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starr-fall-knight-rise · 4 years ago

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Humans are Space Orcs, “A Chance.”

A continuation on the Dr. Krill lecture series about humans.

The room was large and echoing, voices raised up towards the ceiling, and despite their being enough room to fit more than three classrooms of the original size, there still wasn’t enough room to fit everyone, with some students standing or sitting off to the side. Cameras had been brought in to observe the lecture, and were being mounted as they watched, so other students from other universities could Audit the lectures.

A group of four students, two Vrul and two Tesraki sat together on the far right of the lecture hall. They had been forced to pair together for another one of their class projects and just ended up naturally gravitating towards what was familiar, sitting next to each other as they waited for the lecture to begin.

“Did you guys finish the assignment?”

“I did.” Of course the two Vrul had, that was to be expected.

The Tesraki looked down at their papers, work halfway finished because they had a tough time from telling what was myth from what was fact.

“Humans, dn not, in fact, cannibalize their young.”

“Where the hell did you hear that.”

“I had an older classmate tell me once, and I saw it in another news article.”

There was muttering, “Even we knew that.”

The other vrul shuffled their papers studiously, “Humans do not have hypnotic gazes that can paralyze their prey.” “Really, I felt for sure that that one was going to be real.”

The Tesraki’s ears drooped, “Well apparently, human stomach acid IS powerful enough to eat through metal.”

There was silence.

“No really, that can’t be true.”

The Tesraki nodded, “It isn’t a myth.” He sighed in frustration, “Everything I looked up about humans was true. Human bones are stronger than steel, the human liver can regenerate, humans can transplant organs from one human to another and it will work. Humans have a system of language that doesn't require the use of noise, it's called sign language by the way.”

One of the Vrul vibrated their antenna, “I am sorry to hear your search did not go well, perhaps if you had read more disreputable news articles it would have been better. Some of the major newspapers have the ability to contact better sources, which means their articles are most likely to be right.”

“Did you know the human jaw is powerful enough to bite off their own fingers, but humans don’t do it because number one, that hurts a lot, and number two, their brain doesn’t allow them to even consider it.”

There was a silence.

“Is that a fact or a myth.”

The other Tesraki sighed, “that is a fact.”

Just then the lights overhead blinked once and then twice. The students turned to look down at the room where Dr. Krill was making his way across the floor. Making his way in that unnatural and predatory way he had. His body moved with a fluid grace in comparison to the normal jerky movements of his species. His legs rolled one after the other in a wheel that kept him moving forward, never breaking. The shoulders on his body swayed slightly back and forth lending the power of his arms into the movement of his legs.

The way he moved his head around the room, seeming to focus on each one of them in turn rather than taking in the whole scene at once was…. Unnerving to say the least his helium sack sat mostly unused against his shoulders and upper back as he moved into the room. Not once since he had started here had anyone seen him use it.

He said it was too slow and made keeping up with humans difficult unless you were being dragged behind them.

It was…. Strange to watch…. How he never seemed to stop moving. Even when he spoke his four hands and his head moved to emphasize his points. When speaking to students coming up to see him, his body shifted in reaction to their words. His hands wide, then closed then open again, up and then down. His chin rose and fell in greeting to people and students he knew and to those he didn’t know so well.

It was a fascinating scene to watch, and one they were not entirely sure if they liked.

Dr Krill made a strange noise deep inside his throat, that over the speakers had the entire class turning to look at him. It was a strange sort of barking cough mixed with a hum. THey couldn’t have known that krill was imitating the way humans clear their throat when they want to speak.

“Students, I hope you all had a good week, and I hope you were all able to complete my first, and easiest assignment?”

There was a soft muttering around the room.

The doctor clapped both of his hands together, producing a sharp noise that brought attention back to himself, “Well, as I have said, today, as a special treat for staying….” He turned to look around the room before muttering, “And multiplying, apparently.” He frowned when none of the students seemed amused at his joke but continued, “I am going to be talking about the human fight flight or freeze response and the entire reaction of the sympathetic nervous system.”

Students withdrew their holopads to begin taking notes.

The cameras zoomed in on doctor Krill.

“We discussed last week how humans are technically considered predator animals, and they are as they eat and consume other animals daily. However, humans are not an apex predator as it isn’t often that they consume other predators. In fact, for the longest time humans were some of the weakest, and easiest to kill preditors for larger and more intimidating animals. In this way that lead to the development of the sympathetic nervous system.”

He turned around the room, and the two Vrul cringed back as his eyes seemed to fall on thim. His antenna were unusually still,

“The sympathetic and parasympathetic systems account for two sides of the same coin. The parasympathetic nervous system is responsible for the workings of the body when the human is relaxed. It focuses primarily on digestion, relaxation slower breathing and even blood flow through the major organs including the eyes. It has other properties too of course, but when a human is relaxed their parasympathetic nervous system is the one generally in charge during those times.”

He turned to the projector, “Now assume you are an ancient human out on your natural habitat of the savanna -- without their adaptation the human’s natural habitat is warm and relatively dry with lots of open grassland and the occasional tree.” he flipped a picture on the projector and the class pulled back a bit in surprise at the picture that unfolded before them. It was a strange creature standing upright tall but remarkably hairy accept for on its face and hands, “This is a 3D rendered recreation of what early humans might have looked like based on skeletal remains found in their fossil record. The development of the human sympathetic nervous system likely started long before humans looked like this, but still the visual aid is one that I find compelling.” The class stared at the creatures thick face, heavy brow and sloping shoulders.

Humans today were much more graceful, though much less powerful than what this beast looked like. It was strange trying to determine which one was the superior. They supposed the current human, as its head size looked much bigger in comparison.

Krill pulled up a side by side comparison with his earlier diagram.

They recognized the modern human as he had been rendered in textbooks thousands of times since he had first been studied.

Very pale with his fine blond fur compared to the hulking shape next to him, with course brown fur that covered his entire body.

“Not the evolutionary changes that had to be made to get from this human.” He pointed at the hairy one, “To that one.” He motioned to the pale one, “The hips grew smaller, the spine took on a sharp S curve, the ratio of legs to arms changed dramatically, leaving the human with longer legs and comparatively short arms. The jaw and the face shortened, while the cranium expanded and hair receded across the body. The current human skeletal structure is finer and more delicate than its original counterpart, with a focus on precision in movement over power, which has become so important to their survival today.”

Dr Krill pointed to the picture of the old human, “This human tried its best to stay alive.” He pointed at the other human, “This human seems to be lacking in a lot of those same survival skills as he is constantly trying to get himself killed.” Krill sighed, “Modern humans are a little bit more complicated than their ancestors, but I digress.” Now imagine either on of these humans being faced with what might have been their natural predator on the savanna.

He flipped the image and the crowd gasped as a massive alien shape leaped up into a third projected spot. It was long and sinewy walking on four legs and a had a fur color like the tanned grassland. It’s eyes were face front, and on its massive paws there were huge hooked claws. Dr. Krill pressed a button to start the looping animation that allowed the creature to lope along with a sinuous grace that made the human lok clumsy and awkward in comparison, all three of the animations moving.

The creature opened its mouth and the entire class pulled back as huge razor sharp teeth glinted in the light, as it yawned, shook its head, and then continued walking.

“This is an African Lion, a female of the species weighing in at only 280 lbs. Now while some humans can weigh that much, a human of comparable fitness like our modern human weigh in at around only 210 lbs as an adult male. Now this female lion has a higher muscle to body mass index than the human, can run faster, jump higher, and bite harder. She has long and protruding K-9 teeth and retractable claws. The human has no chance….. or …. Does he.”

The class shifted slightly in their seats muttering

Krill waited for a long drawn out moment before, “No, statistically he is going to get his face eaten off, however, he does still have a slight chance.”

“The human will see the predator, and immediately upon seeing the body is going to flood the system with a hormone called adrenaline. Adrenaline is a natural high for humans that can result in increased strength, speed, and heightened visual perception. The Parasympathetic system is switched off for the sympathetic nervous system. The heart begins to beat faster as blood is routed into all the major muscle groups, those being primarily the legs. All activity in the internal organs shuts down as that blood flow is routed outwards. Blood can even be funneled away from the brain, despite that seeming a bit counter productive, causing tunnel vision in the eyes. Despite this, the brain begins to work faster allowing the human to see at more frames per second which seems, to a human, to slow down time.”

He turned to look at them, “Now a human has three opinions in a dangerous situation like this, either fight, flight, or freeze. All of these responses would have been adaptive in an environment like this with fight being, hopefully, the last response. Many predator animals are geared for a chase, so freezing will give a human a better chance of survival because if they run they will most certainly be attacked. ON the other hand sometimes this will not work, and being able to run as fast as possible is their only option. Backed against a wall and unable to run fast enough, a human has to fight. Some humans do not react in this order.”

He turned to look at the image, “The human body on adrenaline is capable of some wild and unbelievable things. The average human only uses around 40-60% of their body's natural strength. Systems in the brain will not allow more because if a human were able to use all the power of their body, they could rend muscle from bone. Well trained human athletes can use up to 70-90% of their natural strength, but during a time like this, the average human can be turned into a well trained athlete or more. In dire situations humans have been known to lift up to seven times their own body weight. During this time humans have been known to lift vehicles, wrestle wild animals, and throw large boulders. However, this does not come without a price, and the human will likely receive damage to their muscular structure.”

He turned to point at the pictures again.

“I heard a story about how a human choked to death a small mountain lion, and another man who fought off a shark. Humans are statistically unlikely to win a fight like this, but it isn’t impossible.”

He stalked around the room, “Humans do not just experience adrenaline when dealing with animals, but during accidents, public speaking events, and even in conflict with other humans. Expecting to be hurt, the human body has the ability to completely shut off its pain perception.”

There was a stunned silence all around him, and then an uproar.

Dr. krill seemed almost smug as he watched them react like that, and raised a hand for silence.

They quieted down, “Yes, you heard me, the human brain has the ability to completely ignore pain, until the danger is dealt with. The first surgery I ever did, on this human right here is a good demonstration…. If you do not want to see graphic images turn your head away now.”

Even if they had wanted too it was impossible to tear their eyes away as the image popped up on screen.

The class gasped.

There was a collective sound of disgust.

“That screwdriver had gone in through the front of his eye, broke through the back of the ocular socket and slid into one of the cortical folds of the brain. He WALKED into my surgery and conversed with me like a logical and reasoning person. He did not report any physical discomfort or pain, he did not scream or show any other signs of distress. His brain had completely shut off all response to the pain.”

He turned to walk around the circle.

“You see most of the time pain is a good thing, it allows you to know when something is wrong, but there are other times, dire situations like this where the ability to feel pain will only hinder the subject. If this human had been able to feel pain it is likely his thrashing and screaming would have caused more cortical damage than it already would have. I heard a story of a woman who fell off a cliff and broke both of her legs horribly, while she was still in pain, she managed to crawl her way off a mountain, and as soon as other humans found her she passed out as the pain got worse. Another human, who had been rock climbing, ended up with his arm trapped under a boulder and with no escape. He was there for days, but, in the end, he managed to cut off his own arm in order to escape.”

More horrified gasping from the crowd as they pulled away in shock and terror.

“These are just some of the most impressive stories. Not all humans will react like this. The vast majority of humans will freeze when they should fight, or run when they should freeze. Some will simply give up and curl into a ball, but there are other humans, like this, who under adrenaline can run like olympic sprinters, lift seven times their own size and fight better than the animals attacking them. The capabilities and the possibilities of a human under the influence of adrenaline are remarkable.”

His antenna vibrated just a little in amusement, “As you can imagine, humans do not experience this much these days, but psychological studies have reported that it is actually healthy for humans to experience the fight or flight response as it helps the brain retain that ability. For something to continue working you need to use it. Scientists say that exposing a human to a sympathetic response in a controlled environment is good for their mental health.” He sighed, “Of course this leads humans to watching horror themed movies, skydiving, and recreational fighting. Otherwise humans put themselves into controlled danger in order to feel what their ancestors felt a long time ago when they were being chased by large raging land predators, but when your species developed in an environment that hostile, it is to be expected.”

The group of four stared at krill, and by extension the animation of the real living human behind him. They tried to imagine the slim two legged figure winning a fight against the massive clawed beast, but were having trouble. Its teeth, which had once seemed so sharp, now were dull and almost useless. The nails on its hands, once considered claws were tiny, flimsy and pathetic, but….. It seemed strange, there was still something in the way it moved that suggested possibilities.

Humans were survivors where many other species were not.

Humans may not have had a very high chance.

But at least they had a chance.

#humans are space orcs #humans are insane #HUMANS ARE WERID #humans are space australians #humans are space oddities #earth is a deathworld #Earth is space Ausralia

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imagineclaireandjamie · 5 years ago

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Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.), Part XXVI (Baile na Coille)

This is the penultimate chapter of HRH, guys. Much love to everyone who has supported me along the way with writing this story. Your support means a ton, and this would not have happened without @notevenjokingfic, @smashing-teacups, and @desperationandgin. xx. K

Her Royal Highness (H.R.H.) Part XXVI: Baile na Coille

For the sake of appearances alone, Fraser’s belongings were mainly situated in Baile na Coille. He had not slept a single night under the gabled roof of the two-storyed cottage. In reality, Colonel James Fraser (“the Queen’s Lover” as all of the nation’s newspapers - from veritable rag to legitimate press - had started to call him) had made his summer home within the same four walls as the commonwealth’s oft-maligned royal matriarch.

Beneath her duvet, his long body and his hand drawing one of her thighs between his (“ye canna be close enough as ye sleep”) before resting along the curve of her waist.

At the breakfast table, the serrated edge of his grapefruit spoon slicing through thick-skinned citrus fruits, the spritz of fruity acid hanging in the air as she read letter after letter as her fingers toyed with her earlobe.

And in the griffon-toed tub that steamed the mirrors and tile floors, her careful step as she shed the skin of a silk robe to the floor and climbed into the water with curls piled atop her head. “Coming?” she asked, looking over her shoulder and letting out a slight sigh as she brought a second foot into the tub’s depths. He would nod, shedding his own robe and following her, marveling at the fact that neither had to shuffle their limbs to fit. With a toe carefully tracing the hollow lines that separated Fraser’s abdomen into pockets of muscle, Claire sank further into the bergamot-scented bath water. “Did you know that this is the only place I truly own?”

The massaging attentions of Fraser’s fingers on Claire’s calves paused for a moment. “I hadna ever really thought about what ye own or dinna own, a nighean.”

She hummed, smirking as his eyes fixated on her big toe, which was traveling the sloped line of wiry hair beneath his navel. “Do you know how Baile na Coille came to be?”

“Ye could use some help wi’ the pronunciation,” he commented as he shook his head. His brows furrowed as he added, “And I’ll ask that ye move yer wee feet from that part of my anatomy.”

Ignoring his pronunciation guidance but swiftly relocating her foot to hook behind his waist and draw him closer, she rolled her eyes. “Queen Victoria had a lover. She built the cottage for him, or so the story goes. All manner of lascivious scandal was born in that cottage and paid off before it passed those front gates.”

“So ye’re sayin’ that perhaps someday yer wee stables’ll become a thing of lore, too, then?”

With a well-worn shrug, Claire rose out of the water just enough to reach for the glass of lukewarm champagne resting on the windowsill next to the tub. “Perhaps. I think what happened in London would already have gone to print if it was going to. I trust my staff here, but it is only a matter of time before the Accidental Queen and her Not-So-Accidental Lover are front-page fodder.”

He massaged a knot out of the arch of her foot, and she moaned appreciatively, finishing the last of the fizzy liquid in her flute. “Do ye think they’ll compare me to Queen Victoria’s lovers?”

“Not sure,” she said truthfully, leaning forward as he caught the green neck of the champagne bottle to fill her glass. “It seems an apt comparison–”

“Ye have a much bonnier arse than Queen Victoria, Queen Claire.”

If she hadn’t been utterly fatigued from their day’s worth of galavanting about the property, she would have asked him to declare as much only upon further investigation.

Neither had done much thinking about what life would be like after the declaration, when the Queen’s speech ended and tellies across Britain went dark. While they had steeled themselves against an oncoming storm at the cabin, their arrival to Balmoral and the subsequent days had been quite ordinary, really.

They picnicked alongside a forested area and a stream, surrounded by a meadow of too-sweet butter-yellow flowers. He made her a posey of the flowers as they ate (bundle tied with the green string that had trapped their egg mayo sandwiches in brown paper). She made love to him on their tartan blanket with the bouquet discarded to the side. He wrapped the tartan around them afterward while their steeds grazed just until their hearts stopped pounding. She tapped his shoulder, suggested they should finish exploring the property. He was dressed first and folded their blanket as she hopped about bare-footed, attempting to coax her riding pants back up over her arse with her curly hair in a floating cloud about her. He felt like a fifteen-year-old boy with wanting her again.

They walked hand-in-hand and talked about things. He wanted children, an admission hastily given with his feet catching and his body stumbling forward. Her hand found the small of his back, steadied him. When he asked, “and you?” in his slow, easy way, her response was quick, but just as easy (“of course” she wanted children with him, fingers flexing into the marred flesh just above his beltline).

She told him that she loved Balmoral more than any other place on earth – the smell of the Highlands, the privacy, the accents of the staffers, and the way mist hung heavy even at the warmest part of the day.

“It feels like the cabin here,” she whispered when they finally exited the bath (his lips kissing each of her pruned fingers, hands smoothing the half-soaked curls at her nape before wrapping a pre-warmed robe around her frame).

The real world felt ten thousand miles away at Balmoral, and he traced a thumb across her cheek – a rounded, glowing place after the bath that topped off a day of exercise, sunshine, and sex. His Queen had the lightest smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. He stilled his thumb, kissed the dusting of pigmentation. “Yer family cabin ‘tis a wee bit grander than my family cabin.”

She smacked his arm, making a rather serious face before dissolving into a fit of giggles when he blew a raspberry against her throat.

There came a time, after a number of weeks, when summer was giving way to autumn and their return to London was imminent.

Fraser was fitted for a number of suits with Claire sitting across the room on the floor – cross-legged and chewing on the end of a pen as she responded to some letters. Her smattering of freckles had given way to what she called “a decidedly un-royal suntan.” It was unspoken, but he would go public in London. As the leaves crisped with the last gasps of the season and fell to signal an oncoming winter, the nation would see him.

The man the Queen saved. The man the Queen loved.

That night, Fraser made the offhand comment that his fitting had made him realize that her arse was fuller after weeks of decadent food. He called it her summertime arse, and vocalized no small amount of pleasure at the way she’d blushed at the declaration. “I didna realize how well ye’d filled out this summer,” he announced, making a determined, awed kind of face and approaching her to take two handfuls of her backside. “It’s as though ye’ve reached yer natural, full-arsed state, and I couldna be happier about it.”

Had he not been pressed against her (his anatomy an urgent and quite unsophisticated lie detector), she might have taken offense. All societal expectations of a slim queen aside, Jamie Fraser did like her just fine. Feeling brazen, she had lowered her nightgown beneath her breasts. Voice low, she whispered, “Show me.”

Later, when they were stretched out on the duvet, and he had shown her quite fully what he meant, she whispered something that verged on a full-throated laugh: “I love that you can appreciate me at my fattest.” Her skin puckered with goosebumps at the first touch of his hands going around her hips.

“I like ye fat. Fat and juicy as a plump wee hen.”

She purred, winding her arms around his neck. “My summertime hen arse,” she continued, holding onto the moment. “I was thinking I would marry you in the autumn; perhaps we can hang onto it for awhile since you hold it in such high regard. Let it fill out a wedding gown.”

His eyebrows rose, his lower lip migrating between his teeth. “Ye want to marry me?”

“I do, yes. In a military uniform made with today’s measurements.”

“I didna ken that today was a fitting for a wedding suit.”

“Do not be an idiot,” she mumbled, sweeping an errant curl from his forehead. His hair had been cut a little closer than was his norm, but she had made it her strictest instructions that the barber leave enough length that it would still curl. Her voice was light, high on the moment and the enchanting power they held over one another. “It was always part that, and this is a proposal, since you have not bothered to do it.”

“It sounds like an order – marrying ye.” He was joking with her, eyes glittering as his hand cupped her jaw, thumb traveling an unmannered perimeter around her lips.

“Well, do you want to marry me?” There was not even the slightest hint of concern in her voice as she asked the question. It was as if she knew the answer, like it was the one thing that lived freely on his carefully-guarded face. A single syllable.

Before he kissed her, the most elemental groan came from him. Something of ancient stock – needy and base, just truth. “Oh God, yes.”

And then he kissed her in a way he’d never kissed her before. Part of her took flight then as he hitched her thigh up over his hip and leaned into her – a part with steadily-beating gossamer wings that lived beneath her breastbone, that had been carefully hatched under his care those first nights aimlessly wandering together on horseback. A part that he had nurtured somehow despite not knowing it existed in her, but that she had tended to all along, equally unknowing. He took her firmly then, in a way that for a handful of minutes drove any tenderness of their earlier encounter in the meadow away, but was no less saturated with their love for one another.

And when they were finished, dark having fallen and the world outside the cracked window gone silent, they were left without even the grayest, shadowiest hint of amorous intention. Eyelids drooping with mutual pure exhaustion, they laid together, completely bared. It was then that they somehow wound their way around a bend in their relationship.

To talk of loss and family, of longing and fate’s plans for them in a way that they never had. Stripped bare, they peeled back their naked skin to expose something deeper, rawer, redder, rarer.

Fraser told her in a clinical, detached way of his parents’ death. The loss of a son that stole the very life and light from his mother’s eyes, molded her like clay into something his mam had never been before (dry hands pouring cereal into bowls with eyes fixed on the window, like she was awaiting someone to round the bend that would never come).

The slow way his father slipped away – an undiagnosed condition that made his eye droop, his body eventually no longer cooperate in the performance of basic functions, until one day he was gone and cold in his bed in the morning (eyes open and dull-blue in their fixation on something beyond the ceiling, his fingers folded over a knit afghan in prayer).

An economy of words described the prison camp (words he learned in German so he would never have to speak aloud in English). The dampness of the cells, the length of the interrogations, the blood on the snow. The wounds that seeped from cracks in the flesh just above his forehead, the never-ending red stream that caked his eyelashes and made him wonder if one could feel an oncoming death. The smell of men shitting themselves and dried vomit on ragged clothes. The way he had slept face-down for two months after his back had been whipped into ribbons that sent red streaks of infection along his ribcage and over his shoulders. How the second time he’d been flogged was worse, each bit of scar tissue giving way so his muscles met the air, this time the odor of infection choking him when he stripped his camp-issued shirt off.

They laid silent for a long time after that, his hand charting a course over her spine again and again and her fingers tracing the scarred etchings of war in his flesh in a way they never had before.

And then he asked her.

So Claire told Fraser for the first time at any length about her parents and her sister.

Before that moment, there had been the natural snapshots of them in casual conversation (locations on the grounds of Balmoral taking on meaning with reference to them – her father’s study, her mother’s dressing room, her sister’s playroom; meals that reminded her of them – her mother’s favorite chicken, her father’s preferred tea, the buttery biscuits that Anne ate smeared in raspberry preserves; the bottle of perfume on her nightstand that had yellowed with age and no longer smelled sweet, but somehow still reminded her of Julia).

But this was the first graphic retelling of it.

The iciness in her veins – the frost and chill of it sucking the life out of her with each of her mother’s screams. The taste of copper in her mouth, the breaking of her bones and the lifeless feeling of no longer gulping for air, of just waiting with the icy water in her throat and lungs. The burning of vomiting the water again and again, her broken ribs screaming at her to just die now as she rid her body of the contents of the creek. How the burning in her lungs and throat had eventually given away to something more primal, a need to survive.

She said their names.

Henry. Julia. Anne.

Claire breathed in, looking away from Fraser as she explained that she hated herself in the back of the ambulance because she was afraid she was going to die. She did not think of them at first – of Henry, Julia, or Anne. She laid still, shivering as the navy-uniformed men tried to warm her, told her she would be okay. She had not thought of them as she willed herself to live.

Papa. Mum. Oh Christ, Anne.

In the retelling of it, Claire did not cry until Fraser reached for her, touched her forearm, whispered “I’m sae sorry, Sassenach.”

She dissolved over their loss then, feeling it new and blooming beneath her breastbone. Under his touch, she leaned into the sensation for maybe the first time in years, since well before her coronation and well before Lamb had passed. A confession: Claire loved her papa and her mum, of course, but Anne was the one she loved the most, a feeling that made her feel sick and wrong. “It was never supposed to be me, Jamie,” she confessed, closing her eyes as he touched her hair. “Anne, maybe, but never me. We played. Toilet roll sashes and our mum’s shoes. She was always Queen. You and me? We could have been free of all of this… gotten a flat in the city, you would not have to live like this–”

He quieted her, shook her head. “Dinna ever think that the tragedy ye experienced, or yer job, has made me do anything that I didna want to do. Being wi’ ye – however I can be wi’ ye – is perfect. Ye canna pull one thread and have an entire tapestry stay the same. I’m no’ sayin’ that yer parents died for a reason. It was senseless. Ye canna wish away yer position for me. It’s how I found ye, and I’d ‘ave found ye somehow, but as it is now, I’m yers, Claire. It’s as it’ll be forever. Irrevocably. In my entirety. And I intend to marry ye come autumn.”

She reached absently for the heavy, well-formed curl just above his temple and ran her fingertip around its circumference, thoughtful for a moment. “I was never really one for planning a wedding, Fraser. Autumn is beautiful, but there is something about springtime. The daffodils and the lilies. The fat bumble bees and the trees coming back to life.”

“Then springtime it is, a nighean.”

But two weeks later, the Queen would realize that she had not had her courses in two months.

The wedding would not wait until springtime after all.

#Her Royal Highness AU #HRH #jamie x claire #outlander #outlander fanfiction #Part XXVI #the penultimate chapter

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haruatori · 4 years ago

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Common list of misconceptions

Had great fun learning about these, maybe now I will remember it better:

https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_common_misconceptions

Fortune cookies, despite being associated with Chinese cuisine in the United States, were invented in Japan and introduced to the US by the Japanese.[11] The cookies are extremely rare in China, where they are seen as symbols of American cuisine.[12]

The United States does not require police officers to identify themselves as police in the case of a sting or other undercover work, and police officers may lie when engaged in such work.[25] Claiming entrapment as a defense instead focuses on whether the defendant was induced by undue pressure (such as threats) or deception from law enforcement to commit crimes they would not have otherwise committed.[26]

Parody singer "Weird Al" Yankovic did not write or perform most of the songs and comedy sketches attributed to him or "Weird Al Yankovich" on the Internet.[48]

The forbidden fruit mentioned in the Book of Genesis is never identified as an apple,[51] a misconception widely depicted in Western art.The original Hebrew texts mention only tree and fruit. Early Latin translations use the word mali, which can mean either "evil" or "apple" depending on if the A is short or long respectively, although the difference in vowel length had already vanished from speech in Latin at the time. In early Germanic languages the word "apple" and its cognates usually simply meant "fruit". German and French artists commonly depict the fruit as an apple from the 12th century onwards, and John Milton's Areopagitica from 1644 explicitly mentions the fruit as an apple.[52] Jewish scholars have suggested that the fruit could have been a grape, a fig, an apricot, or an etrog.[53]

The Bible does not say that exactly three magi came to visit the baby Jesus, nor that they were kings, or rode on camels, or that their names were Casper, Melchior, and Balthazar, nor what color their skin was. Three magi are inferred because three gifts are described, but we only know that they were plural (at least 2); there could have been many more and probably an entourage accompanied them on their journey. The artistic depictions of the nativity have almost always depicted three magi since the 3rd century.[57] The Bible only specifies an upper limit of 2 years for the interval between the birth and the visit (Matthew 2:16), and artistic depictions and the closeness of the traditional dates of December 25 and January 6 encourage the popular assumption that the visit took place in the same season as the birth, but later traditions varied, with the visit taken as occurring up to two years later. The association of magi with kings comes from efforts to tie the visit to prophecies in the Book of Isaiah.[58]

No Biblical or historical evidence supports Mary Magdalene having been a prostitute.[59]

The idea that Mary Magdalene was a prostitute before she met Jesus is not found in the Bible or in any of the other earliest Christian writings. The misconception likely arose due to a conflation between Mary Magdalene, Mary of Bethany (who anoints Jesus's feet in John 11:1–12), and the unnamed "sinful woman" who anoints Jesus's feet in Luke 7:36–50.[59]

The Quran does not promise martyrs 72 virgins in heaven. It does mention companions, houri, to all people—martyr or not—in heaven, but no number is specified. The source for the 72 virgins is a hadith in Sunan al-Tirmidhi by Imam Tirmidhi.[74][75] Hadiths are sayings and acts of the prophet Muhammad as reported by others, and as such they are not part of the Quran itself. Muslims are not meant to necessarily believe all hadiths, and that applies particularly to those hadiths that are weakly sourced, such as this one.[76] Furthermore, the correct translation of this particular hadith is a matter of debate.[74] In the same collection of Sunni hadiths, however, the following is judged strong (hasan sahih): "There are six things with Allah for the martyr. He is forgiven with the first flow of blood (he suffers), he is shown his place in Paradise, he is protected from punishment in the grave, secured from the greatest terror, the crown of dignity is placed upon his head—and its gems are better than the world and what is in it—he is married to seventy two wives among wide-eyed houris (Al-Huril-'Ayn) of Paradise, and he may intercede for seventy of his close relatives."[77]

Ancient Greek and Roman sculptures were originally painted bright colors; they only appear white today because the original pigments have deteriorated. Some well-preserved statues still bear traces of their original coloration.[127][128]

The accused at the Salem witch trials in North America were not burned at the stake; about 15 died in prison, 19 were hanged and one was pressed to death.[172]

Marie Antoinette did not say "let them eat cake" when she heard that the French peasantry were starving due to a shortage of bread. The phrase was first published in Rousseau's Confessions when Marie was only nine years old and most scholars believe that Rousseau coined it himself, or that it was said by Maria Theresa, the wife of Louis XIV. Even Rousseau (or Maria Theresa) did not use the exact words but actually Qu'ils mangent de la brioche, meaning "Let them eat brioche" (a rich type of bread). Marie Antoinette was a target of attacks from radical jacobins; therefore, political activists attributed the phrase "let them eat cake" to her, to promulgate an image of her as disconnected from her subjects.[173]

Napoleon Bonaparte was not short. He was actually slightly taller than the average Frenchman of his time.[180] After his death in 1821, the French emperor's height was recorded as 5 feet 2 inches in French feet, which in English measurements is 5 feet 7 inches (1.70 m).[181] He was actually nicknamed le Petit Caporal (The Little Corporal) as a term of endearment.[182] Napoleon was often accompanied by his imperial guard, who were selected for their height[183]—this may have contributed to a perception that he was comparatively short.

