#didn’t just serve in the British army

[soullessdianthus]

can i request ghost x reader, kind of like an enemies to lovers/hatefucking type situation 🫣 can be as kinky as you like. thank you <3

A/N: I'm living for this trope with Ghost! Because I believe he could be absolute douche sometimes, but at the end of the day, he would just drown you in sweet affection. (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ )

Warnings: enemies to lovers (idiots in love), implied age gap, angst???, smut (p in v, slow and gentle sex, unprotected)

Word count: 4.2k oops

It felt like literal eternity serving within the British Army. But in reality it’s only been three years since you enrolled. Since the very beginning of your personal excursion along the nine circles of hell, the devil was looming above your head – Lieutenant Riley. 

God damn bastard. 

Around a year ago Captain John Price was selecting only a few privates to see if any of the “fresh blood” was fit to join his special forces. You happened to be one of the lucky soldiers. 

During this intense year of service you managed to get promoted to a sergeant, allowing you to be more independent during missions than a rookie or a private. To be honest, you were amongst the youngest sergeants out there in the army, along Soap MacTavish. 

You were good. That’s what Price told you at the end of the selections. You weren’t as strong as men larger and taller than you, but you catch up in the different fields. Swift yet seamless in the way you moved, quietly. A good aim and fast ability to evaluate the situation. 

Sometimes your biggest flaw was panicking during shootouts. Especially when your team was getting slaughtered, one by one and your cheeks were splashed with thick, warm blood. If not your slightly strayed aim and heavy breathing no one would even know. 

You were extremely young for such missions Captain (or Laswell) sent you on, so honestly, the way your body reacted was a basic human reaction to such stress and trauma. 

And there he was, a man soaked in crimson, his skull mask remaining untouched. Ghost walked right by you inside of the helo, when Soap tried to console you by nudging your arm. 

You felt his dark eyes looking at you with scorn, disappointment maybe. Ghost never praised you, not once, even if you saved their arses. All of them. 

━ Pull yourself together, sergeant. ━ Lieutenant snarled, before sitting down on the opposite bench. 

━ Ignore him, lass. He’s just a grumpy sad man.

Johnny was more than right about Simon Riley being a sad man having a sad life. Perhaps that’s why he got so used to crushing each bundle of joy in his life.

You thanked God in situations like this, that there was always Soap or Gaz to ease the tension between Lieutenant Riley and you. Because no matter how much you acted unbothered and tough or how much you tried to ignore his hatred towards you, Ghost’s attitude was painfully scratching your heart. 

Obviously you made some mistakes, all of them had. You were just humans at the end of the day. So whenever you tried to impress the others, looking out for friend’s approval, you were struck by his empty stare full of pity. 

You hated to admit it to yourself, you never wanted to, but you couldn’t just treat him indifferently. There was some fucked up part inside of you that didn’t want to let him go. And it only brought more pain.

There was no logical explanation why Ghost despited you so much. You were humble about your job or abilities and overall polite (well, most of the time, lately you began to talk back to the grumpy Englishman).

But what you didn’t know was that Ghost was actually jealous. 

He couldn’t stand how quick it was for someone as young and fragile as you to climb to the sergeant’s position. Ghost didn’t possess the features you had – the way you made friends so easily among the comrades, how you practically every time executed your job without a slip up or how you put a spell over Soap, Gaz and even Price. They were all fond of you.

Once, when you got hurt, Ghost couldn’t help but to trace the dripping blood from the cut on your cheekbone. The blood trickled down your soft skin over the curvature of your face, which he involuntarily found pretty for a woman. The crimson substance dripped down your chin and onto the cleavage of your shirt. 

Simon swore, he could see your round, full breasts through the tight shirt. Only then he snapped back to reality. Since then he hated himself even more for casually showing such fragility. Ghost couldn’t let you be his weakness. The ghost had none. 

But all you could see in this situation was that your lieutenant was disappointed with you. That you managed to get hurt on such an easy mission. “Such a failure in his eyes, am I?”, you thought to yourself.

The other time, when you followed him along the concrete wall, trying to flee the ambush, Ghost happened to be just too close to you. His broad shoulder touching you almost constantly. 

His presence didn’t bother you, until the lieutenant's tight grip over your upper arm barely cut the blood circulation in the limb. He yanked you backwards so hard, you nearly stumbled. 

