spot on and devastating.

While he covers several sub-genres, his primary focus seems to be on stories written for a female audience, the type found in McCall’s and Ladies Home Journal.  He doesn’t come close to a dozen examples, however, as several (even those labeled as sub-examples) are just the same story springboard in different settings.

Two of his bad examples, however, stand out quite clearly as a dislike (whether personal / professional / aesthetic, I can’t tell) aimed at a specific series of stories found in The Saturday Evening Post, i.e., the Alexander Botts, tractor salesman stories of William Hazlett Upson.

One of Westlake’s verboten plots isn’t even a plot but a literary device: “Any story told in an exchange of letters”.  The other one that ties into Upson’s oeuvre is “Joe Doakes, a traveling salesman for a paper clip company, gets involved in some pretty unbelievable adventures in a small town in the Midwest. The other participants are a local belle and a salesman for a rival paper clip company.”

The two combined describe Upson’s Botts stories to a T.  The second one is richly ironic since Westlake eventually used the same basic premise for his Dortmunder series (the only change being Dortmunder is a thief, not a salesman; po-tay-to, po-tah-to).

Finally, Westlake left himself a huge out with “If you can take one of the 36 clichés listed above, and give it a brand new twist, so it doesn’t look like the same story any more, you may have a sale on your hands. If you search hard enough in the magazines on the stands today, you’ll find one or more of these variations currently in print.”

Look, I get it.  I’ve faced deadline doom before myself, and more than once have fired off a short piece that contained all the depth of a dixie cup.

This isn’t the worst writing advice I’ve seen, but it’s far from the best, and Westlake coulda and shoulda done better.

  © Buzz Dixon

   *  He wasn’t alone in his opinion, though ironically the 1960s proved to be one of the most fertile eras for the genre.  Yet Westlake and other writers such as John D. MacDonald, Frederic Brown, and John Jakes left sci-fi for other genres because it couldn’t support them either as artists or professionals.

[aglimmerintheriver]

How to mentally keep baneful spirits out - no tools required AKA How Not To Give A F*** About the Uninvited

You can find so much info on here and throughout the web about negative entities and protecting yourself from them. Just as there is so much info, there are all of these different perspectives on how our energies associate with them. In this post I hope to cover a lot of different perspectives, as well as some creative methods for dealing with baneful spirits and your own defense magic tool set.

Introduction

A lot of mythical creatures are based in energetic truth- the vampire is aligned with the energy vampire, the evil and feared witch (like in the Witch movie) is aligned with the early-Christian understanding of the Wise People. The word Witch came from Wic, which means ‘Wisdom’ in Germanic languages. Think of anything given malevolent or benevolent power in the media, and you can likely tie it to misconceptions about the witchcraft and pagan community.

In Shonda Rhimes’ “Grey’s Anatomy” there is an episode where Dr. Miranda Bailey talks about how her OCD creates negative, scary fears within the mind that feel so real that they become real, but she also says that if her mind can think up and believe in these terrible, scary things, she can also think up positive things that make her feel better about those fears- things that help create a buffer, to save her from being so afraid. I’m completely blanking on which episode this was, if you know please let me know and I’ll add it in. By bringing this up, I want to point to something that inspired me to write this post: that elasticity of our perception and of the power we hold within ourselves being dependent on our awareness of our power.

All of this to say that this is not a post created for someone experiencing demonic intrusion. I may or may not have experienced this kind of interaction and if I have, I was simply saved by calling on Jesus (holy freaking heck did not expect the Christian god to help me out but he did) and asking that he save my soul from the attack. If you are under demonic attack or believe that you are, please consult a shaman or a witch who knows how to deal with demonic power. My understanding of demons is that they were the very first spirits here, and so they are the oldest of the old and have a lot of power. That’s not to say your power stands no chance against them, but if you feel overwhelmed by the spirits you’re facing, a lot of the times it is helpful not just for our spiritual protection but also for our perception of how safe we are to call on someone outside of us for help- whether that be a deity or other type of spirit we revere as having badass protective strength or another human we believe can help protect us/banish whatever’s in your sphere.

Perception and Reality

What we believe is what we see. Another way to phrase this is, ‘Where the mind goes, your energy flows”, a very famous phrase within the spiritual community (I believe it has Buddhist origins but not sure of who said it first). This is why a lot of witches are recommended to meet with a therapist or psychologist regularly to ensure our mental health is strong. A lot of people within our community believe that mental health creates spiritual gaps wherein baneful spirits can creep in and target us, but others believe that the cause of mental problems is our spiritual health itself. I’m in the camp of believing mental health is important no matter how you see the correlation- taking care of your brain is just as important as keeping up with the rest of your practice. 

Another aspect of protection and magic is not just ‘what we see’ but how. To bring in a little cognitive function theory, someone with extroverted intuition (or Ne) would likely see a situation and the world from twenty or more different lenses. This is like viewing the world through a multi-faceted crystal and being able to look at all these different crystal-edges and see a different distortion. And that’s really what our view is mostly, because it is nearly impossible to go around living your life and be able to see everything EXACTLY as it is. It’s just not reasonable to think you’re going to be able to have a clear lens every time. If you do and if you’ve developed that, please share how you did and help me figure that out haha, but until then I’m going to work with my understanding that our perception is going to have some type of illusion to it.

And here comes what this post has been leading to- the thing I’m excited about. The Imagining, and the power in that imagining. This is mental craft.

The You-Shaped Perception

In focus meditation you’re told that attention to the breath or to one sensation is important, because you’re narrowing your cannon-sized attention to the size of a pinhole. In much the same way, mental magic is about not just changing your lens, but also how you use that lens.

You       can.         do.            Anything.

It’s true. I mean, within physical means, right? You’re only going to fly if you know how to build mechanical wings, so this isn’t some offhanded promise meant halfheartedly. Nope, I mean this with all of me.

The mind is our friend and our enemy. I’m not even a big fan of meditation and yet I know that. It’s that changeable lens we see things through and how we think of them.

Our mind, my friend, is our power.

In speaking of the mind, I am not just thinking about your brain matter, or your reason, or whatever. I’m talking intention (leading to manifestation) and conscious attention to changing our thoughts.

Think something long enough and you start to believe it. Don’t like your thoughts, or how you feel? What thought or visualization would help you feel better?

There are rabbit holes we fall into where we either can’t control our thoughts and feelings due to mental illness and other times when we just don’t want to control them. Sometimes it feels good to be swept away by our own ocean of emotion and madness. It’s part of being human. The former situation (with the rabbit holes) is likely to be helped by a mental health professional and possibly some anti-depressants. The latter can  a p p a r e n t l y  be helped by meditation. 

(Also, did you know that meditation helps grow the gray matter in your brain? Sitting down and just watching your thoughts pass like clouds, allowing your body to rest, opens you up to expanded compassion, self awareness, contemplation, and helps your memory. If anyone is interested in practicing this, I’m going to be working through this free online MBSR/Mindfulness course in the hopes of helping my depression and my powers of intention- it looks like a great resource especially during this time of political and global tension. I believe our souls are deeply connected to one another and also to the overall soul of the world. Everything that happens in it is something we collectively experience and all of the stress along with this social isolation that the majority of us are experiencing is incredibly traumatizing. I highly recommend checking this out and seeing how it affects you over a few weeks’ time: https://palousemindfulness.com/ )

The point I’m trying to make here is that 98 times out of 100 times, YOU control your perception. And that’s a very empowering and creative thing. Especially when you identify as a witch 😄

gif of Joaquin Phoenix as the joker with a smiling mask on, then pulling up the mask and grinning.

DAMN TABITHA JUST GET TO THE POINT ALREADY

Okay okay. Here’s my point.

You can use creativity in your craft. You know this already. But you don’t need a book of spells (they’re fun to read though) and you don’t need the latest books on psychic magic. You can seriously just use your magical brain.

Intention is everything. Your natural intuitive powers are where your strength lies- I’d say it’s the key to unlocking whatever the heck you want in life. 

Look at your life like it is a children’s story book or movie, alright? It sounds stupid but please stay with me if you made it this far, because I think this is where it gets good. You know how the main character faced this seemingly impossible task or challenge, and they didn’t know how they’d do it but they did it anyway? Things just worked out for them, either because they did some work to help meet their goal and they fought to believe in themselves, or because the writer(s) wanted to throw them some tools that would help them easily get their goal.

You’re the main character and you’re the author of your story. And not only are you the author, but you’ve got all these spirits helping you co-author what unfolds in your life. So it doesn’t matter if there’s a damn fire-breathing knife-throwing monster standing on top of you while you sleep because in your witch brain, all you need to do is say “I am stronger than you will ever be. I am the apex predator” and watch that nasty bugger fucking deflate.

What is the most empowering thing is realizing that you are worth fearing, yourself.

Now this isn’t an excuse to take on a bad-bitch persona and mess your life up. Don’t go around hexing people willy nilly, please. Don’t think you can conjure a demon and be able to control it.

Just know that you can control yourself and the space you’re in. Cause you a badass, bitch.

An actual example from my real life

I have a little known disorder called Ehlers Danlos Syndrome. Essentially it’s scary AF because I have dislocations on the daily and they’re painful and honestly, it’s the bane of my existence. 

That’s not even exaggerating haha.

So along with it comes a lot of second guessing self worth, because of how it’s perceived and how I’m perceived because I’m a lady with EDS. The questions I’ve fielded, the conversations I’ve had, the experiences I’ve had to deal with as a result of it are utterly ridiculous (sometimes, downright despicable). 

One day I was talking to my therapist about self-perception and not feeling strong enough to face life with my handicap, and she asked me to point out the strengths it’s encouraged in me. I was able to point to a few things and while I did, I could see Brigid beside me and this oak shield forming around my body, and I imagined that every word I spoke, every good quality I have grown from having my disorder, made that shield stronger.

There are the times when I rabbit hole and I forget what that armor means and looks like. I forget that it’s there. But inevitably, something happens that would normally feel like it was undermining me and instead, I remember that oak shield and Brigid’s protective, loving energy, and I remember how expansive it feels to see myself as being worth this life and as having valuable traits to offer to the world. That’s when I see that shield again.

As you can see this isn’t only for spirits, but it applies even in those situations too. I’ll detail my channeling session that ended with calling on Jesus another time haha as this is getting quite long. To wrap this up:

TL;DR: “How not to give a f*** about unwanted spirits”

- Decide not to give a f***

- Decide what you will give a f*** about

- Find a couple practices for protection that you like and stick with them

- Know what clairs you have that are strongest (and if none feel that strong right now, that’s perfectly normal. Don’t put pressure on yourself, just enjoy exploring how your intuition works and pay attention without obsessing (or try not to obsess anyways). You have time to experiment with intuition, I’ll try to find some good sources for this and write something for those of you frustrated with figuring out where your skills lie or how to use them.

- Know that they’re working, that you’re a freaking badass witch, and that nothing can come into your space without earning your wrath (which can just be a GTFO and a call on your fave deity if you like)

A lot of the time, spirits who show up don’t actually have any dominion to stay. You have the power. You own the space, you own YOUR space (the space of your body). So own that you own it and do it with certainty. Feel the POWAH haha.

Sources mentioned:

https://news.harvard.edu/gazette/story/2011/01/eight-weeks-to-a-better-brain/

[thekytchensynk]

To Be a Hero (Fictober Prompt 10)

Prompt number: 10

Fanfiction Fandom: My Hero Academia

Rating: G

Warnings: None

Read the story on AO3

Even though the doctor promises that their child has a quirk, for a long time, Neito’s parents aren’t so sure.

They try to give it time. After all, their own quirks aren’t the sort you can see in a child either. Her hyper-eidetic memory could be useful, but was a little hard to notice at first. His ability to tell the exact temperature of anything he touched had to wait at least until the child had the ability to talk and a working understanding of temperature beyond “hot” and “cold.”

But as he headed off to kindergarten, where his classmates were all showing off their nascent abilities, it quickly became clear he didn’t have either of their quirks. And all they could do when he came home asking about it one day was reassure him that the doctor said so, and his ability must just be special, and waiting for him to be ready.

It is three months into the school year before his teacher puts in a tentative call to them. Yes, he’s a bit of a handful, but aren’t they all at that age. Anyway, we’ve been considering whether to call you about this for a while. Yes, we wanted to be sure. For weeks, he has been exhibiting signs of a quirk. No, it’s a little different. It only lasts a few seconds and there was never any consistency. But yesterday was the third time it happened, and we noticed it always matched the quirks of his classmates. No, we’re not sure what it means, but we figured you should know, since you may not be seeing it at home. Yes. Yes. Thank you. Good night.

His parents are thrilled, until family gatherings start to get … distant. Oh, sometimes it’s normal. His grandfather swings him up into his arms and asks about school. Two of his cousins join him in a game of tag in the backyard. But his aunt steps subtly to the side when he runs by, and asks her children to sit quietly instead of joining in the games like usual.

He doesn’t much notice -- tag is tag -- but his parents do.

“It’s not that I don’t love him,” she explains to her sister later when questioned about avoiding Neito. “He’s my nephew. But it’s just … it’s weird, isn’t it? What if it gets stronger when he gets older? It’s copying now, but what if someday he … It’s just … I’m sorry. It’s just weird.”

His parents don’t think it’s weird. They think it’s amazing, a morphing of their two quirks in a completely unexpected way. And their boy is outgoing and self-sure and maybe a little bossy but they love watching him taking on the world.

Doing his assigned chores after school is something that 7-year-old Monoma doesn’t mind, of course. But it’s boring, and he likes talking to his friends --to anyone really -- and sometimes he loses track of time. So today he’s sweeping out the cubbyholes in the back alone, the rest of the students having already finished and fled for the greener fields of the sunny outdoors. His teacher sits at his desk at the front, supervising in name, but mostly grading papers.

The silence settles like an uncomfortable weight on Monoma, so he does what he assumes anyone would -- he fills it. Tells his teacher about the great rescue he saw on TV the other day. How he cut out the picture from the newspaper the next day, and has it plastered next to his desk at home. How he’s going to be a hero too, someday.

When Monoma mentions UA, he thinks he knows what to expect -- the eyebrow raise, the thinning of the mouth, the amused chuckle that so many adults have when he talks about being a hero. But instead, the teacher smiles down at the papers he’s working on.

“Interested in taking a hero course?”

“Yeah!”

The teacher considers this a moment. Nods. “I think that’s a great idea.”

A great idea? No chuckle? The teacher thinks it’s a great idea? Monoma can’t stop the grin. See? At least someone knows it’s not impossible!

“I think a lot of agencies would love to have a sidekick with a power like yours,” the teacher continues, making notes on the sheet in front of him. “They could have two of anyone they needed on site, depending on what the situation called for. You could be very useful!”

“Sidekick?” Monoma’s grin fades. What’s this man talking about? Sidekick. He’s definitely hero material.

The teacher nods. “You always have trouble with the new powers when you pick them up, but if you were working with the same people all the time, you-”

“Wait, I haven’t had an accident in a long time!” He hates that the teachers call losing control of a quirk “having an accident” like he’s a baby who wet his pants. But it’s the word they use, and so he does too.