There was no widespread outbreak of panic across the United States in response to Orson Welles's 1938 radio adaptation of H.G. Wells's The War of the Worlds. Only a very small share of the radio audience was even listening to it, and isolated reports of scattered incidents and increased call volume to emergency services were played up the next day by newspapers, eager to discredit radio as a competitor for advertising. Both Welles and CBS, which had initially reacted apologetically, later came to realize that the myth benefited them and actively embraced it in later years.[200]

Rosa Parks was not sitting in the front ("white") section of the bus during the event that made her famous and incited the Montgomery bus boycott. Rather, she was sitting in the front of the back ("colored") section of the bus, where African Americans were expected to sit, but refused to give up her seat to a white man who asked for it (which was also the expected action of African Americans at the time).

Although popularly known as the "red telephone", the Moscow–Washington hotline was never a telephone line, nor were red phones used. The first implementation of the hotline used teletype equipment, which was replaced by facsimile (fax) machines in 1988. Since 2008, the hotline has been a secure computer link over which the two countries exchange emails.[220] Moreover, the hotline links the Kremlin to the Pentagon, not the White House.[221]

Bulls are not enraged by the color red, used in capes by professional matadors. Cattle are dichromats, so red does not stand out as a bright color. It is not the color of the cape, but the perceived threat by the matador that incites it to charge.[238]

Dogs do not sweat by salivating[239] Dogs actually do have sweat glands and not only on their tongues; they sweat mainly through their footpads. However, dogs do primarily regulate their body temperature through panting.[240] (See also: Dog anatomy).

Bats are not blind. While about 70 percent of bat species, mainly in the microbat family, use echolocation to navigate, all bat species have eyes and are capable of sight. In addition, almost all bats in the megabat or fruit bat family cannot echolocate and have excellent night vision.[244]

The notion that goldfish have a memory span of just a few seconds is false.[250][251] It is much longer, counted in months.

There is no such thing as an "alpha" in a wolf pack. An early study that coined the term "alpha wolf" had only observed unrelated adult wolves living in captivity. In the wild, wolf packs operate more like human families: there is no defined sense of rank, parents are in charge until the young grow up and start their own families, younger wolves do not overthrow an "alpha" to become the new leader, and social dominance fights are situational.[254][255]

Mice do not have a special appetite for cheese, and will eat it only for lack of better options. Mice actually favor sweet, sugary foods. It is unclear where the myth came from.[260]

Sunflowers do not always point to the sun. Flowering sunflowers face a fixed direction (often east) all day long, but not necessarily the sun.[287] However, in an earlier developmental stage, before the appearance of flower heads, the immature buds do track the sun (a phenomenon called phototropism) and the fixed alignment of the mature flowers toward a certain direction is often the result.[288]

Petroleum does not originate from dinosaurs but rather bacteria and algae.[308]

No human genome (nor any mammalian genome for that matter) has ever been completely sequenced. As of 2017, by some estimates, between 4% to 9% of the human genome had not been sequenced.[311]

Trickle-down theory of economics does not work.[325]

Waking sleepwalkers does not harm them. While it is true that a person may be confused or disoriented for a short time after awakening, this does not cause them further harm. In contrast, sleepwalkers may injure themselves if they trip over objects or lose their balance while sleepwalking.[332]

Stretching before or after exercise does not reduce muscle soreness.[338]

Exercise-induced muscle soreness is not caused by lactic acid buildup.[339] Muscular lactic acid levels during and after exercise do not correlate with soreness;[340] exercise-induced muscle soreness is thought to be due to microtrauma from an unaccustomed or strenuous exercise, against which the body adapts with repeated bouts of the same exercise.[341]

Shaving does not cause terminal hair to grow back thicker (more dense) or darker. This belief is due to hair that has never been cut having a tapered end, whereas, after cutting, the edge is blunt and therefore thicker than the tapered ends; the sharper, unworn edges make the cut hair appear thicker and feel coarser. That short hairs are less flexible than longer hairs also contributes to this effect.[355]

A person's hair and fingernails do not continue to grow after death. Rather, the skin dries and shrinks away from the bases of hairs and nails, giving the appearance of growth.[356]

Acne is mostly caused by genetics, rather than lack of hygiene, eating fatty food, or other personal habits.[360]

The order in which different types of alcoholic beverages are consumed ("Grape or grain but never the twain" and "Beer before liquor never sicker; liquor before beer in the clear") does not affect intoxication or create adverse side effects.[381]

Hand size does not predict human penis size,[385] but finger length ratio may.[386]

There is no physiological basis for the belief that having sex in the days leading up to a sporting event or contest is detrimental to performance.[390] In fact it has been suggested that sex prior to sports activity can elevate male testosterone level, which could potentially enhance performance.[391]

Glass does not flow at room temperature as a high-viscosity liquid.[442] Although glass shares some molecular properties found in liquids, glass at room temperature is an amorphous solid that only begins to flow above the glass transition temperature,[443] though the exact nature of the glass transition is not considered settled among scientists.[444] Panes of stained glass windows are often thicker at the bottom than at the top, and this has been cited as an example of the slow flow of glass over centuries. However, this unevenness is due to the window manufacturing processes used at the time.[443][444] No such distortion is observed in other glass objects, such as sculptures or optical instruments, that are of similar or even greater age.[443][444][445]

Most diamonds are not formed from highly compressed coal. More than 99 percent of diamonds ever mined have formed in the conditions of extreme heat and pressure about 140 kilometers (87 mi) below the earth's surface. Coal is formed from prehistoric plants buried much closer to the surface, and is unlikely to migrate below 3.2 kilometers (2.0 mi) through common geological processes. Most diamonds that have been dated are older than the first land plants, and are therefore older than coal. It is possible that diamonds can form from coal in subduction zones and in meteoroid impacts, but diamonds formed in this way are rare and the carbon source is more likely carbonate rocks and organic carbon in sediments, rather than coal.[446]

Although the Greek philosopher Pythagoras is most famous today for his alleged mathematical discoveries,[452][453] classical historians dispute whether he himself ever actually made any significant contributions to the field.[450][451] He cannot have been the first to discover his famous theorem, because it was known and used by the Babylonians and Indians centuries before Pythagoras,[454][455][456][457] but it is possible that he may have been the first one to introduce it to the Greeks.[458][456]

There is no scientific evidence for the existence of "photographic" memory in adults (the ability to remember images with so high a precision as to mimic a camera),[478] but some young children have eidetic memory.[479] Many people have claimed to have a photographic memory, but those people have been shown to have good memories as a result of mnemonic devices rather than a natural capacity for detailed memory encoding.[480] There are rare cases of individuals with exceptional memory, but none of them has a memory that mimics that of a camera.

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NEW LIBRARY MATERIAL September 2020 - February 2021

Bibliography

Sorted by Call Number / Author.

011.7 F

Fadiman, Clifton, 1904-1999. The new lifetime reading plan / : the classical guide to world literature, Revised and expanded. 4th ed. New York : HarperCollins Publishers, 1999, c1997.

155.2 G

Gladwell, Malcolm, 1963-. David and Goliath : underdogs, misfits, and the art of battling giants. First edition. Goliath : "Am I a dog that you should come to me with sticks?" -- The Advantages of Disadvantages (and the Disadvantages of Advantages). Vivek Ranadiv©♭: "It was really random. I mean, my father had never played basketball before." ; Teresa DeBrito: "My largest class was twenty-nine kids. Oh, it was fun." ; Caroline Sacks: "If I'd gone to the University of Maryland, I'd still be in science. -- The Theory of Desirable Difficulty. David Boies: You wouldn't wish dyslexia on your child. Or would you? ; Emil "Jay" Freireich: "How Jay did it, I don't know." ; Wyatt Walker: "De rabbit is de slickest o' all de animals de Lawd ever made." -- The Limits of Power. Rosemary Lawlor: "I wasn't born that way. This was forced upon me." ; Wilma Derksen: "We have all done something dreadful in our lives, or have felt the urge to." ; Andr©♭ Trocm©♭: "We feel obliged to tell you that there are among us a certain number of Jews.". This book uncovers the hidden rules that shape the balance between the weak and the mighty and the powerful and the dispossessed. In it the author challenges how we think about obstacles and disadvantages, offering a new interpretation of what it means to be discriminated against, or cope with a disability, or lose a parent, or attend a mediocre school, or suffer from any number of other apparent setbacks. He begins with the real story of what happened between the giant and the shepherd boy (David and Goliath) those many years ago. From there, the book examines Northern Ireland's Troubles, the minds of cancer researchers and civil rights leaders, murder and the high costs of revenge, and the dynamics of successful and unsuccessful classrooms, all to demonstrate how much of what is beautiful and important in the world arises from what looks like suffering and adversity. -- From book jacket.

170 H

Haidt, Jonathan, author. The happiness hypothesis : finding modern truth in ancient wisdom. Paperback edition. "The Happiness Hypothesis is a book about ten Great Ideas. Each chapter is an attempt to savor one idea that has been discovered by several of the world's civilizations--to question it in light of what we now know from scientific research, and to extract from it the lessons that still apply to our modern lives and illuminate the causes of human flourishing. Award-winning psychologist Jonathan Haidt shows how a deeper understanding of the world's philosophical wisdom and its enduring maxims--like "do unto others as you would have others do unto you," or "what doesn't kill you makes you stronger"--can enrich and even transform our lives."--Back cover.

171 K

Kohn, Alfie. The brighter side of human nature : altruism and empathy in everyday life. New York : Basic Books, c1990.

305.5 W

Wilkerson, Isabel, author. Caste : the origins of our discontents. First edition. The man in the crowd -- Toxins in the permafrost and heat rising all around -- The arbitrary construction of human divisions -- The eight pillars of caste -- The tentacles of caste -- The consequences of caste -- Backlash -- Awakening -- Epilogue: A world without caste. "In this brilliant book, Isabel Wilkerson gives us a masterful portrait of an unseen phenomenon in America as she explores, through an immersive, deeply researched narrative and stories about real people, how America today and throughout its history has been shaped by a hidden caste system, a rigid hierarchy of human rankings. Beyond race, class, or other factors, there is a powerful caste system that influences people's lives and behavior and the nation's fate. Linking the caste systems of America, India, and Nazi Germany, Wilkerson explores eight pillars that underlie caste systems across civilizations, including divine will, bloodlines, stigma, and more. Using riveting stories about people--including Martin Luther King, Jr., baseball's Satchel Paige, a single father and his toddler son, Wilkerson herself, and many others--she shows the ways that the insidious undertow of caste is experienced every day. She documents how the Nazis studied the racial systems in America to plan their out-cast of the Jews; she discusses why the cruel logic of caste requires that there be a bottom rung for those in the middle to measure themselves against; she writes about the surprising health costs of caste, in depression and life expectancy, and the effects of this hierarchy on our culture and politics. Finally, she points forward to ways America can move beyond the artificial and destructive separations of human divisions, toward hope in our common humanity. Beautifully written, original, and revealing, Caste: The Origins of Our Discontents is an eye-opening story of people and history, and a reexamination of what lies under the surface of ordinary lives and of America life today."--.

305.8 W

Williamson, Joel. A rage for order : Black/White relations in the American South since emancipation. New York, NY : Oxford University Press, 1968. Full ed.: published as The crucible of race. 1984. Traces the history of race relations, examines changing public attitudes, and tells the stories of those involved in Civil Rights movement.

305.9 P

Pipher, Mary Bray. The middle of everywhere : the world's refugees come to our town. First edition. Cultural collisions on the Great Plains -- The beautiful laughing sisters-an arrival story -- Into the heart of the heartland -- All that glitters ... -- Children of hope, children of tears -- Teenagers--Mohammed meets Madonna -- Young adults--"Is there a marriage broker in Lincoln?"-- Family--"A bundle of sticks cannot be broken" -- African stories -- Healing in all times and places -- Home-a global positioning system for identity -- Building a village of kindness. Offers the tales of refugees who have escaped countries riddled by conflict and ripped apart by war to realize their dream of starting a new life in America, detailing their triumph over adversity.

306.4 P

Pollan, Michael. The botany of desire : a plant's-eye view of the world. Random House trade pbk. ed. New York : Random House, 2002. Desire : sweetness, plant : the apple (Malus domestica) -- Desire : beauty, plant : the tulip (Tulipa) -- Desire : intoxication, plant : marijuana (Cannabis sativa x indica) -- Desire : control, plant : the potato (Solanum tuberosum). Focusing on the human relationship with plants, the author of Second nature uses botany to explore four basic human desires, sweetness, beauty, intoxication, and control, through portraits of four plants that embody them, the apple, tulip, marijuana, and potato. Every school child learns about the mutually beneficial dance of honeybees and flowers; the bee collects nectar and pollen to make honey and, in the process, spreads the flowers' genes far and wide. In The botany of desire, Michael Pollan ingeniously demonstrates how people and domesticated plants have formed a similarly reciprocal relationship. In telling the stories of four familiar species that are deeply woven into the fabric of our lives, Pollan illustrates how the plants have evolved to satisfy humankind's most basic yearnings. And just as we've benefited from these plants, the plants have done well by us. So who is really domesticating whom?.

307.1 I

Immerwahr, Daniel, 1980-. Thinking small : the United States and the lure of community development. First Harvard University Press paperback edition 2018. Cambridge, MA : Harvard University Press, 2015. Preface: Modernization, development, and community -- Introduction: Actually existing localism -- When small was big -- Development without modernization -- Peasantville -- Grassroots empire -- Urban villages -- Epilogue: What is dead and what is undead in community development?.

323.60973 I

In the hands of the people : Thomas Jefferson on equality, faith, freedom, compromise, and the art of citizenship. First edition. New York, NY : Random House, 2020. "Thomas Jefferson believed in the covenant between a government and its citizens, in both the government's responsibilities to its people and also the people's responsibility to the republic. In this illuminating collection, a project of the Thomas Jefferson Foundation, #1 New York Times bestselling author Jon Meacham has gathered Jefferson's most powerful and provocative reflections on the subject, drawn from public speeches and documents as well as his private correspondence. Still relevant centuries later, Jefferson's words provide a manual for U.S. citizenship in the twenty-first century. His thoughts will re-shape and revitalize the way readers relate to concepts including Freedom: "Divided we stand, united we fall." The importance of a free press:"Were it left to me to decide whether we should have a government without newspapers, or newspapers without a government, I should not hesitate a moment to prefer the latter." Public education: "Enlighten the public generally, and tyranny and oppressions of body & mind will vanish like evil spirits at the dawn of day." Participation in government: A citizen should be "a participator in the government of affairs not merely at an election, one day in the year, but every day.""-- Provided by publisher.

324.6 P

Terborg-Penn, Rosalyn. African American women in the struggle for the vote, 1850-1920. Bloomington : Indiana University Press, c1998. Revisiting the question of race in the woman suffrage movement -- African American women in the first generation of woman suffragists : 1850-1869 -- African American woman suffragists finding their own voices : 1870s and 1880s -- Suffrage strategies and ideas : African American women leaders respond during "the nadir" -- Mobilizing to win the vote : African American women's organizations -- Anti-black woman suffrage tactics and African American women's responses -- African American women as voters and candidates -- The nineteenth amendment and its meaning for African American women. This study of African American women's roles in the suffrage movement breaks new ground. Rosalyn Terborg-Penn draws from many original documents to take a comprehensive look at the African American women who sought the right to vote. She discovers numerous Black suffragists previously unknown. Analyzing the women's own stories, she examines why they joined the woman suffrage movement in the United States and how they participated in it - with white women, Black men, as members of African American women's organizations, or simultaneously in all three. Terborg-Penn further discusses their various levels of interaction and types of feminist philosophy. Noting that not all African American woman suffragists were from elite circles, Terborg-Penn finds representation from working-class and professional women as well.They came from all parts of the nation. Some employed radical, others conservative means to gain the right to vote. Black women, however, were unified in working to use the ballot to improve not only their own status, but the lives of Black people in their communities. Drawing from innumerable sources, Terborg-Penn argues that sexism and racism prevented African American women from voting and from full participation in the national suffrage movement. Following the ratification of the Nineteenth Amendment, state governments in the South, enacted policies which disfranchised African American women, with many white suffragists closing their eyes to the discriminatory acts. Despite efforts to keep Black women politically powerless, Terborg-Penn contends that the Black suffrage was a source of empowerment. Every political and racial effort to keep African American women disfranchised met with their active resistance until Black women achieved full citizenship.

326.80922 B

Brands, H. W., author. The zealot and the emancipator : John Brown, Abraham Lincoln and the struggle for American freedom. First Edition. Pottawatomie -- Springfield -- Harpers Ferry -- The telegraph office. "What do moral people do when democracy countenances evil? The question, implicit in the idea that people can govern themselves, came to a head in America at the middle of the nineteenth century, in the struggle over slavery. John Brown's answer was violence--violence of a sort some in later generations would call terrorism. Brown was a deeply religious man who heard the God of the Old Testament speaking to him, telling him to do whatever was necessary to destroy slavery. When Congress opened Kansas territory to slavery, the eerily charismatic Brown raised a band of followers to wage war against the evil institution. One dark night his men tore several proslavery settlers from their homes and hacked them to death with broadswords, as a bloody warning to others. Three years later Brown and his men assaulted the federal arsenal at Harpers Ferry, Virginia, with the goal of furnishing slaves with weapons to murder their masters in a race war that would cleanse the nation of slavery once and for all. Abraham Lincoln's answer was politics. Lincoln was an ambitious lawyer and former office-holder who read the Bible not for moral guidance but as a writer's primer. He disliked slavery yet didn't consider it worth shedding blood over. He distanced himself from John Brown and joined the moderate wing of the new, antislavery Republican party. He spoke cautiously and dreamed big, plotting his path to Washington and perhaps the White House. Yet Lincoln's caution couldn't preserve him from the vortex of violence Brown set in motion. Arrested and sentenced to death, Brown comported himself with such conviction and dignity on the way to the gallows that he was canonized in the North as a martyr to liberty. Southerners responded in anger and horror that a terrorist was made into a saint. Lincoln shrewdly threaded the needle of the fracturing country and won election as president, still preaching moderation. But the time for moderation had passed. Slaveholders lumped Lincoln with Brown as an enemy of the Southern way of life; seven Southern states left the Union. Lincoln resisted secession, and the Civil War followed. At first a war for the Union, it became the war against slavery Brown had attempted to start. Before it was over, slavery had been destroyed, but so had Lincoln's faith that democracy can resolve its moral crises peacefully"--.

328.73 M

Meacham, Jon, author. His truth is marching on : John Lewis and the power of hope. First edition. Overture: the last march -- A hard life, a serious life -- The spirit of history -- Soul force -- In the image of God and democracy -- We are going to make you wish you was dead -- I'm going to die here -- This country don't run on love -- Epilogue: against the rulers of the darkness. "John Lewis, who at age twenty-five marched in Selma and was beaten on the Edmund Pettus Bridge, is a visionary and a man of faith. Using intimate interviews with Lewis and his family and deep research into the history of the civil rights movement, Meacham writes of how the activist and leader was inspired by the Bible, his mother's unbreakable spirit, his sharecropper father's tireless ambition, and his teachers in nonviolence, Reverend James Lawson and Martin Luther King, Jr. A believer in hope above all else, Lewis learned from a young age that nonviolence was not only a tactic but a philosophy, a biblical imperative, and a transforming reality. At the age of four, Lewis, ambitious to become a preacher, practiced by preaching to the chickens he took care of. When his mother cooked one of the chickens, the boy refused to eat it--his first act of non-violent protest. Integral to Lewis's commitment to bettering the nation was his faith in humanity and in God, and an unshakable belief in the power of hope. Meacham calls Lewis "as important to the founding of a modern and multiethnic twentieth- and twenty-first century America as Thomas Jefferson and James Madison and Samuel Adams were to the initial creation of the nation-state in the eighteenth century. He did what he did--risking limb and life to bear witness for the powerless in the face of the powerful--not in spite of America, but because of America, and not in spite of religion, but because of religion"--.

333.95 W

Wilson, Edward O. A window on eternity : a biologist's walk through Gorongosa National Park. First Simon & Schuster hardcover edition. Prologue: The Search for Eternity -- The Sacred Mountain of Mozambique -- Once There Were Giants -- War and Redemption -- Dung and Blood -- The Twenty-Foot Crocodile -- The Elephant Whisperer -- The House of Spiders -- The Clash of Insect Civilizations -- The Log of an Entomological Expedition -- The Struggle for Existence -- The Conservation of Eternity. "E.O. Wilson, one of the most celebrated scientists in the United States, shows why biodiversity is vital to the future of Earth and to our own species through the story of an African national park that may be the most diverse place on earth, in a gorgeously illustrated book"--. "The remarkable story of how one of the most biologically diverse habitats in the world was destroyed, restored, and continues to evolve--with stunning, full-color photographs by two of the world's best wildlife photographers. In 1976, Gorongosa National Park was the premier park in Mozambique, boasting one of the densest wildlife populations in all of Africa. Across 1,500 square miles of lush green floodplains, thick palm forests, swampy lakes, and vast plains roamed creatures great and small, from herds of wildebeest and elephant to countless bird species and insects yet to be classified. Then came the civil war of 1978-1992, when much of the ecosystem was destroyed, reducing some large animal populations by 90 percent or more. Due to a remarkable conservation effort sponsored by an American entrepreneur, the park was restored in the 1990s and is now evolving back to its former state. This is the story of that incredible transformation and why such biological diversity is so important. In A Window on Eternity, world-renowned biologist and two-time Pulitzer Prize-winner Edward O. Wilson shows why biodiversity is vital to the future of the Earth, including our human population. It is in places like Gorongosa in Africa, explains Wilson, that our own species evolved. Wilson takes readers to the forested groves of the park's watershed on sacred Mount Gorongosa, then far away to deep gorges along the edge of the Rift Valley, places previously unexplored by biologists, with the aim of discovering new species and assessing their ancient origins. He treats readers to a war between termites and raider ants, describes 'conversations' with elephant herds, and explains the importance of a one-day 'bioblitz.' Praised as 'one of the finest scientists writing today' (Los Angeles Times), Wilson uses the story of Gorongosa to show the significance of biodiversity to humankind"--.

340.092 S

Sligh, Clarissa T., artist. Transforming hate : an artist's book. First edition. "This book evolved from a project for which I folded origami cranes from pages of white supremacist books for the exhibition, Speaking Volumes: Transforming Hate ... I was trying to look at what it was like for me to turn hateful words into a beautiful art object. What actually evolved from that exploration helped me understand more fully the many levels of oppression and violence at the intersections of race, gender, class and sexual orientation." --inside front cover.

343.730 I

Internet law. Amenia, New York : Grey House Publishing, 2020.

345.73 C

Carter, Dan T. Scottsboro : a tragedy of the American South. Rev. ed. Fourth printing. Baton Rouge : Louisiana State University Press, 2007.

349.41 H

Honor©♭, Tony, 1921-2019. About law : an introduction. Reprint: 2013. Law -- History -- Government -- Property -- Contracts and treaties -- Crimes -- Torts -- Forms and procedures -- Interpretation -- Justice -- Does law matter? -- Glossary.

363.73 P

Pollution. New York, NY : Grey House Publishing, 2020.

371.102 A

Agarwal, Pooja K., author. Powerful teaching : unleash the science of learning. First edition. Introduction -- Discover the power behind power tools -- Build a foundation with retrieval practice -- Empower teaching with retrieval practice strategies -- Energize learning with spacing and interleaving -- Engage students with feedback-driven metacognition -- Combine power tools and harness your toolbox -- Keeping it real: use power tools to tackle challenges, not add to them -- Foster a supportive environment: use power tools to reduce anxiety and strengthen community -- Spark conversations with students about the science of learning -- Spark conversations with parents about the science of learning -- Powerful professional development for teachers and leaders -- Do-it-yourself retrieval guide -- Conclusion: unleash the science of learning.

512 G

Algebra. 2004. New York : Springer Science+Business Media, 2004.

575.1 A

Arney, Kat, author. How to code a human. Meet your genome -- Our genetic journey -- How do genes work? -- Under attack! -- Who do you think your are? -- People are not peas -- Genetic superheroes -- Turn me on -- Sticky notes -- The RNA world -- Building a baby -- Wiring the brain -- Compatibility genes -- X and Y -- The viruses that made us human -- When things go wrong -- Human 2.0. "How to Code a Human takes you on a mind-bending journey through the world of the double helix, revealing how our DNA encodes our genes and makes us unique. Covering all aspects of modern genetics from the evolution of our species to inherited diseases, "junk" DNA, genetic engineering and the intricacies of the molecular processes inside our cells, this is an astonishing and insightful guide to the code of life"--Back cover.

598 S

Sibley, David, 1961- author, illustrator. What it's like to be a bird : from flying to nesting, eating to singing -- what birds are doing, and why. How to use this book -- Introduction -- Portfolio of birds -- Birds in this book -- What to do if... -- Becoming a birder. Explore more than two hundred species, and more than 330 new illustrations by the author, in this special, large-format volume, where many of the primary illustrations are reproduced life-sized. While its focus is on familiar backyard birds -- blue jays, nuthatches, chickadees -- What It's Like to Be a Bird also examines certain species that can be fairly easily observed, such as the seashore-dwelling Atlantic Puffin. David Sibley's exacting artwork and wide-ranging expertise bring observed behaviors vividly to life. And while the text is aimed at adults -- including fascinating new scientific research on the myriad ways birds have adapted to environmental changes -- it is nontechnical, making it the perfect occasion for parents and grandparents to share their love of birds with young children, who will delight in the big, full-color illustrations of birds in action. -- back cover.

613.6 C

Bushcraft Illustrated: a visual guide. New York, NY : Simon & Schuster, Inc. (Adams Media: imprint of Simon & Schuster), 2019.

638.1 B

Michael Bush. The Practical beekeeper. Nehawka, Nebraska : X-Star Publishing Company, 2004-2011. V. 1 - The Practical Beekeeing Naturally; V.2 - Intermediate Beekeeping Naturally.

660.6 D

Druker, Steven M., author. Altered genes, twisted truth : how the venture to genetically engineer our food has subverted science, corrupted government, and systematically deceived the public.

709.2 A

Atalay, B©ơlent. Math and the Mona Lisa: : the art and science of Leonardo da Vinci. New York, NY : Smithsonian Books in association with HarperCollins Publishers, 2006. Leonardo was one of history's true geniuses, equally brilliant as an artist, scientist, and mathematician. Following Leonardo's own model, Atalay searches for the internal dynamics of art and science. He provides an overview of the development of science from the dawn of civilization to today's quantum mechanics. From this base, Atalay offers a view into Leonardo's restless intellect and modus operandi, allowing us to see the source of his ideas and to appreciate his art from a new perspective.