━ Have you lost your fuckin’ mind? ━ Ghost growled in a raspy voice, making sure you weren’t shot. He brought you close to his own body, too close. You could feel the warmth of his body, almost welcoming you into embrace. Almost.

━ I got it covered! ━ His gloved hand snatched up to cover your mouth at once.  Both of you stilled upon hearing the enemy walking past your cover. Simon retraced his palm only when he was sure the danger was gone. ━ You’re insufferable, Lt.

━ Congratulations, the girl finally noticed. You want some cheers or a confetti thrown? 

━ Would like one actually ━ you agreed with a pathetic shell of a man, wasting all of the strength not to tell him to fuck off ━ but not from you. Let’s move.

Ouch, that had to hurt his fragile ego. But Ghost wondered why it actually made his blood boil. Why your little back talk got him riled up. 

For years he got used to hearing insults or miserable comments from other soldiers. So why did he feel truly insulted when it came to you and your filthy mouth? He felt similar to a parent who failed to put their child into their place. 

So he desired to torment you a little more. However, this decision ended differently than usual, when he toyed with you, mocking each aspect regarding your life.

This time you smacked him across his face, when you were back in the helo taking a few soldiers back to base. One too many malicious comments from the lieutenant and you snapped. 

Of course you regretted being so carried out by emotions, but slapping Ghost across his stupid mask gave you a sense of relief. Bastard deserved that.

You were surprised when one of the women in the barracks told you that Ghost is asking for your presence in his office. That it’s urgent.

It has been a couple of days since “the incident” and since then you hadn’t been forced to spend time with him, not in the training area nor in the cafeteria. 

You jumped out of your bed and pulled on the high trail shoes and stuffed the legs of your pants inside of them. There were many ideas coming to your mind, why he requested your presence. Perhaps, the little disagreement in the helo was too much. Maybe the Captain was there with him, ready to reprimand you for such disrespect towards the Lt?

Who knew, the only way to find out was to go and see for yourself. So you did. 

The base seemed more empty than ever before, most of the soldiers being sent away on missions. Or on a training grounds, far from the main building. 

So you walked with a steady pace down the hallway until your eyes managed to read the label “Lt Riley” on the doors. Before your hand reached for the handle, you acknowledged the state your body was in – wrist and slender fingers shaking, skin inflamed. Were you afraid of this confrontation? What was wrong with you?

A loud sigh left your mouth and your chest collapsed. You knocked twice and entered the office only when you heard his voice “come in”. 

━ You wanted to see me? 

━ Come, I might need your help ━ such foolishly selected words made your heart skip a beat. You closed the door behind and walked closer to where he was sitting. ━ Fill those just like the example here and then put them aside. 

Ghost pointed to the one singular sheet of paper already filled out and your eyes wandered on the massive pile of those you were supposed to complete. The similar stack was on the lieutenant’s right. 

━ And you can’t do it yourself? ━ You raised your brow, looking in a questionable way at him. Ghost sighed, rolling his eyes.

━ Can’t you just do what your told?

You grabbed the folding chair and set it next to the grumpy man. You carefully watched his reaction as you did so. 

━ Soap wasn’t available?

━ He’s on a deployment, somewhere in Urzikstan ━ the man wearing a balaclava with solid skull sewed to it explained briefly. ━ Besides, I needed a woman to help me out with this.

━ Oh wow, didn’t know you were a sexist. ━ A surprised huff slipped out of your mouth, when you got comfortable on the plastic chair next to him. He sneaked a peek at your wiggling hips and felt a sudden wave of heat.  

━ Fuckin’ hell ━ he cursed, passing you the pen. ━ You think Johnny or Gaz know how to sign their own name? At least you know how to write, yeah?

━ Look, you just said something nice for once. 

A not so fake, but forced smile twisted your face as you accepted the pen he given you. 

━ Don’t flatter yourself. 

━ Nothing coming from your mouth is flattering, Lt. 

Within the last spoken sentence you began filling the papers out just as he instructed. The task itself wasn’t difficult, just repetitive. 

Minutes passed as you sat next to Ghost in silence. Only the sound of paper sheets being moved around intervened with the quietness. You unknowingly started to chew on your lower lip, distracting the man sitting beside you. But how could you know this, he just hummed from time to time, God knew why. 