The teacher looks up, and the sudden move puts a stop to the childish defense. “I know. I know you’re trying and I know you don’t mean to.” And he’s right. Monoma tries not to let it bother him, but he’s right on all counts. New quirks are hard to control when he first gets them. He goes at the last cubby with an extra vengeance, dust particles flying.

“Yours is a difficult quirk,” that voice continues. “And that’s just a limitation it has. I know it’s tough, but better that you accept it now and focus on what you can do. Which is still quite a lot.”

The teacher is trying to be encouraging, but all Monoma can hear is how stupid this man is. How he’s talking down to his student like... like a child! Which, sure, he is technically, but a teacher shouldn’t talk like that! Isn’t he supposed to encourage the best in them?

“Of course, you’ll have to work hard.” The teacher doesn’t even notice as Monoma’s fingers curl harder around the little brush handle, nails biting into his palms as he tromps over to the garbage can and tips the dust in. “And UA may be … a little ambitious. With your grades, you’ll have a hard time getting into the big-name ones. There’s still time though, if you study harder.”

The teacher looks up then, and on seeing his student’s face, his expression grows somewhat softer. “Hey, don’t worry about it,” he says, clearly still trying to be encouraging even though he doesn’t get it, he doesn’t get it at all. “If you work hard, I’m sure you can succeed anywhere you’re accepted.”

Objectively, someone on the outside might have recognized that the teacher could be right. All quirks have limits, and this could very well be his. But in that room, at that moment, Monoma decides he’s wrong, foolishly and completely wrong. The limitation isn’t with his quirk, his quirk is awesome. The limitation must therefore be with Monoma himself, and if that’s the case … well, he just needs to get over it.

And act like a hero.

Putting on his best grin, Monoma says, “Thanks! I’m sure I can too.”

It becomes a weekend tradition -- he goes to the park, or to a mall, or just out on the street and he introduces himself to at least a dozen people. He shakes their hands and thanks them and leaves them mystified as he walks off again. And then he concentrates.

Quirks come in an infinite variety, and he can feel each one in a range of ways. He used to try to explain to people what their quirks felt like, but the strange looks he got weren’t worth it. Besides, they felt their own quirk all the time. They probably couldn’t even distinguish it anymore. It was just part of the landscape of their sensation every day.

But Monoma can, and the feel can tell him how careful he has to be with a quirk, how on guard, how controlled.

His mother’s quirk is squared off and pale, with rigid edges and infinite possibility. It’s supportive and steady and predictable. It also takes very little to control, which is good because he borrows it from her regularly.

Father’s feels different -- it’s a ball of red that sits in the middle of his chest, in the warmest part of his body, and when he reaches for something, it extends a tendril out to his fingertips. It feels alive within him, like a sleepy cat reaching a paw out for a stray kibble.

And over time he learns that’s the first thing to look for -- how alive it feels. Because some quirks want to be used more than others. There’s an electricity to them, an energy that beats against him like a caged butterfly.

He never forgets the day the kind lady with the gray hair and the welcoming smile shakes his hand and he borrows what feels like a cat made of fire. It burns and batters at his ribs and he guesses it shows on his face because her smile fades and she asks, “Are you all right, little boy? Is your mother here?”

I’m fine, he tries to say, but the heat is burning at his throat and he feels like if he does speak, if he relaxes his attention for even that long, it’s going to get out. He darts off, not even hearing whether or not she calls after him. He just runs, runs until there’s no one around and he’s in the grimy but uncluttered alley between two stores on a street he’s not sure of. And here finally, he tries harnessing that animal in him. It feels hot, so he expects fire when he reaches out.

Nothing happens. The maelstrom within rages, but he can’t figure out how to focus it and use it. His fingertips feel hot -- burning -- and he presses then to the wall just to feel the cool of the shadowed stone.

He doesn’t expect them to sink straight in.

But the stone melts under his fingers, and at the same time the power switches -- from a wild cat trapped somewhere it doesn’t want to be to a watchful one, laser-focused on some small animal. With the power having an outlet, it becomes more ordered, but it’s also melting a building and it’s using his fingers to do it, so he pulls them back. But the moment he does, it feels restless again and begins badgering for freedom.

He forces himself to walk slowly, head down and fingers splayed, until the time runs out and the quirk disappears. And it’s hard not to just run home afterward and hide in his room. There’s always next weekend. Another new quirk.

But he doesn’t. He doesn’t because he can’t.

Because the weakness in himself won’t disappear if he hides in his room.

Because he refuses to just be a sidekick.

And because he thinks next time he gets a wild quirk like that he may have a better idea of how to harness it.

He’s 11 when he finally really, truly understands the difference between himself and All Might.

It isn’t Sara’s fault that she still comes to school in last year’s worn out, slightly-too-small uniforms. Kids don’t buy the uniforms, their parents do. Any idiot should know that. But three idiots are following her down the sidewalk after school, loudly making comments to one another about the slight stains. About the way it strains around her shoulders. About her appearance in general. As she speeds up, they speed up too. When she finally has enough and whirls on them, they all raise an eyebrow at her. “What?” The ringleader asks in faux innocence, and she, frustrated, turns and starts stomping down the sidewalk again.

It’s not right. And before he really realizes what he’s doing, he has run across the distance between them and placed himself in the space between the bullies and their target.

“Stop it,” he demands, staring the trio down. “Leave her alone.”

They pause, surprised by his sudden appearance. But none of them look particularly bothered by it. The ringleader -- a wiry boy with a wry grin -- again speaks for the group.

“What’re you going to do about it?” he asks, voice inquisitive.

There’s not really a good answer. He hasn’t really thought that far ahead. So he does what he thinks a hero would do. He balls his hands into fists and says, “I’ll stop you.”

The ringleader exchanges looks with his two friends -- his large, stocky bodyguard buddy on the left and then the lanky, hunched hanger-on on the right -- then looks lazily back at his new target. Monoma, who struggles in gym class and can feel his legs quavering beneath him, isn’t a fan of the look.

A nod seems to be the signal. The bodyguard takes a step forward, his own fingers tightening. Then he lunges.

The musclehead is also 11, and from his hiss of pain, it seems like he hurts himself as well somehow when he punches Monoma in the face. But Monoma can’t really be sure because somehow he’s on the ground and his face hurts and his palms sting and his ears are full of a high, whining noise and he can see the shadow of the ringleader falling over him like a shroud.

“I said, what’re you going to do about it?” the kid asks again. Then, as a bit of punctuation, spits out, “loser.”

Monoma half expects the kid to kick him, but he doesn’t. The group just leaves. He’s apparently not even worth messing with beyond this, and as he lays on the ground, he’s not sure whether to be insulted or relieved.

His unwillingness to explain his bruises and scrapes clearly worries his parents. If he had a mindreading quirk to hand, he might have known about how in that bruise, they saw the harsher echoes of family members who refused to treat their Neito like any other child, of parental fears of cruelty and misunderstanding.

But he can’t see any of that, so when his parents enroll him in judo classes, he guesses they think he’s picking fights and they want him to learn discipline. Which he tries to tell them he doesn’t need. But as long as he won’t explain what actually happened, he supposes he can’t blame them for their mistake.

Judo classes are fun, but by the third one, he starts to get mysterious stomach aches right before they leave. His parents don’t press him after the second session he misses, and he’s sure they have their own thoughts about why he doesn’t want to go. But he expects their guess is wrong.

There are a lot of cool things about him -- it’s actually awesome how awesome he is -- but even the best things have a few drawbacks. And Monoma can’t deny that he has a certain … problem … with impulse control.

It’s like … he has it. Of course he has impulse control. But sometimes, it can be hard to maintain it. He finds thoughts slipping out in words before he even realizes it. He doesn’t usually care about that. But this time, it would be different.

Because whenever he touches one of his classmates, to help them stretch or whatever, there’s that temptation. The temptation to see what their power is like.

It’s not just the practice for his quirk. Neito likes people. Finds most of them fascinating. Tries to understand them, even ones he doesn’t enjoy being around. And there’s always something interesting about seeing what a person’s quirk is, what it feels like. Because all too often, it tells him something about the person.

But he still hasn’t perfected his ability to immediately harness any new quirk. So there’s a chance he might completely disrupt a class without even meaning to. But even knowing that, he can feel that ...that itch in the back of his head urging him on.

So he stops the lessons. Better to avoid the temptation.

Monoma finds most people fascinating, but there are exceptions. In every situation, there are strong people and weak ones.

And he hates bullies.

It’s certainly not personal. How could he possibly be so base as to carry a grudge over being picked on for his quirk, for his way of speaking, for the zealous way he tries to uplift the people he likes and respects? Utter foolishness. It doesn’t even cross his mind. Not once! He can handle whatever they throw at him. Definitely.

But it’s unfair for others. And he doesn’t like it.

Because if you already have strength, using it just to put people down, to hurt them and belittle them? What’s even the point? You already have the power in a situation.

And that makes it hard to admit that he might need to study them.

Because some of them are just brutes, people whose strength is in their fists and their feet. But some of them are a little more insidious. They see the weak points, or dig them up, and attack those points, crumbling their target’s defenses and putting them off balance which makes them all the easier to take advantage of.

It’s a hard thing for him to pick apart because it means paying attention to some truly awful people. But he sticks with it. Because All Might shows that strength in your fists or feet can be a force for good. And Monoma thinks, maybe this can too.

He’s never had a problem speaking his mind, to anyone. He’s been called “blunt” or “mouthy” or “an idiot” (the last one, he resents. The rest …. eh.) And as the end of middle school approaches and the weight of trying to get into UA hangs over his head, the question occupies his mind more and more. How can I be a hero? How can I help people?

He’s gained more control over his quirk -- he can hold more than one now, and “accidents” barely ever happen. But he knows it’s not enough. Because unlike basically everyone else trying to be a hero, he never knows what tools he’ll have at any given moment. His quirk is never going to be enough on its own. He needs more. And since he’s long since learned that the “something else” is unlikely to be physical, it’ll have to be mental. So he’s watched, and learned, and both fears and hopes for the day when he gets to try it.

It comes near the end of his final year of middle school. As he prepares to head home, he sees Ringleader and his henchmen (Bodyguard and Hanger-On) outside trying to “borrow” money for something from a classmate. So Monoma gets to work.

A couple minutes later, he walks up just as the trio is about to walk off, cash in hand. “Hey fellas,” he says, stepping in front of them and putting his all into sounding as familiar and casual as possible.

It bugs Ringleader. Monoma can see it in the narrowing of his eyes. “Whacha want, Hero?” he asks.

That word -- hero -- is a slur on Ringleader’s lips, but Monoma lets his grin get bigger. He puts his arms out to the sides in a sort-of shrug, phone in one hand. “Awww, don’t be like that! It sucks that you probably won’t be getting into any of those schools with the baseball teams you really admired, but hey! Sometimes life is just cruel, right? I just wanted to extend my sympathy.”

Any good humor Ringleader had from scoring money off their classmate (who has wisely retreated from the fuse Monoma has lit) is gone now. “Where’d you hear that?” he demands.

“Oh, nowhere special. Just around.” But Monoma takes a chance, looking down, then letting his eyes dart briefly over to Hanger-On.

On a normal day, at a normal time, probably Ringleader wouldn’t fall for this. But first he got irritated, then he got paranoid, and now he sees that sly glance and as Monoma hoped, he rounds on Hanger-On. “What did you say?” He demands, voice low.

It takes a second for the kid to even realize he’s being addressed. Once he does, his eyes go wide, his hands go up, and while he’s utterly sincere, he’s made himself a picture of deflection and deception in the paranoid eyes of his boss. “What? No, Watari, I didn’t say anything, I swear. He’s lying.”

“So how is this getting around the school?” Ringleader growls. Ignoring the fact that he’d been bitching about this to his friends loud and often enough last week that several people had overheard it while waiting for their rides after school. It hadn’t even taken much asking around for Monoma to find someone willing to spill the “secret.”

But even if Hanger-On is thinking that, there is no way to say it without just making Ringleader mad, so he wisely chooses the better part of valor and books it across the schoolyard.

Ringleader makes like he might go after the kid, then lets out a disgusted “Tch” and turns back to Monoma. “And I don’t know why you thought this was a smart thing to do, but now I’m in a bad mood. Get out of our way.”

Monoma keeps grinning. “Aww, sure! Just give that guy his money back and we’re done.” His voice drops a bit and he leans forward to say, “And hey, if the words i’m using are too big, just let me know. I’d hate to let your limited vocabulary get in the way of this reaching a friendly resolution.”

He thinks it’s the grin more than the words that do it, but Ringleader’s last nerve snaps. He doesn’t even say anything, just nods, and Bodyguard steps forward.

Here goes.

Monoma raises both hands, palms out, and invokes the quirk that’s tingling in his fingertips. A brilliant light pulses from his palms, brighter than a camera flash, and only slightly blocked by the phone he pinches between his right thumb and forefinger. This quirk comes courtesy of an underclassman named Gin who Monoma had clapped on the shoulder before coming outside.

Ringleader reels back, cursing and covering his eyes. Bodyguard’s reaction is less pronounced, but he does also squeeze his eyes closed, and his suddenly unguided attack swings wide of Monoma.

That’s the setup. And now, the closer.

As his hands begin messing with his phone, he lets go of the light quirk and switches to Sara’s own little quirk, which he feels like a cool mist in his throat.

“Wait, please don’t hit me,” Monoma puts a little fear into the words. And he uses her ventriloquism quirk to place the sound directly between Bodyguard and Ringleader.

Bodyguard is all instinct and primed for helping his buddy, so the expected swing comes like clockwork. Connects. Monoma has the camera up as Ringleader goes down. And it’s here that he finally lets himself relax a little. Ringleader’s quirk makes a small sphere of darkness. It wasn’t likely to change how this interaction went, but it could have. He’s glad he didn’t have to react to it. Rethinking the plan in the middle doesn’t sound at all good. Not yet.

He checks on Ringleader (He’s sure being punched hard enough to be knocked out can’t be great for the guy), but once he’s sure he’s still breathing and stuff, he backs out of Bodyguard’s range and messes with his phone some more.

Eventually Bodyguard focuses on Ringleader lying on the ground in a way that suggests he can see at last. Monoma sees a teacher hurrying out of the school, and decides it’s now or never.

“That was a heck of a punch,” he says, waggling his phone in one hand. “Can’t wait to show our friend Watari.”

Bodyguard makes like he’s going to go for Monoma again, but the teacher’s voice cuts through the schoolyard like a breaking branch. “Yuuto!” And he stops mid-move, settling for glaring at him instead.

“You can’t.”

“No? Well, how about this,” Monoma says, tapping the corner of his phone against his own cheek. “You lay off our classmates until graduation and I won’t. Two weeks. Deal?”

“...Deal,” the guy says through gritted teeth.