741.5 G

Greenberg, Isabel. The encyclopedia of early earth : a graphic novel. First American edition. Love in a very cold climate -- Part 1. The land of Nord. The three sisters of Summer Island ; Beyond the frozen sea ; The gods ; The odyssey begins -- Part 2. Britanitarka. Summer and winter ; Creation ; Medicine man ; The storytellers ; Creation ; Dag and Hal ; The old lady and the giant ; The time of the giants ; The children of the mountain ; The long night ; Dead towns & ghost men -- Part. 3. Migdal Bavel. Migdal Bavel ; The mapmaker of Migdal Bavel ; The bible of Birdman: Genesis ; Bible of Birdman, book of Kiddo: The great flood ; The tower of Migdal Bavel ; The palace of whispers ; The gods #2 -- Part 4. The South Pole. The gods #3 -- Appendices. A brief history of time ; The Nords ; Hunting and fishing ; The 1001 varieties of snow ; The invisible hunter ; Britanitarka ; Birds & beast from early Earth ; The moonstone ; The plucked firebird of Hoo. "Chronicles the explorations of a young man as he paddles from his home in the North Pole to the South Pole. There, he meets his true love, but their romance is ill-fated. Early Earth's unusual and finicky polarity means the lovers can never touch"--Publisher's website.

808.1 G

How poetry can change your heart. San Francisco, CA : Chronicle Books, 2019.

808.5 E

Franklin, Sharon. Essentials of speech communication. Evanston, Ill. : McDougal Littell, 2001.

808.53 H

Hanson, Jim. NTC's dictionary of debate. Lincolnwood, Ill., USA : National Textbook Co., c1990.

808.53 W

Strategic debate. Textbook. Columbus, OH : Glencoe/McGraw-Hill, 2006.

810.8 B

Lepucki, Edan, author. The best American nonrequired reading 2019. This anthology presents a selection of short works from mainstream and alternative American periodicals published in 2019, including nonfiction, screenplays, television writing, fiction, and alternative comics.

815 R

Representative American speeches, 2019-2020. Amenia, New York : Grey House, Publishing, 2020. "Selected from a diverse field of speakers and venues, this volume offers some of the most engaging American speeches of the year. Distinguished by its diversity, covering areas in politics, education, popular culture, as well as trending topics in the news, these speeches provide an interesting format to explore some of the year's most important stories."-Publisher.

909.09 D

Davis, Jack E., 1956- author. The Gulf : the making of an American sea. First edition. Prologue : history, nature, and a forgotten sea -- Introduction : birth -- Part one. Estuaries, and the lie of the land and sea : aborigines and colonizing Europeans. Mounds -- El golfo de M©♭xico -- Unnecessary death -- A most important river, and a "magnificent" bay -- Part two. Sea and sky : American debuts in the nineteenth century. Manifest destiny -- A fishy sea -- The wild fish that tamed the coast -- Birds of a feather, shot together -- Part three. Preludes to the future. From bayside to beachside -- Oil and the Texas toe dip -- Oil and the Louisiana plunge -- Islands, shifting sands of time -- Wind and water -- Part four. Saturation and loss : post-1945. The growth coast -- Florida worry, Texas slurry -- Rivers of stuff -- Runoff, and runaway -- Sand in the hourglass -- Losing the edge -- Epilogue : a success story amid so much else. Significant beyond tragic oil spills and hurricanes, the Gulf has historically been one of the world's most bounteous marine environments, supporting human life for millennia. Based on the premise that nature lies at the center of human existence, Davis takes readers on a compelling and, at times, wrenching journey from the Florida Keys to the Texas Rio Grande, along marshy shorelines and majestic estuarine bays, both beautiful and life-giving, though fated to exploitation by esurient oil men and real-estate developers. Davis shares previously untold stories, parading a vast array of historical characters past our view: sports-fishermen, presidents, Hollywood executives, New England fishers, the Tabasco king, a Texas shrimper, and a New York architect who caught the "big one". Sensitive to the imminent effects of climate change, and to the difficult task of rectifying the assaults of recent centuries, this book suggests how a penetrating examination of a single region's history can inform the country's path ahead. --.

910.92 I

Inskeep, Steve, author. Imperfect union : how Jessie and John Fr©♭mont mapped the West, invented celebrity, and helped cause the Civil War. Aid me with your influence -- The equal merits of differing peoples -- The current of important events -- Miseries that attend a separation -- I determined to make there a home -- The manifest purpose of providence -- A taste for danger and bold daring adventure -- The Spaniards were somewhat rude and inhospitable -- I am not going to let you write anything but your name -- Do not suppose I lightly interfere in a matter belonging to men -- We pressed onward with fatal resolution -- Jessie Benton Fr©♭mont was the better man of the two -- We thought money might come in handy -- All the stupid laurels that ever grew -- Decidedly, this ought to be struck out -- He throws away his heart. "Steve Inskeep tells the riveting story of John and Jessie Fr©♭mont, the husband and wife team who in the 1800s were instrumental in the westward expansion of the United States, and thus became America's first great political couple John Fr©♭mont grew up amid family tragedy and shame. Born out of wedlock in 1813, he went to work at age thirteen to help support his family in Charleston, South Carolina. He was a nobody. Yet, by the 1840s, he rose to become one of the most acclaimed people of the age -- known as a wilderness explorer, bestselling writer, gallant army officer, and latter-day conquistador, who in 1846 began the United States' takeover of California from Mexico. He was a celebrity who personified the country's westward expansion. Mountains, towns, ships, and streets were named after him. How did he climb so far? A vital factor was his wife, Jessie Benton Fr©♭mont, the daughter of a powerful United States senator. Jessie wanted to play roles in politics and exploration, which were then reserved for men. Frustrated, she threw her skill and passion into promoting her husband. Ordered by the US Army to map the Oregon Trail, John traveled thousands of miles on horseback, indifferent to his safety and that of the other members of his expeditions. When he returned home, Jessie helped him to shape dramatic reports of his adventures, which were reprinted in newspapers and bound as popular books. Jessie became his political adviser, and a power player in her own right. In 1856, the famous couple strategized as John became the first-ever presidential nominee of the newly established Republican Party. The party had been founded in opposition to slavery, and though both Fr©♭monts were Southerners they became symbols of the cause. With rare detail and in consummate style, Steve Inskeep tells the story of a couple whose joint ambitions and talents intertwined with those of the nascent United States itself. Americans linked the Fr©♭monts with not one but three great social movements of the time -- westward settlement, women's rights, and opposition to slavery. Theirs is a surprisingly modern story of ambition and fame; they lived in a time of globalization, technological disruption, and divisive politics that foreshadowed our own. The Fr©♭monts' adventures amount to nothing less than a tour of the early American soul"--.

940.54 S

Sledge, E. B. (Eugene Bondurant), 1923-. China marine. Oxford University Paperback, 2003. Tuscaloosa : University of Alabama Press, c2002. China Marine 1 -- Epilogue: I Am Not the Man I Would Have Been 149.

940.54 T

Terkel, Studs, 1912-2008. "The good war" : an oral history of World War Two. New York : New Press, [1997.

943.36 H

Hunt, Irmgard A. (Irmgard Albine), 1934-. On Hitler's mountain : overcoming the legacy of a Nazi childhood. First Harper Perennial edition. 2006. On writing a childhood memoir -- pt. 1. 1906-1934 : the P©œhlmanns. Roots of discontent ; In search of a future -- pt. 2. 1934-1939 : Hitler's willing followers. The rituals of life ; "Heil Hitler" ; Ominous undercurrents ; Meeting Hitler ; Gathering clouds -- pt. 3. 1939-1945 : war and surrender. Early sacrifice ; Learning to hate school ; Lessons from a wartime friendship ; A weary interlude in Selb ; Hardship and disintegration ; War comes to Berchtesgaden ; The end at last -- pt. 4. 1945-1948 : Bitter justice, or, Will justice be done? Survival under the Star-spangled Banner ; The curse of the past ; Escape from darkness. The author provides an account of her life growing up in Berchtesgaden, a Bavarian village at the foot of Hitler's mountain retreat, discussing a childhood encounter with the Nazi leader, and shedding light on why ordinary Germans, including her parents, tolerated and even supported the Nazis.

951.04 M

Mitter, Rana, 1969- author. Forgotten ally : China's World War II, 1937-1945. First U.S. Edition. The path to war: As close as lips and teeth : China's fall, Japan's rise ; A new revolution ; The path to confrontation -- Disaster: Thirty-seven days in summer : the outbreak of war ; The battle for Shanghai ; Refugees and resistance ; Massacre at Nanjing ; The battle of Taierzhuang ; The deadly river -- Resisting alone: "A sort of wartime normal" ; Flight into the unknown ; The road to Pearl Harbor -- The poisoned alliance ; Destination Burma ; Hunger in Henan ; States of terror ; Conference at Cairo ; One war, two fronts ; Showdown with Stilwell ; Unexpected victory ; Epilogue: The enduring war. "For decades, a major piece of World War II history has gone virtually unwritten. China was the fourth great ally, partner to the United States, the Soviet Union, and Great Britain, yet its drama of invasion, resistance, slaughter, and political intrigue remains little known in the West. In this emotionally gripping book, made possible through access to newly unsealed Chinese archives, Rana Mitter unfurls the story of China's World War II as never before and rewrites the larger history of the war in the process. He focuses his narrative on three towering leaders -- Chiang Kai-shek, Mao Zedong, and the lesser-known collaborator Wang Jingwei -- and extends the timeline of the war back to 1937, when Japanese and Chinese troops began to clash, fully two years before Hitler invaded Poland. Unparalleled in its research and scope, Forgotten Ally is a sweeping, character-driven history that will be essential reading not only for anyone with an interest in World War II, but also for those seeking to understand today's China, where, as Mitter reveals, the echoes of the war still reverberate"--.

952 J

Takada, Noriko. The Japanese way : aspects of behavior, attitudes, and customs of the Japanese. 2nd ed. Chicago : McGraw-Hill, c2011 . Abbreviations and contractions -- Addresses and street names -- Arts and crafts -- Asking directions -- Bathing and bathhouses -- Body language and gestures -- Borrowed words and acronyms -- Bowing -- Brand names and brand-name goods (burando-hin) -- Business cards (meish) -- Calendar -- Cherry blossoms and flower viewing -- Compliments -- Conversation -- Crime and safety -- Dating and marriage -- Death, funerals, and mourning -- Dialects -- Dining out -- Dinner invitations -- Directness -- Discussion and consensus -- Dress -- Drinking -- Driving -- Earthquakes -- Education -- English-language study -- Family -- The Jag and the national anthem -- Flowers and plants -- Food and eating -- Footwear -- Foreigners -- Gender roles -- Geography -- Gifts -- Government -- Hellos and good-byes -- Holidays and festivals -- Honorific speech (keigo) -- Hotels and inns -- Housing and furnishings -- Humor -- The Imperial family -- Individuals and couples -- Introductions and networking -- Karaoke -- Leisure (rgli) -- Letters, greeting cards, and postal services -- Love and affection -- Lucky and unlucky numbers -- Male/female speech -- Money -- Mt. Fuji -- Music and dance -- Myths, legends, and folklore -- Names, titles, and forms of address -- Numbers and counting -- Oriental medicine -- Pinball (pachinko) -- Politeness and rudeness -- Population -- Privacy -- Reading material -- Religion -- The seasons -- Shopping -- Shrines and temples -- Signatures and seals -- Social structure -- Sports -- Table etiquette -- Telephones -- Television/radio/movies -- Thank-yous and regrets -- Theater -- Time and punctuality -- Tipping and service charges -- Toilets -- Travel within Japan -- Vending machines -- Visiting private homes -- Weights, measures, and sizes -- Working hours -- The written language -- "Yes" and "no" -- "You first" -- Zoological calendar.

972.81 P

Proskouriakoff, Tatiana, 1909-1985. Maya history. First edition. Foreword / Gordon R. Wills -- Tatiana Proskouriakoff, 1909-1985 / Ian Graham -- Introduction / Rosemary A. Joyce -- 1. The Earliest Records: (A.D. 288-337) -- 2. The Arrival of Strangers: (A.D. 337-386) -- 3. The Maya Regain Tikal: (A.D. 386-435) -- 4. Some Ragged Pages: (A.D. 435-485) -- 5. Expansion of the Maya Tradition: (A.D. 485-534) -- 6. A Time of Troubles: (A.D. 534-583) -- 7. Recovery on the Frontiers: (A.D. 583-633) -- 8. Growth and Expansion: (A.D. 633-682) -- 9. Toward a Peak of Prosperity: (A.D. 682-736) -- 10. On the Crest of the Wave: (A.D. 731-780) -- 11. Prelude to Disaster: (A.D. 780-830) -- 12. The Final Years: (A.D. 831-909) -- 13. The Last Survivals: (A.D. 909-938). The ruins of Maya city-states occur throughout the Yucatan peninsula, Guatemala, Belize, and in parts of Honduras and El Salvador. But the people who built these sites remain imperfectly known. Though they covered standing monuments (stelae) and public buildings with hieroglyphic records of their deeds, no Rosetta Stone has yet turned up in Central America to help experts determine the exact meaning of these glyphs. Tatiana Proskouriakoff, a preeminent student of the Maya, made many breakthroughs in deciphering Maya writing, particularly in demonstrating that the glyphs record the deeds of actual human beings. This discovery opened the way for a history of the Maya, a monumental task that Proskouriakoff was engaged in before her death in 1985. Her work, Maya History, has been made ready for press by the able editorship of Rosemary Joyce. Maya History reconstructs the Classic Maya period (roughly A.D. 250-900) from the glyphic record on stelae at numerous sites, including Altar de Sacrificios, Copan, Dos Pilas, Naranjo, Piedras Negras, Quirigua, Tikal, and Yaxchilan. Proskouriakoff traces the spread of governmental institutions from the central Peten, especially from Tikal, to other city-states by conquest and intermarriage. And she also shows how the gradual introduction of foreign elements into Maya art mirrors the entry of outsiders who helped provoke the eventual collapse of the Classic Maya. Fourteen line drawings of monuments and over three hundred original drawings of glyphs amplify the text. Maya History has been long awaited by scholars in the field. It is sure to provoke lively debate and greater understanding of this important area in Mesoamerican studies.

973.04 A

Asian Americans : the movement and the moment. A wide-ranging collection of essays and material which documents the rich, little-known history of Asian American social activism during the years 1965-2001. This book examines the period not only through personal accounts and historical analysis, but through the visual record--utilizing historical prictorial materials developed at UCLA's Asian American Studies Center on Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Filipino, and Vietnamese Americans. Included are many reproductions of photos of the period, movement comics, demonstration flyers, newsletters, posters and much more.

973.0496 D

W.E.B. DuBois. The Souls of Black Folk. BIGFONTBOOKS.COM.

973.7 B

Barney, William L. Battleground for the Union : the era of the Civil War and Reconstruction, 1848-1877. Englewood Cliffs, N.J. : Prentice Hall, c1990.

973.9 I

Imani, Blair, author. Making our way home : the Great Migration and the Black American dream. First edition. Separate but equal: Reconstruction-1919 -- Beautiful -- and ugly, too: 1920-1929 -- I, too, am America: 1930-1939 -- Liberty and justice for all: 1940-1949 -- Trouble ahead: 1950-1959 -- The time is in the street, you know: 1960-1969 -- All poer to all the people: 1970-1979. "A powerful illustrated history of the Great Migration and its sweeping impact on Black and American culture, from Reconstruction to the rise of hip hop. Over the course of six decades, an unprecedented wave of Black Americans left the South and spread across the nation in search of a better life--a migration that sparked stunning demographic and cultural changes in twentieth-century America. Through gripping and accessible historical narrative paired with illustrations, author and activist Blair Imani examines the largely overlooked impact of The Great Migration and how it affected--and continues to affect--Black identity and America as a whole. Making Our Way Home explores issues like voting rights, domestic terrorism, discrimination, and segregation alongside the flourishing of arts and culture, activism, and civil rights. Imani shows how these influences shaped America's workforce and wealth distribution by featuring the stories of notable people and events, relevant data, and family histories. The experiences of prominent figures such as James Baldwin, Fannie Lou Hamer, El Hajj Malik El Shabazz (Malcolm X), Ella Baker, and others are woven into the larger historical and cultural narratives of the Great Migration to create a truly singular record of this powerful journey"--.

973.9 L

Longley, Kyle, author. LBJ's 1968 : power, politics, and the presidency in America's year of upheaval. A nation on the brink: the State of the Union Address, January 1968 -- Those dirty bastards, are they trying to embarrass us? The Pueblo Incident, January-December 1968 -- Tet: a very near thing, January-March 1968 -- As a result, I will not seek re-election: the March 31, 1968 speech -- The days the earth stood still: the assassination of Martin Luther King, Jr., April 1968 -- He hated him, but loved him: the assassination of Robert Kennedy, June 1968 -- The big stumble: the Fortas Affair, June-October 1968 -- The tanks are rolling: Czechoslovakia crushed, August 1968 -- The perfect disaster: the Democratic National Convention, August 1968 -- Is this treason?: the October surprise that wasn't, October-December 1968 -- The last dance, January 1969 -- Conclusion.

974.7 F

Feldman, Deborah, 1986-. Unorthodox : the scandalous rejection of my Hasidic roots. 1st Simon & Schuster trade pbk. ed. 2020. New York : Simon & Schuster Paperbacks, 2012. Traces the author's upbringing in a Hasidic community in Brooklyn, describing the strict rules that governed her life, arranged marriage at the age of seventeen, and the birth of her son, which led to her plan to leave and forge her own path in life.

975.7 B

Ball, Edward, 1959-. Slaves in the family. Paperback edition. Journalist Ball confronts the legacy of his family's slave-owning past, uncovering the story of the people, both black and white, who lived and worked on the Balls' South Carolina plantations. It is an unprecedented family record that reveals how the painful legacy of slavery continues to endure in America's collective memory and experience. Ball, a descendant of one of the largest slave-owning families in the South, discovered that his ancestors owned 25 plantations, worked by nearly 4,000 slaves. Through meticulous research and by interviewing scattered relatives, Ball contacted some 100,000 African-Americans who are all descendants of Ball slaves. In intimate conversations with them, he garnered information, hard words, and devastating family stories of precisely what it means to be enslaved. He found that the family plantation owners were far from benevolent patriarchs; instead there is a dark history of exploitation, interbreeding, and extreme violence.--From publisher description.

975.7 B

Ball, Edward, 1959-. The sweet hell inside : a family history. First edition. Preface -- Part 1-The Master and His Orphans-Part 2-High Yellow-Porch 3 -Eyes Sadder Then the Grave-Part 4-Nigger Rich-Part 5-The Orphans Dancers-Part 6-A Trunk in the Grass-Notes-Permission and Photography Credits-Acknowledgments-Index. If. Recounts the lives of the Harleston family of South Carolina, the progeny of a Southern gentleman and his slave who cast off their blemished roots and achieved affluence in part through a surprisingly successful funeral parlor business. Their wealth afforded the Harlestons the comfort of chauffeurs, tailored clothes, and servants whose skin was darker than theirs. It also launched the family into a generation of glory as painters, performers, and photographers in the "high yellow" society of America's colored upper class. The Harlestons' remarkable 100-year journey spans the waning days of Reconstruction, the precious art world of the early 1900s, the back alleys of the Jazz Age, and the dawn of the civil rights movement.--From publisher description.

DVD Gre

The Great debaters. 2-disc collector's edition; Widescreen [ed.]. [New York] : Weinstein Company, c2008. Denzel Washington, Nate Parker, Jurnee Smollett, Denzel Whitaker, Jermaine Williams, Forest Whitaker, Gina Ravera, John Heard, Kimberly Elise, Devyn Tyler, Trenton McClain Boyd. Melvin B. Tolson is a professor at Wiley College in Texas. Wiley is a small African-American college. In 1935, Tolson inspired students to form the school's first debate team. Tolson turns a group of underdog students into a historically elite debate team which goes on to challenge Harvard in the national championship. Inspired by a true story.

F Alb

Albertalli, Becky, author. What if it's us. Told in two voices, when Arthur, a summer intern from Georgia, and Ben, a native New Yorker, meet it seems like fate, but after three attempts at dating fail they wonder if the universe is pushing them together or apart.

F Arc

Astral Traveler's Daughter. First Simon & Schuster Trade Paperback edition, April 2019. New York, NY : Simon & Schuster, Inc, 2019. "Last year, Teddy Cannon discovered she was psychic. This year, her skills will be put to the test as she investigates a secretive case that will take her far from home--and deep into the past in the thrilling follow-up to School for Psychics"-- Provided by publisher.

F Chi

Chiaverini, Jennifer, author. Enchantress of numbers : a novel of Ada Lovelace. "The only legitimate child of Lord Byron, the most brilliant, revered, and scandalous of the Romantic poets, Ada was destined for fame long before her birth. Estranged from Ada's father, who was infamously "mad, bad, and dangerous to know," Ada's mathematician mother is determined to save her only child from her perilous Byron heritage. Banishing fairy tales and make-believe from the nursery, Ada's mother provides her daughter with a rigorous education grounded in mathematics and science. Any troubling spark of imagination--or worse yet, passion or poetry--is promptly extinguished. Or so her mother believes. When Ada is introduced into London society as a highly eligible young heiress, she at last discovers the intellectual and social circles she has craved all her life. Little does she realize that her delightful new friendship with inventor Charles Babbage--brilliant, charming, and occasionally curmudgeonly--will shape her destiny ..."--Jacket.

F Chr

Christie, Michael, 1976- author. Greenwood : a novel. First U.S. edition. "It's 2038 and Jake Greenwood is a storyteller and a liar, an overqualified tour guide babysitting ultra-rich vacationers in one of the world's last remaining forests. It's 2008 and Liam Greenwood is a carpenter, fallen from a ladder and sprawled on his broken back, calling out from the concrete floor of an empty mansion. It's 1974 and Willow Greenwood is out of jail, free after being locked up for one of her endless series of environmental protests: attempts at atonement for the sins of her father's once vast and violent timber empire. It's 1934 and Everett Greenwood is alone, as usual, in his maple syrup camp squat when he hears the cries of an abandoned infant and gets tangled up in the web of a crime that will cling to his family for decades. And throughout, there are trees: thrumming a steady, silent pulse beneath Christie's effortless sentences and working as a guiding metaphor for withering, weathering, and survival. A shining, intricate clockwork of a novel, Greenwood is a rain-soaked and sun-dappled story of the bonds and breaking points of money and love, wood and blood--and the hopeful, impossible task of growing toward the light"--.

F Cle

Memoirs of Fanny Hill. Published by arrangement with Edito-Service S. A., Geneva, Switzerland. New York, NY : Peebles Press International Inc, 1973.

F Col

Andre's Reboot. Birmingham, AL : Stephen B. Coleman, Publisher, 2019.

F Def

Moll Flanders. Reprint. 2020. Columbia, SC, : August 12, 2020.

F Def

Defoe, Daniel, 1661?-1731. The fortunes and misfortunes of the famous Moll Flanders ... A new edition.

F Fit

Fitzgerald, F. Scott (Francis Scott), 1896-1940, author. The great Gatsby. Foreword to the seventy-fifth anniversary edition: F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby, and the House of Scribner ; Preface / by Matthew J. Bruccoli -- THE GREAT GATSBY -- The text of The Great Gatsby / by Matthew J. Bruccoli -- Publisher's afterword / Charles Scribner III -- FSF : life and career / James L.W. West III. Overview: The mysterious Jay Gatsby embodies the American notion that it is possible to redefine oneself and persuade the world to accept that definition. Gatsby's youthful neighbor, Nick Carraway, fascinated with the display of enormous wealth in which Gatsby revels, finds himself swept up in the lavish lifestyle of Long Island society during the Jazz Age. Considered Fitzgerald's best work, The Great Gatsby is a mystical, timeless story of integrity and cruelty, vision and despair. The timeless story of Jay Gatsby and his love for Daisy Buchanan is widely acknowledged to be the closest thing to the Great American Novel ever written.

F Jam

The Turn of the Screw, the Aspern Papers, and Two Stories. Barnes & Noble Classics, 2003; Intro. and notes by David L. Sweet. New York, NY : Barnes & Noble, 2003.

F Ora

Orange, Tommy, 1982- author. There there. First Vintage books edition. Here is a story of several people, each of whom has private reasons for travelling to the Big Oakland Powwow. Jacquie Red Feather is newly sober and trying to make it back to the family she left behind in shame. Dene Oxendene is pulling his life together after his uncle's death and has come to work at the powwow to honour his uncle's memory. Opal Viola Victoria Bear Shield has come to watch her nephew Orvil Red Feather, who has taught himself traditional Indian dance through YouTube videos and has come to the powwow to dance in public for the very first time. There will be glorious communion, and a spectacle of sacred tradition and pageantry. And there will be sacrifice, and heroism, and unspeakable loss.

F Pat

Patchett, Ann, author. The Dutch house : a novel. First edition. "Ann Patchett, the New York Times bestselling author of Commonwealth and State of Wonder, returns with her most powerful novel to date: a richly moving story that explores the indelible bond between two siblings, the house of their childhood, and a past that will not let them go"--.

F Rob

Roberts, Nora, author. The awakening. First edition. "#1 New York Times bestselling author of the epic Chronicles of The One trilogy returns with the first in a brand new series where parallel worlds clash over the struggle between good and evil"--.

F Row

Rowling, J. K. Harrius Potter et philosophi lapis. Cover illustration first pub. 2015. London : Bloomsbury, 2003, ℗♭1997. Latin translation, Peter Needham, 2003. Rescued from the outrageous neglect of his aunt and uncle, a young boy with a great destiny proves his worth while attending Hogwarts School for Witchcraft and Wizardry.

F Rus

Russell, Karen, 1981-. Swamplandia! 1st ed (Borzoi Book). New York : Alfred A. Knopf, 2011. Twelve year old Ava must travel into the Underworld part of the swamp in order to save her family's dynasty of Bigtree alligator wresting. This novel takes us to the swamps of the Florida Everglades, and introduces us to Ava Bigtree, an unforgettable young heroine. The Bigtree alligator wrestling dynasty is in decline, and Swamplandia!, their island home and gator wrestling theme park, formerly no. 1 in the region, is swiftly being encroached upon by a fearsome and sophisticated competitor called the World of Darkness. Ava's mother, the park's indomitable headliner, has just died; her sister, Ossie, has fallen in love with a spooky character known as the Dredgeman, who may or may not be an actual ghost; and her brilliant big brother, Kiwi, who dreams of becoming a scholar, has just defected to the World of Darkness in a last ditch effort to keep their family business from going under. Ava's father, affectionately known as Chief Bigtree, is AWOL; and that leaves Ava, a resourceful but terrified thirteen, to manage ninety eight gators as well as her own grief. Against a backdrop of hauntingly fecund plant life animated by ancient lizards and lawless hungers, the author has written a novel about a family's struggle to stay afloat in a world that is inexorably sinking.

F Sha

Shaw, Irwin, 1913-1984. The young lions. Chicago : University of Chicago Press, 2000.

F Tol

The Hobbit. 75th Anniversary. The text of this edition is based on edition published by HarperCollins Publishers in 1995. Bilbo Baggins, a respectable, well-to-do hobbit, lives comfortably in his hobbit-hole until the day the wandering wizard Gandalf chooses him to take part in an adventure from which he may never return.

F Tow

Towles, Amor. Rules of civility. A chance encounter with a handsome banker in a jazz bar on New Year's Eve 1938 catapults Wall Street secretary Katey Kontent into the upper echelons of New York society, where she befriends a shy multi-millionaire, an Upper East Side ne'er-do-well, and a single-minded widow.

F Wat

Watson, Ren©♭e, author. Piecing me together. Tired of being singled out at her mostly-white private school as someone who needs support, high school junior Jade would rather participate in the school's amazing Study Abroad program than join Women to Women, a mentorship program for at-risk girls. "Acclaimed author Renee Watson offers a powerful story about a girl striving for success in a world that too often seems like it's trying to break her. Jade believes she must get out of her poor neighborhood if she's ever going to succeed. Her mother tells her to take advantage of every opportunity that comes her way. And Jade has: every day she rides the bus away from her friends and to the private school where she feels like an outsider, but where she has plenty of opportunities. But some opportunities she doesn't really welcome, like an invitation to join Women to Women, a mentorship program for "at-risk" girls. Just because her mentor is black and graduated from the same high school doesn't mean she understands where Jade is coming from. She's tired of being singled out as someone who needs help, someone people want to fix. Jade wants to speak, to create, to express her joys and sorrows, her pain and her hope. Maybe there are some things she could show other women about understanding the world and finding ways to be real, to make a difference.".