The tension between the two of you started to fade out as you felt more comfortable spending time with him. Work time of course, doing important things, but in a secluded room and all alone. 

Your somehow guilty mind didn’t want to leave the business unclear, there was a need rooted inside of you that needed its explanation. 

So you gathered enough bravery and finally spoke, breaking the silence. 

━ You’re in a mood for talking, sir? 

━ Not particularly ━ Ghost replied, eyes still glued to the documentation in front of him. ━ But since you addressed me properly… What do you want?

He was right. Maybe it was the first time you addressed him with “sir” since the beginning. 

━ I’m not looking for trouble, alright? But, what is your problem? Why… ━ you paused for a second, your own gaze drilling into the pen you were gripping so hard between your fingers ━ are you so harsh to me? 

━ What did you expect joining the military, eh? Would you like a special treatment? 

━ An equal treatment would be great ━ you emphasized on the words, sinking further into a plastic chair. ━ See, you don’t even understand. 

Why were you sitting there, listening to him taking out his bitterness on you? There was far more you deserve in life than this. You did nothing wrong to be treated as such. 

━ I tried getting along with you, Simon ━ you continued after a moment of silence. You were so focused on the confusing feeling in your guts, that you missed the part when he stopped working to look directly at you. And the sadness painted on that pretty face of yours. ━ I really did. But you're pushing everyone away and that’s not my problem. So don’t dare take this out on me. 

His short, but rough laugh echoed in your ears and blush of humiliations covered your cheeks. There was even a hint of you crying in a matter of seconds, but you kept your act together. That’s what he told you so often, right? 

━ Jesus fuckin’ Christ. ━ The lieutenant muttered, your face twisted in pure anger.

That’s it. That was the fine line. 

Suddenly you stood up, pushing the chair with the back of your thighs. It almost fell down with a thud, but you caught the backrest quickly, before it could actually happen. 

Did he just laugh at you? 

━ What the fuck is wrong with you?! ━ You let the emotions emerge to the surface, raising your voice at the masked man. But despite the wrong he did, what Ghost said to you, you couldn’t find a dash of hatred towards him. It made you feel sick. ━ Why do you hate me so much? I didn’t do anything wrong!

Ghost stood up from his own seat and out of the sudden his larger body caged you in between him and the solid desk. The Englishman placed his hands on both sides of you, over the countertop, taking away the possibility of you escaping. Slipping away through his fingers.

He pressed his chest and whole front of his body into your back. To your (and his) surprise, you didn’t even flinch. Ghost’s head was leaning next to your left ear. The significant skull mask staring directly at you. 

━ I can’t stand your presence, sergeant. It makes my blood boil, especially when you laugh. Because it… ━ he paused, inhaling sharply through his teeth ━ you make me feel things. Though, I’ve no hatred towards you, Y/N.

A confusion overwhelmed your body, when he didn’t snap back or when he didn’t bother to be mean towards you further than that. Your heart was hammering inside of your ribcage.

All these months, he kept pushing you away with his repulsive attitude, just because Ghost didn’t want to allow anyone closer. His heart was cold, so how come you managed to stir something in him? 

In a cold-blooded killer?

━ You’re better than me. All those atrocities we experienced, didn’t change you into a fuckin’ killin’ machine. A monster. Because you shouldn’t end up like me. 

His right hand, not wearing any glove, slowly raised in the air until it reached your face. With the outer side of his palm and knuckles, the more scarred one, he caressed your features. The outline of your cheek and jaw, the curvature of your lips. 

Your body instinctively leaned into his touch, into the tenderness it craved subconsciously. You would never imagine Ghost was capable of such intimate acts. 

━ You’re not a monster, Simon ━ your mind was eased, yet body was inflamed with something more. The skin craved more answers, more clarifications. An assurance. ━ Just an idiot. 

He chuckled softly, his chest tensing for a moment. You could feel it through the layers of clothes that separated you from each other. 

His hand left the side of your face. The lieutenant removed his balaclava along with the skull mask. You knew it, because he placed it on the desk nearby, just in your sight. He was exposing himself to you. He wasn’t fucking around this time. He was serious. 

━ Look at me. 

Ghost tone was firm, a bunch of words sounding like an order. And like a good soldier you followed this one. 

You slowly moved around, before leaning against the desk again, but this time you were facing him – Simon Riley himself. Not Ghost. Not a shell of a man. 