The teacher sends another student for the nurse, to help Ringleader, then marches Monoma and Bodyguard into the school, to the principal. Bodyguard goes first, probably because between Monoma with his slim frame and “useless” quirk or Bodyguard with his quirk that increases the weight of his hands and feet, it’s not much of a guess to figure out which one had knocked out Ringleader. He listens to them talking about how someone with a quirk like his needs to be extra careful. How he needs to stop picking fights and thinking about his future. That they should maybe suspend him, and only his protestations that it was an accident seem to earn him some leeway. Blah blah blah. Monoma tries to tune it out as he waits for his turn in the wringer.

When Bodyguard finally leaves the principal’s office, he doesn’t even glance at Monoma.

The teacher and the principal ask him questions, which are easy enough to answer.

No, he didn’t hit anyone.

Yes, they were picking on someone and he stepped in to help that person.

Yes, he thought they were going to hurt him so he used the flash quirk. That was why he picked it up before intervening -- so he could defend himself if they decided to do anything.

They don’t ask him how Bodyguard ended up clocking his best friend -- they must now believe his assertion that it was just a mistake when he couldn’t see. Instead, he gets much the same lecture as Bodyguard, just dressed in different clothes. You can’t get in fights like this, you’re only going to get yourself in trouble. You need to think about your future and what you can do. You may mean well, but you keep causing trouble.

He knows they want him to look contrite and chastened, but he can’t. He didn’t do anything wrong. So he just listens, nodding at the appropriate moments, and lets most of the criticism wash over him. He does apologize for using a quirk out on the schoolyard -- he knows that’s not allowed, he agrees -- but other than that he’s just waiting for it to be over.

Because he knows part of what they’re trying to tell him is, stop wanting to be a hero. But that’s never going to happen.

UA, here he comes.

[true-love-will-thaw]

An Old Friend’s Advice

Rating: K+

Word Count: 2,242

Summary: When Kristoff doesn’t find the Queen in her office like she usually is most afternoons, he discovers her asking for advice from an old friend. Quick one-shot I wrote about Anna dealing with being Queen. Canonverse, takes place 1 year after Frozen 2.

Note: No, this is not the fic I mentioned earlier that I had finished, but this idea came into my head and I wrote it surprisingly fast so here it is. Hopefully the other one will be up soon but probably not for a while because I see star wars tomorrow ahhh.  

A mug of cocoa in each hand, Kristoff entered Anna’s office, just like he did most afternoons when she wasn’t preoccupied somewhere else. One mug plain with a cinnamon stick floating in it and another covered in a mountain of mini marshmallows, he set both down on the desk, surprised that she wasn’t there. Though Anna, even as Queen, wasn’t particularly keen at sticking to her assigned schedule, he thought by now he’d figured out where to find her most days, depending on what was going on. He looked around the office and nearby rooms briefly for her, and then stopped to think, double checking in his head that this was where she was supposed to be.

Anna’s schedule, though hectic and less than traditional, was fairly consistent. Even though most weekends were wild cards (consisting of jam packed visits from Elsa, family trips to visit the Northuldra, or occasionally a weekend away with her husband), her weekdays were fairly predictable. Most mornings she ate breakfast together with the family, (though he often had to pull her out of bed; he knows mornings aren’t the easiest for her), where she would get excited for the day and often discuss the daily events with everyone. Mondays and Wednesdays she spent the morning listening to citizen requests, learning what her people needed and how she could best provide for them. Tuesday and Thursday mornings she went into town and visited the people herself, checking in on the merchant’s guild, visiting the sick in the hospital, or reading to the children at the school. Friday mornings were her favorites, where she and Olaf went into town to simply chat with people and have fun. Without crowns, schedules, or fancy dresses, Anna and Olaf would go buy fresh bread from the baker, pick flowers in the meadow, or go window shopping in the square. She talked to the people as their friend, not as their queen, even though if they had a request for her she’d always stop to listen. After lunch with the family, most of Anna’s afternoons were spent communicating with foreign dignitaries, whether by occasionally actually hosting them for a meeting or by writing letters and other formal communications. She still enjoyed it, but this work was the nitty-gritty of her job as queen. Though she had made friends with many of their foreign allies and did not mind writing to them directly, it was going over detailed treaties and trade agreements that tended to bog her down. At that time is when Kristoff often found her in her office, reading through the intricate details of documents that would keep their alliances intact. Kristoff, as King consort, did have a few responsibilities of his own, though not many. He was the royal liaison to the ice harvester’s guild, and met with them as well as the fishermen, merchants, and farmers on a semi-regular basis in the mornings. Though he used to not enjoy talking to people, over the years spending more time in the kingdom he had made many friends with the people of Arendelle, and did not mind their company. It was when dealing with other royals and foreign dignitaries that he began to tense up, however that was where Anna shined. The majority of his afternoons consisted of eating lunch with the family, tending to the stables for an hour or so, and then making two steaming hot cups of cocoa and meeting Anna in her office. He would walk in and know exactly what kind of day she was having based on her actions at her desk. If she was staring down intently at a paper, scribbling furiously with a quill with her tongue barely sticking out the side of her mouth like it did when she was focused, he would simply set the cocoa down on the desk next to her, give her a light kiss on the head, and leave her to her work. If she looked relaxed and happy about the work on her desk, he would hand her the cocoa and sit on the sofa in front of the fire while she continued to work, discussing all of the exciting papers she was sifting through. Occasionally he would pick up a book and read there whenever their conversation slowed and she went back to her documents, but he always put it down as soon as she wanted to talk again. If she looked tired or defeated at the sight of the work on her desk, he would hand her the cocoa and they would get up and take a break together. Sometimes she would be excited to see him, wondering why he took so long, and grab his hand, rushing out to the gardens for a much needed walk outdoors to clear her head. Other times she would be so tired that he would have to pull her from the desk and take her over to the sofa, where she lied down next to him and closed her eyes, the rising and falling of his chest against her head lulling her to sleep like a lullaby. But today she was none of those things, because she wasn’t even at her desk! He knew there were no events going on (she would have talked about them earlier if there were), and he couldn’t think of anywhere she would have left to go. Elsa wasn’t back in town until tomorrow, Olaf was still at school, and he just saw Sven in the stables, so he knew she hadn’t run off with any of them. He began to wander around the castle, checking her usual spots, wondering where she possibly could have gone. No one in the kitchens had seen her since lunch, the gardener hadn’t seen her since yesterday, and even Kai hadn’t seen her since the morning. Unsure of where to go next, Kristoff walked down one of the main, long hallways in the castle, until he noticed an open door. Which room is that? He thought to himself. Though he had lived in the castle for years now, there were still several rooms he struggled to find without help. Is that the library? No... it’s the... portrait gallery? He approached the door and walked in slowly, not sure who he’d find. Of course, he should’ve known, because there she was. His wife, the Queen, lying down on the floor of the portrait gallery, feet against the wall, looking up at a painting and talking quietly to herself. He walked over to her and stood beside her, his towering figure looking down at her. It had been a fairly slow day, so she was dressed no different than she usually was, choosing a simple light blue dress. She had also worn her hair down, so it surrounded her head on the floor in a pool of auburn. She gave a soft smile when she saw his head come into her field of vision. “Hey,” she said softly. “Hey,” he replied, “whatcha doing there?” “Oh, just taking to Joan,” she replied, still looking at the painting instead of at him. He looked up at the painting on the wall and saw a woman in head to toe armor, who he could only assume was Joan of Arc. “Yeah?” he said, looking back down at her, “what are you ladies talking about?” “I’m wondering if she thinks I should sign this new trade agreement with the Southern Isles we received today. All of my advisors think I should but I read over it and I don’t think the agreement seems fair.” Kristoff sat down on the floor next to Anna, and gently took one of her hands in his. She glanced at him and smiled, gladly accepting the gesture. “Hey Anna?” he said, still speaking softly to match her tone. “Hm?” she looked back up at the painting. “You know there are real people you can talk to about this, right?” he asked. “Elsa, or Kai, or...” “You,” she said, looking over at him again and lightly squeezing his hand. “Of course me, always,” he replied. “I’m not perfect, but I suppose I’m not a complete bonehead about this kind of stuff.” She laughed and sat up, now sitting face to face across from him. “Of course you’re not,” she said. “You may not realize it, but I rely on your advice the most.” He smiled back at her. “Ok, then can you tell me why you’re taking to Joan instead?” She looked back up at the painting. “When I was little, I never had that many people to talk to, so I often found myself asking the paintings for advice. I would research all about them, learn their names, and ask them their opinions on the things I did or should do. I’m pretty sure Lieutenant Mattias even helped me with my math homework once.” She chucked for a moment at the thought, as did Kristoff, now that they knew the man. “As I got older,” she continued, “I still talked to the paintings, even though I began to realize that they weren’t actually talking back to me. They weren’t giving me the answers, but they were helping me work through the problem myself and come up with the answer I already knew was right. I haven’t been back here in a long time, but sometimes when I know that I can figure something out and I know what the right answer is, I still come and talk to the paintings to work through my thoughts. And from everything I’ve read about all of the paintings in this castle, I’m pretty sure Joan is the bravest and strongest person here. I guess I figured she’d help me figure out what to do.” She looked back over at Kristoff, who was smiling at her. “You probably think I’m crazy, don’t you?” she asked. “Of course not,” he replied. “Anna, do you know why you rely on my advice so much?” “Why?” “Because my advice is always just your advice, just coming from my mouth instead of yours! Despite what you say Anna, I know nothing about any of this stuff. However I do know that you do, and you’ll do whatever you know is best for Arendelle, and that I trust your judgement. And the things you say sound like the right thing to do. So sometimes your brain goes so fast that you may get a little off track, but all I do is agree with you and redirect you back to your goal.” “Anna, it’s always been you. You always know what to do, and I know you’ll make the right decision now, about this. And if talking to the paintings still helps you I won’t stop you, but I want you to know you don’t have to do this alone any more. I’m happy to help you sort out your thoughts and reassure you that you’re doing the right thing.” “Thank you,” she said, squeezing his hand again. “Of course,” he replied as he lifted her hand up to give it a soft kiss. “So do you think not signing the treaty is the right decision? They’re asking for a 20% tariff rate which I think is ridiculous, because the most we’re paying right now is 15% to Corona, but we import a lot more from them so I really don’t think 20% is fair. And I heard they only asked for 10% from Weselton, so I feel like they’re assuming we’ll agree to anything to keep the peace between us after what happened 4 years ago. I can’t let them take advantage of us like that, right?” Kristoff smiled at her again. It was so clear she knew the answer already, she just needed someone else to reassure her. “Trust your gut,” he said. “That doesn’t sound fair to me. You know what the right thing is, and you know what our people need. I’d say do some more negotiating before signing that treaty.” And that’s all she needed to hear. “Thank you, Kristoff!” She said excitedly, giving him a peck on the cheek. She had gained her confidence back and with it, her energy, as she got up from the floor quickly, pulling him up with her.” “C’mon, I have to make a new draft of the treaty before dinner so that it’ll be done before Elsa comes back tomorrow!” She began to pull him back to the office when she stopped for a moment. “Wait, where’s my cocoa?” She asked. He laughed. “On your desk, probably cold by now since it took me so long to find you,” he replied. “But don’t worry, there’s still some on the stove I can heat up again.” “Well then, what are we waiting for?” She pulled on his arm and began to walk faster and faster down the hallway. “C’mon,” she shouted behind her, beginning to run, “last one there is a rotten egg!” Kristoff laughed as he began to chase after her. She’s extraordinary, he thought. And he was right. He wondered how on earth he got to where he was. He and his wife, the King and Queen of Arendelle, racing down the hallway. One headed to reheat a pot of cocoa and another to negotiate a trade agreement. Arendelle wasn’t perfect by any means, but he knew that with Anna as their Queen, everything was exactly the way it was supposed to be.

[misslisterkeepsajournal]

1826 Thursday 16 February

5 3/4 12 1/4

Made and lighted the fire - Went into the stable - settling accounts - breakfast at 10 3/4 - Dr. Kenny and Mr. Sunderland came to see my aunt - no better but no worse - came upstairs at 11 50/60 and wrote the last ten lines - and then till 3 1/4 settling accounts -

At 3 1/2 took IN- [Isabella Norcliffe] with me, and went out - sauntered along the road, down the new footpath, all along Lower brea lane, the last new footpath - the Lower brea Ing wood walk, and along the fields - out 1 1/2 hour - above 1/2 hour in the lower water closet - Charles H- [Howarth] junior and his son doing the finishing wood-work -

Dressed - dinner at 6 5/60 - tea and coffee at 8 1/2 - Very fine mild day - Barometer 4 degrees below changeable Fahrenheit 46° at 10 1/4 p.m. at which hour came up to bed - James Sykes and John Booth working at the sunk wall today - Jackman at that bit of walling at the top of the Dolt wood in the afternoon - Frank come again today to dig a little more wall race for us - E..O.. - Read my letter from Mrs. B- [Barlow] (received yesterday) 3 pages - very serious - very kind - trusts I shall not disappoint her hope of having reclaimed me etc. etc. wishes me to depend upon religion

'the remembrance of me will weaken and for your own happiness I should wish it' -....so may we live 'that we may hope to be one day by divine grace reunited never to be parted more in the enjoyment of eternal happiness' respecting Madame de Rozne 'as I thought you might meet before I could see you, I warned you to be quiet and calm in your manner of addressing her whether in correspondence or personally' and she thus proceeds 'when a persons mind is imbued with suspects and from all she was told me of the opinion which generally influenced the gentlemen who visited at place Vendome I thought it best you should be on your guard.....Madame de Boyve has not scrupled to give her opinion and her suspects to gentlemen on many occasions even long before we left it and Madame D told me that she had often heard the gentlemen say that had they wives or daughters they would not suffer 'aucune intimite' to subsist with a friend of yours Madame is amiable agreeable and friendly when we meet she feels the same towards you but out of sight out of mind'

Her promises not to be depended on she promised to introduce Mrs Barlow to her uncle and has not done it does not write to me because she has so many correspondents Mrs Barlow thinks it is because of the expense of postage her attention taken up this winter with Lady Augustine Fitzgerald

'do you recollect Monsieur de Boyves complimenting a friend of mine or rather a remark he made on the honeymoon Madame de Rozne told me in spite of what Madame B said to me you know I went to the concert alone with her and you know also how I allowed myself to be rubbed as some of these good people have made surmises I hope you understand what I mean be friendly but do not fly to extremes she is as amiable as we shall find the world in general' 

Mrs. B- [Barlow] is going to have Jane vaccinated - will not return to Guernsey - her house there was given up at Xmas [Christmas] - she says I that is myself know that there is another preparing for her and every unusual rap at the door frightens her she fears it is Mr Bell she apologise for her whole letter not being on the subject of condolence (it is quite enough so) and adds

'you revere your uncles memory and I trust you know how much I sympathize with you on this occasion I shall always cling to the bliss of being useful to you well assured that from one source only can you derive any lasting consolation pray for this assistance and you will find it whisper peace even to such wounded feelings as yours mine are greatly quieted which will be one anxiety off your mind' -

Mrs. B- [Barlow] will stay 2 years longer in Paris - her plans beyond this not fixed - perhaps she may then take Jane among her (Jane's) friends (relations) - she concludes with heaven bless you Anne and ever believe me your sincere and affectionate friend CMB -

An old will of the husband of Madame la Contesse de Funal has been found, and she will get 12000 francs a year from the French government under the emigrant indemnity bill - Read M-'s [Mariana's] letter immediately on receiving it yesterday - 3 pages the ends and 1/2 the 1st page crossed - her letter dated Saturday and Monday - my last 'was a comfort' to her - but Messers Cholmley and Powys being still in the house, she had made no use of it with respect to Mr. C.L- [Charles Lawton] could not calculate what would be the result, but thought of shewing the letter to him - 'It would certainly be desirable if some sort of reconciliation could be effected between you and Mr. C.L- [Charles Lawton] it might seem better to the world, and we might enjoy together some additional hours of happiness' - my feeling at the first moment of reading this and now, is, I like not this calculation - I want no worldly good in the business - I am too proud to value it and have more than once thought to write and say I acted only from the impulse of my heart but now that I find the thing can seem to have any worldly interest in it, I scout it altogether and beg M- [Mariana] will not to Mr. C.L- [Charles Lawton] take any notice of my letter but let us remain forever as we are -

Tib said this evening Mrs Milne had more feeling than people gave her credit for she had written a beautiful letter to Mr Norcliffe and been very much affected on leaving Langton (that was the day but one after Christmas day and after I left there) Charlotte had never seen her so ill and was quite frightened she fainted in the evening (of the day I went away) and alarmed them all and was very ill afterwards at Scarbro I never thought when she told me in her letter that she had been ill that there was so much truth in it surely it could not be on leaving Charlotte and Langton she cares not enough for them I wonder what that is how much I had to do with it of course I took no notice to Tib but the thing struck me forcibly -  

Reference: SH:7/ML/E/9/0059 - SH:7/ML/E/9/0060

[night-filled-mountain]

1, 4, 8, 18, 22 for the shipping asks!