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Williams, Katie, 1978- author. Tell the machine goodnight. Pearl's job is to make people happy. Every day, she provides customers with personalized recommendations for greater contentment. She's good at her job, her office manager tells her, successful. But how does one measure an emotion? Meanwhile, there's Pearl's teenage son, Rhett. A sensitive kid who has forged an unconventional path through adolescence, Rhett seems to find greater satisfaction in being unhappy. The very rejection of joy is his own kind of "pursuit of happiness." As his mother, Pearl wants nothing more than to help Rhett--but is it for his sake or for hers? Certainly it would make Pearl happier. Regardless, her son is one person whose emotional life does not fall under the parameters of her job--not as happiness technician, and not as mother, either.-Amazon.

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The Daniel Defoe Collection : The Life and strange surprising adventures of Robinson Crusoe, of York, Mariner; The farther adventures of Robinson Crusoe; A journal of the plague year; Moll Flanders. South Carolina, USA, : August 2020.

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Link, Kelly, author. Get in trouble : stories. Random House trade paperback edition. The summer people -- I can see right through you -- Secret identity -- Valley of the girls -- Origin story -- The lesson -- The new boyfriend -- Two houses -- Light. A collection of short stories features tales of a young girl who plays caretaker to mysterious guests at the cottage behind her house and a former teen idol who becomes involved in a bizarre reality show.

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Packer, ZZ. Drinking coffee elsewhere. 1st Riverhead trade pbk. ed. New York : Riverhead Books, 2004, ℗♭2003. Brownies -- Every tongue shall confess -- Our Lady of Peace -- The ant of the self -- Drinking coffee elsewhere -- Speaking in tongues -- Geese -- Doris is coming. Discovered by The New Yorker, Packer "forms a constellation of young black experience"* whether she's writing from the perspective of a church-going black woman who has a crisis in faith, a young college student at Yale, or a young black man unwillingly accompanying his father to the Million Man March. This universally appealing collection of short fiction has already established ZZ Packer as "a writer to watch.".

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Sedaris, David, author. Calypso. First edition. When he buys a beach house on the Carolina coast, David Sedaris envisions long, relaxing vacations spent playing board games and lounging in the sun with those he loves most. And life at the Sea Section, as he names the vacation home, is exactly as idyllic as he imagined, except for one tiny, vexing realization: it's impossible to take a vacation from yourself. Sedaris sets his powers of observation toward middle age and mortality, that vertiginous moment when your own body betrays you and you realize that the story of your life is made up of more past than future.

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Sedaris, David, author. Let's explore diabetes with owls. First Back Bay paperback edition, June 2014. From the perils of French dentistry to the eating habits of the Australian kookaburra, from the squat-style toilets of Beijing to the particular wilderness of a North Carolina Costco, we learn about the absurdity and delight of a curious traveler's experiences. Whether railing against the habits of litterers in the English countryside or marveling over a disembodied human arm in a taxidermist's shop, Sedaris takes us on side-splitting adventures that are not to be forgotten.

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hacash · 5 years ago

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last man standing

summary: June 1947. After a particularly bad day, Meyer realises he’s the last one left.

It occurs to him, sitting out on the balcony in the sticky-sweet miasma of Miami heat, that there’s no-one left he can talk to about this.

Oh, he has friends – it’s funny how many people want to be pals with the little man when he, more or less, owns Cuba - and associates, and a wife, God bless her, asleep in the next room. Still, Meyer thinks as he pours himself yet another scotch, it’s not the same.

It’s not…the people who were there, they no longer…look, it’s one thing to know people now when you’ve made it, but the people who knew you then, still running in the Lower East Side, still reaching for it all…well, it’s just not the same, is it?

One by one, the old faces seem to melt away, and now… Well. People like them don’t plan on growing older, and if you don’t plan for something it never happens.

Fucking Benny. Never the world’s greatest planner.

Another scotch. Shit. He finds himself remembering, as if he were an old man already – alter kocher, comes Benny’s voice, and he nearly vomits over his shoes - that afternoon down at Atlantic City, when the world spread out before him like some sort of fucking dream and everything was theirs for the taking. The big man, he thinks sourly to himself, your first time around the table like some kind of damn equal instead of waiting at the door for A.R. and Charlie to finish their yammering, and you thought nothing could possibly go wrong.

Look how well that little escapade went. In the long term, barely worth the trouble. Damn, they’d all been kids back then. Taking on Chicago, Atlantic City, New York, it’s all ours, gentlemen, the old way of doing things has passed – how long ago was that? Years; fucking years ago.

I thought I was invincible, and all my friends with me. I thought no-one could make me do anything I didn’t want to do ever again. Some fucking joke that turned out to be, huh? Look at where he is now. And there he was still…knees to the ground, gasping little immigrant kid, doing precisely what he didn’t want to do.

They were meant to be invincible. Look at them now. Jimmy Darmody, abandoned in an unmarked grave. Al had been barely recognisable as the man that ruled Chicago by the time they buried him, thanks to all that cocaine and his whores. Richard Harrow, the quiet one – Meyer remembers flicking through an ancient newspaper and finding out they’d found him beneath the boardwalk riddled with bullets. As for Mickey Doyle…well, he’d always said one day that man’s lip would get him in trouble, and Charlie proved him right.

(Benny wanted to come with them to Atlantic City back in ’21. Charlie had nearly had a fit at the idea. Jesus Christ, Benny had snapped, I won’t embarrass you in front of your new fancy friends; as far as dangerous goes, I’d like to meet the guy who can get the drop on me. At the time Meyer had thought it was funny.)

And Charlie? In fucking Palermo, of all places. What fucking use is he in Palermo? He doesn’t even like Italy, had been Meyer’s first thought when the news came, as if the elevated minds of the US government concerned themselves with where a criminal would like to be deported. He’s a New Yorker, not an Italian. He came from Sicily anyway, it’s a completely different land mass, you’re not even sending him to the right place. As if Charlie would have cared, all that shit was for the Mustache Petes who actually thought which village your grandfather was born in determined who you were as a man. But at the time it seemed important that they gave a damn where they were sending him. Recognised just who they were dealing with – not just shipping a parcel back to where it came from, whoops, wrong address, just toss it back to the post office with the rest of the scrap and let those dagos sort out the mess for us….

He’s drunk, Meyer realises – not just drunk, but wretchedly, miserably fucked, the sort of drunk he hasn’t been since Charlie’s deportation, or since they dug up A.R. in that alley outside Park Central. Sweat creasing over his skin, head reeling; maybe he was in better shape to deal with grief as a younger man. Maybe tragedy has a sense of timing, like some punk kid in an alley; wait until a man is nice and relaxed and stupid and thinks life’s going his way, then bam – over the head with a blackjack, and suddenly the world’s not the place you thought it was.

He’s in Florida. Charlie’s in Italy. And Benny…

And there’s no-one left who knows them as they were. That’s the thought that tears him apart from the inside. He’s spent so long crawling out from that tenement basement flat, dragging himself from the Lower East Side step by step, and now the thought of no-one knowing him as he was – as they were, hungry young men always searching for the future – nearly breaks him open.

Atlantic City. 1921. A memory flickers clumsily in him. The graceless twin impulses of grief and alcohol drive him to grasp for the telephone, cradle it as if it were a life preserver.

The operator says it’s an Illinois number. Funny that. Then again, Meyer wouldn’t have expected him to stay in New Jersey.

“Yeah?”

“Mr Thompson? Eli. It’s Meyer, Meyer Lansky. From New York.”

A clunk, the sound of someone shaking off the remnants of sleep. “For fuck’s – ” There’s a muffled burst of expletives on the other end of the line. “What the hell do you want?”

He finds himself spluttering, sniggering like a schoolboy in on the joke, because the bottle of scotch currently pickling him from the inside out finds it very funny indeed: ringing up some poor bastard – must be pushing sixty, sixty-five – in the middle of the night to unburden his soul like some Catholic kid with their, what-you-call-it, confessionals crap. Well, fuck you, he thinks cheerfully, you and your fucking brother, everything you did. You always wanted to survive above all else, well congratulations, you did it, which means you’re the one who has to listen now.

“My apologies. The late hour, of course,” he forces out, trying to inject whatever clipped good manners he used to rely on back in the day – anything to stop richer men, bigger men, from shooting him in the head. It was always a shield, but right now it isn’t working; his voice is shaking and Jesus, why does it feel like he’s dragging every word up from his guts? “I hope I didn’t disturb.”

“You’ve got no reason to call me. I’ve had nothing to do with the business since my brother…Fuck. My wife’s going to wake any minute. Why’m I even explaining to you?”

Good point. Why exactly is he on the phone to someone he hasn’t spoken to in over twenty years: save that it’s the middle of the night and his oldest friend is dead and he doesn’t know what time it is in Italy, and all he knows that if he doesn’t speak to someone who knew him as he was back in the old days, even as an enemy, he’ll go mad.

“I’m hanging up now.”

“I’m sorry, Eli,” he says hastily, tripping over the scotch. “For disturbing you, your wife, and all that. You’ll come down to Miami, my expense, isn’t that how you Thompsons used to do things? I just…” - his tongue’s running away from him and God, he’s so tired, when was the last time he slept? five days ago maybe, when he finally gave the okay to…to what happened – “Felt like talking to someone …and I just had some news. About an old friend.”

There’s a grunt from the other line. “I’ll bite. Who?”

“Benny. Your brother kidnapped him once, back in the day.”

A snort. “Bugsy. Little shit, I remember him. Nucky told me he was the screwiest little wiseass he ever came across. What about him?”

“He died today.”

Silence. Meyer hasn’t given the hows or the wherefores; still, maybe there’s something in their line of work that enables you to sense it, that dead doesn’t just mean the tragedy of a car crash or a sour bout of pneumonia. Sheriff of Atlantic City: probably Eli visited no end of widows to tell them that someone was dead, in that particular way. “My condolences,” he says finally. “But you fellas all sign off on that sorta thing these days, don’t you? Do it polite, civilised. So who gave the okay for Siegel to go?”

“I did.”

I did. Me. I thought I could hold them off for long enough, I got careless – kidding myself that as long as I asked, they’d listen. You thought you were a big shot, didn’t you? Benny could do whatever he wanted – spend other men’s money, fuck around in the desert, none of it would matter if you were protecting him. How many times did you tell him that? How many times did you lie?

‘Fuck’s sake, Ben. You’re a grown man now, you need to take some responsibility for what you’re doing out there.’

‘Christ, hocking me with this again? You’re worse than my mother, Meyer.’

‘I’ve been taking care of you for long enough. I’ll sort it, alright, but get it together.’

Big joke. Thinking you can do it all, and you can’t even protect your oldest friend. What does that say about you, Little Man?

Eli hasn’t spoken, he realises, for a good while now. Just breathing on the end of the line, like a death rattle.

“Jesus Christ.”

A half-laugh, contemptuous. “I don’t know him personally. Maybe you could put in a good word.”

“Huh. Well.”

“You’re right though,” the words come gushing out of him, the way they always do when Meyer’s frightened, or angry, or drunk, or all three, “we do keep things civilised. So when Benny started getting in over his head, borrowing big money and looking as if he wasn’t going to pay it back, well, we thought – I,” he gives a bitter laugh, “thought it could be kept from getting out of hand. So I talked, and I talked. And they listened,” another laugh, “for a while, at least. But the project – the hotel – he was putting together, it…well. Didn’t look as if it was going to pan out. You remember what the business was like, back in your day.” For a moment his voice turns sour. “Everything has to pan out right. And Benny. Jesus. There was no reigning him in one way or another. And everyone else was gunning for it, and I – ” Fuck. “I couldn’t see another way out. So.”

“Sounds like you did the best you could.”

“If I did the best I could Ben Siegel would still be alive,” Meyer spits, a hot line of anger running through his voice.

“Why aren’t you talking to your partner about this? The Italian one, the asshole?”

Good point. He has the number after all, there’s no excuse. Charlie ought to hear it from a friend. But that would involve telling Charlie what he’s done. Admitting that at the end of the day, he had no choice.

A sigh. “Alright then. Why call me?”

“Because you’re the only one left. I wanted to talk to someone… who remembers what we were. The work we did back then, with Jimmy and the others…” God, he doesn’t know where he’s going with this. Maybe he just wants to be reminded, even for a second, that there was a time when they was young and fierce and had it all still to come. “And you’re the only one who knows what this feels like.”

(Sitting there in Darmody’s ballroom suite, or near enough, in a new suite he’d had made that week and feeling like a fucking king – watching Jimmy hem and haw and feeling nothing but pitying contempt for this little schmuck who’d gotten in way too deep with no way of backing out. Eli’s voice, rough and cynical even then. Jesus Christ, just kill him.)

There’s a chill on the other end of the line. “You ought to watch what you’re saying.”

“I’m not judging you. I’d have killed your brother myself, given the chance.”

“Is there a point to this, Lansky?”

“The point is…” he feels himself sway, or rather slip, down below the depths of what is sensible or real, down into the mire; there are waters closing over his head with the truth that his oldest friend in the world is dead because he gave the all-clear for the trigger to be pulled, “when you’re the one whose back is against the wall and you can’t see a way out, and you say those words – and it’s your friend – how do you come back from that?”

“Think you already know the answer to that.”

He does. Doesn’t want to though. That would mean accepting the fact that matters have changed irrevocably, that outside forces have changed him against his will, and he’s powerless to stop it. He doesn’t like being powerless.

“Twenty minutes afterwards my associates took control of the hotel. One of them called me to say the Sidecars were the best he’d ever tasted.” Fuck, he wants to be sick.

“Get some sleep, Meyer. Then call your friend.” Eli’s voice is almost gentle, as if it were one of his kids calling up over a skinned knee or an ugly date. “Oh, and Meyer?”

“Yeah?”

“If I ever see you near my family again, I’ll gut you myself.”

The line goes dead. Well, Meyer thinks as he replaces the receiver, that’s fair enough. He doesn’t respect Eli for a hell of a lot, but he supposes he’ll credit him with that much: he knows how to be a father.

Sipping Sidecars in the Flamingo while Ben Siegel bled to death. And twenty minutes after you gave the order, he remembers, you were drinking at the Regent, because Moe Sedway invited you and you didn’t want him to see how rattled you were. How’s that for class, Little Man?

Would Benny have known? If they gave him time to think before that last bullet snuffed him out, surely he would have realised. Benny might have been reckless, but he wasn’t stupid. For him to be killed, the right people had to give the order.

Fuck. Fuck it all.

And he has no choice. Again, he knows precisely what he has to do. It’s out of his hands. Again.

Clumsily he fumbles for the telephone. Mutters his name when it’s finally picked up.

“Meyer? Jesus, what time is it over there?”

“Charlie.” He draws in a breath, closes his eyes. “We need to talk.”

#boardwalk empire #meyer lansky #eli thompson #benny siegel #my fanfiction #i don't pretend to have a fraction of the historical knowledge needed for this show #for the record i definitely know there were plenty of gangsters from meyer's old gangs who still would have been around at this point #but going strictly by show canon at this point is a little more fun #this literally came about from realising that for show!meyer at least after benny dies he really doesn't seem to have anyone else around

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emmett-the-wrighter · 4 years ago

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Excalibur

Long ago, the legendary sword Excalibur was melted down and lost to history. The mythical blade’s steel ended up in your butter knife, with all its magical properties intact.

“No shit?” Reggie held up the box, tilting it this way and that to reread the red clearance sticker. The slightly-smudged ink remained unchanged. “Fifty cents?”

Her outburst drew reflexive glances from the other shoppers drifting through the clearance aisle of the store. Paying them no mind, the woman rose from her crouch on the floor. She’d had to crawl nearly underneath the shelf to snag this box, and the price almost assuredly made it worth the effort.

“Dere- hey, Derek!” she called, gaze panning around to find her roommate, a few aisles away. Reggie could just barely see his head over the shelves. “I found some more silverware!” She clutched the box to her chest, heading his way.

He was in the towel section, carefully feeling a blue diamond-patterned washcloth. “We don’t need more, Reg,” Derek didn’t look up. “We have enough.”

“But these are Damascus steel!” Reggie flipped the box around, showing him the front side, with its other large stickers proclaiming so. “See? That’s like, ancient!”

Derek finally glanced up, eyes immediately finding the price. “Yeah right, for half a buck?” A pause. “And isn’t that a type of sword? You can’t get… Damascus steel spoons. You can’t get Damascus steel anything.”

“Hell if I know,” she tossed the box into their cart, “but they’re pretty, and cheap. Twenty-four for fifty cents? That’s like, a lifetime supply!”