His face was covered with many scars and memories, it was true, but you would never say that it mutilated him anyhow. He was still handsome, especially with his messed up blonde hair sticking to his forehead. 

You didn’t even realize when the corners of your mouth twisted warmly at this sight. You couldn’t devour it for so long, because he grabbed both sides of your flustered face and pulled you into a passionate, deep kiss. 

Something he was restraining himself from for so long. It became agonizing. 

Your fingers shot up, surprised by the sudden grasp, filling the hollow depth between Simon’s knuckles. 

This shouldn’t feel good, this should have tasted like a sin. He was in a way your superior, he was older than you and he made you believe you were his demise. Which in a way you were. He was ready to throw aside his grumpy mask, if that would make you smile more often. 

Simon thought he would never expose himself like this, show his vulnerability to anyone. Until he met you. 

The breathing between each kiss became a heavy panting – lovers stealing the air from each other. He has clearly shown how much he craved your closeness, the smell of your skin and the taste of your tongue. Something that was so prohibited for a long time. 

━ I still can’t comprehend this, Simon. I really thought you hated me. You’re not playing with me now, are you?

You needed answers, you couldn’t just simply fall for his words. You were not a silly girl anymore. Maybe unintentionally, but during the last couple of months with such stupid behavior, he made you question a confession like this. 

He abused your trust.

There was a feeling in your starved heart that Simon didn’t mean to use you or to hurt in any way, shape or form. But perhaps, due to his own life experience, he couldn’t express his emotions or desires otherwise.  

Simon Riley was a strange, secluded man. 

━ ‘m not. I’m sorry. But the way you fell for my teasin’, priceless. 

Simon chuckled into your sensitive ear as he revealed the truth. When his warm breath tickled the skin over your neck, you tried to shield it from him, before Simon latched onto it like a bloodsucking leech. 

He stepped closer towards your figure trapped in front of him, but only when he bumped into you, he realized how excited and bothered he got. How his trousers became instantly tighter against his manhood. 

━ Fuck. ━ He murmured out, head hanging low in shame. 

━ Simon ━ your sweet voice snatched him back to reality from the depths of his worried mind. You clung to his chest, pressing against his toned body, hands sneaking over his frame. ━ Would you like some help? 

Fuck.

Simon barely managed to swallow his own saliva, when he nodded his head. He wanted to hold you, to have you. Entirely. To leave shady stamps over your skin, so the next morning you would remember this confession. You would remember him. 

━ Not so tough now, aren’t we? ━ You jokingly said, when the lieutenant managed to relax a little bit. When he quit being ashamed of his boner. 

━ You’ve put a spell on me, damn vixen. 

━ Keep telling yourself, Lt. 

The blonde man, still with the smudged black paint over his eyelids, squeezed your hip for a moment, before he reached for the thick blanket from the little, old couch. He unfolded it on the ground and you stepped closer.

Ghost grabbed your smaller hand and guided you to get down on your knees along with him. Your glossed eyes, shimmering with lust followed his handsome face. The face that he kept hidden for so long. 

It was a matter of seconds, before the two of you clung to each other, lips connected with desire. Sloppily, you took some clothing off of him and yourself – like heavy, dirty shoes, his warm jacket or your trousers. 

Your curious eyes noticed his tattoo. It wasn’t the first time you managed to sneak a peek, but it was a first look from this close. 

Simon laid you down onto the plaid blanket and sat on his knees between your legs. His broader shoulders leaned over you, casting a shadow beneath. You kept his face close, leaving a trail of kisses over his features. His short beard tickled you here and there.

━ You okay? ━ He asked, sounding a little concerned that the things progressed so fast. But your eager nodding dispersed the worries away. 

━ Still mad at you, it’s all. 

━ I’ll apologize then. 

Simon unzipped his pants, before he slid them slightly down the thighs. You noticed the bright, short hairs over his meaty legs, prior to him grabbing the sergeant and pulling closer to his groin.

He managed to maneuver your far more delicate form with no struggle, it amazed you how aware Simon was of his strength. 

He smudged the flush tip of his hardened length down your now exposed slit. You gasped at the sudden touch there, pressing eyes shut. The soldier kissed gently over your fluttering eyelid and continued pushing forward with his hips. 