1. What was your first OTP?

It was, er…Buffy/Spike from Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That’s a whole can of worms I don’t want to open too wide, but it definitely started me on a trend as far as het ships go, which looks something like this:

Woman is an epic heroine who radiates strength and virtue

Man is an angsty reformed villain who worships the ground she walks on, but is absolutely convinced that she could never love him and that he will never be worthy of her

Woman has her own darkness and angst, and is able to safely explore that with him; he may see a more complete picture of her than others do

Man nonetheless has to work Very Hard to transform his whole outlook and way of interacting with the world before she will even vaguely consider returning his feelings

He does the moral/emotional equivalent of crawling to her on his knees

She is proud of his progress, maybe finds that she cares for him, and maybe, maybe lets him touch her

…There’s a lot going on there that I don’t have time to unpack (with Buffy/Spike and this trend in general), but I was (and am) continuously frustrated when it gets reduced to “Girls like bad boys” or “Unhealthy dynamic where The Woman Has to Change the Man,” because that’s…not what it’s ever been about for me. I could write lengthy essays about this and still fail to express myself properly, so I’ll just say that these ships, for me, boil down to this poem, and leave it at that.

4. What is/are your favorite trope(s)?

…Oops. Kinda jumped the gun on that one!

Besides the above, which is…still pretty major for me, here are a few off the top of my head:

Same as above, but with any other combination of genders…except Heroic Man and Unworthy Lady. That one doesn’t generally do it for me, seeing as “flipped power dynamics” is a nigh-essential element of my het ships. (That said, Lilah/Wesley from Angel does come to mind…)

Slow burns. Slowest burns. Burns that burn at the speed of a melting glacier. I am an asexual who chose a wedding song that included the line “You would never hold me, I don’t like to be held.” I am Very Big on the gradual creeping ache of unfulfilled longing, whether it’s friends-to-lovers or enemies-to-friends-to-lovers or something else entirely.

UNEXPECTED ROMANCE (that still makes total character sense). This is definitely a factor in my thing for reformed villains getting with heroes/heroines. I just go nuts for feelings, conversations, tender touches, and character commonalities that come out of left field, as opposed to being telegraphed from the first chapter/episode. Honestly, few things are a bigger turn-off for me than instant attraction/love at first sight, unless readers/viewers are left in very long and genuine doubt about whether it’s requited (see: Beauyasha 😛). I’m also left very cold by Traditional Heteronormative Love (especially involving tall muscular dudes whose supposed hotness is dwelled on extensively). Give me two (or more) weird, broken characters who you never would have considered together, having a talk that suddenly makes you see the ways their personalities and experiences reflect or complement each other, and it hits you like lightning and leaves you smoldering for ages to come.

Bittersweet tenderness! Sad characters falling in love. Sad characters being loved. Sad characters being sad together and working together to soften the edges of their sadness. Wincing and downcast eyes and hesitant hands on shoulders. Very hesitant touching in general. Wry gallows humor, awkward prickly conversations, everything feeling off-beat (but in a healthy way?) even after mutual love/a relationship has been established. And all of the ways people help each other cope with trauma.

Hand placed gently on neck. Tongue against ear. Hands touching, fingers trailing down hips. All the little affectionate or erogenous touches that fall short of blatant sexual contact. ALSO DANCING. DANCING!!

…I feel like there are so many more, but I need to try and avoid turning all my asks into theses! Moving on…

8. Who is the most shippable person you can think of?

This seems so subjective to me! I’m tempted to say “Caleb Widogast” purely because I’ve shipped him with so many people, but that’s just because I really like Caleb Widogast and am hyper-tuned to his relationships, not because a scruffy traumatized wizard is inherently Good Shipping Material. …Or is he?

18. What is your favorite unpopular ship?

Fanny Price/Mary Crawford from Mansfield Park. Fight me.

22. Do you have any ships that you ship, but would never want to see as canon?

I don’t know about never, depending on the ever-changing circumstances of a canon that hasn’t ended yet. There are definitely ships that I love the idea of, but don’t go as hard for, because there are other ships involving the same people that I like better…but then you have open relationships and polyamory!

There are also ships that I would love to see in canon, but not yet, or not unless certain circumstances came about. i.e. I’ve talked before about how I adore Shadowgast in theory, but am very uncomfortable with seeing it happen if the power dynamic between Caleb and Essek remains unchanged, or if there’s anything transactional or even vaguely coercive about it.

…And then there’s the rare ship that’s affected, for me, by factors outside the canon–real-life elements, if you will. Which leads me to the prime example to use for this question: Beaujester. I love it as a ship. I think it is/would be fantastic. I think all the necessary ingredients are there, the friendship and chemistry, the unexpected factor, the major slow burn, the bittersweetness–everything. But I’ve never been able to really give my heart to it because of the Beauyasha flame burning inside me since the start of the campaign. And I can’t deny that my ship loyalty has been influenced by my meta knowledge of Ashley Johnson–how she’s had to miss much of both campaigns against her will, how she has trouble getting back into the swing of the story when she does return, and how she may well be hopefully considering Beauyasha as a potential part of Yasha’s story, a part that she’d love to explore if she ever gets a chance.

Now, all of this is completely disputable, including the notion that Yasha has or will develop feelings for Beau at all (I’ve seen it argued very convincingly that “Fire Under Water,” the love song on her playlist, is actually about Jester, and that is completely valid and intriguing in its own right!). But for the moment, my personal feelings and interpretations re: Ashley have definitely influenced my shipping preferences…and during the current plotline, I’ve developed such overwhelming Beauyasha Feelings (for the sake of the ship itself!) that I doubt I’m ever going back. (Though, once again…Beaujesteryasha? Sign me up.)

[thegizka]

Swift as Wind, Soft as Shadow

Chapter 1 Part II:  Promise

With planning for the chunin exam well underway, the joint proctors try to work out exactly what their goals are.

Written for ShikaTema Week 2019 Day 1:  Chunin Exam.

Note:  I do not own any aspects of Naruto.

Read it on Ao3.

Two weeks after they signed the contract, Temari arrived alone in the Leaf.  They had decided the first step to planning was touring each location to determine how much work would need to be done to prepare for the exams.  In a few weeks, it would be Shikamaru’s turn to make the journey to the Sand. It would mean several days of travel. He was not looking forward to it.

He met Temari at the front gate so he could escort her to meet the Hokage and show her to the ambassadors’ lodgings.  Normally whoever was on gate duty would take care of it, but Lady Tsunade and his father had stressed the importance of building a good relationship with the Sand, stopping just short of ordering him be her personal escort while she was in the village.  It was a drag.

He was a little surprised when she arrived alone.  It wasn’t uncommon for foreign messengers to travel by themselves, but he had noticed at their last meeting how on edge and mistrustful she had been.  The situation in the Sand was likely more unstable than those in the Hokage’s office thought.

“Hi,” he greeted simply.

“What a warm reception,” she smirked.  He just shrugged.

“The Hokage figured you might like some company on the way to her office.”

“And she picked you?” Temari snorted.  “Was everyone else busy?”

He just rolled his eyes, already turning toward the big building tucked beneath the cliff from which the faces of the past Hokage watched over the Land of Fire.  Temari fell into step beside him.

“I trust your trip wasn’t too much trouble.”

“Nothing I couldn’t handle.”

He glanced at her, trying to tell whether she had run into any trouble, but her features were carefully set.  He did note that there were extra snarls in her pigtails, and her shoes were dustier than usual, but he didn’t know her well enough to determine whether these were indicators of trouble or simply the wear of travel.  Either way, she was carefully scanning every face and building they passed as though looking for hidden enemies. He wondered if there was a tactful way to tell her that she could relax.

“How’s your friend doing?” she asked suddenly.  “I never asked.”

“Which friend?”

“The one who was in the operating room all night after that mess of a mission the last time I was here.”

“That was years ago.”

And years later, the memory still smarted.  Fresh after the invasion of the village and his promotion to chunin, Shikamaru’s first mission had ended in disaster.  Tasked with tracking down his classmate Sasuke and bringing him back to the village, he had made some poor judgments and nearly gotten his friends killed.  If Temari and her brothers hadn’t arrived to help, they probably would have died. Sasuke disappeared, Chouji nearly didn’t make it, and he had cried in front of his father.  Every memory associated with the event made him ashamed.

Temari, of course, was unaware of this.  Or maybe she had known that bringing up the past would bother him a bit.  He couldn’t read her very well.

“Chouji’s doing fine.  Everyone is.”

“And did you ever find Sasuke?”

He glanced at her sharply.  Did she know something about Sasuke?  For a topic of small talk, this one was awfully loaded.  Villages didn’t like discussing their rogue ninja unless they posed a serious threat.  Sasuke so far had simply disappeared, though he was likely with Orochimaru, the rogue sanin who had manipulated the Sand into invading the Leaf during the last chunin exam.  Shikamaru suspected whatever news they eventually got about Sasuke wouldn’t be good.

“No,” he answered bluntly.  She looked at him for a moment, trying to gauge the meaning of what he wasn’t saying.

“Hm,” she concluded.  She didn’t ask any more questions.

Their check-in with the Hokage was courteous but brief.  The piles of papers on Tsunade’s desk were higher than normal, and she seemed a bit preoccupied.  Shikamaru wondered if this was all a show for Temari’s benefit or there was actually something brewing in the village.

After leaving the Hokage’s office, he showed his guest to her room so she could drop off her pack and freshen up.  The ambassadors’ lodging was a small building off of the Hokage’s office shielded on one side by the cliff and on the other by a low wall.  Temari’s room was on the ground floor, and Shikamaru had taken a room down the hall so he could be on hand if she needed anything. Staying in the ambassadors’ lodging for a few days was a drag, but his parents had insisted he stay close to the Sand kunoichi.

While Temari took some time to get settled, Shikamaru ordered lunch and looked over some paperwork of his own.  He was proofreading Chouji’s report from a recent mission--his friend always left a few grammatical errors and never included enough detail--when Temari joined him in the common room.

“So what now?” she asked, standing over him with a hand on her hip.

“Now we eat,” he announced, sliding the report into a folder away from prying eyes.  He’d drop it off at the Akimichis’ later.

Rather than sit down at the table, he led her back outside and around the building to an outside door which granted access to the roof via a set of stairs.

“Is this really necessary?” she huffed as they climbed.

“It’s quieter up here,” he replied, stepping carefully onto the slightly sloped roof.  “It’s easier to talk.”

“We have things to talk about?”

“Uh, yeah.  Last I checked we’re proctoring the next chunin exam.”

“You’re proactively focusing on work?  I thought you were allergic to any sort of exertion.”

“Ha ha,” he laughed sarcastically as he settled onto the roof.  Temari took a moment to scan their surroundings before sitting beside him.  She was still guarded, though he noted that she had left her battle fan in her room.  “Here.”

She wrinkled her nose slightly when he handed her a takeout box, but she didn’t complain.  His mother would give him a lecture if she found out he gave the representative from the Sand takeout as her first meal in the Leaf, but he was much too lazy to cook anything and didn’t care to waste time at a crowded restaurant.  Plus he highly doubted diplomatic relations between their villages would fall apart over a simple meal. Temari didn’t strike him as that trivial.

Shikamaru let his thoughts drift as they ate, free and lazy like the clouds floating above them.  He loved meal times because they usually signified a break from having to think about work. He wasn’t expected to do anything or go anywhere.  He could be carefree for an hour or so.

Unless, of course, the company he was keeping was troublesome.

“So talk,” Temari said, disrupting the relaxed flow of his thoughts.  He had hoped she’d wait at least until they had finished their food. He should have known better.

“About what?” he stalled.  She let out a frustrated snort.

“About the chunin exam!  That’s why we’re up here on the roof and not somewhere more comfortable, right?”

He sighed.  He’d really been hoping for a few moments to relax.

“So?” she prompted.

“The written exam’s first, right?”

“Yeah,” she growled.  He was almost amused by how frustrated he was making her.

“I figured we’d hold it at the school, same as last time.”

“I hope you’re not planning on making it the exact same as last time.  Several candidates will be repeating the exam.”

“I know,” he sighed, rubbing his neck.  “We have to create a whole new test. It’s such a drag.”

“Have you come up with anything yet?”

“I have a few ideas.”  He picked through his food for a chunk of chicken, chewing slowly.

“Care to share?” Temari prompted when he didn’t continue.  With a sigh, he set aside his food container and laid back on the roof tiles.

“I want to divide up the members of each team and test how they work together when they have limited communication.  I just don’t know how yet.”

“You want to split up the teams but still expect them to communicate.  Doesn’t that make it impossible?”

“Not necessarily.  I just want to limit the advantage of certain jutsus.  Like with our test, visual and intelligence-oriented jutsus had an advantage.”

“But wouldn’t that be unavoidable even if we split up teams?  They can just copy from some of their competitors.”

“Not if the entire focus of the exam is to test teamwork within each three-person squad.”

“I don’t really see the point of that.  We don’t pass teams in the chunin exams; we pass individual shinobi.”

“But a lot of shinobi work involves cooperating in a team,” Shikamaru explained.  “You have to know who to trust and how to work together to complete a mission.”