A sigh was the only answer from Derek as he placed the washcloth back onto its pile. That wasn’t an outright no, so Reggie grabbed the cart, steering it towards the checkout line.

~~~~~

“So I was thinking,” Reggie said after she had opened the box, and started pulling out spoons to set in their close-to-bursting drawer.

Derek looked up from his newspaper, deliberately meeting her eyes before shifting his gaze downwards again. “Lord help us.” The papers rustled as he turned the page. “Dare I ask about what?”

The clinking of spoons stilled, and the woman snorted. “Clod. But it’s about us. The house.”

That grabbed his attention. Derek carefully folded the newspaper, setting it down on the table in front of him. He ran a hand across the creases, taking his time with it before replying. “You made a decision.” It was only the barest hint of a question. He was pretty sure of the answer.

“Well, no.”

He was surprised. That much was obvious from how the man’s hands paused on the newspaper before continuing the task of smoothing it out.

Reggie had moved onto the forks, setting them on top of the others as she continued. “I don’t want either of us to move. I don’t see why we need to.”

“You know why.” Derek leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “You don’t just… end what we have and expect to keep going on like normal.”

“I don’t want things to- I don’t want normal.” Reggie turned around, meeting his gaze. “Why can’t we make a new normal? Be friends, get another roommate, try something different. We don’t have to upheave both our lives!”

“That’s so-” he started, the words snapping out, before Derek stopped abruptly. His eyes closed, and the man breathed in. And out. Then in again, holding the breath. Reggie waited, pausing before setting the last fork down. Finally, his last breath whooshed out, and Derek opened his eyes again. “…you’re right. We should try it. I mean, the last month hasn’t been… awful.”

“Right!” Reggie finally let go of the last fork, reaching for the knives. “We can make a post about needing a third roommate, and clean up the guest bedroom, and-” she stopped abruptly, staring down at her fistful of knives.

“Uh,” Derek’s eyes were wide. “Your hand is glowing.”

“I can see that,” Reggie said, cautiously shifting her grip on the knives. “Did, the, um, box say anything about light features?”

“You’re the one holding it.”

The woman set the knives down on the counter, sifting through them until she found the one responsible. “Right.” She held it up, turning towards the kitchen table again. “This is… weird.”

The knife itself looked like any other butter knife, but for the pearly glow illuminating it. As Reggie stared at the utensil, she grew aware of the sound of bells ringing around them, growing louder, but to no discernible tune.

“Reggie,” Derek was standing now, looking slightly panicked. “What the hell is going on? Is that thing cursed or-“

“FOOL!” a booming voice rolled through the kitchen. Both jumped, Reggie nearly dropping the knife.

“Alright,” she said, glancing up at the ceiling and around. “What the fuck is happening?! Who are you?”

“Reg, what the fuuuuck.” Derek was edging towards the doorway.

“FOOL!” the voice said again. The glow of the knife grew stronger. “I AM EXCALIBUR! YOU HAVE AWOKEN ME.”

“What the fuuuuck,” Reggie echoed Derek. “This isn’t real, right? This can’t be real!”

“I AM MOST ASSUREDLY REAL.”

“Reg, stop talking to it.” Derek had reached the door. “Just- put the knife down.”

“WAIT. PLEASE DON’T.”

Reggie hesitated. She looked down to the knife again as the glow seemed to pulse in agitation. “Wh-“ she cleared her throat. “Why not?”

“Reggieeee.”

“I…” The voice sounded uncertain. “I AM RATHER LONELY.”

That changed everything. At least, it did for Reggie. Derek was still quivering at the edge of the kitchen, gripping the doorway as if his life depended on it.

“Well, I wasn’t-“ she glanced over to Derek. “We weren’t expecting company today, but we’re certainly glad to have you, er, Excalibur was it?”

“THAT IS CORRECT.” The tinkling of bells had finally faded away. “IT IS A PLEASURE TO BE WIELDED BY YOUR HAND, LADY-” the voice trailed off questioningly.

“Oh, right! Sorry, hi, I’m Reggie. Reg for short, and uh, just that is fine, no need for Lady whoever.”

Derek had carefully detached himself from the wall, taking a few steps forward. “I thought Excalibur was a sword? How come you’re a, well, butter knife?”

“IT IS A LONG AND SORROWFUL TALE,” Excalibur said, its pulsing glow dimming a bit. “I MAY TELL IT IF YOU WOULD LISTEN.”

“I can put on some tea,” Reggie said briskly, turning to start the kettle. “Derek, could you grab some biscuits?”

The man hesitated, but shook his head with a smile. “…Right.” One could never be too surprised by anything around Reggie.

#Fantasy #Prompt #Humor?

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sunflowersupremes · 5 years ago

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Rocket Man: Chapter 2

On the hunt for his latest story (he hasn’t decided if he’s going to tell it in poetry or prose) Jaskier heads up into the mountains, looking for the elusive group known as The Witchers.

Most humans are content to ignore the little magic that remains in their world, seeing the Witchers as relics of the past. But Jaskier sees them as his ticket to notoriety.

Characters: Jaskier, Geralt, Lambert, Vesemir

Tags: Modern AU, Journalism, Youtube, Gratituious Elton John

Series: Goodbye Yellow Brick Road (Witcher Modern AU)

Read on AO3

“Geralt, there’s a man here to see you.”

Geralt and Lambert exchanged glances across the table. “Who?” he asked, glancing at where Vesemir stood in the doorway to the small room. They’d filled it with all kinds of games - mostly board and card games - but also a PlayStation that Geralt had managed to get after a particularly lucrative contract.

“I’ve not met him, but he claims to know you.”

Suspicious. Geralt could count on one hand the number of people who knew him and not Vesemir that had any right to be at Kaer Morhen. That number was zero.

Geralt pulled up the security feed on his phone (they’d added in the cameras after one too many incidents with teenagers playing ding-dong-ditch). At first he didn’t recognize the man standing on the path, fiddling with the straps on his bag. He was dressed in some of the strangest clothes Geralt had ever seen: maroon pants, a blue sweater with leather on the shoulders and elbows, and a matching beret.

“Is that a college student or a twink?” Lambert asked.

“Could be both,” suggested Eskel, leaning forward to squint at the strange sight.

It was the hat that tipped him off. “Fuck,” he said, as the man shifted and his face became visible.

“So you do know him?”

“Remember the reporter I saved at the concert?” Geralt asked, folding his arms over his chest. “It’s him.” He’d never expected to see the man again, not after having drug him away from his would-be attackers. It seemed the man had been caught in a tent with someone else’s girlfriend.

Geralt had been close by and decided to intervene. The reporter had bought him lunch as a thank you and he’d thought that would be the end of it. Obviously not.

“Why is he here?” Lambert demanded.

“Hell if I know,” Geralt growled, pushing past them and stomping to the door. He pulled open the door with more force than was necessary, glowering at the man on the steps.

“Ah! Geralt!”

“Hello Dandelion,” he replied. The man had introduced himself as Jaskier when they’d met several months prior, but a quick google search had found his online persona: Dandelion, the Great Bard. Geralt wanted to snort.

The man seemed confused, but only momentarily, beaming at Geralt. “You found my YouTube channel? What do you think?”

“You’re wrong about the Yeti. It’s not an ‘as yet unclassified monster’ its an albino Werewolf. Rare, but not unclassified.”

“That was you that commented that?”

Geralt only grunted.

“I thought it was a troll.”

“I’ve never met a troll that could use the internet.”

“Not- ah- not that kind of troll.” Jaskier rubbed the back of his head.

“I know.”

Jaskier took a deep breath, as though psyching himself up for something. Then he said, “Might I come in?”

“Why?”

“Well, I’m a reporter you see, and I was thinking that maybe I might find a story here.”

“No thank you,” called Eskel from behind Geralt.

“Is that another Witcher?” Jaskier tried to peer around Geralt, but he’d had years of practice in blocking doorways.

“Look- I- I think you misunderstand-”

“We’ve had enough reporters sniffing around here to last us a long time,” snapped Geralt. “All they bring is trouble.” And old news reports, like the one who had shown up in 2002, waving a newspaper from 1854 about the Blaviken massacre.

“You know, the youths of today think it’s horribly sad that you’ve been so maligned-”

“There’s four of us,” growled Geralt “and we don’t care.”

“Don’t- don’t you want to reform your image?”

“No.” Geralt slammed the door, forcing the bolt through the lock.

“You know,” tutted Vesemir. “That was rather rude.”

Geralt folded his arms over his chest, leaning back against the door. “What next?” he asked, “What incident from the past is some half-arsed reporter going to use against us next?”

“Geralt’s right,” said Lambert. If any of them had skeletons in their closet, it was probably Lambert. “Eskel?”

Eskel looked thoughtful. He glanced from Vesemir to Geralt, then to Lambert. Finally, he said, “He seems earnest.” That was just like Eskel, to not want to stir the pot and instead give a non-committal answer.

“He seems like a bumbling idiot,” retorted Geralt. He glanced at his phone, where the security feed was still playing. Jaskier was standing on the front steps, looking uncertain, as though half expecting them to come back.

Vesemir sighed. “I suppose I’ve been overruled,” he said, shrugging. “I’m going to the library, I was working on rebinding another book.”

Geralt watched him pass, then looked back to Eskel and Lambert. “Cards?”

-------------

The card game had just started to get really interesting when the doorbell rang again.

Geralt growled and looked back at the security feed again. “It’s him,” he said irritably.

“Well, get rid of him before Papa Vesemir takes in another stray!” said Lambert.

Geralt pushed himself to his feet and stomped back down the hall. He passed the library on his way, and a quick glance inside revealed Vesemir snoozing at a table. Good.

When he opened the door, Jaskier was fiddling with his keys. He’d pulled another coat on over his sweater, and a pair of gloves, but it was clear he’d been unprepared for how quickly the temperature could drop in the mountains. “What?”

“Ah- I- my car won’t start,” he said, swallowing. Clearly he knew he was on thin ice. “I- I tried to call for help, but my phone-”

“There’s no reception here.” Geralt didn’t stop to grab a jacket, stomping outside in his worn button-down and jeans. The cold didn’t bother him the way it did the reporter.

Jaskier had already opened the hood and Geralt leaned over it, inspecting the parts with a quick glance. “It’s the battery,” he said. “I’ll jump it.”

As he turned to head back inside, he cast a glance at the shivering reporter. He growled as he realized what he was going to have to do. “The road is too dangerous at night,” he said. “You can stay here for the evening.”

“R- really?” his breath puffed in the air in front of him, his eyes widening. “Thank you! I-”

Geralt pushed by him, slipping inside. He felt uneasy letting the stranger follow him into the keep, but he’d freeze if he slept in his car. “Don’t wander off,” he said sternly. “Or I’ll let you freeze.” Not to mention, he might fall through a rotten plank.

Jaskier looked around him, surveying the entry hall with wide eyes. The inside of the keep was hardly in better shape than the outside of it, with ancient tapestries covering crumbling walls.

He poked his head into the game room, where Eskel and Lambert were playing cards. “Put a space heater in the guest room, idiot’s car broke down.”

“Aww man,” grumbled Lambert.

“I’ve got it,” said Eskel. “Don’t fucking cheat while I’m gone,” he said to Lambert.

Geralt watched him go, then nodded to Jaskier for the journalist to follow him. Behind him, Lambert was already moving around cards to better his hand.

He took him down to the kitchen, although he still wasn’t entirely sure why. It was just that the man looked as hungry as he did cold. “You eat frozen pizza?”

Jaskier raised an eyebrow. “Are you serious?” he asked. “Of course I eat frozen pizza! Everyone eats frozen pizza! Wait, you have frozen pizza?” he stared at the stove, fridge, and microwave as though he couldn’t understand what he was seeing.

“Sit down,” he said, gesturing to the table. As Jaskier sat, Geralt snatched up a forgotten bottle of White Gull. “Don’t eat anything you find around here,” he said, tucking the Witcher Potion into the cub board. “This would have killed you.”

“How…. Pleasant.”

Once he’d started the oven, Geralt tossed him a beer and sat down across from him.

“Geralt- I- I really can’t say thank you enough,” he said quietly.

“I couldn’t let you die.”

“They say Witchers are heartless.” Jaskier seemed to be studying him, tilting his head curiously. “But I don’t think they are.”

He popped open the beer with his teeth, studying the reporter carefully. “What else do they say about Witchers?”

“That you can smell emotions. Can you?”

Geralt leaned forward, studying Jaskier in return. “To an extent,” he said finally. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had expressed so much interest in him. “It’s a combination of smell and sight.”

“Reading faces?”

Geralt nodded.

“Do you- do you mind terribly if I write this down?”

He ought to say no. Instead, Geralt shook his head. “Go ahead.”

Jaskier pulled a notebook and a pen out from his back, quickly beginning to scribble across the page.

“Why are you so interested in Witchers?”

The journalist seemed to consider his answer. “I’m interested in everything,” he said finally. “But- well, if I’m being honest-”

“Do.”

“I need a breakthrough- something to ah, repair my reputation.”

“So it’s not just out of the kindness of your heart.” It wasn’t a question.

“I’m not going to lie to you, Geralt.”

The Witcher inhaled slightly. “You’re afraid of me.”

“I’m…. Uncomfortable.”

“Why?”

“I’m in a strange house - err, castle? - with three men that are far bigger and stronger than I could ever hope to be. I don’t have cell reception or wi-fi, and my car’s broken down. The only person who knows I’m here is my cousin, and I’m not certain he cares. Oh, and did I mention I like listening to true crime podcasts?”

Geralt thought for a moment, then said, “The wifi password is Axii.”

Jaskier gaped. “You have wi-fi?”

“This isn’t the stone age, Dandelion.”

Jaskier tapped his pen on his notebook. “Were you alive in the stone age?”

Geralt folded his arms over his chest.

“Kidding!” laughed the journalist.

They do call Vesemir “Papa Vesemir” in the game and I love it.

Geralt and Jaskier's first meeting will eventually be told in a prequel story (I'm planning to call it Someone Saved my Life Tonight and it's based on how they met in the books.

#jaskier #dandelion #geralt #geralt of rivia #the witcher #witcher fanfiction #witcher modern au #story: goodbye yellow brick road #my writing

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lostinfic · 5 years ago

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6. Boston, Fall

Summary: He’s photographed devastated war zones, refugee camps and child soldiers. She writes for magazines about luxurious resorts in exotic places and five-star hotels in glamorous cities. For both of them travel is an escape, but he’s had enough of this grim reality, and she’s had enough of this disconnected fantasy. Perhaps together they can find something in between, something real, and stop running from themselves. Each season, a new destination and a chance to grow closer.

Pairing: Alec Hardy x Hannah Baxter Rating: Mature~ish (for now) Word count: 5k

A/N: Many thanks to those who commented on the chapter addition I posted this week, it felt really good to see people still interested in this story despite my absence. You’re the best!

Tumblr | Ao3

He couldn’t believe he was doing this again: waiting for her, unannounced, in front of the cruise terminal. In Boston, today. But it was different because she’d gone to his exhibition in New York and wrote a message in the guestbook, and that knowledge emboldened him.

He zipped his North Face jacket up to his chin against the cold sea breeze. And waited.

Finally she came out, leather jacket, pink travel mug and hair in lazy curls.

“Baxter,” he shouted, his voice betrayed his excitement, and he immediately buried his hands in his pockets, affecting a casual air. With a head tilt, he beckoned her closer.

Her eyes widened at the sight of him then narrowed to a furrowed brow. “What are you doing here?”

She didn’t look as happy to see him as he’d hoped. His stomach clenched.

“I hitched a ride with a mate,” he said.

“To come see me?”

“Nah, I’m a Red Sox fan.”

Sarcasm to muffle his beating heart.

A small smile appeared on her red lips which she hid behind her thick tartan scarf.

“Miss Baxter!” An Asian man jogged up to them. In his white and aqua tracksuit, the cruise line colors, he looked like a figure skater. The too-wide smile and forced eye contact betrayed his marketing position even before Hannah introduced him.

“Jeffrey Allen, the marketing liaison on board. And this is my— photographer, Alec Hardy.”

“Delighted to meet you, Mr. Hardy.” Jeffrey shook his hand with too much enthusiasm. “Now, Miss Baxter, Mr. Hardy, Festival Cruises is happy to provide its esteemed guests with complimentary shuttles to the heart of historical Boston. You will be boarding one, yes?”

“Actually, we—” Hannah began, but Jeffrey pushed her towards a big charter bus. With mild panic in her eyes, Hannah grabbed Hardy’s sleeve and tugged him along.

He followed her to the very back of the bus. She slouched down, pressing her knees against the seat in front of her. She apologized for yawning, she hadn’t slept well.

“Sea sick?”

She shrugged. “How did you know I was here?”

“Your whole life’s online.”

“Don’t you know you shouldn’t believe everything you read on the Internet?”

“That’s right, you didn’t post about seeing my expo yesterday. Not good enough for you?”

She toyed with the lid of her travel mug, twisting it left and right, then taking a sip.

“So you saw my message in the guestbook.”

“I did.”

“There was a photo of me in your exhibition.”

She sought his gaze. She wanted him to say more about the photo. One photo out of fifty. Aesthetically pleasing. That’s all. Or so he tried to convince himself. Her eyes mirrored his own anxious expectations. He wished she’d say more about his exhibition. What did she think? Why did she feel shaken?

She looked away first, bit the corner of her thumb nail. She flipped back to teasing.

“Besides, you need to pay if you want exposure on my blog.” She bumped him lightly with her shoulder.

He had this feeling again, of something on the tip of his tongue, something about her that escaped him every time.

Jeffrey came on the bus too, and they both groaned at the sight of him.

Yesterday, she’d skipped a special shore excursion to visit the World Press Photo event, she suspected Jeffrey would try to oversee her work today.

The man sat beside her across the aisle and monopolized her attention with talks of museum discounts. She listened with a tight, polite smile.

Hardy observed the other passengers, most of them silver-haired, carrying canes and walkers. It wasn’t adding up. He and Hannah may be very different types of travelers, but from her articles, he’d gotten the impression they both preferred to avoid the main tourist attractions to experience local culture. She ate street food, talked to people, danced to their music. This didn’t seem like her no matter how much they paid. But then again, he shouldn’t believe everything he reads online.

“Didn’t think you were the senior cruise type,” Hardy said, interrupting Jeffrey.

“I’m looking for a husband,” she joked.

“Preferably one on the brink of death?”

“And who loves to travel.”

She grinned, and his stomach unknotted.

“Well actually,” Jeffrey began, unprompted and unwelcome, “the average age of cruise passengers is lower than you would think.” He lectured them on the advantages of sea travel for the whole family.

Hardy rolled his eyes.

“I like to think of it as sampling the best of each port of call,” Hannah summed up.

“While dumping a ton of waste in the harbor,” Hardy said.

Jeffrey squinted his eyes at him. “You’re not one of our esteemed guests,” he realized.

He would have thrown Hardy off the bus if it weren’t on the highway. Hardy couldn’t care less, but Hannah’s glare stopped a lecture of his own.

“Don’t make me lose this job too,” she whispered to him.

Soon, the shuttle stopped near a visitor center. Mid-morning Boston was busy and cloudy. the scent of last night’s rain hung in the air, pigeons bathed in puddles. Shop windows sported pumpkins, real or painted or fashioned into garlands.

Hannah wanted better coffee than the one on board and headed for a coffee shop chain to refill her mug. Hardy coaxed her instead towards a local place advertising Fair-trade coffee.

Seven years ago, he’d photographed children harvesting coffee beans in terrible conditions. Seven years later people still didn’t care. Perhaps if he’d stayed in New York he could have convinced a few more people to choose their coffee brand wisely.

He’d meant to pay for Hannah’s beverage— an indication of his intentions— but work had clogged his mind again, and he found her handing him a cup instead.

They stood on the cobblestone pavement, unable to settle on an activity to do, neither wanting to make a decision the other might dislike. They had both been to Boston before. “As you wish,” was uttered more than once without any action following.

Hardy ran a hand through his hair and shifted his weight. Now that he was in front of her, he didn’t know what to say. It had seemed so easy in Singapore.

“I should probably get some work done,” Hannah said. “Check out a few landmarks, take some photos… “

“Right, yeah, don’t want you to be in trouble with Jeffrey. Sorry, I shouldn’t have come.”

Jeffrey interrupted them once more, coming out of the visitor center with a handful of brochures. He was really pushing for Hannah to join one of their guided tours.

Hardy opened a rideshare app on his cellphone. He had to drop by his friend’s place first, get his overnight bag back, but he might make it to New York City in time for Alys Tomlinson’s conference.

“Are you alright?” Hannah asked with a frown.

He hadn’t noticed Jeffrey’s departure.

“I know it’s not your thing, if you’d rather go…” she trailed off.

“Do you want me to?”

“I suppose not. Look, once that’s out of the way—” she waved the brochures— “we can go somewhere nice, yeah? Hang out.”

Maybe it was the caffeine finally kicking in, but there was a light dancing in her eyes as she said this, things promised but unspoken. His heart sped up like a puppy’s tail.

Hardy grabbed a random brochure out of her hands: the Freedom Trail. He studied the map. “This way.” He hurried away with long strides. “C’mon, Baxter, before Jeffrey comes back.” She laughed and caught up to him.

The trail started in Boston Common. In the park, ancient elm and oak trees fanned out their shades of red and orange. Dead leaves crunched under Hannah’s ankle boots as they walked among morning joggers and giggling preschoolers. They picked the shortest way across the park, took a wrong turn and ended up at the Frog Pond. The water surface reflected the cloudy sky, still but for the brush of weeping willow branches. Their pace slowed to a stroll.

“What did you mean earlier, about losing your job?” he asked.

“Well, I lost my job at Elite Travelers because of you and your bloody work ethic.” She poked him in the chest, and he crossed his arms.

After she’d followed his advice and exposed the magazine’s censorship, she was fired. That was only the beginning. Every other media part of the same conglomerate shunned her too. Magazines, newspapers, websites and TV shows she’d worked with before, now didn’t reply to her emails and phone calls. A secretary she’d befriended finally explained HR had blacklisted her.

As for hotels, anything part of Group Peregrine, the Mahal Kita Resort owners, became off-limits too.

“Don’t blame me for your shitty boss,” Hardy replied, though he did feel a smidge guilty.

“I know, I was taking the piss. I thought I could be like you, you know. That it’d be good for my reputation, I’d be credible, get more interesting assignments.”

“You did it for the wrong reason.”

“Alright, don’t worry, I did it for the people of Pulau Kesuma too. It can be both. I just mean I thought good deeds were supposed to be rewarded.”

“Give it time,” he replied lamely.

The cruise line’s offer was the first she’d received in weeks. They needed her to rejuvenate their image. “And I’m always up for a challenge,” she said, and he smiled at her determination.

“But you don’t like it.”

“I prefer to focus on the positive aspects.”

“Thought you were a journalist.”

“Exactly. I’m neutral. Just because something doesn’t appeal to me, doesn’t mean it wouldn’t appeal to someone else.”

“Fair enough,” he said.

“Really, I thought you’d argue more.”

He would have, but he was trying to make a good impression.

He told her he’d sent her article on Pulau Kesuma to Ellie who had translated it in Indonesian for the island population. “The maids you interviewed asked about you. Did you stay in touch?”

“They did?” She smiled, genuinely touched. “I haven’t… I meant to… did you stay in touch with anyone?”

“I try… I’m not great at it. I tell people letting me take photos will help, I give them hope. I have a responsibility to see that help through.”

“I don’t think I could ever do that. The responsibility…” She blew out a puff of air.

“It’s not all bad. I lived with this family in Kuwait, about— well, early in my career. I was young, the mother she fussed over me. She still writes to me. Yesterday, the youngest son had his first child, and they sent me a picture.”

He showed her the picture, saved on his phone, of Omar with a baby in his arms. Hannah leaned closer until their shoulders touched. Her weight against him made him forget what he wanted to say. She glanced at the photo, then looked up at him.

“You’re a good person,” she said.

He shrugged, embarrassed. He never helped as much as he wanted to, but it felt like false modesty to say so. In fact, the retrospective of his work in New York made him uneasy, and he was relieved to escape it for a day. But he knew he should have stayed to talk about the issues he’d photographed rather than go and have fun.

He was about to offer they sit on a bench and he’d buy her a pastry to apologize for her lost job, when he spotted Jeffrey, in his bright suit, on the other side of the carousel.

“I bet he’s spying on me,” Hannah said in a whisper. “We have to shake him off.”

They slowly backtracked and hid behind the trunk of a large tree.

Hardy looked at the Freedom Trail map. “We need to head that way, but he’ll see us. So we take this road to go around and exit the park.”

“Ok. Got it. Ready?”

Hannah grabbed his hand, and it surprised him so, he froze. She tugged on his arm. His legs remembered how to move, and they made a run for it. They dashed from tree to tree, laughing.

He’d once done the same to dodge bullets. This was much more fun.

Once they’d put enough distance between Jeffrey and themselves, they slowed down and Hannah let go of his hand.

They exited the park and reached the next stop on the trail, the Granary Burying Ground. Samuel Adams and Paul Revere were both buried somewhere beneath the time-worn tombstones. Neither Hardy nor Hannah could remember what made these men famous. As they kept walking, Hannah read out loud about the landmark while Hardy guarded her from colliding with anyone.

Two more landmarks and Hannah realized she’d forgotten to take photos for her blog. Hardy took hold of her camera and swiftly snapped photos of her in front of an old brown-brick building.

“Oi, I wasn’t ready.”

“It’s called street photography.”

They strode the streets, still looking over their shoulders for Jeffrey. The imaginary threat pushed adrenaline through their blood. They slalomed between tourists. Their breaths came quick and cloudy.

Old State House.

Quincy Market.

Hardy took shortcuts through private properties. “The trick is to look like you know where you’re going.” She found it thrilling. Their eyes gleamed, their cheeks flushed.

Paul Revere’s House.

Old North Church.

Inevitably, they talked about US politics, but also about history and their work. What they said didn’t matter. They were like two dogs sniffing and chasing each other. A test of sorts. A trial run.

The few women he’d been with since his separation— accidents, convenience— they didn’t feel like this. The gravitational pull of Hannah threw him off course. She tugged at the very center of him. He knew, and perhaps she did too, that they were on the edge of something great. Something all-encompassing. There would be no going back. But parts of her were wild and unknown. Like a wounded beast hides in the shadows. And so he photographed her, as she walked, as she curled her hair around her finger, as she looked at the city. Moments, seconds, like puzzle pieces that might reveal her heart to him. A hint to give him the courage to step over the edge.

In an hour, they reached the last stop on the trail: the Bunker Hill Monument. They stared at the towering granite obelisk.

“I prefer the ones in Egypt,” Hardy said.

Hannah wanted to climb the 295 steps leading to the top. The view would be worth the effort, but a sign by the door warned people with heart conditions. He stalled.

“What are you afraid of, old man?” Hannah teased.

He bristled at that. He couldn’t tell her about his pacemaker precisely so she wouldn’t overthink the age gap and see him as old and sick.

“I’m not old, I’m experienced.”

She snorted a laugh. “At least you’ve still got all your hair… For now.”

“I’ll show ye, Baxter.”

He opened the door to the obelisk and let her go first under the pretense of chivalry.

A narrow spiral staircase led to the top. Humidity beaded on the cool stone walls. By step 60, they started building up a sweat and gradually shed layers: scarf, coat, jacket, collars were opened.

Over the weeks, Hardy had grown accustomed to the foreign object in his chest, but now his hand flitted to his heart every minute.

“Are you alright?” Hannah inquired, noticing the gesture.

“Fine. Keep going.”

“I need a rest anyway.”

Pity. He gritted his teeth. How could he hope to ever get back in the field if he couldn’t even climb a couple hundred steps. No one would pause for him Syria.

“You’re wearing a suit.” Hannah observed now that he’d removed his windbreaker.

“That bad? I had it for the conference.”

“No, I like it. You made an effort.”

She slid her fingers along his collar to straighten it.

“I almost brought you flowers too,” he said and immediately regretted it— she would think he’s old-fashioned.

“Next time,” she replied with a teasing smile.

That affirmation spurred him on. He resumed climbing before he’d caught his breath. Two steps at a time. Proving a point. His heart raced but at a steady rate. The pacemaker held on.

“295!”

The top of the obelisk was a tight space of gray brick, with only four tiny windows under a high, peak ceiling.

Hardy sagged on the sill of the closest window, and Hannah squeezed next to him. She raked her hair back from her forehead, sending a whiff of floral shampoo his way.

Their panting breaths on the glass fogged the panorama. Hannah drew a smiley face with her fingertip and gave it a little beard. She grinned at him.

The fog faded and they stared at the Charles River and its cable bridge beyond the tiny squares of brown bricks. There were other windows with a different vista, but Hannah was here, honey eyes on the horizon, skin flushed with exertion, warm against his sleeve.

They talked in low, dreamy voices about the highest places they’ve visited: the Petronas towers, a volcano in Hawaii, Lake Titicaca, a rooftop bar in Hong Kong, a suspension bridge in the Alps. Up in the clouds, where humans seem small compared to nature and one’s life inconsequential.

They shared a bottle of water, and only moved when other people arrived.

Hannah begged him to let her take a good photo this time. She meant one over which she had control.

“The light’s rubbish in here.”

“I trust your skills. Just let me fix my face, must be all shiny.” She pulled a pocket mirror out of her purse and dabbed her forehead. “If I’d known you were coming, I’d have washed my hair.”

“Don’t worry, you look great.”

“Really?” she asked coyly.

“You know you do.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t know you agreed.”

“I came all the way here, didn’t I?”

“For my pretty eyes?” She fluttered her eyelashes.

“So, are we ever getting to Fenway Park?” he asked with feigned impatience.

“Knob.”

He’d been called that before, but never this fondly.

Hannah reapplied red lipstick. As she smacked her lips together, she glanced at him over the mirror. A sultry look that roused butterflies in his stomach.

He couldn’t tell whether she was serious or messing with him. She’d been straightforward about sex in Singapore, if she still wanted him, she would simply say so, wouldn’t she?

He raised the camera, and, with practiced ease, she flashed the smile he’d seen many times before on Instagram. He didn’t care for it. After a few poses, she asked him to join her for a selfie and his indulgence stopped there.

“Hungry?” she asked.

“Starving.”

Hannah had a list of trendy restaurants in Boston, and he already dreaded the place she would choose. He scowled when she guided him towards a tiki bar, but the restaurant she wanted was at the back of it.

“Half my job is knowing the coolest restaurants.”

“At least Jeffrey won’t find us here.”

Large garage-style doors opened on a courtyard, ensconced in climbing ivy, where small fireplaces and blankets kept the clients warm. It smelled like Guy Fawkes night and camping, green and smokey.

They arrived past one o’clock, tail end of the lunch rush, so a table was available. They sat at the corner of the table to see through the archway offering a view of the river.

The sun had come out, Hannah traded her scarf and leather jacket for a blanket loosely draped over her arms. She wore a tunic underneath with a wide boat neckline, and he was struck by the desire to cover her neck with kisses.

He pulled himself together while the man-bunned waiter explained today’s specials. Hannah asked the waiter what he recommended, and soon they were talking about the creative process behind the menu and his vision for the future of catering. She was fishing for some quirky details to share on her blog, and it fascinated Hardy, her easy smile, the effect of her charm on other people. And on himself. He was just one of many. She returned her attention to him, and the misgivings evaporated.

“Sorry about that. I’m all yours now. What will you have?”

Wherever he traveled, he ate the food laid out in front of him, pigeon stew or roasted guinea pig, he made do and thanked his hosts, and yet in Western restaurants, he became picky. Here, the menu offered only six meals, each one elaborate. Hannah couldn’t decide between duck arancinis and wild boar noodles, and thus his dilemma was solved; he ordered one of the two so she could taste both. They ended up eating out of each other’s plate, a level of intimacy he hadn’t expected to reach so fast.

The coziness of the setting enveloped him. The excellent food, the laughter. He wished the afternoon would never end, but she had to be back aboard the ship at 4pm.

The ticking clock boosted his courage. He touched the tattoo on her inner wrist, a simple black outline of a star or flower, he couldn’t tell. “What’s the story?” he asked. It was a blatant excuse to touch her, and they both knew it. Keeping his thumb there, stroking the delicate skin, filled him with a heady sort of audacity.

“It was supposed to be a compass. Never pick the cheapest tattoo parlor, it’s cheap for a reason. The bloke got bored halfway through, didn’t even write the cardinal points. I used to add them by hand.” She laughed then lowered her eyes. “My best friend, Erin, she got the same so I never had the heart to have it changed.”

“Erin? Is that your friend who passed away? The one you wanted to travel with.”

“Yeah… I was just thinking about her yesterday, your photos they… stirred things up.”

She looked like she wanted to say more, she stroked her collarbone as her eyes flitted between him and the river. He wanted to take a photo to study later and decipher.

“Anyway, how do you know about that?” she asked.

“I read your blog.”

“All of it?”

“You sent me a link.”

“To one article.”

Her knees rested against his under the table.

“You’re a great writer.”

“Really?” she asked, this time no coyness colored her voice.

He leaned on his elbows, towards her, and told her about the articles he’d preferred. The things he’d learned even about cities where he had been. He didn’t feel as out of his depth now, it was professional almost, except her legs were brushing together and it sent a thrill up his spine.

She had written less in-depth articles in the last year as her followers favored shorter pieces with many pictures, and affiliated links generated revenue. She confessed she missed it, sitting with one person and having a real conversation and then finding the words to convey the moment to her readers.

They ordered deserts, despite feeling full; it was a day for gluttony. She insisted on feeding him a piece of pumpkin pie.

She was a great conversationalist, always a funny quip or an unexpected question. She wanted to know people. Yet, when the tables turned, she used humor and flirting to deflect.