When his stomach brushed in a swiping motion against your softer belly, you suppressed a mewl by biting onto your lip. Simon continued thrusting into your heat in a gentle way. In a way, you wouldn’t think that someone who hated you so much would do.

The blonde man propped against his right forearm, placed next to your head. You could clearly see how his bicep tensed with each movement. Simon’s other palm wandered over the side of your body, fingers counting the ribs under the skin. 

In fact, he was so delicate his touch almost tingled. 

Your thighs squished his sides, when the lieutenant speeded up the rhythm of the thrusts. You felt the crude way your bodies were connected and found pure, primitive pleasure with such an act. 

How Simon moved within you, how the sex itself was passionate yet not painful, the way he made you feel secure and protected between his arms. In his arms.

When you opened enough for him, a couple of cute moans slipped from your mouth just as he pressed his forehead against yours. 

━ Simon. ━ You whispered, the ecstasy of the moment becoming overwhelming. 

You leaned for a sloppy kiss. No, not one. You wanted more. He kept holding himself back, waiting for your initiations. 

So when you welcomed him inside your mouth, he clung to it tighter. The coiling pressure in your tummy grew stronger, making your fingers numb.

━ Si–Simon, I–

You didn’t have to finish the sentence, he already knew. The lieutenant could read you like a book. His favorite one. 

━ Fuck, me too. ━ He groaned through his teeth, feeling his cock twitch inside of you. 

Your hips bucked vividly into him, when you nuzzled your head into Simon’s neck – exactly where it meets with the shoulder. His scent was heavy in the air. The sound of his loud breaths filled your ears. 

━ Don’t stop, don’t stop. ━ You chanted whispering, slowly drifting yourself into upcoming orgasm. 

So when the coiling feeling of climax snapped inside of you, you let out a breathless moan. Your slender fingers squeezing around Simon’s arm and shoulder, lower half of the body spasming uncontrollably. 

The lieutenant nearly lost himself within the divine sensations your body provided him with. Simon’s shoulders tensed, thighs flexed and he continued to lead you through your pleasure, meanwhile chasing his own. 

And finally, when you started becoming limp on that plaid blanket beneath with a final, eager thrust, he climaxed too. His hips shuttered, mouth fallen agape while riding through his own peak. The Englishman muttered your name on repeat for a moment as his length throbbed.

Simon was so preoccupied with blinding delight that he hadn’t noticed when your hand cupped his jaw, another one sneaking onto his occiput, slowly rubbing circles. 

━ You’re gonna be the death of me, darlin’. ━ He declared amazed, carefully resting down his body over yours. 

You still, up to this moment, couldn’t believe what just had happened. The months of rage and scuffles ended in his office, on the floor. Nearly naked. 

His scent was stronger than ever before – a specific brand of aftershave or a cologne? Nonetheless, it smelled like burned wood, like a campfire on a summer night. Perhaps maybe because of that you felt safe in Ghost’s embrace. 

Since you laid down your head on his chest, he couldn’t stop touching your hair. The lieutenant played with the loose strands of it, flicking between his coarse fingers. 

He had already given you his warm jacket, which you gladly put on and snuggled against his side, like a big teddy bear. One of your shaking legs, hooked over his. Simon pushed you even closer with his arm wrapped around your back. 

━ So ━ Simon spoke softly, making sure you hadn’t fallen asleep prior to it ━ you still angry with me, eh?

━ Still debating about that, Lt. 

━ Quit teasin’, bonnie. 

You giggled like a foolish teenager again, your head adjusting on top of his chest. The lieutenant placed his palm over yours and you could observe how his ribcage was opening up and slowly falling down. 

God, this shouldn’t feel so good. 

━ Simon, shouldn’t we finish the reports? 

━ Yeah, in a minute. Let’s stay like that a lil’ longer.

[wheelscomedyandmore]

Tom Selleck almost didn’t become Thomas Magnum. Hard to believe, isn’t it? He was the first choice for Indiana Jones in "Raiders of the Lost Ark," but "Magnum, P.I." was in production, and CBS refused to release him from his contract. Fate had other plans, and instead of wielding a whip and battling Nazis, Selleck found himself in Hawaii, slipping into the role of the laid-back, mustachioed private investigator who would define 1980s television. And honestly, could anyone else have been Magnum?