“Those are largely circumstantial decisions,” she countered.  “Shinobi get reassigned to different squads all the time. It doesn’t matter who the other members on the team are as long as each does her job.  That’s how we complete missions.”

“Somewhere along the line you have to decide to trust the other people on your team to do their jobs, and if something goes wrong, you need to depend on each other to adapt and fix it.  No shinobi is totally independent.”

He watched as she mulled over his words, eyebrows pulled down over her teal eyes.  He wondered if she was arguing because she honestly believed teamwork wasn’t that important to a shinobi, or perhaps it was a reaction from not being able to trust people in the Sand.  He wondered if there was really a difference between the two.

“Even our own exam started with a whole team pass or fail on that last question,” he reminded her.

“That was just to thin the field more quickly,” she declared dismissively.

“But you had to know what your teammates would do.”

She turned her sharp eyes on him.  They were cruel and intelligent. Her look made him realize how little he actually knew her.

“Knowing what someone will do and trusting them have nothing to do with each other.”

-----

Shikamaru was miserable, and Temari would be lying if she didn’t acknowledge that it amused her.  He tried to hide it to prevent any offence to his hosts, but it was a common enough reaction from emissaries to the Sand that she saw right through him.

She had found the rest of her trip to the Leaf boring.  The school was exactly as she remembered it from her own exam.  Shikamaru talked about sealing off the classrooms to make the test more difficult, but she didn’t really care about those details.  She didn’t understand why he was so preoccupied with the candidates’ relationships with their teammates, but if that’s how he wanted to run the written exam, then so be it.  In her eyes, the important part of the exam would start with the second round in the Land of Wind.

Originally she had been opposed to Gaara’s plan to use the exams as a way to lure out and take down his enemies.  It was risky not only because it meant using the Kazekage as bait, but it could also endanger relations with the other nations if their genin got caught in the conflict.  But Temari was also really tired of sleeping with one eye open, and Gaara was limited by his opposition and couldn’t effectively guide the Sand toward his dream of a better future.  They were stuck unless they could eliminate his enemies.

The real problem with the plan had been inviting the Leaf to co-host the exam.  They couldn’t have obtained the council’s approval without a partnership from another village, and it threw off any suspicions that they were using the exam to target their internal opposition.  Temari could only hope their plans wouldn’t backfire and make things worse.

She was nervous about having Shikamaru in the Sand.  She’d seen how he observed everything and knew he was drawing conclusions which he would no doubt communicate to the Hokage.  It would be tricky keeping the plan secret from him, especially as he was more talkative now than he had been in the Leaf. He seemed eager to know the details of every part of the second round.

“The Demon Desert, huh?”  He was leaning over a map spread across a table, scratching his hair where some sand was irritating his scalp.  “Isn’t the entire desert demonic?”

“For whiny crybabies like you,” she teased, trying to keep the mood light to mask the heaviness of her thoughts.  “The Demon Desert is more unpredictable than the rest. There are hidden quarries, fields of quicksand, and sandstorms that appear out of nowhere.  With limited natural resources, it’ll definitely challenge the genins’ endurance.”

“Sounds dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than the Forest of Death.”

“What safety measures will you have in place?”

“Safety measures?”  She shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on any.”

“But what if someone gets hurt or trapped somewhere?  Will there be medical-nin on standby?”

“As I recall, there weren’t any adults waiting to swoop in and help us during our exam.”

“And look how that turned out,” he responded, eyes narrowed.

She didn’t like the implication.  She and her brothers had a lot of blood on their hands, including some from those exams.  She was pretty sure adult intervention wouldn’t have stood much chance against Gaara.

“They won’t have anyone keeping an eye on them when they’re off on missions.  If we really want to test who has what it takes to be a chunin, we can’t hold their hands.”

“It’s not holding their hands if we’re keeping them alive so they have the chance to try again next time,” he argued.  “The purpose of these exams is to build up our villages’ next generation of shinobi, not lose half of them.”

“Death is part of a shinobi’s life.  Better to get them used to it sooner rather than later.”  She said it with more emotion than she intended, the words getting caught in her tightening throat.  Unpleasant memories were resurfacing. That made her angry. She wasn’t supposed to lose control and get emotional.  Emotions revealed too much, and she didn’t want Shikamaru to know the details of her past.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” he said firmly.  She was sure he had noticed her control slip momentarily, but it seemed he wasn’t going to mention it.  She wasn’t sure whether that was a relief or not.

“We don’t have to run the exams like they have in the past,” he continued.  “Nothing changes if we keep doing everything the same way.”

She couldn’t tell him it was precisely because she wanted things to change that they couldn’t increase supervision of the exam.  Gaara’s enemies needed the chance to slip in and try something in order to get caught.  The chaos of the second round had always been an opportunity to pursue secondary intentions, like the Sand and Sound’s maneuvers to invade the Leaf during the last exams.  They might be risking the lives of their genin, but doing so would allow Gaara’s dreams for the future to start coming true. It was a necessary risk.

“If they can’t survive by themselves, they shouldn’t take the exam,” she declared.  “If you have other questions, they can wait until tomorrow. I have some meetings to get to.”

“Temari, wait,” he called, clearly dissatisfied with her answer, but she said nothing and walked away.

-----

Shikamaru awoke to the sound of someone knocking on his door.  That is, his reflexes awoke, pulling his body out of bed and reaching for his ninja tools.  His mind took a few moments longer to shake off the sleep.

“Shikamaru,” Temari hissed from the other side of the door.  That nearly made him relax, but the way she had refused to finish their argument earlier that day told him she was hiding something big.  It was also the middle of the night. The desert darkness pressed heavily against his window. Nothing good ever happened in the middle of the night.  Warily he cracked open his door and found Temari’s sharp, teal eyes in the dark hallway.

“Grab your things,” she ordered.  “We need to go. Now.”

“What’s happening?” he demanded.

“Don’t waste time with questions.  Move!”

She looked earnest.  Her clothes seemed to have been thrown on in a rush, and her hair was unbound.  A sliver of worry sliced her expression. He decided to trust her.

A minute later they were gliding down the hallway to meet up with Gaara and two Sand shinobi waiting for them.  The Kazekage was fully dressed and had his gourd slung across his back. Shikamaru wondered if he had slept at all tonight.

“Do you need me to stay?” Temari asked, but her little brother shook his head.

“Kankuro will take care of things here.  Let’s go.”

Shikamaru wanted to ask where and why, but they were already moving, and the sense of urgency was so great he thought it prudent to simply follow.  They raced down stairs and along hallways, taking so many turns he didn’t bother trying to keep track of their path. Then suddenly they were out in the open, far away from the Kazekage’s residence and the ambassadors’ quarters.  There must be secret tunnels under the city.

They stole through the empty streets, the eternal wind swirling dust around their feet.  They seemed to be heading for the massive wall that protected the village, but their route curved away from the narrow opening through which he had entered the Sand.  Instead, they ducked into a house and down into more tunnels. After more twists, turns, and stairs, they emerged into a large room. White ceiling lights illuminated a few tables and chairs.  A long, narrow window revealed they had climbed partway up the hulking wall into a network of secret rooms.

He waited with Gaara while Temari and the others checked the rooms further in.  After giving the all clear, the two Sand shinobi disappeared back into the tunnels to guard the way to the Kazekage.  With their departure, Gaara and Temari relaxed slightly. They chose a table towards the center of the room, leaning their weapons nearby and settling down to wait.

Shikamaru hesitated to join them, studying them for a moment.  Gaara had his elbows propped up on the table, lips pressed against his clasped hands as he contemplated his sister.  Temari was holding her hair back from her forehead and returning her brother’s earnest gaze. They seemed to be communicating together, but Shikamaru couldn’t read all of their thoughts.

“It was an assassination attempt, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Gaara confirmed, not bothering to dance around the subject for the sake of saving face.  He turned to meet Shikamaru’s eyes.

“This isn’t the first time,” the Leaf shinobi surmised.  His thoughts raced back to all recent interactions with the Sand, reworking interpretations under this new revelation.  He had suspected assassination threats existed, but repeated attempts were something else entirely. No wonder Temari was always watching her back.

She had closed her eyes and was taking deep breaths.  He felt sorry for her. All of the work she’d gone through to hide the true state of the Sand’s internal affairs was unravelling in this room.

“The chunin exams,” Shikamaru said, his eyebrows drawn low over his eyes as he thought.  “You’re using them to draw out your opposition to stop them.”

He saw Temari deflate further and knew he was correct before Gaara nodded.

“I apologize for keeping you in the dark,” the Kazekage said.  “The fewer people who know, the less likely our plans are to be ruined.  It was a risk I thought worth taking.”

On one level, it made sense, but such deception could destroy the alliance between their villages.  It not only endangered the participating genin, but proctors were also at risk. Based on the fact that they’d taken him with them as they evaded the assassins, Shikamaru was a potential target.  An ambassador dying in another village would definitely strain relations between allies and undermine a leader’s authority.

“I understand that you’ll have to report this to the Hokage,” Gaara acknowledged.  “I won’t ask you to withhold anything, but I would appreciate your discretion. And if possible, I would like to continue with the exams, if only to allow our genin the chance to prove themselves.”

“Understood,” Shikamaru replied, but he couldn’t make any promises before speaking with Lady Tsunade.

“Thank you,” Gaara said, closing his eyes and returning to his waiting position.

With a sigh, Shikamaru slid into a chair.  He let his head hang back so he was looking at the rough rock ceiling.  It was too late to have to sort through this mess. How would he tell Lady Tsunade their allies were willingly endangering shinobi from other villages because they themselves were threatened?  He believed Gaara meant well, but did that excuse the lies? He didn’t think the Hokage would destroy their alliance over this, but the elders might not react as favorably.

“Shikamaru.”

He sat up.  Temari had slid into the seat across from him.  He noticed the slight shadows under her teal eyes.

“Gaara’s the Kazekage.  He won’t ask the ambassador from another village for help.  Nor does he think he needs to. He has too much faith in people.”

“But you don’t.”  He finished the thought for her.  They sat there for a moment looking at each other.  The slight desperation in her eyes made him a little uncomfortable, but he was also somewhat relieved.  It was the most honest look she had given him.

Maybe he was too tired and not thinking straight.  Maybe his brain was trying to process too many things right now.  Maybe he was too shocked by how vulnerable she looked. It unnerved him.

“I won’t tell the Hokage unless I give you a head’s up first,” he promised.  “I’d rather give the Kazekage a chance to talk with her himself first.”

He wondered if this might count as betraying the village.  He had promised to report to Lady Tsunade. Withholding information that might endanger Leaf shinobi was a punishable offense.  But he hadn’t promised not to tell. If the situation worsened, he would reveal everything to the Hokage. That meant he’d have to keep a close eye on the situation, which was going to be a real drag.

The look of relief on Temari’s face, though, probably made it worth it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, reaching across the table to squeeze his arm briefly.  Then she left to join Gaara and Kankuro, who had just arrived looking disheveled and angry.  Shikamaru’s eyes lingered on Temari for a moment before he returned to staring at the ceiling.

What a troublesome woman .

[ramblingshit]

Jane Eyre - 1997 - 4/5

Rochester: Drama Baby Version.

dude he's so obvious with his love and intent for her to be his bride but because he's indirect and she can't imagine that he could possibly mean her she's like well fuck off then mate leave me to my broken heart and he's all wtf ooooooh damn i can work with this ey welcome to jealousy miss eyre, omg his every look and word is literally an 'i love you' he's so confused ahahaha grumpy affff when janes off to see reed. he's so mad 'can you explain the 28 day week to me', all sulking on a wall and surprising her as she enters the grounds like what a drama queen, so sulkily angry as he's convinced she hasn't even thought or worried of him while she's been away; first time she admits she'll miss him even though its his plan to tear the truth of whether she loves him he is so momentarily stunned and affected by it before he gathers himself and moves on with yet again another round the fence declaration; all that fuckin talk of being direct and honest and now she's yelling at him and these mutherfuckers are gonna have some wild sex goddamn they're so passionate in anger and outrage and love and excitement - she's like o no let go of me you don't love me and he just goes in for the fkn kiss like bitch YOU THOUGHT, shes gonna eat his hair goddamn the sex is gonna be next level. throwing himself head-first into his love for her, loving and spoiling and being as intimate as appropriately possible, literally tells her blanche was a tool to make jane jealous and she's fkn overjoyed to hear he didn't like the pretty intelligent lady, arguing about her veil and he keeps trying to override her askance for plain and simple 'i'll get married in this if you continue' she snaps fucking eyyyyyyy take him by the balls m8, they're disgustingly sentimental for each other omg seriously its sickening they're fucking each other with their eyes, they fkn adore each other the chemistry is reaaaaaal, dramatic reaction shots the wedding band falls to the ground omg he's ALREAD Y MARRIED AHHHHH Mason nooo oh all the servants are here on this one whoops, dramatic NOOOOOOOOOOOO from rochester this is amazing WIFE?????? The DRAMA he STEPPED On the RING on the way to the house so awkward Mrs Fairfax was right to be nervous - he's ripping Jane's arm off dragging her along everyone is out of breath and confused - damn its actually a really cool set up, her room giant pillows nailed to the wall; all gypsy like, she's got hella tits damn bertha she mad as fuck, Jane's standing there in a veil as long as she is tall, all white and perfect and Mrs Fairfax beautiful lady she is is holding Jane while Rochester rages and rants and breaks this is such drama my dude exposition is strong with this movie - BIGAMYYYYY - for the first time they stand together and you can SEE the wall between them, he kissed Bertha on the head and holds her as he glares at everyone, then he just storms out without even looking at Jane, Fairfax is distraught for Jane damn son who needs a mum when you got a housekeeper. he's sitting outside she's got bags like bye doesn't even look at him what a powerplay he's storming after her tryna get a reaction acting like a little boy having a tantrum scared and angry HE just pitched her bag down the stairs yelling in her face she didn't love him she just wanted to be mrs rochester to have thornfield the raaaaage and she's ice cold man like fire and ice this is fkn great you thought he was loud before just wait my dude he just keeps insulting her like that's gonna work calling her a spoiled child lolol look in a mirror my dude, she won't even look at him - he is a fucking drama queen. and now he getting mad lolol. selfish prick the drama. he's so heartbroken and angry - OH MR ROCHESTER IS IT. he used to be able to yell over her but no more she just keeps talking and it overrides him.  I COULD NEVER TRUST YOU AGAIN OOOOOOOOOOOOOOO JANE FAM. omg the chemistry 'you have a wife you belong to another' 'I BELONG TO YOU AND YOU BELONG TO ME WE ARE ONE SOUL' holy fuck how many romances can hit this hard 'help me to be strong' 'i need you... say you want me!' she's so moral and conscientious 'i am worth more than that.' ohhhhhhhhhh he just told her to GOO fuuuuuuuuuckkk she's gonna die - now he's regretting it and angryyyyyy. damn. DAMN. now she's suicidal and just sleeping on the ground sniffing the floor poor and homeless whoops and freezing. silly bish. shoulda stayed at ol mate's house. whoops she flopped over. this stjohn is like grecian and perfect but that look is 100% not attractive to me and he's creeping on her as she sleeps and rests he's looking at her too intimately. fuck jumping in time here months at a time its all a bit awkward - 'ive watched you carefully these last months' well that's fucking creepy. literally zero chemistry i love it. ciarans been off screen for like 5 minutes and im immediately bored and missing him. where is my drama baby. WIFE?? outrage and anger her eyes are fire and as he proposed she like stopped listening and started hearing edward's declarations instead.  'i am confused. my heart won't speak to me' 'then i will speak for it!' starts hallucinating rochester's voice calling for her lmao so dramatic 'Edward I am coming!!' Stjohn is like wtffff bye crazy. she all desperate running through teh fields dramatically but OH no the house is like non-existent. she's panting horrified can't even cope as she heard the story - she's not been anywhere near this passionately dishevelled and distressed the entire movie. I love Mrs Fairfax she's such an anxious mother. the dramaaaaa she promises to take care of him and he's like NAH FUCK THAT I WANNA FUCK he thinks she's pitying him he's so mad and embarrassed and upset 'SO YOU DIDN'T FIND A HUSBAND THEN'  'i found someone who wanted to marry me' he looks like he wants to shit a brick and set fire to the house and push the nuke button while flinging himself off a cliff - now she's laying on the jealousy he put on her with ingram. the drama he's tryna send her off because he's so embarrassed. she's passionate and certain - i will never leave your side again. nawwwww his tearsssssssss 'You are not your wounds!' 'you are everything that matters in teh world to me, edward.' he's sobbing i'm sobbing everyone's crying omgggggg this is so beautiful i love ciaran hinds she looks like she's having an orgasm just hugging him fuckin damn. nawwww happy families, she's lively and pretty and they have two kids and he's got sight in one eye and they LOVE EACH OTHER HAPPILY EVER AFTER MUTHAFUCKER YEEESSSSSSSS literally amazing I love this version.