He thought of developing photos in a dark room. She revealed herself slowly, like an image in the tray of developer chemical. But if a photo was left in that chemical too long, it turned black, and so did Hannah eclipse herself if pressed too much. However, it was in Hardy’s nature to persist, to question, to get to the heart of things. Of people.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were coming to New York?”

“You didn’t tell me you were coming to Boston.”

“Fair enough.”

“Kind of silly, isn’t it? I mean we obviously— I think— wanted to see each other. Right?”

“Yeah.”

Hannah’s hand was so close to his. Her pink fingernails scratched at the buttons on his cuff. He opened his hand: an invitation.

“I’m glad I came here today,” he said.

“But you haven’t seen the Red Sox.”

“I’ve seen everything I wanted to see,” he answered, looking into her eyes.

His hand was still splayed opened, and he waited with a lump in his throat. She looked at him as if assessing his honesty. Finally, she slipped her fingers into his palm, and he closed his hand over them. Hannah smiled and tucked her chin in her shoulder closest to him, as if trying to hide her joy.

“I’m glad you came too,” she admitted in a quiet voice.

Affection overwhelmed him, and he impulsively kissed her forehead.

They ordered cups of tea, and continued holding hands as they drank. Her touch warmed him more than Earl Grey.

Clouds drifted in front of the sun and a cold breeze swept the courtyard. Hannah shivered, and he pulled the blanket higher up her shoulders. She caught his hand so his arm remained around her.

He glanced at her lips, within reach, parting delicately, her half-closed eyelids, and he knew she was going to kiss him.

“I’m not…” he began, compelled to warn her but not sure what about.

“You’re not what?” she asked with an amused lilt.

I’m not good at this. I work too much. I shut myself off to the people I care about. I fucked up my marriage. I can’t give you what you need.

Hannah’s expression turned to one of concern, so he pretended to have forgotten what he wanted to say.

His cell phone rang. “I have to get this, it’s my daughter.” He rose and stepped away from the table. His thoughts were scattered. He took a second to regroup before answering. Daisy was coming to join him in New York in two days, and she had some last-minute questions about packing.

While he talked on the phone, Hannah went to the restroom.

He was a dad. She’d imagined him as this free spirit, roaming the world, hurtling towards danger to save women and orphans. But he was a dad. She didn’t want to be a step-mother. They were ugly or cruel or evil. She wasn’t ready for that. She couldn’t deal with a teenager. No way. And with the ex-wife— no fucking way.

Why was she even thinking about being a step-mother? This thing with Alec, it was just a fling. Would be a fling. Nothing more. Whenever she slept with a man abroad, she made a point never to see him again after. Hardy was no exception. She wouldn’t see him again and certainly never meet his daughter.

An impatient knock on the door startled her. She quickly pulled up her pants, though she couldn’t remember if she’d peed or not.

As she walked back to the courtyard, Hannah observed Alec who was lost in thoughts. Why did his sad eyes make her want to blow him so much?

She could have kissed him hours ago— should have— but she’d enjoyed the slow blooming of it. The way her touch rippled through him. He was so starved for it, he didn’t even know. Yet he held back, and she couldn’t understand why.

“I’m not with her mum anymore,” he said as soon as he saw her. “Divorced. There’s no going back after what happened.”

If she asked what happened he would tell. He would open up to her. She didn’t ask.

“It’s fine. Don’t worry about it. I just didn’t know you have a daughter.”

“Well, I didn’t mean to keep it from you. Can’t believe I haven’t mentioned her.”

“So you’re a daddy, that’s kind of hot.”

“No.” He inspected her, a wrinkle deepened on his brow. “Did you want to go?”

She was still standing up behind her chair.

Alec paid for both their meals, and then there was nothing to do but leave. She asked him to walk with her to the visitor center where she would catch the shuttle bus back to the ship. She wasn’t ready to part from him yet. The closer they got to the visitor center, the heavier her heart felt. Alec’s eyes were on the ground with serious dimples in his cheeks. She wanted to say something clever and flirty to lighten up the mood.

They rounded a corner and saw the big white charter bus, with Jeffrey standing beside it. They backtracked a little, just out of his sight, under an old-fashioned lamp post.

Once again, they stood face to face on the pavement, without knowing what to say, but for entirely different reasons now.

“I should let you go,” he said even as he stepped forward, closer to her.

Those eyes of his were on her now, wide, almost pleading. He made her feel so warm and soft inside, pliant, in a way she didn’t recognize about herself.

She stepped closer too.

She’d made her desire abundantly clear, twice he’d turned her down now, the ball was in his court.

Hesitantly, he brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her jaw, and she could have melted in that touch.

He straightened his shoulders, and she sensed he’d come to a decision.

“I can’t leave without kissing you...”

“Go on, then.”

He laughed at her impatience. A deep breath, and he dipped his head to kiss her. Just a brush of lips at first, enough to send sparks through her blood. The day’s energy finally released. His fingers carded through her hair, her arms wrapped around his waist. The kiss deepened, and she felt it to her toes. People walked around them and leaves twirled in the wind, and they kept kissing. It was a day for gluttony. She gorged herself on every bit of lust, sadness and hope.

Hannah kept her eyes closed and Alec rested his forehead on hers. She felt peaceful and high-strung all at once. She relaxed her fists that were clenched into his jacket.

He sought her mouth again, with more confidence, hands splayed over her ribs, wide and steady.

Engine noises alerted her to the shuttle about to depart. Hand in hand, they walked over to it. In front of the door, he pulled her into a hug.

“I wish I could take you on board,” she whispered against his neck.

“I can be a stowaway, I’ve done it before.”

She chuckled and they kissed again, holding each other close. Jeffrey cleared his throat meaningfully.

“Where are you going next?” Alec asked.

“Portland, Maine. Why? Do you have another mate you can hitch a ride with?”

“I could find one.”

“It’s a date, then.”

Chapter 7: Portland

#Hardy x Hannah #Alec Hardy #Hannah Baxter #teninch fic #Broadchurch #secret diary of a call girl #crossover #travelers AU #lostinfic writes stuff

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loretranscripts · 5 years ago

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Lore Episode 32: Tampered (Transcript) - 18th April, 2016

tw: none

Disclaimer: This transcript is entirely non-profit and fan-made. All credit for this content goes to Aaron Mahnke, creator of Lore podcast. It is by a fan, for fans, and meant to make the content of the podcast more accessible to all. Also, there may be mistakes, despite rigorous re-reading on my part. Feel free to point them out, but please be nice!

I grew up watching a television show called MacGyver. If you’ve never had that chance to watch this icon of the 80s, do yourself a favour and give it a try. Sure, the clothes are outdated and the hair… oh my gosh, the hair. But aside from all the bits that didn’t age well, MacMullet and his trusty pocket knife managed to capture my imagination forever. Part of it was the adventure, part of it was the character of the man himself – I mean, the guy was essentially a spy who hated guns, played hockey and lived on a houseboat. But hovering above all those elements was the true core of the show. This man could make anything if his life depended on it. As humans, we have this innate drive inside ourselves to make things. This is how we managed to create things like the wheel, or stone tools and weapons. Our tendency towards technology pulled our ancient ancestors out of the Stone Age and into a more civilised world. Maybe for some of us, MacGyver represented what we wanted to achieve: complete mastery of our own world. But life is rarely that simple, and however hard we try to get our minds and hands around this world we want to rule, some things just slip through the cracks. Accidents happen. Ideas and concepts still allude our limited minds. We’re human, after all, not gods. So, when things go wrong, when our plans fall apart or our expectations fail to be met, we have this sense of pride that often refuses to admit defeat. So, we blame others, and when that doesn’t work, we look elsewhere for answers, and no realm holds more explanation for the unexplainable than folklore. 400 years ago, when women refused to follow the rules of society, they were labelled a witch. When Irish children failed to thrive it was because, of course, because they were a changeling. We’re good at excuses. So, when our ancestors found something broken or out of place, there was a very simple explanation – someone, or something, had tampered with it. I’m Aaron Mahnke, and this is Lore.

The idea of meddlesome creatures isn’t new to us. All around the world, we can find centuries-old folklore that speaks of creatures with a habit of getting in the way and making life difficult for humans. It’s an idea that seems to transcend borders and background, language and time. Some would say that it’s far too coincidental for all these stories of mischief-causing creatures to emerge in places separated by thousands of miles and vast oceans. The púca of Ireland and the ebu gogo of Indonesia are great examples of this – legends that seem to have no reason for their eerie similarities. Both legends speak of small, humanoid creatures that steal food and children, both recommend not making them angry, and both describe their creatures as intrusive pranksters. To many, the evidence is just too indisputable to ignore. Others would say it’s not coincidence at all, merely a product of human nature. We want to believe there’s something out there causing the problems we experience every day. So, of course, nearly every culture in the world has invented a scapegoat. This scapegoat would have to be small to avoid discovery, and they need respect because we’re afraid of what they can do. To a cultural anthropologist, it’s nothing more than logical evolution. Many European folktales include this universal archetype in the form of nature spirits, and much of it can be traced back to the idea of the daemon.

It’s an old word and concept, coming to us from the Greeks. In essence, a daemon is an otherworldly spirit that causes trouble. The root word, daomai, literally means to cut or divide. In many ways, it’s an ancient version of an excuse. If your horse was spooked while you were out for a ride, you’d probably blame it on a daemon. Ancient Minoans believed in them, and in the day of the Greek poet Homer, people would blame their illnesses on them. The daemon, in many ways, was fate. If it happened to you, there was a reason, and it was probably one of these little things that caused it. But over time, the daemon took on more and more names. Arab folklore has the djinn, Romans spoke of a personal companion known as the genius, in Japan, they tell tales of the kami, and Germanic cultures mention fylgja. The stories and names might be unique to each culture, but the core of them all is the same. There’s something interfering with humanity, and we don’t like it.

For the majority of the English-speaking world, the most common creature of this type in folklore, hands down, is the goblin. It’s not an ancient word, most likely originating from the middle ages, but it’s the one that’s front and centre in most of our minds, and from the start it’s been a creature associated with bad behaviour. A legend from the 10th century tells of how the first Catholic bishop of Évreux in France faced a daemon known to the locals there as Gobelinus. Why that name, though, is hard to trace. The best theory goes something like this: there’s a Greek myth about a creature named kobalos, who loved to trick and frighten people. That story influenced other cultures across Europe prior to Christianity’s spread, creating the notion of the kobold in ancient Germany. That word was most likely to root of the word goblin. Kobold, gobold, gobolin – you can practically hear it evolve. The root word of kobold is kobe, which literally means “beneath the earth”, or “cavity in a rock”. We get the English word “cove” from the same root, and so naturally kobolds and their English counterparts, the goblins, are said to live in caves underground, and if that reminds you of dwarves from fantasy literature, you’re closer than you think. The physical appearance of goblins in folklore vary greatly, but the common description is that they are dwarf-like creatures. They cause trouble, are known to steal, and they have tendency to break things and make life difficult. Because of this, people in Europe would put carvings of goblins in their homes to ward off the real thing. In fact, here’s something really crazy. Medieval door-knockers were often carved to resemble the faces of daemons or goblins, and it’s most likely purely coincidental, but in Welsh folklore, goblins are called coblyn, or more commonly, knockers. My point is this: for thousands of years, people have suspected that all of their misfortune could be blamed on small, meddlesome creatures. They feared them, told stories about them, and tried their best to protect their homes from them. But for all that time, they seemed like nothing more than story. In the early 20th century, though, people started to report actual sightings, and not just anyone. These sightings were documented by trained, respected military heroes. Pilots.

When the Wright brothers took their first controlled flight in December of 1903, it seemed like a revelation. It’s hard to imagine it today, but there was a time when flight wasn’t assumed as a method of travel. So, when Wilbur spent three full seconds in the air that day, he and his brother, Orville, did something else: they changed the way we think about our world. And however long it took humans to create and perfect the art of controllable, mechanical flight, once the cat was out of the bag, it bolted into the future without ever looking back. Within just nine years, someone had managed to mount a machine gun onto one of these primitive aeroplanes. Because of that, when the First World War broke out just two years later, military combat had a new element. Of course, guns weren’t the only weapon a plane could utilise, though. The very first aeroplane brought down in combat was an Austrian plane, which was literally rammed by a Russian pilot. Both pilots died after the wreckage plummeted to the ground below. It wasn’t the most efficient method of air combat, but it was a start. Clearly, we’ve spent the many decades since getting very, very good at it. Unfortunately, though, there have been more reasons for combat disasters than machine gun bullets and suicidal pilots, and one of the most unique and mysterious of those causes first appeared in British newspapers. In an article from the early 1900s, it was said that, and I quote, “the newly constituted royal air force in 1918 appears to have detected the existence of a hoard of mysterious and malicious sprites, whose sole purpose in life was to bring about as many as possible of the inexplicable mishaps which, in those days as now, trouble an airman’s life.” The description didn’t feature a name, but that was soon to follow. Some experts think that we can find roots of it in the old English word gremian, which means “to vex” or “to annoy”. It fits the behaviour of the creatures to the letter, and because of that they have been known from the beginning as gremlins.

Now, before we move forward, it might be helpful to take care of your memories of the 1984 classic film by the same name. I grew up in the 80s, and Gremlins was a fantastic bit of eye candy for my young, horror-loving mind, but the truth of the legend has little resemblance to the version that you and I witnessed on the big screen. The gremlins of folklore, at least the stories that came out of the early 20th century that is, describe the ancient stereotypical daemon, but with a twist. Yes, they were said to be small, ranging anywhere from six inches to three feet in height, and yes, they could appear and disappear at will, causing mischief and trouble wherever they went. But in addition, these modern versions of the legendary goblin seem to possess a supernatural grasp of human technology. In 1923, a British pilot was flying over open water when his engine stalled. He miraculously survived the crash into the sea and was rescued shortly after that. When he was safely aboard the rescue vessel, the pilot was quick to explain what had happened. Tiny creatures, he claimed, had appeared on the plane. Whether they appeared out of nowhere or smuggled themselves aboard prior to take-off, the pilot wasn’t sure. However they got there, he said that they proceeded to tamper with the plane’s engine and flight controls, and without power or control, he was left to drop helplessly into the sea.

These reports were infrequent in the 1920s, but as the world moved into the Second World War and the number of planes in the sky began to grow exponentially, more and more stories seemed to follow – small, troublesome creatures who had an almost supernatural ability to hold on to moving aircraft, and while they were there, to do damage and to cause accidents. In some cases, they were even cited inside planes, among the crew and cargo. Stories, as we’ve seen so many times before, have a tendency to spread like disease. Oftentimes, that’s because of fear, but sometimes it’s because of truth, and the trouble is in figuring out where to draw that line, and that line kept moving as the sightings were reported outside the British ranks. Pilots on the German side also reported seeing creatures during flights, as did some in India, Malta and the Middle East. Some might chalk these stories up to hallucinations, or a bit of pre-flight drinking. There are certainly a lot of stories of World War Two pilots climbing into the cockpit after a night of romancing the bottle – and who can blame them? In many cases, these pilots were going to their death, with a 20% chance of never coming back from a mission alive. But there are far too many reports to blame it all on drunkenness or delirium. Something unusual was happening to planes all throughout the Second World War, and with folklore as a lens, some of the reports are downright eerie. In 2014, a 92-year-old World War Two veteran from Jonesborough, Arkansas came forward to tell a story he had kept to himself for seven decades. He’d been a B-17 pilot during the war, one of the legendary flying fortresses that helped allied air forces carry out successful missions over Nazi territory, and it was on one of those missions that this man experienced something that, until recently, he had kept to himself. The pilot, who chose to identify himself with the initials L.W., spoke of how he was a 22-year-old flight commander on the B-17, when something very unusual happened on a combat mission in 1944. He described how, as he brought the aircraft to a higher altitude, the plane began to make strange noises. That wasn’t completely unusual, as the B-17 is an absolutely enormous plane and sometimes turbulence can rattle the structure, but he checked his instrument panel out of habit. According to his story, the instruments seemed broken and confused.

Looking for an answer to the mystery, he glanced out the right-side window, and then froze. There, outside the glass of the cockpit window, was the face of a small creature. The pilot described it as about three feet tall with red eyes and sharp teeth. The ears, he said, were almost owl-like, and its skin was grey and hairless. He looked back toward the front and noticed a second creature, this one moving along the nose of the aircraft. He said it was dancing and hammering away at the metal body of the plane. He immediately assumed he was hallucinating. I can picture him rubbing his eyes and blinking repeatedly like some old Loony Toons film. But according to him, he was as sharp and alert as ever. Whatever it was that he witnessed outside the body of the plane, he said that he managed to shake them off with a bit of “fancy flying”, and that’s his term, not mine. But while the creatures themselves might have vanished, the memory of them would haunt him for the rest of his life. He told only one person afterwards, a gunner on another B-17, but rather than laugh at him his friend acknowledged that he, too, had seen similar creatures on a flight just the day before.

Years prior, in the summer of 1939, an earlier encounter was reported, this time in the Pacific. According to the account, a transport plane took off from the airbase in San Diego in the middle of the afternoon and headed toward Hawaii. Onboard were 13 marines, some of whom were crew of the plane and others were passengers – it was a transport, after all. About halfway through the flight, whilst still over the vast expanse of the blue Pacific, the transport issued a distress signal. After that, the signal stopped, as did all other forms of communication. It was as if the plane had simply gone silent and then vanished, which made it all the more surprising when it reappeared later, outside the San Diego airfield and prepared for landing. But the landing didn’t seem right. The plane came in too fast, it bounced on the runway in rough, haphazard ways, and then finally came to a dramatic emergency stop. Crew on the runway immediately understood why, too – the exterior of the aircraft was extensively damaged, some said it looked like bombs had ripped apart the metal skin of the transport. It was a miracle, they said, that the thing even landed at all. When no one exited the plane to greet them, they opened it up themselves and stepped inside, only to be met with a scene of horror and chaos.

Inside, they discovered the bodies of 12 of the 13 passengers and crew. Each seemed to have died from the same types of wounds, large, vicious cuts and injuries that almost seemed to have originated from a wild animal. Added to that, the interior of the transport smelled horribly of sulphur and the acrid odour of blood. To complicate matters, empty shell casings were found scattered about the interior of the cockpit. The pistols responsible, belonging to the pilot and co-pilot, were found on the floor near their feet, completely spent. 12 men were found, but there was a thirteenth. The co-pilot had managed to stay conscious despite his extensive injuries, just long enough to land the transport at the base. He was alive but unresponsive when they found him, and quickly removed him for emergency medical care. Sadly, the man died a short while later. He never had the chance to report what happened.

Stories of the gremlins have stuck around in the decades since, but they live mostly in the past. Today they are mentioned more like a personified Murphy’s Law, muttered as a humorous superstition by modern pilots. I get the feeling that the persistence of the folklore is due more to its place as a cultural habit than anything else. We can ponder why, I suppose. Why would sightings stop after World War II? Some think it’s because of advancements in aeroplane technology: stronger structures, faster flight speeds, and higher altitudes. The assumption is that, sure, gremlins could hold on to our planes, but maybe we’ve gotten so fast that even that’s become impossible for them. The other answer could just be that the world has left those childhood tales of little creatures behind. We’ve moved beyond belief now. We’ve outgrown it. We know a lot more than we used to, after all, and to our thoroughly modern minds these stories of gremlins sound like just so much fantasy. Whatever reason you subscribe to, it’s important to remember that many people have believed with all their being that gremlins are real, factual creatures, people we would respect and believe.

In 1927, a pilot was over the Atlantic in a plane that, by today’s standards, would be considered primitive. He was alone, and he had been in the air for a very long time but was startled to discover that there were creatures in the cockpit with him. He described them as small, vaporous beings with a strange, otherworldly appearance. The pilot claimed that these creatures spoke to him and kept him alert in a moment when he was overly tired and passed the edge of exhaustion. They helped with the navigation for his journey and even adjusted some of his equipment. This was a rare account of gremlins who were benevolent rather than meddlesome or hostile. Even still, this pilot was so worried about what the public might think of his experience that he kept the details to himself for over 25 years. In 1953, this pilot included the experience in a memoir of his flight. It was a historic journey, after all, and recording it properly required honesty and transparency. The book, you see, was called The Spirit of St. Louis, and the man was more than just a pilot. He was a military officer, an explore, an inventor, and on top of all of that he was also a national hero because of his successful flight from New York to Paris – the first man to do so, in fact. This man, of course, was Charles Lindbergh.

[Closing Statements]

#lore podcast #podcast transcripts #aaron mahnke #gremlins #gremlin #cryptozoology #transcripts #32

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manicpixiedreamjew · 6 years ago

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ok i rewrote and revised my letter! let me know what you think

2/9/19

Rabbi Randy,

As our Into class comes to an end, a lot has been on my mind. My spirituality, my values; how my perception of the world has changed as I solidify my Jewish identity, especially as a young woman. I spent a few hours poring over journal entries dating back all the way to 2016 this Shabbat, and a consistent theme stood out in all of them: an overwhelming, genuine urge to live an authentic Jewish life. I read, thrown back into the innocent curiosity, the puppy love, the childlike fascination with Jews and Judaism that began with a book. The Chosen, the very first Jewish book I read, and I’m sure I’ve told you this story before; I’ll spare the details.

Anyway, those first inklings of interest, say, early 2016, were academic. I was a vehement atheist born to a family of atheists. Then again, who has a nuanced understanding of religion and people-hood at sixteen? My atheism was an obstinate, cynical world view triggered by traumatic experiences with Christianity. When I picked up The Chosen, though...I was slapped right across the face. Judaism was the first thing that challenged my philosophies; it forced me into an entirely foreign universe I never thought I’d know, need or understand. It taught me empathy foremost, in those early days...studying Judaism exhorted me to bear the burden of others, to feed the hungry (a MAZON seminar comes to mind), comfort the weary. Looking at my journal, an entry dated 3/3/17 elaborates on the effects of antisemitism in America, and next to that a newspaper cut out of a Magen David. It wasn’t quite personal then, but it was something I wouldn’t have looked twice at a few years earlier. It disturbed me deeply.

Then, mid-late 2017. The journal entries shifted, as you’d expect; I’d been exhaustively involved in reading and researching by then. I see a lovingly inscribed entry detailing, religiously, my first Kabbalat Shabbat at CRC. 7/1/17. The smells, the melodies, my friends, the birthday celebration of two elderly men who loved baseball. “A deep, riveting admiration for something ancient and pulsing with life.” That puppy-love stage was in full effect, my love of Judaism and its personal implications blossomed over the springtime, although its fragrance wasn’t entirely sweet: I was forced to confront my identity and ask myself that looming question. Do I want to become a Jew?

That question threw me for a loop. It was an emotionally intense time. I confided to my closest friend that, although it may sound absurd, converting to Judaism was something I was interested in. I remember crying myself to sleep some nights because the decision was so massive, so heavy, so entirely suffocating for someone with no background in religion, no sense of community or family. Eventually, though, my fate did not seem so dire, and I came to my senses: I loved Judaism. I loved it, I love it. One of the first things that stood out to me and comforted me was the Jewish emphasis on family, something I never experienced. I clung to it: how someone’s always there for you; how you’re adopted into world-wide support network called the Tribe. How no matter where you travel, anywhere in the world, someone will enthusiastically invite you over for Shabbat lunch. How, because you are Jewish, you will never suffer alone.

That, then, began my serious resolve to be Jewish, do Jewish and live Jewish.

Ever since I met with you on 11/21/17 (I have an entry for that, too!), my life has been a foray into Jewishness. You told me to start observing Shabbat and Yom Tov, and I did so with vigor: I bought a chanukiah, acquired the shiniest candlesticks I could, and read every book the local library had regarding proper observances. I look back on my first few holidays and laugh now, playfully admonishing myself for my mistakes and mishaps. But that’s the fun, right? If I learned anything from this week’s Parsha (Terumah), it’s that the means are more much important than the end, the intention more meaningful than the actualization. Late 2017 to early 2018 was all that: learning, doing, experiencing, interacting, existing with a fat dose of humility. Organizing a basic Jewish vocabulary, and through Shabbat services and working with the community, pinning down what it means to live a Jewish life.

Enter 2018! This was, perhaps, the most frustrated and chaotic year on my Journey to Jewish. To start, it was my last semester of high-school. Everything, and I mean Everything, was dependent on my graduation—most saliently my own happiness and sanity. My synagogue attendance was dwindling, my ambition and motivation was all but absent. I’ve always suffered from depression and severe anxiety, but its clutch tightened horribly those first few months. I managed to attend a Kol Nidre service in early September—and, it remains one of my most beautiful and cherished memories to date. December, I know, was the hardest. Between my Catholic father making crusade jokes and my Jesus-obsessed mother spewing casual antisemitism, between unending loads of coursework and no free time, I felt my spirit literally withering. This never weakened my resolve to live Jewishly, but some days I just couldn’t bring myself to enact the values I knew I held in my heart. Some days Judaism felt like a beloved friend, and others Judaism felt like a stranger. Nevertheless I continued to live as Jewish a life I could, but even kindling the Chanukah candles felt joyless. I was like Tevye standing in the middle of the woods, anguished, as his horse refused to budge. Through all of it, though—the sadness, numbness, friction—I was never, ever, once deterred. That’s how life is sometimes. But to be a Jew, as our own Reb Tevye zealously insisted, you must have hope.

And I did. This is when Judaism became real to me, when I realized it was a part of my life and etched into my very being. If I could live Jewishly, study, be a part of my community and find solace while also dealing with these hardships, this was clearly meant to be. I’ve been using “us” and “we” pronouns for a few months now, referring to myself as Jewish even though I’ve yet to immerse in a mikveh. When our class visited the Holocaust museum, the loss and heartache I felt was profoundly intimate...a personal loss, the loss of family I never had the opportunity to know and love. I had never experienced anything like that before, and it continues to haunt me. I’ve been the target of hateful and ignorant remarks. People have glowered at my Magen David; they’ve called me names and insulted me. “Christ killer, money hoarder, dirty Jew.”

But, and I’m a bit weepy remembering this, living Jewishly (and loudly at that) is a blessing. Maybe two summers ago I catered to an older family for their son’s graduation party. An uncle approached me, blinked at my Magen David and muttered “bless you.” I was visibly shaken; I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Later in the evening the grandmother touched my shoulder and asked, “are you Jewish?” I told her I was a conversion student. She embraced me, dug out dreidels from her kitchen drawer, and told me that she was separated from her Judaism during childhood. That it was too dangerous for her to practice, that she wanted to go back to synagogue now that she was safe. I encouraged her daughter to finally have her bar mitzvah. My heart was full. Another memory I’m fond of: wishing a stranger chag Pesach sameach and Shabbat Shalom on the street. He was wearing a kippah. The smile on that man’s face was unforgettable.

Those moments, to me, were godly. Actions are a conduit of holiness; I’ve learned that over the years. To act with intent and sanctify the mundane is second nature to us. A bracha, a kind word, charity, song...everything is a vessel for godliness.

Fast forward a bit: 2019. As I grew into my adult identity, so did I into my Jewish identity. I had my 18th birthday, graduated, passed my driving test. I began to wrap my hair on Shabbat, meditate on the Sh’ma swathed in a tallit, give tzedakah. Often times I sat in the little CRC classroom and pondered on the application of my learning: how it translated into my everyday life, how it reconciled with my values as a progressive woman in today’s society...but mostly, I think, I thought about how at home I felt. I walk into CRC and immediately feel at peace; a part of a family, the member of a loving household. I walk into the sanctuary and about a dozen people are ready to greet me with big, heartfelt smiles. It melts me every single time.

Alright, I’ll quit boring you with all this schmaltz.

I’m not sure that there was one definite moment when I knew, for sure, that being Jewish was the right choice for me. In fact, to assume all that soul searching could fit into one tiny, fleeting, ephemeral moment is ridiculous...as you know from the absurd length of this letter, which is only a minute fraction of my story. Seriously, I could go on, and on, and on; but I digress. Sitting at our Sukkot celebration and dancing with all the other people, looking up through the sukkah and marveling at the hanging plants and leaves. Baking challah on Friday morning and realizing that somewhere, other Jewish women are doing the exact same thing. Feeling warm summer wind on my face, seeing fireflies flicker through the bushes and knowing that HaShem is there. Touching my siddur to the Torah for the first time and bristling, feeling as though something breathed new life into me. Group Aliyah, a guiding hand on my shoulder as we chant the brachot in clumsy unison…

Each moment (and many more, and yet more to come) reaffirmed the fact that Judaism is my home. Ruth said it more succinctly and eloquently than I ever could: Your people shall be my people, and your God shall be my God.

Randy, I never thought I’d be doing this. Ever. Looking back at the learning and growing I’ve done, reading those journals and reminiscing on my journey, I can firmly say, if you agree, I’m ready to enter this Covenant officially.

Thank you for everything, as always,

Zoë

#oops its 5 pages #save

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hanneswrites · 6 years ago

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it’s been so long, so long

Title: it’s been so long, so long (Chapter 1)

Pairings: Sam Winchester/Gabriel (SPN)

Rating: T

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: Charcoal-ash wing imprints on dingy motel dining room carpeting; a bright and ancient soul lost on the outskirts of Muncie fucking Indiana.

If Gabriel really died, who's sending Sam coffee every morning?

When all of this had started, Sam wasn’t expecting to get swept up in it. But that’s always how it goes, isn’t it? You aren’t looking for love when you find it. You’re looking for something else – success, glory, money, power, a way out, or in Sam’s case? A good solution to the Apocalypse. A viable way to stop he and Dean and the rest of the goddamn human race from dying. And that solution, at one point, involved talking to a trickster that was too powerful for his own good, who turned out to be an archangel that cared too much for his own good. Not that he’d admit that to anyone in such plain words.

A bond was formed that day, in that damp-dark warehouse in Wellington, Ohio. The Trickster’s eyes seemed to spark the moment Sam spoke, but he remained motionless within the ring of fire. The Winchesters left, and as the sprinklers slowly diffused the fire still blazing around him, Gabriel realized how fucked he was. He dragged a hand down his face and let out a low chuckle. Gabriel followed them from that day on, looking after them and dwelling on what might have been, what could be. If only after if only. He was in the back of the impala everyday, lovingly curled up into the leather seats, ever-present cherry lollipop pressed against the inside of his cheek as he teased Dean and flirted shamelessly with Sam. Each night, he silently aided Sam into sleep, willing away the demons by walking through his dreams. Unseen, of course, and never when Lucifer was there. He only butted in with cases when absolutely necessary, saving them from a vampire or two and aiding them silently in finding the first of the four horsemen’s rings when they were hopelessly lost. And then? Well. Fuck.

Suddenly, the trickster Sam had grown to love tolerate was gone . Poof. Right up in thin air - just...gone. Charcoal-ash wing imprints on dingy motel dining room carpeting; a bright and ancient soul lost on the outskirts of Muncie fucking Indiana. Protecting them, protecting him, protecting Dean, of all people. They arrive at a different motel for the night and Dean heads off to get some food. Sam knew it would take him a bit longer to come back, as much as he griped about Dean not understanding him, this was something he never seemed to get wrong. He knew when Sam needed to grieve. It didn’t seem to matter that the person, or being , that he was grieving was Gabriel. He cried that night, for the first time in a long time, to the point where he ended up with hiccups from gasping too much air into his lungs. He laughed then, thinking about how Gabriel would have told him he was stupid for crying, would have told him to smile, and would have laughed with him as he fought through the hiccups, even though tears were still steadily flowing down his cheeks.

It took a few weeks. A few weeks of Sam praying and not being answered for it to really sink in that Gabriel probably wasn’t going to walk through their motel door at any given moment, wasn’t going to flutter into the impala’s back seat like nothing had happened, wasn’t going to be there when Sam needed an extra hand in the library, wasn’t going to be waiting for him to wake up, coffee in hand, another mug for Sam sitting on the bedside table. And it hurt : a slow-burning ache in the pit of his stomach, reaching up occasionally into his lungs and engulfing him in nervous shakes and stuttered breaths.

Months had passed since Lucifer and Michael had been locked away in the cage, and Sam still prayed to Gabriel, still said his name every night before bed: an outstretched apology, a run-down of recent events, or the odd confession.

“I miss the way you made my coffee. You never told me how you did it, and I haven’t been able to get it right. Was it some sort of weird angel mojo? I want to know.”

“Dean got hurt on a rugaru hunt today. I wish you could’ve seen the look on Cas’ face when we got back to Bobby’s. It was priceless. Dean’s still acting like there’s nothing going on there, but I know better.”

“I keep thinking about that one pick-up line you used to use on me all the time and I can’t remember how it ends. Every time I google it, I just end up getting heart condition web pages.”

“Dean played Heat of the Moment while he was making breakfast this morning. I know he’s doing it to try to coax me out of my room, but fuck, was I not ready for it. I taught Cas a few of the pick up lines I’d come across while looking around. Hearing Dean almost choke on bacon after Castiel said, “Have you been covered in bees recently? Because you look sweeter than honey,” was pretty good payback. Still haven’t found the end to yours, yet.”

“There was a woman who looked a lot like you at the library today. Her eyes were blue, though.”

Today had been a long day, driving back to Bobby’s from a hunt in middle-of-nowhere southwest Ohio. Seventeen hours in the car with Dean. Seventeen hours of attempting to sleep and failing because Castiel kept fluttering in and out like an indecisive hummingbird. Seventeen hours of hoping and being disappointed that the voice coming from the backseat was low and rough, and entirely too serious.

Sam sighed, laying back on his bed. His eyes closed as he stretched out, a few of his bones crackling and popping as he adjusted to not being cramped in the passenger seat of the impala. Without even thinking about it, he whispered Gabriel’s name.

“I miss you.” The words left Sam’s lips, and he almost instantly regretted it, dragging a heavy hand down his face. He needed to get a life. He needed to stop dwelling on this...this thing... that may or may not have actually been a thing. He needed to get some sleep. As Sam closed his eyes and began to drift off, part of his brain registered the faint smell of hazelnut.

Sam awoke the next morning feeling only slightly groggy and headed down to the kitchen to grab some much-needed caffeine. Dean sat at the small dining table, nursing a cup of coffee and scarfing down what seemed to be a cherry danish. Newspaper laid open on the table, though Dean didn’t seem to be reading it as he stared off into oblivion. Obviously he was still waking up.

“Any coffee left?” Sam asked. Dean nodded at him and gestured toward a mug on the counter, already filled to the brim with coffee. He nodded back in thanks and sat down opposite of Dean, absently taking a sip and--oh... oh … what. Sam blinked down at the mug, staring into the cream-brown mixture, brow furrowing. Carefully, he took another sip. And yeah, that was definitely not what he expected. How could this be--? How? He’d been trying to make it like this for so long and Dean had just done it like it was...nothing? Like he just did this every day?

Sam cleared his throat, “Dean, did you...make this coffee?”

“No. Was out here when I got up. Thought Bobby made it.” Dean replied, taking another danish from the plate in the middle of the table. And... was Sam crazy or were all of those danishes not there when he’d first come into the kitchen. Briefly, Sam considered the possibility of demonic interference, but that thought was stifled as he felt a hand ruffle through his hair. He turned quickly, only to catch a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye and then nothing. Sighing, Sam let out the breath he’d been holding in and stood to go to his room.

“Thank you for the coffee.” Sam breathed as he took another sip, wrapping himself in his comforters and praying Dean wouldn’t find a case for today.

Another coffee, this time on his bedside table, appeared the next morning. It was still hot when Sam curled his fingers around the handle, steam curling into the chilled air. He held it close, let the mug warm his hands, and savoured it. Faintly, he thought he could feel something ghosting over his skin, like someone was almost but just-barely-not touching him, though he could see nothing was physically there. The feeling left as he finished off the mug, and Sam frowned at the absence. Time to go on about the rest of his day.

#sabriel #samgabe #sam winchester #spn #spn fanfiction #hannes writes #2018 #wip

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imagine-loki · 6 years ago

Text

Mr. Laufeyson's Ward

TITLE: Mr. Laufeyson’s Ward

CHAPTER NO./ONE SHOT: Chapter 18

AUTHOR: goddessofmischief

ORIGINAL IMAGINE: Imagine you are living in the late 1800’s and your parents pass away due to a tragic accident. Leaving you an orphan, you are sent to a miserable orphanage. Then, a mysterious and harsh man named Loki visits the orphanage and takes you on as his ward. He brings you to his crumbling mansion in the English countryside, where you face his cruel intentions, and eventually discover that you care for him much more than you’d like to admit.

RATING: T

NOTES: This unexpected chapter shall probably come as a surprise to most of you. I have been super busy: applying to grad schools, getting into my preferred one, and beginning my studies. I can’t say that my updates shall be regularly posted from now on (which they never were any way), but here is something to dissipate the ongoing silence since I last posted… 7 months ago. Wow. I really am sorry for the delay, but thank you so much for sticking around. Enjoy! ♥︎

I began to take notice of a change in Loki shortly after my eighteenth birthday.

At first they were little things that I did not initially question, such as the way in which Loki would fall into a sort of trance while I was talking to him, his index finger brushing his upper lip in deep contemplation. Or how I would find him in the morning sleeping soundly at the desk in his study, his head resting on a plethora of mighty volumes: a clear sign that he had never retired to his room the previous night.

On one particular morning, I padded quietly over to him to gaze over his shoulder at the books he had been reading and found that all of them were filled with peculiar diagrams and archaic runes that were completely indiscernible to me. One diagram stood out to me though: it was that of a man being transfigured in some way. The illustrated figure on the page seemed to be in mid-transformation and the diagram was not unlike Michelangelo’s Vitruvian Man.

I then turned my head slightly to analyze another book placed next to it but instead came face-to-face with Loki. I gasped, and he answered with a soft, amused chuckle. “Well aren’t you a nosy little mouse.” He muttered in a raspy, just-awoken tone, as his hands quickly took my waist and settled me onto his lap. I gave out a squeak, which caused him to laugh even more. I calmed down as his arms wrapped tenderly about me, and he rested his head beside mine, inhaling deeply. The relaxing scent of his bergamot and sandalwood based cologne enveloped me in a warm cocoon. “You never pass up the opportunity of getting your head stuck in a book, hm?” He asked, placing a kiss on the top of my head.

My curiosity got the best of me as I posed a question for him. “What are those runes, Loki?” He paused, before closing the book that was directly before him: the one that I had questioned. “They belong to an ancient language. One that is only used by a civilization that is highly dissimilar to yours - I mean, ours.” He quickly corrected himself, and I knew that he had hoped this had gone unnoticed by me, but it did not. Was this society the one that he belonged to? The one that he had returned to on account of a threatening war? The one that he was keeping hidden from me?

Something was consuming his thoughts, and I intended to find out just what it was.

In the meantime, I was continuing my visits to the Blythe’s farm. Agnes and her parents were getting on splendidly, and on those days of my visits, I would assist them with the farm work while wearing my orphanage uniform and an apron. As I didn’t mind getting my hands dirty, even though Agnes continuously urged me that it was not proper for a ‘lady’ to get herself involved in such proceedings, I happily tended to whatever needed to be done. They also had assistance on most days from Benjamin, the hired farmhand - who Agnes had developed a deep affection for that had yet to be requited.

Loki, who seemed busier than he had ever been before, even persuaded me to accept the Blythe’s invitation to stay for supper on most nights. As it was summer and the days were much longer, it was still light outside when it was time for me to mount Arabella and return to Heathcote. Even though I took great pleasure in the simple comforts of Agnes’ home, as well as Mrs Blythe’s savoury meals, I was slightly saddened by the notion that Loki was attempting to push me away, and that he had more important matters to tend to.

As I didn’t want to be considered a nuisance in the eyes of my future husband, upon returning home I would convey Arabella to Dickon in the stables and then hurry up to my room, not bothering to take my bonnet and light cloak off until I was once inside. And then, I would wait. For any sort of call that would indicate that I was sought by Loki. That I was wanted. But nothing would come.

I refused to shed a tear, even when one evening I opened up the cherished book of poems that Loki had composed for me and traced my fingers over his fine handwriting. Even when I cradled the single carnation in the palm of my hand: the one flower that had been the first to bloom in our garden. I had cried too often ever since I had come to Heathcote and had, in countless instances, let down my guard. I had to be strong, and self-reliant, once again.

Upon safely storing the book away into one of my desk compartments, I noticed a peculiar movement of light out the window closest to me, as I had forgotten to draw close the curtains earlier that night. It had been a transitory flicker at first, but then I noticed it again out of the corner of my eye. It had shifted slightly more upwards this time but was still clearly observable from my viewpoint. I trained my eye to outside the window before finally detecting where it had come from. The tower in the far wing of the house. I had only been in this wing on that day that I assisted Elsie with her task of cleaning those neglected rooms, which had turned out to be just a cruel assignment from Loki, as no one had stepped foot inside them since then.

Mabel, who was seated on a tufted velvet pillow on a chair nearby, gave out a soft whine, and I reached out my hand to comfort her - not allowing my eyes to leave the appointed spot through the window.

There it was again. The silhouetted individual carrying the candlestick passed by another window at the uppermost part of the tower staircase, before the light finally escaped from my view and was seen no more. I closed the drapes with surrender, and unable to keep my eyes open for long, I found my feet and crawled inside my bed, drifting to sleep at once due to my exhaustion from all the farm work I had done earlier that day.

The following night and many nights after that, the light going up that winding staircase was seen time and time again, usually just before midnight. I decided to question Loki about it one morning at breakfast, which was usually the only time I saw him as Mrs Cunningham provided me with a packed lunch to bring with me to the farm and I never encountered him upon my return in the evenings.

He did not usually act indifferently to me, as you might think, reader, but was instead most doting and attentive. But on this morning, his demeanour had altered when I raised a question. “I wish to ask you something, sir.” “What troubles you, my darling?” He asked while buttering his toast. His green eyes steadily looked at me from across the table, which situated amongst the sumptuous array of breakfast foods was an exquisite crystal vase filled with white lilies from the garden. As I met his intense gaze I slightly tensed up, but immediately found this reaction to be foolish and stoically proceeded. “Is the tower in the wing opposite from mine currently in use?”

Before replying to my question he languidly took a bite of his toast and regarded the front page of the newspaper that was, as customary, positioned beside his plate. It was as though he had been expecting this question all this time, for he was not startled by it in the least. “Tower? What tower?” He replied, his eyes still on today’s headlines. “I believe you know exactly which tower I am referring to.” I folded my arms across my chest in frustration. He shook his head in opposition. “No, I do not, Victoria. The only tower I know of has been locked up for years.” With this he took a final bite of his toast, leaving the crust on the toile patterned dish before him. “Well, I best be going. I have got a lot of reading to do. Please give my warmest regards to Agnes and her family this morning.” He touched my shoulder as he walked past my chair and then departed for his study, which he would lock himself inside for most of the day unless he had a meeting with one of his tenants.

We no longer kissed, nor did we embrace. He only acknowledged me with platonic gestures, and these signs of fatherlike affection, if you were to even classify them as such, led me to believe that nothing had transpired to alter our relationship. It made me feel that I was still just his ward.

¨¨¨°º0º°¨¨¨

Time passed, as it always does. I slipped into a state of deep melancholy, yet nobody suspected any change in my feelings, for I had become an expert at disgusting them. I acted before others as though a veil of happiness was permanently shrouded over me.

But it was not easy for me to remain nonplussed when Loki was before me. Because when I was with him, all of those happy moments came back to me. They were replayed in my mind as though I was watching them through the stereographic viewer we once looked at together: when one memory disappeared from view, it wasn’t long until another one was set into place.

On a hot morning in early July, I was picking strawberries in the far corner of the Blythe’s property. They had been planted earlier in the year by a farmer at an adjacent farm, who had been paid by Loki to maintain the fields until a new tenant could be found. Agnes was tending to a nearby row, while her parents had started at the opposite corner.

Agnes was not foolish. She could always see right through me and knew that something had changed just about a week after my birthday.

“Any signs of improvement?” She asked me, as she plucked a ripe strawberry off of a nearby vine and placed it into her basket. I shook my head as I also continued to add more of the fruit to my growing batch. “No, there have been none.” A strong gust of wind then came that practically blew my straw hat off of my head, but I quickly caught it and tugged it firmly back down. She sighed dramatically. “What is wrong with men? One minute they shower you with fancy gifts and an adorable puppy, and the next they decide to ignore you completely!” She articulated this in a fiery whisper so her parents couldn’t overhear the content of our conversation, but then she showed remorse by kneeling beside me and taking both of my hands in hers. “I’m sorry, Vic… but the wedding is a little less than two months away, which leaves plenty of time for things to fall back into place.” “Yes, perhaps you are right. Thank you.” I gently squeezed her hands to show my gratitude for her words before returning to my work. I didn’t wish to dwell on the matter for too long. To lighten up the conversation, I returned to a subject that was sure to make Agnes blush. “So how is it going with Benj-” “SHHH,” She hushed at once. “He’s just over there!”

She was right. I had initially thought that he was not working today, for I hadn’t seen him earlier. But he was tending to the farm animals, in his fresh, unsoiled clothes, as if was still early in the morning, and wearing his trusted bowler cap. His golden hair stood out against the black matted felt of his hat and his blue eyes attentively regarded each of the chickens that were situated in the pen before him. “He’ll come around soon,” I remarked, after which we fell into a fit of laughter that only ceased when he looked over at us a gave us a friendly wave, in which he then smiled tenderly at Agnes in particular. She smiled back sweetly before returning to her strawberries. “Perhaps you might even be wed before me!” I added in a whisper. A small mound of dirt was inconspicuously flicked onto my skirt in response.

After our day’s work, and a tasty supper, I shared my gratitude for the Agnes and her family’s hospitality. Before going to collect Arabella in the stable, they presented me with a wrapped bundle of strawberries to take back home with me, which I securely placed in my small carpet bag that attached to Arabella’s saddle. Arabella was well taken care of by Mr Blythe and Benjamin throughout the day and received many carrots and bales of hay to feed on. Benjamin had just briefly groomed and saddled her moments before I was set to head out. She always whinnied when I approached. “Hey there Arabella, ready to go home?” Another neigh from her prompted me to lead her outside before I mounted and urged Arabella forward in a canter. Going down the dirt path, I then turned right towards the road that led me back towards Heathcote.

Night had yet to descend, but the skies had turned overcast: a clear sign of an oncoming storm. The powerful moorland winds rushed past my face, disheveling my pinned up hair and singing a harsh cacophony into my ears. And then there was a distinct call from my right.

“Miss! Miss! Please help!” I immediately pulled on the reigns, bringing Arabella to a sharp halt. After looking briefly around, I detected a figure lying down amongst a nearby plot of heather, which was now in full bloom. From my viewpoint, I could see that it was a heavy set man settled hopelessly on the ground, a few feet away from the road. He let out a cry of agony before he continued to speak, his voice was in a thick Yorkshire dialect. “Miss, I’m injured! Please help me to the village. My horse ran off after I fell.”

I quickly got down from Arabella while commanding her to stay in her place. I hastily went over to where the man was lying and inquired about what had happened. “My horse got startled when he spotted an adder on the road and I have twisted my ankle.” I got down on my knees to examine his injury, but then things became all a blur.

The man took me by my shoulders and threw me backwards. He then swiftly took his small pistol out of his pocket and shot a round into the sky to frighten Arabella. She ran off pell-mell down the road, leaving me deserted and without any means of returning home. But my thoughts were only momentarily positioned on this, for something else was happening. An excessive force was pushing me down onto the grouse, as a hand was fumbling to pull up my skirts. “Mhm, it looks like my days of planning for this moment shall finally pay off. It became like clockwork eventually. You have always been quite punctual.”

I screamed as loud as I could and began to squirm excessively underneath him as I finally knew what his true intent was. But my scream could only be heard for a second, as a large, sweaty palm was clamped over my mouth. With a sharp tilt of my head, I evaded his hand just enough to allow me to bite down forcefully on his index finger. He yelped as he shook his hand in pain and from my position I could see that I had drawn blood. However, he did not withdraw his body weight from on top of me. “You little bitch!” He shouted bitterly. He then fumbled for the pistol in his pocket and aimed it towards me. “Don’t make me use this on you!” He warned.

I immediately froze and shut my eyes closed in fright, cowering my head down towards my chest. “Loki…” I desperately whispered to myself, but the man had overheard me. He laughed maliciously at my pitiful call for help. “He can’t help you out here, sweetie. No one can.”

A husky, menacing voice answered with a growl. “You’re wrong, Lawrence.”

#Loki #Lover #Angst #God of Mischief #Submitted fic #submission #chapter 18 #goddessofmischief #mr. laufeysons ward

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iknewishouldcreateasensation · 6 years ago

Text

“It’s okay to talk about it, Brian.”

Curt was merely a dark figure at the head of the bed. Moonlight, faint and gentle, silvered the stubble growing along his jaw, lit the gentle curve of his hand against the comforter.

“It just came over me quite suddenly is all,” Brian mumbled, between intense shivers, quaking, freezing spasms that raked their way down his legs and shook his breath up from the depths of his chest. Curt knew better than to touch him, knew better than to constrain him.

“Do you want to go outside? It’s not cold.”

“No, please no, please don’t make me go anywhere.” Brian whispered. The shivers now came with sickly sweet stomach pangs. The room, already thick with darkness, began to sprout evil shadows and black holes.

“I’ll kill him.” Curt said this every time the shaking started, but never lost his venom, never lost that acrid spite.

“Come now, darling,” Brian whisperered, unsure how much of this was real, “Come now. It’s silly. It was just a newspaper article.”

“He made you do it. He made you pull that stunt. What a fucking bastard- When I think about what happened-“

Brian’s measured breaths were faltering, the numbers blurring in his head. He exhaled and a new shivering came over him, like icy ants were scurrying over every inch of his skin.

“To be fair, I wanted it.”

“Only because he pushed you so far.”

“Be reasonable.”

“He tortured us.”

“I should’ve stood up for myself- For you- It just became too much- So much- I mean eventually you get so used to it- And he always made sense, business-wise, and you know how I am, no head for business at all-“

“Brian,” Curt’s voice was low, “He took advantage of you.”

“I wanted out, anyways.”

He let out an exasperated sigh- Brian knew he was growing increasingly tired of this particular conversation. They tried to pretend, as much as they could, that ‘73-‘74 has not existed. This proved easier than expected because Curt had spent those years completely strung out in Berlin, and Brian had lost almost all of it to coke and the gray haze of nervous exhaustion. He could remember the violent moments, the swathes of color, the vomit and the blood and Mandy crying in the noonday sun. The meetings with Jerry that led up to it all, the strained glances from Shannon, and with icy clarity, the glow of his cigarette before the show. He remembered the screaming, and the mass televised burnings. But thankfully, most of the details were buried, in deep, forever echoing chambers at the base of his spine: Some primal device was eroding them, breaking it all down into colors and sentences and frozen images, the basics.

Who knows how long it would’ve been dormant, had Jerry’s death not been announced in the morning paper. Just seeing his face had unlocked something- Some ancient sense of dread, of confinement.

He’d done his best to ground himself, to ignore it, to talk through it and remain in the present. It had done no good. The nightmares had come anyway- Distorted screaming, smeared, stricken faces, the black coat whipping out of sight.

Brian shook his head.

“Curt?”

“Yeah?”

One of the pulsing black holes opened wider, like a yawning cunt.

“I feel like it’s going to happen tomorrow. Like I’m still waiting for it to happen.”

“Brian-“

“I am so sorry they forgot to tell you.”

A warm hand gripped his shoulder, burning it.

Curt pressed his nose into Brian’s neck, let his breaths tickle across it.

“Honey.”

“I can’t even remember it anymore. I don’t understand why this is happening.”

Curt’s voice was pained,

“Sometimes your body remembers what your mind forgets.”

Brian’s eyes flickered to the gleaming window, where the moon hung like a rich white jewel, observing him impassively.

“Nothing happened to my body.”

Curt’s forehead dug into the base of his neck. His breathing was the only thing in the room.

“You should’ve seen what you looked like. You wouldn’t say that if you’d seen your face afterwards. You were like a fuckin’ ghost.”’

He couldn’t respond to that, and so he didn’t. His eyes were fixed on the moon. He could tell that Curt was suffering, but wasn’t sure what to say, wasn’t sure how to stop him from reliving the same shared hell.

“I’m sorry.”

“Baby. Just don’t say that to me anymore.”

He reached around and took Curt’s hand, gripping it hard.

Curt squeezed back, crushing his knuckles, and with a buckle in his chest he let the pain ground him.

The spasms eased, turning to faint, sharp twitches. He realized with a start that he was freezing: His body was damp with fearful sweat. Slowly, he turned, his entire body aching and stiff.

Curt’s let go of his hand and moved it to his chest, pressing lightly. His eyes became almost dewy, Brian thought, as his heart beat against his palm.

“Can you tell me your name?”

“I know all of that,” Brian said, glancing down at his hands and wondering who they belonged to, they were so pale and alien.

“Do it. For me.”

“It doesn’t work.”

“Baby, I need to know.”

“My name is Brian.”

“What’s today?”

“....The fifteenth?”

“Okay. What year is it?”

“1989.”

Curt smiled with relief, leaning back. Brian followed him, gingerly, the cold having seeped into his bones. He still didn’t make a move to touch him, only let their shoulders brush.

“I just like to know you’re still with me. You were talking strange.”

“Mmhm.”

Curt smiled.

“What’s Oscar Wilde’s middle name?”

“He has three middle names, his full name is Oscar Fingal O’Flahertie Willis Wilde.”

He pressed a kiss to his ear.

“You learn something new every day.”

“I’ve been telling you that since 1971, when you first asked me who he was.”

“You know I was just trying to hit on you. I knew.”

“Of course you were hitting on me, but we both know you can’t read.”

“I love you.”

Brian smiled, and slowly slipped back under the covers, pulling them up to his chin. The shadows had faded now, back into their corners.

“Shh-shh.”

Curt slid in beside him, grinning now, big and full and relieved. He took his hand again, stroking it with each slight tremor.

“Hey, uh, Brian...”

“Love?”

“D’you remember...The first time I, uh...”

“Curt, I’ll remember that one starlit orgy forever, you were the handsomest man in the whole room, we’ve been over it.”

“No! The actual first time. When I came to your room.”

Brian smiled, soft, warm,

“ ‘Hey Brian, can I drop in and show you some material?’ “

He snorted, burying his face in the pillow,

“God, that one was really just fucking shameless.”

“ ‘Oh! Yes! Come right in!’ “

He winced- Time had not dulled his memories of his silly infatuation. He pressed closer to him, soaking up the heat and letting it loosen the terrible aching knots in his stomach.

“You were very cute. I absolutely worshipped you.”

“I know.”

“You worshipped me, too.”

“I did not. Go to sleep.”

“ ‘Did I ever tell you, you have like...Cotton Candy eyes...’ “

“You do realize I was really high.” Curt’s voice was strained and shy.

“You loved me! Immediately, you loved me.”

“You looked very shiny when I first saw you. I was just stunned.”

“Give me a kiss.”

Curt pecked his forehead, and snuggled a bit closer.

“Yeah. I loved you.”

Brian was getting very sleepy: Curt’s breathing was so strong, sure, steady. He reached out and took one of his hands, admiring its size, the roughness of its callouses.

“I’m a bit afraid to sleep.”

“I’ll be here.”

He yawned,

“Arrright.”

“Close your damn eyes, it’s three AM.”

“They’re closed.”

When he was on the brink of slipping under, Curt rolled over and threw an arm around his stomach. It was only then that he realized his muscles had been taut- They relaxed as they brushed Brian’s skin.

“M happy you’re still here.”

But maybe that part was a dream.

#brian slade #velvet goldmine #curt wild #ive been workin on this a long time ugdshhs

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thewnchstrs · 7 years ago

Text

Runaway

*not my gif

Pairing: SamXchild!reader, DeanXniece/nephew!reader

Disclaimers: ANGST

Word Count: 2,344

A/N: I tried to make the reader as gender neutral as possible since most of my fics are female-based!

Masterlist

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

When you’re a Winchester, the pressure to prove yourself is extremely daunting, especially when you’re too young to hunt alone but too old to be as naïve as to not believe in what’s really out there.

Dad and uncle Dean had been out of a case for nearly a month, nothing coming up on their radar, which was worrying to say the very least. Not so much as a suspicious death to show up on the internet flashed any neon signs that there could be something for them to be concerned with.

Dad liked having the break, that much I could tell. He seemed less tense, not always hunched over that damned computer of his. Uncle Dean, on the other hand, was practically scaling the walls of the bunker, desperate to kill something.

I knew this was my chance. I had just turned seventeen- an age that most hunters would’ve scoffed at. Starting your hunting career a year before adulthood is nearly taboo, but not exactly unheard of. If I was able to find a successful lead to a hunt, dad would have to let me go.

I never really understood why he never let me go on my own when him and Dean have been hunting since they were nearly half my age. I’ve done target practice, floor training, hand to hand combat, all of it concluding with dad telling me how good I was at it all. I begged him for years to let me put my training into practice but he’d shot me down every time without so much as an explanation. Today, however, I was not going to take no for an answer.

I’d spent hours on end sitting on my bed scrolling through newspaper article after newspaper article trying to find something to get the ball rolling. I was nearly on the edge of giving up after nearly 4 hours of reading about death when an article from a Wisconsin paper made me pause, my heart soaring as I read the headline: 28-year-old Suspected Murderer On The Loose

At first, I’d figured this wasn’t our kind of thing, just a sick guy who’d gotten away from police. However, as I looked closer at the mugshot pictured just beneath the headline, the man’s eyes seemed to be reflecting the light of the camera’s flash.

“Bingo,” I smiled at the obvious shapeshifter. I nearly flung myself off of my bed, running toward dad’s room down the hall, my socks sliding as I came to a stop, throwing his door open.

He flipped over onto his back, turned the light on and pointed his gun at me all in one swoop, his posture visibly relaxed once he’d realized it was only me. “Jesus, Y/N, what do you think you’re doing-“

“No time for that,” I said quickly, flopping down onto his bed as I showed him the laptop screen. “I found a case.”

He squinted at the picture, quickly noticing the man’s abnormal eyes. He studied the picture for a few minutes before darting his eyes to meet mine. “Alright, well, uncle Dean and I will get started on it tomorrow.”

He began tucking his gun back under his pillow, obviously uninterested. However, I was not about to throw away my shot. “No, no, I found this case- I should be the one to take care of it.”

Instantly, he shook his head, his long hair flinging forward and backwards. “Nope, sorry kid not happening.”

“Dad-”

“I said no, Y/N.” he said, sternly, his eyebrows raised in emphasis letting me know he was serious. “I don’t want you hunting, you know that.”

“But why,” I question. This peaked his interest- I’d never crossed him before, never questioned his reasoning for keeping me in the dark with what him and uncle Dean did for a living. “Why are you keeping me out of this?”

Dad sighed, sitting up farther in bed. “I promised your mother I would keep you out of the life, alright? I told her I’d keep you safe and that as long as you were with me, I wouldn’t let anything bad happen to you.”

“It’s in my blood, I- I’m a Winchester, we’ve been doing this for hundreds of years-”

“I’m sorry, Y/N.” He said, shaking his head. “I can’t break my promise to her. Once you’re in this life...there’s no way out of it.”

I sighed, bringing my eyes to his from where they’d been focused on the wooden floors. I nearly slammed the lid of the computer as I stood up, getting ready to leave the room.

“Y/N, come back-”

“No,” I said, turning back to him. I slowly shook my head, it wasn’t fair. “I’m going on this hunt, whether you like it or not.”

Before he could say anything else, I’d already turned, making my way down the hall toward Dean’s room, pushing the door open and snatching his weapons bag off of his dresser.

“Wha’ ya doin’?” he asked, half asleep, his face half buried in his pillow.

“You’re dreaming,” I said as I filled the bag and he settled back into his bed without a second thought.

“Okay...g’night.”

After I’d filled the bag, I slung it over my shoulder and back to my bedroom where I began lacing up my shoes when dad came barging in, “where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m taking care of this hunt, and I’m going alone.” I picked the bag up off of the floor, leaving the room when he grabbed my upper arm, making me whip around to him. “Let go of me!”

“I’m not letting you go by yourself, Y/N!” He nearly shouted.

“Why not?!” I yelled back, yanking my arm from his grip. “Prior to popular belief, I can take care of myself! I don’t need you!”

“You’re a child, Y/N! You won’t survive five minutes out there alone!” He screamed, his face going red. I had never seen him like this- never expected him to blow up. Dean, of course. I’ve seen him throw things across the room, but this- this was a new occurrence. From behind him, Dean came out of his room, looking up and down the hallway before standing shocked at the scene. Dad, towering over me, veins popping out of his neck in anger as he pointed an accusatory finger at me, “I’d like to see you try to do the things I’ve done, to even go out there and shoot a straight shot because you can’t do it! You will never be able to do what we do!”

The bunker seemed like it was submerged underwater once he’d finished screaming. His echoing voice ceasing to nothing as he rubbed a hand down his face.

“Screw you.” I shoved the bag into his arms as I passed him and back into my room, slamming the door behind me.

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We avoided each other for days, not looking or speaking to each other, only sparing glances as we passed in the hallways or when we’d cross paths in the library. We made it a point to stay at least fifty feet away from each other at all times.

Uncle Dean hated it, always having to tip toe around us as if we were landmines. One wrong move and the whole place would be blown to holy hell.

“You two need to make up.” he said, eyeing me from across the table of the library, his feet kicked up onto the table with a beer in his hand. “I hate this whole silent treatment thing. And for the first time, it doesn’t include me!”

“I’m not apologizing,” I said, flipping through the book in front of me. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Really?” he said, raising an eyebrow at me.

I clenched my jaw, looking up at him, “what? You think this is all on me? Did you miss the part where he told me I couldn’t shoot a damn target if it slapped me in the face?”

“He didn’t say that-”

“Close enough,“ I said, shaking my head. “So are you on his side or something? Shocker.”

“I’m not on anyone’s side, so you better watch that mouth of yours.” He said, sternly, pointing to me with his beer. “You’re both in the wrong, alright? He shouldn’t have blown up on you, but you shouldn’t have pushed him over the edge.”

“I just want to hunt, why does that make me the bad guy?”

“It doesn’t, it just...your dad loves you. You know that right? He loves you more than life itself and he doesn’t want to lose you. That’s why he’s so strict about hunting. Your dad and I, we’ve seen each other die more times than I can count. I don’t know what he’d do if you got hurt.” he said, shaking his head at just the thought of it. “And your mom...that was her one wish. She didn’t want you dragged into this life. Your dad panicked when you said you were leaving. Nearly scared him half to death that he didn’t know what to do.”