...

Rochester:

commanding, calculating, loud, highly observant, fluent in many languages, very forward, playful, wants to always know what everyone's doing or thinking, self-deprecating, direct, like to sit in the drawing room and drink after dinner, asks by way of command - do this and its done, domineering, likes people to answer his queries directly and honestly and gets irritated immediately when they do not, enthusiastic and animated and passionate, not into secrets - will share his deepest and saddest and darkest tales with anyone remotely intimate with him, brutally honest but completely without intention to harm or offend, heavy sleeper, loves her pretty much by their first conversation, eyes light up his face make him look younger and brighter, lays it on too thick too fast, love is all-encompassing, the moment she pulls away he's off to lay on the jealousy and envy from Jane upon him and his lady friends who he doesn't give a shit about, deeply sarcastic, proud, superior, moody, sulky and childish bastard i love him its so pathetic and cute she's got so much power over him that he pretends she doesn't have, happy to lie by omission, won't let her storm off angrily - they'll keep talking until things calm between them and then they'll part, talks in riddles then gets frustrated when people don't understand him, selfish, jealous of anyone getting her attention but him, likes to torment her when he's angry, the law unto himself, jubilant in love with her, they dance together without music, entirely emotionally dependent on her love and affection - unhealthy relationship eyyy

hears a noise behind a door and as she leans to look the door opens and she silently moves with it, hiding behind it back against the wall as the entity enters and then leaves without seeing her - the door closes and she is frozen behind it and against the wall for a long few moments before bursting into action.

watch the sunrise together - so distracted by an argument that they miss it

"lets not argue then, lets shake hands and be friends'

woman in long white lace veil twitching out in front of the moonlit window, just a fkn creepy ass silhouette

[lovedmoviesb]

"Why are you so dirty?" The little girl's voice was so high Rick could scarcely understand her question. He looked up from his place at the foot of the stairs. She was standing on the porch, practically drowning in layers of tulle and lace ribbons.

Rick scowled at her. "What do you mean?"

"You're filthy," she scoffed, her voice an imitation of the high-bred ladies of big houses like this one. "You're face is so dirty that you look like one of the Negros." She stared down at him with distaste.

"Well what about you?" Rick countered.

"What about me?" she crossed her arms, looking as though she dared him to continue.

"You look like a big ole' wedding cake," he gestured to her ultra-feminine attire. "Who'd want to walk around looking like that?" She was pretty enough, he supposed, with her wide eyes and dark hair, but he wasn't about to let himself be bullied because she was pretty.

"Better than looking colored," she fired back immediately.

Rick opened his mouth to retort, but was beat to the punch.

"Lori!" a boy around Rick's age came out of the house. He was darker than she, his hair wiry and thick, curling up wildly. "Why you always gotta be so mean for?" he asked her.

She sniffed haughtily. "You're not the boss of me, Shane Walsh," she scoffed.

"And you ain't the boss of anyone 'round here," he laughed, an easy, affable sound. "What's your name?" he turned his attention to Rick.

"Rick Grimes," Rick answered.

"Shane Walsh," he extended his hand, swinging over the banister of the porch to come face to face with him. "You're part of the new family working here?" he asked.

"Yup," Rick gestured towards the workmen's houses. He'd spent the best part of the day unloading boxes and tilling the square patch of dirt near their modest one-room shack. His family would depend on that patch for food. Since his daddy was to be working the big fields, the responsibility of feeding his family fell to Rick. "Do you live here too?"

"Sure do," Shane answered. "Nice to have another boy 'round here." He looked at Lori. "She's no damn fun anymore."

Rick startled at the curse word, but Lori was outright angered. "I'm going to tell your mama, Shane Walsh!" she promised.

"Fine," Shane looked unconcerned. "You working already?" he asked Rick, looking at the dirt on his face.

"I'm always working," Rick flushed. He couldn't remember a time when he wasn't.

"Think you can take a break?" with an easy grin, Shane fished a bag of sweets from his pocket, offering one to Rick.

"Hey!" Lori protested upon seeing the wax paper wrapped sweets. "You were supposed to share those with me!"

"Maybe I will," Shane tossed one to Rick, staring up at the girl on the porch. "Depends…" he said cryptically.

"On what?" Lori took the bait, leaning over the banister to look at the two boys.

"On whether you're done acting like a spoiled princess and ready to be fun again," Shane laughed.

Lori pouted, but started down the stairs. "I want to be fun…" she said.

"Well, all right then," Shane handed her a single candy. "The rest of this is for Rick," he dropped the canvas bag into Rick's hand. Rick fumbled for a moment.

"Why?" he asked.

"If she's nice, you can share. Or not. Up to you," Shane shrugged. "Sound fair?" he started walking off. "C'mon," he called over his shoulder. "Let's go to the lake."

He left them a few steps behind, already jogging off. Rick looked awkwardly at the girl next to him.

"You can have them," he told her, extending the bag of sweets to her. Lori took them with a smile. She opened the pouch, fishing around inside.

"We can split them," she said, offering him another. "If you can catch me," she shot off like a bolt, skirts swirling in the dirt.

Rick followed with a grin, running after the two children.

[carabas]

(for the Black Emporium prompt: "Colette is an academic out in the field hunting for clues about who Ameridan was, Ameridan has been rescued after 800 years of fending off a powerful dragon abomination. Imagine if he survived and could give answers to some of the theories she'd been researching." In which Colette meets her history crush.)

After the Inquisitor’s visit, Colette spends the remainder of the day documenting the Tevinter ruins. She barely notices the darkening sky until she finds herself struggling to make out her own notes, until a green light flashes overhead and illuminates the page. And she looks up just as a glowing wisp darts through the air and brushes against her cheek.  

At its touch, a deep, pleasant voice echoes through her mind.

We have a plan. Haron and Orinna will lead the Avvar elsewhere, so Telana and I can deal with the dragon. My spirit companion believes we can seal the dragon away, even if we cannot kill it. It is less clear whether I can do so without—

The voice cuts off as the wisp drifts away, taking up a position circling the statue at the heart of the ruins. And Colette frowns up at it in consternation.

Spirits. Always meddling with the most important sites. Useful for preservation, but then they make it impossible to date anything accurately; mimicking history, but with no way to tell how much of what they say reflects the actual events and how much came from someone’s wild imagination. About as reliable as insights from a dream. And its presence in these ruins means she’s going to have to be doubly careful to verify everything she’s discovered here—not that she wouldn’t have done that anyway.

Still, she scrambles to jot down its exact words before she forgets them.

It’s something, to hear Ameridan’s voice here in this place where he and his companions had walked, still lingering after all these years. Even if it isn’t real.

It’s a long walk back to the base camp, and bird song’s given way to chirping insects and the occasional rustling of some unseen creature in the undergrowth—some nocturnal predator probably, and she’s probably not lucky enough to be rescued by the Inquisitor twice in the same day, and she should really see about bringing along some Inquisition scouts for the return trip tomorrow. But even the prospect of another hungry pack of lurkers can’t dampen her excitement much, and she spends the walk mentally cataloguing the work still to be done. The discoveries she’s made today alone, the contributions to their understanding of Inquisitor Ameridan’s era of early Chantry history—it’s a feast after spending years searching for scraps.

Tonight definitely deserves a treat from her limited stash of hot cocoa, she decides.

There’s a crowd clustered in the lights of the base camp, so many people hanging around the gate that she can’t manage to get through; she just manages to spot the surgeon running towards them, then ducking out of her sight.

When she asks what’s going on, one of the scouts in front of her answers in a hushed whisper. “They found the last Inquisitor.”

She thinks her heart just stopped. “The resting place? It’s here?” We were right. Maker, this book is going to make history.

The scout shakes his head, and he points through the crowd, leaning aside just enough for her to see what everyone’s clustered around, the unconscious man that the surgeon’s kneeling over. “They found the Inquisitor.”

She doesn’t recognize the man on the ground. One of the Dalish scouts, clearly, with the tattoos, but not one she knows—though that antique armor he’s wearing isn’t Inquisition uniform; it looks almost like—

It penetrates. “What?”

Inquisitor Ameridan looks nothing like she’d imagined. And granted, the historical records are quite vague on his appearance—and privately, her mental image had been mostly based on an Orlesian novel about the Inquisitor and his lady mage; it was quite tasteful, really—and granted, lying unconscious on the surgeon’s cot is perhaps not the most accurate of first impressions.

He looks kind, the lines of his face. Smile lines. She hadn’t expected that.

Breaking down the camp and getting ready for the journey to Skyhold, Colette hesitates outside the surgeon’s tent, her arms full of a box of mineral samples. There’s a pair of guards keeping watch, but she and Professor Kenric have been in and out of that tent all day, and the guards pay her no mind anymore.

The surgeon and the spirit healer have stepped outside at the moment, locked in a heated debate about bile and bloodletting. They’ve been doing a lot of that. Inquisitor Ameridan keeps drifting in and out of consciousness, and there isn’t a standard method of treatment for eight hundred years’ worth of magical exhaustion, or for the sudden loss of some kind of spirit companion who’s kept you alive all that time.

But she’s hearing voices inside the tent too. And the real Ameridan’s voice sounds just the same as he had in her head, at the wisp’s touch.

He’s awake.

Peering through the tent flap, she sees that strange boy that the Inquisitor—the other Inquisitor—that Inquisitor Lavellan has been looking after, the boy whose name she can never remember.

“Too bright, blinding, breaking, broken. ‘Get to safety. I will seal us both away. …It's not forever.’”

Cole. That’s his name. Colette doesn’t know how she keeps forgetting that.

She sees Ameridan’s hand grasp Cole’s, then fall back. And feeling she’s intruding, Colette lets the tent flap fall closed, just as she hears Ameridan say, “Thank you.”

A career spent picking away at pieces of a mystery, and now she’s had the whole answer dumped in her lap all at once. She’s still not sure she believes it.

And that’s the trouble. Even with all their documentation of the Inquisitor’s last days in the Frostback Basin, when it comes to proving that the man now recovering in Skyhold is who he says he is, there’s very little in the way of physical evidence and a whole lot depending on Inquisitor Lavellan’s word about what she saw, dragon-god skull or no.

And for anyone already inclined to mistrust the Inquisition, Colette has to admit it’s a bit of a stretch. So convenient for Inquisitor Lavellan, the elven upstart who crowned herself as the new Inquisitor and declared the rebel mages under her protection, to suddenly discover that the last true Inquisitor was really an elf, and a mage, and here in the flesh to give her his blessing; the perfect precedent conjured out of nothing, too convenient to be believed.

And then there’s those who accept the Inquisition’s claims just because they think supporting the Inquisition could work to their own advantage, not because they care about the truth or the accuracy of Colette’s research one way or the other. History dependent on politics. That leaves an even worse taste in her mouth.

Which is why Professor Kenric is packing for Orzammar and the Shaperate, prepared to search for every scrap of corroborating evidence of their claims, when the answer to all their questions is right there in Skyhold’s guest quarters.

“It’s the chance of a lifetime,” the professor says for what has to be the dozenth time, somehow managing to sound both giddy and as if he’s trying to convince himself at once. Colette can sympathize; under any other circumstances, she would be mad with jealousy at a chance to access the Shaperate’s records.

But it’s hard to be jealous, when instead she’s sitting beside Ameridan’s bedside as he patiently answers her questions, trading every answer for a question of his own; as she sketches Haron and Orinna from his description until they’re both satisfied with the result, while she tells him, haltingly, about their last stand, and then about the Dales, Drakon, the Blights, and Seekers and mages and spirits and the alienage where she grew up and Qunari hot cocoa, and the dragons that no one hunts anymore, or hardly anyone aside from Professor Frederic anyway, because they’d seemed extinct until they weren’t, another wonder from the past that everyone had thought was gone forever. Everything. As much of the past eight hundred years as she can piece together for him.

Maker, he’s tall, she thinks the first time she sees him out of bed without needing his staff to lean on; and then when she sees him in the long lines of the Inquisition’s formal uniform, looking like he’d just stepped out of that Orlesian novel.

He looks even taller as he moves through the alleyways of Halamshiral, the line of his back ramrod straight, and they draw curious looks as they move deeper into the slums. And this isn’t where they’re supposed to be; their diplomatic visit to the Winter Palace on their way to the University, the stops along the way, the meeting with Keeper Levinia Ghilain, it’s all been carefully scheduled. But he follows her lead when she veers off the planned path; gives her a curious look, and then sets out as if he knows where he’s going, ground-devouring strides, putting an end to the protest of their escort in formal livery and formal masks, forcing the escort to hurry to keep up with them.

The river might not have changed since his time, or the mountains around the city, but everything else must have. Even just within Colette’s lifetime, the city’s changed beyond recognition. She can still see the scars where the Empress of Fire earned her name; whole neighborhoods gone, cobbled-together shelters that can’t have been standing for more than a year and don’t look likely to hold together for much longer, older buildings left abandoned, roofs fallen in and doors boarded over.

All this to remind the elves not to forget their place. And yet now Colette’s walking through Halamshiral at Ameridan’s side with a sword slung across her back, an elf openly carrying a weapon within the city, and not one guard has tried to stop her.

Ameridan pauses on a bridge over the river, identical to half a dozen others, of no particular significance that Colette can see. His hands gripping the iron railing.