I played with the pages of the book, flipping them with my fingers. “I never wanted to upset him. It’s just that...seeing you guys and what you do...you’ve saved the world, and I- I want to be a part of that. I don’t want to sit on the sidelines anymore. I didn’t mean to scare him.”

“Then tell him that.” Uncle Dean said. “You can’t avoid him forever.”

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“Knock knock,” I said, tapping on the doorframe of the control room where dad was working on a computer. “What are you doing? We’ve never used this thing.”

He seemed slightly shocked we were suddenly on talking terms. However, he didn’t hesitate as he knocked a fist on the ancient device. “Thought we could fix her up, maybe use it for security.”

I nodded, leaning against the wall as he went back to working. I tossed around all the things I wanted to say, but before I could, he spoke up first.

“Did you know, when you were probably four or five you tried running away?”

I sat confused, racking my memory. “No.”

He laughed lightly, smirking at the long ago thought. “Yeah...I told you that you couldn’t have gummy worms for dinner. You wouldn’t stop fighting me on it, so I sent you to your room. You know what you did? You packed a bag.” he laughed, “full of things you had in your room- your stuffed animals, your little toy guitar Dean had gotten you, some coloring books. You were ready to move out.”

I smiled slightly, times haven’t changed much, I guess. “Then what happened?”

“You left the bunker without me even knowing. Went through the garage and everything. God, I was worried sick.” he shook his head as he looked up at me, his eyes sad. “I thought I’d lost you...one minute you were there and the next-”

He stopped, his eyebrows cinched together. I bit the inside of my lip, unable to imagine how scared he was.

“We searched this whole place for you, from top to bottom we searched. Even uncle Bobby and uncle Cas helped. We were all so worried...Then, I took the Impala out, drove to your favorite park-”

“The one with the twisty slide?”

He smiled, nodding. “The one with the twisty slide...and sure enough, there you were. Sitting in the rocks. You looked so sad, your pockets were stuffed full of dandelions we were finding them in the washer for weeks. You had the biggest tears on your cheeks. But, Jesus I had never been so happy to see those tears.”

My heart broke as he recalled that day, the way his voice wavered as he talked about the fear that coursed through his veins. The relief he’d felt when he’d found me.

“That’s what I thought about the other night when you wanted to leave.” He lifted his sad eyes up to mine. “You had your bag, but this time, you didn’t have your stuffed animals or your coloring books...that heavy bag full of guns and holy water and salt. In my eyes you were still that same four year old kid who tried to leave. And I- I never wanted to feel that again. Never wanted to worry whether or not you were alive while you were gone.”

I swallowed past the large lump in my throat. “I’m sorry I scared you. I didn’t want to hurt you, I was just, mad, I guess. I’ve always hated not being able to help you guys...to be forced to just watch while you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders. I just want to be able to help carry some of the load.”

We sat silently for a while, dad examining the tools that were next to him. “I know, and, I should’ve never yelled at you like I did. I want to protect you, but I know that I can’t be around forever...that you need to learn how to protect yourself.”

I squinted my eyes in confusion, not wanting to get my hopes up for what I thought he was going to tell me. “What do you mean?”

“I mean...” he sighed, “I want you to learn how to fight better. How to shoot a gun, but no hunting yet. Not until you’re ready-”

“That works for me,” I beamed, throwing my arms around him. He rubbed a hand up my back. “Thank you.”

When we pulled away, he smiled. “You know, you’re right. You’re not a kid anymore, are you?”

“No, but...I’ll always be your kid.” I laughed as I hugged him again.

“I wouldn’t want it any other way.”

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patricia-von-arundel · 6 years ago

Text

Shards of Life: Chapter 5

Rating: T

Summary: There is magic in the world - perhaps there always has been. But the world is changing. The wielding of magic is changing.

There are those who seek to control it. Those who seek to destroy it. And those who seek to understand it… whatever the cost.

Elsa had three days to prepare for a trial, and no idea at all how to do so. She considered going to see the boy Bjorn, as the other expert – Alarik; she must work harder to remember names here, with no one to assist her – had done, but she had no idea what she might say or ask him, what might help her, or help him. She still had only the vaguest idea of what had actually happened in his home village – and as far as she could discern, that was all anyone else had. She was left, in the end, frustrated and somehow even more uncertain than she had been before. What in heaven's name did they actually want from her? She spent her first night in Leisalla curled in her unfamiliar bed – she had never before considered the importance of having one's own pillow – hoping for sleep, well aware it was not coming, and trying to figure it out: what did they want? What did they expect? And why did she fear already that she was going to be destined to fail them? She fell into a fitful doze near the pale winter dawn, and was awake again by midmorning. She got up then. She saw no reason not to do so. She wanted to go home. Strange sentiment, about a place where she had so long felt trapped – except, of course, she had realized quite some time ago that the true prison was her own mind. The Leisallan palace only magnified that truth She wanted home, with its mundane sights and sounds and smells, every corridor as familiar as her own face in the mirror, Anna always willing to hold her hand and talk of nothing in particular until the shakes and terrors passed. And that was the worst part: thoughts of Anna. Elsa should never have left her – and for all she knew, it was already too late to get back. She should write a letter – but what if the response came not from Anna, but from someone, anyone, else, regretfully informing her of the loss of both Anna and the baby? Which was worse – the anxious fear of ignorance, or the sorrow of sure knowledge? Elsa found her usual, cowardly escape: she buried herself in work. She asked the maid who brought her breakfast where she might find more information about what had happened with Bjorn, and perhaps some paper and ink? The maid promised to find out – and less than an hour later, there was another knock at the door. She couldn't hide her surprise when she opened it and found the scholar of magic – Alarik. He was wearing a jacket today, but it was threadbare and patched at the elbows, and his ridiculous curls were loose across his forehead. He had his arms full – of paper, newsprint, a book, a bottle of ink. He grinned down at her. "My apologies for intruding, Your Majesty. I was with Knut when the girl informed him you wanted more information on what happened. I spent several weeks gathering everything I could find before I got here. I thought you might find it useful?" It took her a moment to get her bearings – and to remember her manners. "Of course, thank you. Please, come in." "Where would you like these?" "Uh... here. Just in here is fine." She opened the door to the little library, and he put the stack on the table by the window. "This was always one of my favorite rooms," he said, taking a moment to peruse the shelves, his eyes bright and his smile easy. "There's the Erasmus Darwin Beata asked me to send – just to irritate her father, I suspect. He was deeply religious – very traditional." "You've been here before?" Elsa asked – a stupid question, as his comfort in the place had been obvious from the moment she had met him, but she still felt out of sorts from his unexpected appearance, and her years of etiquette training insisted she could not allow conversation to lapse. He glanced at her, still smiling, eyebrows raised, as if reading her thoughts on the question. "Many times. Knut was my patron when I was working on my doctorate. Ah – I meant to bring you a copy of my dissertation. It might help you understand better what I believe about the workings of Bjorn's powers – and your own." Elsa tensed, but kept her face carefully expressionless, and allowed what she hoped was a noncommittal noise. His second glance – smile gone – said clearly that she had been less than successful. "I don't meant to overstep bounds. My apologies. Again. I... I should have asked, not assumed you must be interested in it in the same way I am." He sounded sincere, enough so that Elsa felt herself soften, just a little bit. "I am interested. Really – I am. I'm just..." She sighed, and let her arms cross in familiar, protective gesture. She couldn't look at him, and instead let her eyes wander over the bookshelves, spines of black and brown and blue. "I'm just a little overwhelmed at the moment. I'm sorry." "No need." She could almost feel the return of his smile. "I'll leave you to your work – but if you'd like to discuss any of it, I would welcome hearing some thoughts besides my own. Knut just wants it over so he never has to think about it again, but... my mind won't rest so easily." Her eyes met his, just briefly, as he bowed to her, shoving hair from his face with absent habit. She managed a smile. "Thank you for bringing things." "My pleasure, Your Majesty." It wasn't until the door closed behind him that Elsa fully appreciated how tense and uncomfortable she had become – but why? Just because he was, like so many of his ilk, inclined to arrogance; prideful? She didn't think so – she dealt with pompous, self-important people almost on a daily basis, in her own government and in the delegates and the diplomats sent by others. He was certainly no worse than they were. No – it was more the subject of his arrogance, she thought, that left her so uncomfortable. He studied magic; he made his career, his name, and his living using people like her. She had read so much on magic, possibly even some of his own work, but she had never fully appreciated the level of scrutiny that must go into it, the vulnerability she felt to know when he looked at her, he believed he knew her better than she knew herself. She stood for a long time in the doorway of the tiny library, arms still crossed, trying to ignore the chill seeping through the air. Out the window, she could see the wide lawn, one little copse of trees leafless in the November cold – and the wall, separating completely this ancient palace from the ill-at-ease modern world without. Closed gates – it was so easy, to simply hide away. Elsa hugged herself a little tighter. Her unease, if she was honest with herself, went far deeper than just Alarik. And she desperately wanted to go home. She would – when her work here was done. No matter how well Alarik thought he understood Bjorn's magic, he had never experienced himself what it was like to have magic. Anna's voice, so clear, echoed within her memory: You may be all he's got. Elsa went to one of the high-backed chairs before the table, pulled the pile of things Alarik had brought closer to hand, and got to work. The book atop the stack proved to be a blank journal. She made copious notes, but was quickly made aware of the paucity of information. She felt a growing irritation, particularly as material began to repeat, again and again and again. It was mostly sensationalized nonsense from newspapers and illustrated journals, and the story of a 12-year-old boy killing by magic was featured alongside a mermaid captured in Fiji and a woman who claimed to be the reincarnation of Joan of Arc. One story had a disturbing line drawing of a feral-looking child laughing over the bodies of his family, hurled in dramatic, draping death around the shattered remains of their home. It was ridiculous – but it was also disquieting. Had they done similar stories following the events in Arendelle, after the coronation, Elsa with demonic eyes and ice dripping from her fingers? Surely, they had. And in the pit of her stomach, in the quickening beat of her heart, Elsa felt shame – the familiar embarrassment of childhood lapses in control; quiet servants mopping the floors, helping her out of sodden dresses still stiff with half-melted ice. She had yet to meet Bjorn, and she knew well it was possible he had done it deliberately, but... You may be all he's got. Lunch, like breakfast, was delivered – intended as a silent warning that she should stay put until told otherwise, or an acknowledgment that a need for privacy would be respected? Alarik had gone to see Bjorn yesterday, seemingly without asking any kind of permission – but he had, he'd told Elsa only hours before, known Knut and Leisalla well long before the current problem. Elsa was a stranger – and a stranger with the potential to create her own problems on top of the one they already had. She picked at her lunch. The food here was good, but even sliced herring couldn't draw much of an appetite from her. She pushed the plate aside, poured a second cup of tea, and sipped it, appreciating its warm sweetness, as she reviewed the notes she had made. As Knut had said the day before, Bjorn was by all accounts known by those in his village to have magic, but rural and poor as it was, that information seemed never to have reached the wider world. He was the second child born of his parents; his elder sister, believed to be 14 or 15, had married another villager several months before, and was, as a result, the only one in the family besides Bjorn to survive. Their parents, two younger sisters, a brother, and the widowed woman who rented a room in the Olavsson home had not been so lucky. Details grew sketchy, but the explosion – like someone "lined the earth below with powder, and threw a flame in after," according to one report – had sent enough rubble and debris up to destroy the house completely, and other structures in the village had collapsed as the ripples spread. That was where scores more were injured – the various stories could not agree on a number, but the lowest Elsa had seen was fifty. The village itself was decimated. And yes – as soldiers of the prince moved in, Bjorn had fought, and viciously. Those were the hardest accounts for Elsa to read. They wanted to further prove his monstrous nature. But, she reminded herself again, he could be a monster – people could be. She had known some. Magic did not create monstrosity, perhaps, but neither did it by mere existence prevent it. She spent the afternoon trying to read one of the books in the library – an account of the life of Saint Magnus. How many years had she spent finding ways to distract herself? It had once been second nature. But her attention now wandered and waned, and she finally gave up, returning the book to its place on the shelf and turning, once more, to the stories about Bjorn. She was called – invited? - to dinner with Knut and Beata; there was no sign or mention of Alarik. Knut seemed irritated and distant, but Beata was as open as she had been the day before. She sat next to Elsa; today in – Elsa couldn't fully hide her surprise – a silk cravat of deep peacock blue and an odd plumed hat of the same color. "So what is Arendelle like?" she asked. She had a full plate before her, but hadn't even picked up her fork. "It's..." How to describe a place she often times still felt she barely knew herself? Anna knew every corner and crevice. "It's very mountainous, but... beautiful. Very beautiful." "I'd ask for more than that!" Beata said, and laughed. Across the table, a silent servant poured Knut his third glass of port. "What are the people like?" "They're... my sister Anna once told me a diplomat said the people are Arendelle are too dour. She thought that was very funny. Anna is... She's not dour at all." Mentioning Anna was a mistake – the worry, the fear, washed over her once more, and she had to put her own fork down to clench her hands in her lap, hidden beneath the table. Nonetheless, she saw Beata's eyes dart down, and up again – hardly a glance. "Do you travel often?" Elsa managed a smile. "This is my first time out of Arendelle." "Really? This place is so dull, I'll be afraid it will put you off ever going anywhere again. I went to Greece last summer – did you know the Parthenon is named for Athena Parthenos, Athena the Virgin?" Elsa let her talk – telling of the sultans of the Ottoman Empire, the enormous palaces of Russia, Moorish architecture in Spain – and felt herself slowly, very slowly, begin to relax. She ate sparingly, mostly to be polite; Beata ate nothing at all. The dining room was small and dark and quiet; Beata was a good storyteller, using her hands to punctuate the words, her eyes bright with memory. And Elsa was surprised to realize – as servants cleared plates, bringing in brandy and thin-sliced cake – that she felt almost at ease. That feeling was immediately obviated when Knut finally spoke up. "Beowulf said he gave you everything we've got on the boy, Queen Elsa?" Beata sat back without another word, leaving Elsa to wonder what she had missed earlier today – all the lighthearted air of the day before was gone. She looked to Knut – his face flushed, dark shadows beneath his eyes. "He did, yes, thank you." "What did you think?" She hesitated, carefully folding her hands together once more, resisting the inclination to bite her lip. There was so much more going on here than she knew – certainly, more than one 12-year-old boy. "I think... I think I'd... I'd like to speak to Bjorn myself, if possible?" Knut shook his head. "Sadly, Your Majesty, it is no longer possible. Though he still hasn't shown any magic at his current location, he's turned violent again. He attacked one of the guards today, bit him, in fact, quite a nasty bite, from the report I received. The boy sounds more animal than human, frankly." Elsa clenched her hands more tightly. "I did wonder, when you said yesterday he hasn't used magic here – are you sure he actually has it?" "He has it," Knut said. "I've had to spend a fortune sending people up to that godforsaken village to speak to witnesses. He most certainly has it." "Alarik says he has the cells, too," Beata added. "Has Alarik been to see him again?" Elsa asked. Knut shrugged. "I don't believe so, but I haven't seen him since this morning." "He isn't banned, as well?” "It would be significantly more of a diplomatic upset if you were injured, Your Majesty." There was sympathy in his voice, but Elsa still clung to the irritation that had flared – it was easier to control than fear. "I'm not sure how much help I can be, in that case." "If you aren't at the trial, I have no doubt – the boy will hang." Elsa's hands shook, even entwined around one another, but she forced her eyes to meet Knut's. "You couldn't step in to save him?" He shrugged again, and seemed to find sudden interest in watching the swirling contents of his glass. "Legally, yes – if I want to be the one to hang instead. You've seen what's happening out there." Elsa had nothing to say to that, but she nursed her anger, and wondered how much stronger it might grow before her time here was done.

Sleep came more readily that night – Elsa suspected it was from pure exhaustion – but she woke with dawn still only a smudge of light beyond the wall. A light snow had fallen in the night, blanketing the lawns around the palace, and Elsa felt oddly comforted to see it: it was as if an old friend had come to visit. She sat cross-legged on the bed, watching the sky slowly lighten – as little as it truly did, this late in the year. It was less than a month to the Winter Solstice – folk wisdom in Arendelle said the weather on the solstice predicted the severity of the rest of winter. She would turn 25 on the solstice. But that, of course, led her mind back to Anna, and her stomach clenched as tightly as her hands around the blankets beneath her. Not knowing – it would never get any easier, with no word, no way to know if... If Anna was already gone. She pushed up, off the bed, before it froze beneath her. As quickly as that, the calm was lost, the storm returned, leaving her breath shallow and her hands trembling as she dressed, brushed her hair, braided and pinned it up. There was nothing she could do – she tried to convince herself of that, that there was nothing to be gained by dwelling on it. But, as always, it was not enough. She paced, just around her rooms, movement somewhat keeping the cold at bay – though she knew it was there, still, lurking beneath her skin. How was she supposed to feel anything but sympathy for Bjorn, knowing what her own powers had done? She forced down half her breakfast – she knew all too well how difficult it became to function without food. And again, she then took tea to her work – lacking any other ideas, she pulled from the shelves some of the books on biology. If Alarik sided with Knut – who clearly had no intention of trying to save Bjorn, guilty or not – maybe she could find counterarguments. She would ask for a copy of Alarik's dissertation, perhaps, after all – but for now, she would work with what she had. Her mind struggled to return to Anna – to dwell on what-ifs and might-have-beens – and she fought grimly back, determined to achieve something for someone, even if it couldn't be Anna. She worked her way through chapters on human development, brain function, nervous conditions. She made more notes – speculation on differences between the minds of children and adults; particular patterns of conduct often seen in men found guilty of violent crime; damage to various areas of the brain and the resulting behavioral changes. But all the notes in the world couldn't make up for not having a chance to speak to Bjorn. If she could even just see him, it might help. She had no idea how trials worked here – in Arendelle, they were a matter for parliament, rarely involving Elsa directly, but Leisalla did not have a parliament. She should have asked. She should have done so many things. She turned to another book. It was late morning when the knock came at the door – a knock far more hesitant than those of the servants. She opened it to find Beata, today in a long overcoat of blue-and-lavender checks, sturdy black boots, and with a pale blue scarf tied over her hair. She smiled. "Want to get out for awhile?" Elsa was taken aback, but said, "That might be... that might be nice." "Wonderful! Since I already asked Niko to saddle the horses." Elsa was not a confident rider – as in so many things, Anna was the more talented one ahorse – but her little Northlands pony proved even-gaited and easy to control. She liked him. And it was nice to be out of the confines of the heavy air and mazelike halls of the palace. The air was frigid and dry, the thin layer of snow crunched pleasantly beneath their ponies' hooves, and Elsa breathed deeply: cold and woodsmoke and, somewhere nearby, the oddly dark smell of the last of autumn's apples, left to waste away beneath the trees. They rode for a time in silence, away from the palace, to the vast open parkland that seemed to stretch on for forever beyond it. But finally, quietly, Beata said, "I hope Knut didn't upset you last night. If he did, he'll never honestly apologize, but... I will." Elsa looked at her, surprised, but Beata was staring firmly straight ahead. Her cheeks were flushed pink with cold. "No," Elsa said. "No, it was... it was fine. I know his position is difficult." Beata turned then, flashing a grin. "You would know that better than most, I imagine." Elsa's own smile felt tight, but genuine. "Oh, yes." But Beata sighed, a moment later, and her face once more grew pensive. "Knut would have done better a century ago – when society still accepted... royal excess? He'd fit right in: travel and lavish parties and serving as patron to philosophers and artists. He's too confined now, especially when there's unrest." "It's happened before?" Beata snorted. "This is the third time in the last decade. Petersen always wants to go out with swords swinging and banners waving when people start shouting about wages and bread prices – or magic – but Knut thinks it's best to let them burn out on their own. And he's been right to do so – it calms down without the soldiers getting much involved. People get bored, I guess." Elsa wasn't sure how to respond to that – she had never dealt with such, though she would not have wagered that lack to indicate any particular strengths she possessed as ruler. Arendelle was small, not particularly wealthy, and her own great-grandfather had assisted in building first the Odelsting, then the Lagting, over a century before. Finally, Beata shrugged. "This will blow over, too. But until it does, please excuse my brother's inclination to moodiness." "Royal prerogative," Elsa said – and was pleased when Beata laughed, a clear sound in the still, cold air. "Well," she said after, steering her pony toward a little grove of trees, "I'm glad he hasn't managed to sour all diplomatic relations with Arendelle. I'd like to visit your dour people one day." "You would?" Beata's smile was mysterious, and made more so as the branches above cast shadows across her face. "Of course. Follow me – I want to show you something." It wasn't likely she would do otherwise, but Elsa turned her own horse into the trees in silent obedience. It was dark, snow lacing across bare branches where it could not reach the ground, sepulchral – but there was peace here, for all that. At the center of the copse was a little open area, almost perfectly circular, and at the far side of the clearing, ringed now with unblemished snow, was a tiny house. It was constructed of bark and twigs, inexpertly daubed together with mud, the roof a moss gone dry and grey with age. "Oh…" Hardly an exhalation - and Elsa hardly aware she'd voiced it until Beata said, "You like it?" "It's… it's… what is it?" Beata slid off her pony, and held out a hand to offer Elsa the same. A momentary hesitation - then Elsa took the offered hand, feeling the warmth of it through Beata's leather glove; the thin, prominent tendons, the delicate fingers. Still, so rarely did she touch another… "It's a fairy house." Beata crossed the clearing to kneel before it, as if immune to the snow as much as Elsa. She carefully adjusted the moss on the roof before turning back to Elsa, still standing by the ponies. "You've heard stories of changelings?" "Of course." Elsa had feared, when very young, that she was one, a fear that persisted for quite some time, despite her mother's reassurances. "I wanted to be one." "You wanted to be one?" Beata laughed again. "Very much so. When I was seven, my father tried to have he betrothed - to an English duke, of all people. Have you been to England?" "No," Elsa said. "Oh, sorry, of course, you told me, I'm an idiot… Anyway, horrid place. Boiled food and drafty old houses. Alarik likes it - or was that Scotland? - but he likes us, too, so his taste is questionable at the best of times." Elsa laughed - involuntary, and it felt good. She was beginning to realize she quite liked Beata, too; she reminded her, in her sociability and her prattle, of Anna. "I didn't want to be betrothed, to an English duke or anyone else. When wailing and rending of cloth proved insufficient, Knut suggested I might trade places with a fairy, an idea that did hold some appeal - I do look nice in a crown of flowers. He even knew where to find them, he said." Beata pushed to her feet, moved to the center of the clearing, and kicked aside some of the snow revealing, to Elsa's surprise, a rough ring of stones, into which was fitted an iron door. "You've seen the rather randomly-placed trees, like these?" Elsa nodded - she'd assumed they were for aesthetic purposes. "My several-times-great-grandfather thought the Tsar of Russia was coming for him. He had all these secret tunnels built, leading under the walls. But Knut said they were where the fairies lived, and he built the house as an offering - one house for one sister. We used to put food in there, too." "When did you realize it wouldn't work?" Elsa felt a pang of sadness, knowing well the pain of reality destroying hope. But Beata grinned. "Who says it didn't work? The duke dropped dead on a hunting expedition. Perhaps it was the fairies." She crossed to where Elsa stood, and with sudden, distinct selfconsciousness, turned attention to her pony, stroking its nose. "Knut can be difficult, but he's… he's always protected me." "I understand," Elsa said - and she did. She did. They rode back to the palace mostly in silence. Beata seemed uncomfortable, uncertain, in a way Elsa would not have believed she could be. Because of all she had confessed? Elsa didn't know. She was handed over to the servant Gudmund, Beata apologizing that she had lunch obligations in the city – but she turned back, halfway down the hall, and said, "Oh – I almost forgot! Knut is having a dinner party tonight, before the trial starts. He's asked that you attend." Elsa grimaced at her retreating back. As seemed usual here, she was apparently not being invited, but ordered. Lacking anything else to do, she spent the afternoon reorganizing and rewriting her notes, then making a list of questions to ask Knut, if he seemed agreeable, before the trial. Gudmund returned for her as the early November evening darkened the skies. She found herself alone at one end of the overheated, echoing, timbler-ceilinged hall, heart already pounding and cold pulsing beneath her fingers. She crossed her arms, trying to get her bearings. There were serving maids carrying trays and platters, but the emphasis was very clearly on party. There was music being played on horn and violin, and a few making valiant attempt at formal dance – yet they wound up looking like the oddities, surrounded as they were. Elsa tucked her hands more firmly, tried to take deep breaths; the air stank of heavy ale, champagne, perfumes, perspiration. She didn't know where to go. There was no sign of Knut of Beata, not familiar faces at all. Just... people. So many, many people. And the things they were doing... Her eyes skirted across a man who had a woman pushed against a wall, his hands roaming across the low-cut bodice of her dress, his face pressed to her neck; to another woman eating a strawberry from between one man's fingers, while another behind her held her waist, pressing his hips against hers. Elsa didn't know where to look – because every place she tried seemed to hold another shock, another surprise. No one was calling introductions, or offering welcomes, or announcing opening of a meal or a dance: all the things that had occurred at every such event Elsa had been forced to attend in Arendelle. This, instead, was bacchanalia. And then a man caught her eye, and he grinned, and his teeth looked sharp, and his eyes gleamed as he quickly downed his glass of champagne, letting it fall to the floor and shatter as he advanced on her. Elsa shook her head and took a step back, but his grin only widened. She kept her hands tucked away – but let the power build, just beneath the skin. If necessary... "Elsa!" An arm linking with hers – she stiffened, but kept control – and a familiar, bright voice: "I've been looking everywhere for you." There was an undertone, a kind of hidden longing, that Elsa did not fully understand – until the man stopped, lip curling, as if she was the one who had had ill intentions. "My pardons." And he turned and was gone, stepping pointedly on the shards of his own glass. Elsa was trembling, hunched over her arms, fighting now to draw the power back. Nobody was paying them any attention at all – she didn't know if she felt grateful or disgusted. She closed her eyes. The arm slowly drew away – and was quickly replaced by a warm hand on her shoulder. "Are you all right?" She forced her eyes open, to meet Beata's. "Yes. I'm all right. I'm... I'm sorry." "I'm sorry." A hand on her other shoulder, and blue eyes – so close to her own. "I should have warned you. I forget." She sighed. "The more tense Knut is... the wilder the party." Elsa's gaze darted back, of its own volition, to the crowd. The man who'd had the strawberry now had his hand down the front of the woman's dress, and the other man was caressing her lower back. She didn't appear to mind. Elsa forced herself to look away. But Beata said, "Look all you want. It's why they do it." Her voice was dry, but there was a hint of a knowing smirk around her lips. "Pretty sure Knut pays at least some of them." "And Knut's... here?" "He just left," said a new voice. "With... several others." Beata rolled her eyes, finally pulling away to stand straight. "Marte will be thrilled about sending her girls into that mess tomorrow." Elsa could finally see her fully now, and recognize that she wore tight-fitting, burgundy-red trousers and jacket, with a lace-trimmed white shirt beneath and an equally pure-white opera hat covering her pale hair. Elsa tried to hide her surprise – among only the castle inhabitants was one thing, but Elsa knew well how quickly gossip traveled from even the most intimate social event. How could Beata stand what must be said about her? But she just smiled, looking back on Elsa – and there was a sweet sadness within that smile. "Sure you're all right?" Elsa nodded. The feeling of being overwhelmed was finally abating – somewhat. "Would you like something to eat?" the new voice asked – and Elsa turned and found Alarik holding, yes, a plate piled high. He grinned. His sleeves were finally rolled down, and his hair was oiled to control, but otherwise, he was dressed exactly as he had been the first two times she had seen him. "He only comes for the food," Beata said – but Alarik's smile just widened, and he nodded his agreement. "I prefer to leave socializing to the experts," he said, and Beata laughed. "So – anything?" Elsa shook her head. She'd probably never in her life felt less appetite. She wanted to leave, but had no idea how to get back to her room – or if leaving was permissible. Though if Knut had left, surely she could? She hesitated, wanting to ask, but curiously reluctant to do so. "Are you leaving?" Alarik asked Beata. There was no sadness in her smile now. "Soon. Wouldn't want to make it too obvious. I might steal all the thunder from Knut's next scandal." She winked at Elsa, who was struggling not to gape. "Stick with Beowulf. The famous warrior eats marauders for breakfast." "Only when I'm out of bacon," Alarik said, and Beata's departing laughter lingered long after she had disappeared back into the crowd. Elsa stood for a time in uncomfortable silence, still trying not to stare, arms tucked tight. The strain, finally, had reached crescendo, and it was throbbing behind her eyes, in her lower back. She risked a glance at Alarik, and found him gazing pointedly down at his plate of food. "You don't have to stay," she said – and was surprised to hear herself. His eyes came up to meet hers. "Neither do you." A beat, just staring at him – then she felt an unexpected smile tugging at her lips. "You're the first person here to imply I have a choice in anything at all." His eyebrows went up – and she could actually see them, with his hair combed back. "Really?" "Really." He sighed. "Knut... Well, as far as I know, you can go where you'd like. Though tonight, my advice would be to stay well away from Knut's quarters." "Advice I'll take." She hesitated – but how else was she going to find out? Still, her eyes cast down and a flush rose to her cheeks. "Though actually, I'm... I'm not sure how to... get back to my own quarters?" "Oh – I'll walk you." And he was already reaching for the door, just behind her, before she could protest that directions would be fine. "This place in a maze." What choice did she have? But still, as she followed him out, she tried: "I don't want to make you miss the party." He looked back long enough to grin again. "I was leaving anyway. I want to get back to work. Parties aren't really my thing." "Mine either," Elsa said drily, and he laughed. But that reminded her: "I wanted to ask... will you tell me a bit more about Bjorn? Prince Knut won't let me see him." "What? Why?" That answered one of her questions already – Knut still had not also banned Alarik. "He attacked a guard, apparently." "And Knut forgets you have magic of your own, which is more than capable of defending yourself from one 12-year-old boy? This way" - as he turned down one of the endless dark corridors. She knew he intended it in her defense, that he was making it clear he took her side. But once again, the blasé manner in which he reference her magic – as if he honestly believed he knew it as well as she did – rankled at her, left her suddenly prickly and ill-at-ease. Would he understand, if she tried to tell him? Of course not – because no one could understand, unless he had magic himself. But she just said, "Regardless, it leaves me at a disadvantage." "You could just go anyway – Knut probably failed to inform the guards. Barring that, I'd be happy to meet with you – after breakfast, tomorrow, perhaps?" Then he paused, so abruptly she almost walked into him, and turned to give her an odd half-bow and an embarrassed smile. "But my apologies, Your Majesty – I forget my place. What time would work best for you?" "Oh... um... after breakfast is fine. And so is 'Elsa'." "Works for me," he said – and carried on, though not far, and somehow they had reached her rooms, though none of the corridors had looked even slightly familiar. "And here, I bid you a good night." "Thank you." She felt more than a little nonplussed – again. "And you're sure you don't want anything to eat? I can go back if nothing I've got appeals..." "No – it's fine. Really. Thank you." He smiled. "Then I'll see you in the morning?" She nodded. There seemed nothing else to say.

#frozen #frozen fanfiction #shardsverse #shards of life

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