“Andraste’s children were the ones who granted us the Dales in the first place,” he says, sounding more bewildered than anything else. “For Drakon’s chantry to be the ones to do—this—”

He doesn’t finish the thought, just spreads his hands wordlessly.

Drakon’s chantry. As if it was just that, just a group of the faithful started by a friend of his.

Hesitant, she puts her hand over his, where he’s been gripping the railing. And she watches his shoulders sag as a little of the tension goes out of him.

She asks him what it was like, the old Halamshiral, the way he remembers it. And looking up at the Winter Palace silhouetted against the sky in the distance, he begins to tell her, clasping her hand in his own.

Everything always seems so meaningful in the stories about him, the novels and the historical accounts both. Like every event has a purpose behind it. There may be pieces missing in the records, but when she’s reading, it’s always felt like if she could just fill in enough of those blanks, the world would make sense.

But he’s not a character in a book.

“Would it be that bad, if you can’t prove who I am?”

They’re sitting in Skyhold’s garden, with one of the books on the Divine Age that Ameridan had asked her for. The Sword of Drakon: An Examination of the Life and History of the Father of Orlais. Though it’s far from the most historically accurate depiction of Drakon’s life after Ameridan's disappearance. He passes her a mug as he sits down, unasked, and she’s startled to find it full of hot cocoa.

And that question’s such an understatement, she barely knows where to begin.

“There’s so much we’ve forgotten,” she manages. ���You’re—everything.” Eloquent.

He’d spent half the morning in the undercroft with Dagna and Harritt and his perfectly preserved Divine Age armor, listening to them argue over innovation and older methods, historical techniques that have gotten lost over time, across the Exalted Marches, the Blights.

And he comes from a time period when there was just the Blight, one, a singular event, and over and done with; when people hadn’t believed there would ever be another, not even when the darkspawn had already overrun half the Anderfels. She can’t picture what that would be like, the kind of future he must have imagined for the world, without the Blights constantly knocking them down again. As if you’d only have to get through one winter, and then it would be flowers for the rest of your days. It must have seemed like anything was possible.

And he’s not sure it matters if anyone recognizes who he is.

Just the sheer fact of him makes anything seem possible again.

[witchy1bear]

Recently, I’ve been ordained. So I’ve been thinking what it would be like to be the ordained priestess in a handfasting. Handfasting is such a happy thing, and it being spring once again I thought I would try to reproduce a single priestess version. I generally work alone, so it would have to just be me. 

A Somewhat Traditional Handfasting Ceremony: 

Items Needed: 

 Athame and Four Bowls 

A full wine goblet 

Four Candles for the corners 

Altar Candles (also a white taper or long matches) 

3 ft of cord or ribbon 

Oil mixture(preferably made for love or marriage) 

Incense 

Salt Water( Moon or Rose Water preferably) 

Optional Items: (Changes dependent on allergies and preference) 

 A sagey cedar burn stick 

 Sweetgrass rope 

[The ritual will be held during the waxing moon or on the full moon. Whether outside or inside, flowers and candles will be present.] 

Before the ritual begins, they will be anointed with oil. I feel like letting them choose the type of oil will help bring them what they want out of the ritual. If they didn’t have a preference, I would choose my own special love oil mixture.(If you’re curious, I will post the specific recipe later). 

I bring them to the east portal and then anoint them. After this, the couple will stand in front of the altar, which will hold all the tools for the ritual. (With the regular tools there is the color ribbons or cords of the couple’s choice but for simplicity we are going to say red cord. The wedding rings will also be up there if they wish so. ) 

Here is where we start: 

“ I will take the athame and walk around the circle to direct the energy until it is closed in a circle. Going back to the altar, I will light the two white taper candles on the altar but leaving the rest unlit.”

Starting with lighting the East Candle with one white taper candle, I will say: 

 “Here is light at the East. where the life-giving sun will rise upon their love. Let their words and thoughts towards one another be sweet and compassionate. Air, I call you to the circle.” 

 I move to the South. I will say: 

 “Here is light at the South, where the fire rises up to warm and comfort. Let their passion blaze and find delight in one another. Fire, I call you to the circle.” 

 Moving on the the West, I will say: 

“Here is light at the West, where water soothes and moves bringing flexibility and compromise. Let their hearts be understood and the waters be tranquil. Water, I call you to the circle.” 

 Going to the North, I will say: 

 “Here is light at the North, where earth forms a solid foundation of life for all. Let their love be fertile and abundant, and their foundations be firm. Earth, I call you to the circle.”

Returning to the altar and lighting the rest of the candles and incense, I will say: 

 “Here is light that I bring into the circle. Let it light the way through the darkness of ignorance and bring us to the world of knowledge. Let their hearts know joy of each other from here forward. Light to life, in all things.” 

 I will take the athame and dip the tip into the bowl of salt, and then say: “We use salt to purify. Let this salt be pure and let it purify our lives as we use it in this rite dedicated to the God and Goddess.” 

Taking three pinches of salt, I will drop it into the bowl of water. Then the athame blade will then be dipped in after, I will say: 

 “Let this salt drive out the impurities in the water, and together may they be used with love and light in this rite.” Walking deosil around the circle, I will sprinkle the water along the line of the circle. I begin to invite the God and Goddess. “Lord and Lady, I invite you to enter this circle. Be here with us and witness these rites held in your honor. Today, two shall become one. Please witness their promises to one another. Please stand beside them throughout the life they wish to lead together. So mote it be!” 

I dip my fingers into the salt water, and mark their foreheads.

  “Here I consecrate you in the names of the Lord and Lady. Be here with love in your eyes and peace in your hearts. [Name1], what is your desire?” 

[Name1]: “To be made one with my soul mate,[Name2].” 

“Here I consecrate you in the names of the God and Goddess. Be here with love in your eyes and peace in your hearts. [Name2], what is your desire?” 

 [Name2]: “To be made one with my soul mate, [Name1].”

“Do you both wish for this union?” 

 [Name1 & Name2}: “I do.” 

 “God and Goddess, here stand two of your people. Witness now what they have to declare.” I begin to tie the red cord around their hands. 

Couple reads their vows, if any. (Because I really love the Celtic vows I’m putting it here. It is not necessary. I feel it just is a bit more personal.)

 Vows: 

“You cannot possess me for I belong to myself But while we both wish it, I give you that which is mine to give You cannon command me, for I am a free person But I shall serve you in those ways you require and the honeycomb will taste sweeter coming from my hand.” 

The couple kiss. 

“As the grass of the fields and the trees of the woods bend together under the pressures of the storm, so too must you both bend when the wind blows strong. But know that as quickly as the storm comes, so equally quickly must it leave. Yet you both will stand strong in each other. As you give love, so you shall receive it. As you give strength, you will receive strength. Together you are now one; and apart you are nothing.”

Untying the hands, and placing the rings.

 “Know that no two people are exactly alike. No more can any two fit together, perfectly. There will be times of anger, and it will be hard to give and receive love. But when you see your reflection, remember, that when we are sad and angered that then is the time to smile and to come with love. For it is not fire that puts out fire. So change anger for love and tears for joy. It is no weakness to admit a wrong. No, it is strength and a sign of learning. Ever love, help, and respect each other. Cherish one another. So mote it be!” 

Then we close the circle to celebrate. This was my single person idea based off of Raymond Buckland’s group ceremony. Any questions or anything anyone see that needs to be fixed?

[dwjfansitearchive]

News Bulletins - November 2007

World Fantasy Award Acceptance Speech

On November 3rd 2007, the World Fantasy Association gave me a Lifetime Acheivement Award, in conjunction with another lady. It is almost unknown for them to give this award to a woman, let alone two. As I was unable to go to America to receive it, I sent my speech of thanks to my friend and editor, Sharyn November, to deliver for me.

This is it:

Thank you everyone, and thanks too to Sharyn November for agreeing to read this. (How is that for getting a person to thank herself? It can be done).

I am really very grateful for this Award. It is one of the first given to a woman, and to two women at that. When I first started getting work published, I used to have wistful thoughts at the way all important awards were given to men. Women, I used to think, could be as innovative, imaginative and productive as possible - and women were the ones mostly at work in the field of fantasy for children and young adults - but only let a man enter the field, and people instantly regarded what he had to say and what he did as more Important. He got respectful reviews as well as awards, even if what he was doing - which it often was - was imitating the women. But you have changed all that.

Thank you for being so enlightened.

Women, large-minded, formidable women, have played an almost exclusive part in helping my career. I have hardly ever dealt with a man - at least, when it came to publishing: when it came to personal help, I have always relied heavily on my husband, John Burrow, who has come unfailingly to my rescue during those times when I walked despairingly about the house, saying I would never manage to write another word. (This tends to happen to me a lot). And he was always the only person who could convince Susan Hirschman of Greenwillow that what she was proposing was illiterate. He is a professor of English, and she respected that. I need to thank him, and also my three sons, who, as children, read my stuff and gave me very frank criticisms.

Richard was always very sensitive to places where I had got things *emotionally* wrong ('You should make this a bit *nastier*, Mum') and Mick never said much, but when he did, I fell over myself to put whatever-it-was right, because he was always spot on. Colin was helpful too, when he was young, but on reaching his teens, complained that typescripts always went back to front on him and that he disapproved of happy endings on principle.

Whatever, I have to thank them all.

As for these formidable ladies I spoke of, the first I have to thank is my agent, Laura Cecil. Before I was introduced to her, I had been trying to get published for ten years, and publishers' responses ranged from 'Who you?' to 'What do you mean, breaking all our rules and protocols?' right on to - this was over EIGHT DAYS OF LUKE, whose plot depends on someone striking a match to summon Luke/Loki - 'We can't publish this: children shouldn't play with fire.' ! The moment Laura came on the scene, I struck gold at Macmillan, London, and I have to thank her for that, and for about forty more years of the same.

Laura introduced me to the formidable Marni Hodgkin at Macmillan. Every other member of her family has won a Nobel Prize for something, and I often felt that Marni should have won one too, just for being herself. Robert Westall once phoned me tremulously, after Marni had had him in her office about his latest book. 'It's like being brainwashed,' he said. 'She pulled every part of the book to pieces and made me put it togwether differently, and I found myself adoring her for it. It - it's unhealthy!'

Now I don't do being brainwashed, so my relationship with Marni was always rather stormy.

This is where I learnt what literary agents are *really* for: they are for pulling you off the throat of your publisher. Marni always had to make a change in every book, regardless of whether it was necessary. Laura had to do a lot of work on me there, until the solution came to me. You see, in those days, there was only the one typescript - you couldn't just do another printout as you can with computers - and I would take the typescript meekly home with me, find the places where Marni was insisting on changes, and cut those places into irregular strips. Then I would stick them together with tape in just the same order, utterly unchanged, and send it back. 'Oh,' Marni would always say. 'Your changes have made such a difference!'

And, like Robert Westall, I adored her. She published three of my books in one year. She encouraged me, simply by wanting to pay all that attention to those books. And all writers need this kind of encouragement. It is the best kind there is. So I have to thank Marni quite devoutly.

The other person I have to thank is the redoubtable Susan Hirschman at Greenwillow. Susan published everything I ever sent her, promptly and efficiently, and was thereby my other main encouragment. If I was slow with the next book, there would be a gentle, steely enquiry, and that was all. That was all it took. Nevertheless, Laura had to wrork on me here too, not on plot changes, because Susan always loved stories and didn't tamper there, ever. With her it was all about *words*. It goes without saying that there was the matter of translating from British English to American, which always made me restive; but the main things were often quite absurd. I remember particularly the Great Muesli Row, in which Susan stated categorically that there was no such thing as Muesli in the United States; while I tried indignantly to draw her attention to the shop across the street from her office, where the window was filled with Muesli. I think she must have gone and looked in the end, because Muesli was not replaced with oatmeal.

Actually, I loved Susan for her categorical ways and wish she hadn't retired. She flew hundreds of airmiles to hear me speak, and if she couldn't get there, she alway demanded a copy of the speech. What better encouragement can a person have?

Actually Sharyn herself gave me encouragement of a different kind the day the news about the award was leaked. It was the day before my birthday - which was both joyful and gloomy, because there is nothing like a *Lifetime Acheivement* Award to ram it home to one that one is now seventy-three and decidedly getting on in years. And people have lately been writing books and learned articles and student theses on my work, which makes me, frankly, feel as if I might have died without noticing the fact, or else that they mean some other Jones.

They always call me 'subversive', which in a way I am, although, looking back on my relations with Marni and Susan, I think that 'intransigent' is a better word. One learned article, however, described me as 'rooted in fluidity', which took me aback a little. 'Good Lord!' I cried out. 'That sounds as if I'm a hydroponic lettuce!'

Anyway, Sharyn said to me,'This is only an award for your lifetime *up to now*. Don't you dare go and *die*!' And I don't intend to, thanks to Sharyn. I intend to go on and write the perfect book, which I know I haven't done yet. Meanwhile, you can all feel very proud and pleased that you have given this award to a woman who is the world's first hydroponically grown writer.

Thank you very, very much.

Diana Wynne Jones

(Editor's note: The other Life Achievement Award went to editor and publisher Betty Ballantine, co-founder of Ballantine Books. Full list of winners at http://www.worldfantasy.org/awards/

(on web archive)

[dia-luneris]

Character Development Questions: Hard Mode

(answering OOC, and regarding current time-line Lady)

1. Does your character have siblings or family members in their age group? Which one are they closest with?

Lady doesn’t have any siblings, but she sees her friend Shay as a brother. She is also close enough to Khatayin to consider her a sister. 

2. What is/was your character’s relationship with their mother like?

Lady has a pretty good relationship with her mother. They’re more like friends really with how they interact. They’re pretty close, and like-minded.

3. What is/was your character’s relationship with their father like?

Lady loves her father dearly, but their relationship has seen strain across time. They used to argue a lot when she was younger. But things have settled down now.  

4. Has your character ever witnessed something that fundamentally changed them? If so, does anyone else know?

A man attacked her once, when she was seventeen. He had intended on raping her, but she got away from him. It’s well known, being that the man was taken to court over it, and got away with it. 

5. On an average day, what can be found in your character’s pockets?

A lock picking kit, some sort of candy, her house key, some string.

6. Does your character have recurring themes in their dreams?

She dreams a lot about birds, things with wings.

7. Does your character have recurring themes in their nightmares?

She does still have nightmares about a person from her past. Someone who scared her, and maybe still scares her.

8. Has your character ever fired a gun? If so, what was their first target?

Nope, she has no interest in guns.

9. Is your character’s current socioeconomic status different than it was when they were growing up?

Yes, she makes her own money now. When she was younger, she would be given an allowance from her wealthy family. She’ll always be a noblewoman, but she makes her own way these days.  

10. Does your character feel more comfortable with more clothing, or with less clothing?

More clothing.

11. In what situation was your character the most afraid they’ve ever been?

She was surrounded by more void sent than she could handle once. And the first thing that came to mind, was wondering if she was going to die. And if she would see her loved ones again.

12. In what situation was your character the most calm they’ve ever been?

Falling asleep with her significant other holding her, listening to the cat snoring at the bottom of the bed :) 

13. Is your character bothered by the sight of blood? If so, in what way?

Nope, not really. Being that she has worked in an infirmary, and is now a field medic, blood is something she’s desensitized to. It would have to be a lot of blood, to rattle her. Like someone being near death.

14. Does your character remember names or faces easier?

She remembers faces easier than names. Despite having to memorize the names and titles of all the other families. 

15. Is your character preoccupied with money or material possession? Why or why not?

Umm... she wouldn’t admit to it, but she is a plushy addict. And since those are material possessions, then yes?

16. Which does your character idealize most: happiness or success?

Happiness for sure. What’s the point in success if you’re not happy?

17. What was your character’s favorite toy as a child?

A wooden duck on wheels, with a piece of twine attached for walking it. She called it Quackers.

18. Is your character more likely to admire wisdom, or ambition in others?

When she was younger, it would have been ambition. These days it’s wisdom.

19. What is your character’s biggest relationship flaw? Has this flaw destroyed relationships for them before?

She’s very headstrong. She’s only ever been in one romantic relationship, but I can see this being frustrating for her partner, as it was for her family. 

20. In what ways does your character compare themselves to others? Do they do this for the sake of self-validation, or self-criticism?

I think it’s more self-criticism... She feels inferior to other people who she sees as stronger than her, or more skilled than her.

21. If something tragic or negative happens to your character, do they believe they may have caused or deserved it, or are they quick to blame others?

Lady is way more likely to blame herself. She’s not really the sort of person to blame others. It’s always could I have been stronger, or attracted less attention to myself somehow.

22. What does your character like in other people?

Kindness and a sense of humour.

23. What does your character dislike in other people?

Forwardness in a sexual manner. She’s never been big on people advertising that they’re looking for the fucc. Or basically asking you want fucc? 

24. How quick is your character to trust someone else?

It depends on the person really, and the situation.  

25. How quick is your character to suspect someone else? Does this change if they are close with that person?

Hmm... they’d have to be pretty sketchy for her to suspect them of anything. And if she cares for that person, she’ll likely give them more chances to prove otherwise. 

26. How does your character behave around children?

She likes them well enough. She would usually offer to tell them stories, or craft with them. But she’s happy with the idea that they’re going back to Mama and Papa at the end of the day.

27. How does your character normally deal with confrontation?

She’s pretty quick to threaten violence if she feels very vulnerable. But with verbal confrontation, she will try and resolve it peacefully if the person is a friend.

28. How quick or slow is your character to resort to physical violence in a confrontation?

Ohh, pretty quick. She’s small, so prefers to get the upper hand.

29. What did your character dream of being or doing as a child? Did that dream come true?

Lady had dreamed of becoming the next Azure Dragoon as a child... but that dream did not come true.

30. What does your character find repulsive or disgusting?

People mistreating others. She absolutely detests seeing someone so broken by a person they feel beholden to. 

31. Describe a scenario in which your character feels most comfortable.

If someone asks her if she would like to have tea with them. Or something else that she finds pleasant, like reading together.

32. Describe a scenario in which your character feels most uncomfortable.

If someone stands too close to her, or tries to initiate physical contact in some way. Even someone being in her personal space for too long, is offensive to her.

33. In the face of criticism, is your character defensive, self-deprecating, or willing to improve?

I think it’d be a lie to say she wouldn’t be defensive. Most people would be. But as long as it’s constructive criticism, and not just harsh for the sake of it, she’d be willing to improve.

34. Is your character more likely to keep trying a solution/method that didn’t work the first time, or immediately move on to a different solution/method?

She’d analyze the first method, and try to ascertain what exactly went wrong with it. Maybe it’d be a case of just adjusting what she did before.

35. How does your character behave around people they like?

As in ‘like’ like. She used to try her best not to blush around Damien, often failing. But for friendly like, she’s a lot softer in demeanor, a lot more approachable.

36. How does your character behave around people they dislike?

Lady is very stand-offish around people she doesn’t like. That or she’s cool headed, making it seem like she honestly doesn’t care, what they do or say, as long as they get lost soon.

37. Is your character more concerned with defending their honor, or protecting their status?

Hmm... this one is tough. Being Ishgardian, honour and status go hand in hand. But I guess honour is most important to her.

38. Is your character more likely to remove a problem/threat, or remove themselves from a problem/threat?

This is very circumstantial really. If she can remove the threat, then she will try. But if she can’t, then she’ll have to face that she can’t and walk away.

39. Has your character ever been bitten by an animal? How were they affected (or unaffected)?

She has been bitten by many creatures, being an adventurer. But I think the only one that actually affected her, was being bitten by a stray cat. She was sad, because she was just trying to help the kitty.

40. How does your character treat people in service jobs?

Lady is nice and polite to anyone who serves people. She knows it can’t be an easy job dealing with people day in, day out. Especially if the task isn’t exactly pleasant. 

41. Does your character feel that they deserve to have what they want, whether it be material or abstract, or do they feel they must earn it first?

Totally about earning it. It’s nice to be treated, yes, but she wants to earn what she gets.

42. Has your character ever had a parental figure who was not related to them?

Yes, in a sense. She has always seen Damien’s mother as a second Mum to her. 

43. Has your character ever had a dependent figure who was not related to them?

If you count Elenion, then yes. When Eleni was young, she’d treat her very much like a little sister, and she’d look after her.  

44. How easy or difficult is it for your character to say “I love you?” Can they say it without meaning it?

It used to be something that she couldn’t say. But that was because the person she was loves, was unavailable to her. Now it’s easy for her to say. She definitely can’t say it, and not mean it though.

45. What does your character believe will happen to them after they die? Does this belief scare them?

Lady believes that she will return to the life stream. It seems the most plausible thing to her, rather than going to some hall of the gods.

[tipsycad147]

MAY FULL FLOWER MOON RITUAL – RECOGNIZING VALUE

The Full Flower Moon get’s it’s name from Native Americans as spring flowers are literally opening everywhere you look.  It is also known as the Corn Planting Moon, Mother’s Moon, and the Milk Moon.

In order to perform this ritual as written, you’ll need the following items:

Quarter Candles (yellow, red, blue, green) Large White Goddess Candle Large Gold or Yellow God Candle Paper and pencil for each participant Fire pit or cauldron suitable for safely burning small objects and paper Altar

This is intended to be performed outdoors, under the light of the full snow moon – dress appropriately and use proper fire safety.

<Anything in the ritual that is contained with <> should be understood as instructional for the ritual leader and should not be spoken aloud>

Ritual Begins

I cast this circle all around, high above and below the ground, a sacred place between time and space, where all are welcome and all are safe!

Calling the Quarters

East

As the spring winds slip ever so gracefully across the land, we turn our eyes to the East and give high praises to the great spirits of Air.  We welcome you to our circle on this night when the moon is full and shining across the world. <light yellow candle>

South

The last of the warming rays of the sun have just dropped beneath the horizon as we turn to the South, where the great Fire spirits make their home.  We give thanks for your attendance in our circle tonight and offer high thanks and praises for the gift of light which you’ve bestowed upon us.  Keep our path illuminated as we move from place to place so that no harm or accident will fall our way. <light red candle>

West

The sound of moving Water conjures up memories of things both beautiful and filled with adventure, as we look to the West, we are filled with a sense of comfort, joy, and protection.  You honor us by joining our circle and offering us the endless gift of cleansing waters, which regenerate both our bodies and our spirit. <light blue candle>

North

Finally all souls turn toward the North, where the great spirits of Earth make their homes.  Those who have traveled through the densest forests and across the highest mountains, still find the time to share their blessings to us mortals.  We give high praise for the many gifts, the teachings, and for attending this circle tonight. <light green candle>

Great Goddess, Great God, we humbly, and with great praises and honor present ourselves as our truest selves.  We are those who work the land, and drive the herds.  We are servants, messengers, disciples, and students.  We are kings and queens and lords of our own domains.  We are individuals, and yes, we are a family.  Together you bring balance to the world and the world smiles upon us.  Thank you for attending this circle on this Full Flower Moon  <light Goddess & God candles>

Musical Interlude

Choosing the right music to complement your full moon ritual is paramount – I’ve been known to pull in all different types of genres, but I don’t think I’ve ever chose a full-on bone jarring heavy metal song…that is until today.  Out song is called Pagan Moon, by Beherit.  It’s dark sounding, but musically tight and you’ll find yourself ‘into it’ pretty quickly.

Opening statement

We gather tonight under this full flower moon, perhaps in smaller groups than last year, but certainly bigger than last month when the great virus was upon the land and we were alone.  Now that the world is starting to once again find itself and people are remembering that terrible things have come, but those terrible things also go, we are coming back to life.  And yet, we do so with so many questions waiting to be answered.  We wonder whether the world will ever go back to the way, “it used to be”.

At this point, none of us know what the future might bring, but we can appreciate what the past is teaching us.  I say teaching, because what we’ll be discussing tonight hasn’t really been solidified as “taught” and still has a chapter or two, to be read.  Each month gives us an opportunity to look outward and learn from the world from a scholarly approach.  If we look closely enough, with a free and open mind, we can see the future…or one possible future.  Use the energy of the Full Flower Moon to supercharge your mind’s eye and let it take a look around.

Recognizing Value

The great virus of 2020 should have opened everyone’s eyes to recognizing value.  I’m not talking about net income, the stock market, or even a purse full of cash.  No, what I’m talking about is human value.  When the virus took hold, some people disappeared, and some people stepped up their game.  Some people were in high demand, while others temporarily faded from our thoughts.  We watched as some people put their lives at risk, countless numbers of times, while others went into hibernation.  Some spoke, some even complained, while others let their actions speak for them.

Our world has just received a wonderful eye-opening and in case you missed it, the full flower moon is a perfect time to get caught up.  Up until now, those who ran big companies were considered valuable, as were celebrities, and professional athletes.  Internet superstars and talking heads had audiences of millions.  We were programmed to consume, collect, and once we’ve had our fun, to dispose of those things and buy the newest one.  We were in fact, being brainwashed into thinking what was wrong, was actually right.

Fast forward to today.  Look at the clerk in your local supermarket, or the first responder who lives in your subdivision.  Look at the guys who pick up your trash and the ladies who are manning the school lunch counters.  Across the land, regular people are doing incredible things.  Your mail is still being delivered, your doctor is still treating patients, and the highways are still filled with trucks moving fresh produce, milk, eggs, and meat from growing areas to your local store.  Field workers are still picking fresh greens and warehouse workers are still packing and shipping everything from canned soup to microwaves.  Despite the possibility of infection, these so-called, entry level or bottom of the ladder workers are punching in every day to keep the world running.

By now you’re probably deep in thought about what I’ve just stated.  You’re probably thinking differently about the people that may have seemed invisible to you just a few short months ago.  You’re starting to see that not only are they valuable, but they are very valuable.  I also bet many of you will leave here and be forever changed.  You’ll not only say hello to the woman stocking the shelves, but you’ll do so with an appreciative smile on your face.  You might even go out of the way to tell a police officer, thanks for being on the job.  You’ll see that value isn’t measured by giving a speech or running for office.  Value is earned.

Clearing and Cleansing on the Full Flower Moon

Each month we examine how our lives have changed, both for the good and for the worse.  We also examine what events, actions, or people contributed to those changes.  And once again we see both the good and the not-so-good.  We see that some things are propelling us forward, while others are holding us back.  This is very important, because if we’re held back for some reason, then we cannot grow.

Negativity and negative people often go hand in hand when it comes to roadblocks.  Anger, impatience, greed, manipulation, jealousy, lust, corruption, and laziness are all products of negativity.  Narcissism, manipulation, control issues and bullying are all tools of negative people.  When we allow those feelings to remain inside us, or those negative people to keep influencing us, we start to forget about the important things in life like love, compassion, helpfulness, and the desire to become something better than we already are.

This full flower moon offers us the opportunity to make a course correction.  Just as Mother Nature presents the earth with a fresh coat of foliage and flowers each season, you can use this ritual to clear out all the weeds and debris and replace them with a beautiful array of fresh colors and renewed feelings.

If you can see negativity in your life, now is the time to banish it, once and for all.   Our ancestors have taught us that all things can be washed away in the cleansing flames.  Together we can witness as the collective baggage of the past is consumed and the smoke travels far away.  By burning the remnants of things useless and without value, we free ourselves to find new and positive things to fill those empty spaces.

<Offer each person paper/pencil to write things down>

Write down the things you wish to rid yourself of, but be realistic.  If you only halfway feel ready about something, then don’t rush it.  Each month offers another chance to cleanse and clear.  When you are ready, approach the fire and burn your list.  As you burn each item, state the following, “I give up freely that which is no longer serving me”

<Once everyone has burned their items, have the group join hands and say the following>

We gather tonight by the light of this Full Flower Moon; we feel the warmth of spring on our faces and know that the heat of summer is soon to be realized.  The light has already returned and we are have shown we are ready to refresh our lives by first ridding our bodies and minds of that which no longer serves us.  We are now cleansed with the great fires of the South carrying the negative energies away. May the next turn of the Wheel bring us love and compassion, abundance and prosperity, fertility and life – As the moon above, so the earth below. So Mote it Be!

Once you’ve chosen to release the negativity, you will be lighter and ready to take on something new and positive.  Fill those spaces you’ve just cleared with something positive and then feed it and you’ll soon feel growth from within; growth that will be beneficial to your everyday life, but also growth that will help build a solid foundation for your future.

Cakes & Ale

Depending on the weather and the make-up of your group, you may choose to have a few libations and food at this time.  Talk, share stories, and get to know your fellow citizens of the earth.

Closing the Full Flower Moon Circle

Earth spirits, we offer our eternal thanks for joining us in our full flower moon circle.  All thoughts are on planting, growing, and spending time with the earth.  Bless us and bless that which we plant in the coming months. We bid you farewell. <extinguish green candle>

Water spirits, thank you for your presence in our circle.  Before you leave, we ask but one simple thing. Grant us ample rain as we nurture the delicate seedlings and herbs, in their infancy.  We bid you farewell. <extinguish blue candle>

Fire spirits, without your presence in our circle, our cleansing ritual would not be possible.  We continue to honor your light, the heat, and the ability to transform our lives.  May we leave here tonight with eyes wide open to the possibilities of great things in our future.  We bid you farewell. <extinguish red candle>

Air spirits, so much gratitude and so many praises for your presence in our circle this night. The light winds on our faces constantly remind us that the most powerful things are often unseen and unpredictable.  Leave us with the understanding that we do not need to know why everything is as it is, we just need to be thankful for it.  We bid you farewell. <extinguish yellow candle>

Great Goddess and Great God, we thank you both for your wisdom and love.  Together you have shown us that all things possess two sides, two energies, and only together can total balance be achieved.  Give us the guidance to look at all things in life with an even approach and open mind. <extinguish Goddess candle>

This circle is now open!

By  Thegypsy

https://www.thegypsythread.org/may-2020-full-flower-moon-ritual-recognizing-value/