"Magnum, P.I." wasn’t just another detective show. It had something special, a combination of high-octane adventure, humor, and unforgettable characters that made it a cultural phenomenon. At the heart of it was Magnum, a Vietnam veteran turned private investigator who lived in the guest house of a sprawling Hawaiian estate owned by the mysterious (and never-seen) Robin Masters. His days were spent solving cases, dodging danger, and occasionally borrowing (without permission) the estate’s Ferrari 308 GTS. But what truly made the show tick was the dynamic between Magnum and the estate’s caretaker, the impeccably mannered but endlessly exasperated Jonathan Quayle Higgins III, played to perfection by John Hillerman.

Higgins was everything Magnum was not. He was formal, disciplined, and endlessly frustrated by Magnum’s casual attitude. A former British Army officer with an enigmatic past, Higgins was as much a mystery as some of the cases Magnum worked on. He spoke of past exploits with famous figures in such elaborate detail that one could never be sure if they were true or pure embellishment. He maintained the estate with military precision and had a deep love for his two Dobermans, Zeus and Apollo, who served as his unofficial enforcers. Magnum, of course, saw them as more of an occupational hazard, dodging their sharp teeth more than once when sneaking past Higgins’ rules.

The push and pull between Magnum and Higgins was the show’s comedic and emotional anchor. Their arguments were legendary. Magnum bending (or outright ignoring) house rules, Higgins catching him in the act, and then the inevitable back-and-forth laced with sarcastic jabs and exasperated sighs. But despite their constant bickering, there were moments, brief but telling, where the mutual respect and genuine fondness between them shone through. Magnum teased Higgins relentlessly, but he also trusted him. And as much as Higgins rolled his eyes at Magnum’s antics, there were times when he subtly helped him out, proving that under the surface, they were more like family than either would admit.

While the Higgins-Magnum dynamic was the heartbeat of the show, the supporting cast added to its richness. Theodore "T.C." Calvin, played by Roger E. Mosley, was Magnum’s old war buddy who ran a helicopter tour business but constantly found himself roped into Magnum’s escapades. Whether providing aerial support in his iconic Hughes 500 chopper or reluctantly bailing Magnum out of trouble, T.C. was the steady, loyal friend everyone wished they had. Then there was Orville "Rick" Wright, played by Larry Manetti, who ran the King Kamehameha Club, a luxurious beachfront bar and social hub where deals were made, information exchanged, and more than a few misadventures began.

What set "Magnum, P.I." apart from other detective shows of the era was its perfect balance of action, humor, and heart. Magnum wasn’t the invincible, all-knowing detective trope. He got knocked around, made mistakes, and often found himself in ridiculous situations that required as much charm as detective skills to escape. His voiceovers, a signature of the show, gave insight into his thought process, whether it was a deep reflection on a case or an amusing gripe about Higgins’ latest decree.

Then, of course, there was the setting. Hawaii wasn’t just a backdrop. It was a character in itself. The lush landscapes, pristine beaches, and vibrant culture added an exotic appeal that set "Magnum, P.I." apart from the typical city-based crime dramas. It felt like an escape, one where danger lurked around the corner, but so did the promise of a cold beer on the beach at sunset.

John Hillerman’s portrayal of Higgins was nothing short of masterful. In real life, he was a Texas native, but his clipped British accent was so flawless that many viewers were shocked to learn he wasn’t actually English. He played Higgins with a mix of exasperation and dignity, making the character as lovable as he was frustrating. Without Hillerman’s impeccable delivery and dry wit, Higgins could have been a one-note authority figure. Instead, he became one of the most memorable characters in television history.

As for Selleck, he embodied Magnum with effortless charm. He made the character feel real, a guy you’d want to have a beer with, even if you’d also have to bail him out of trouble afterward. His mix of confidence, humor, and vulnerability made him more than just a detective. He was a fully realized character who felt like an old friend.

Even the Ferrari became iconic. That bright red 308 GTS was as much a part of Magnum’s identity as his mustache or Hawaiian shirts. He drove it like he lived, fast, loose, and occasionally into trouble. The car wasn’t just a flashy prop. It was a symbol of Magnum’s world, exciting, reckless, and impossible to ignore.

"Magnum, P.I." ran for eight seasons, delivering 162 episodes of sun-drenched adventure, unforgettable characters, and a chemistry between Selleck and Hillerman that remains unmatched. The show ended in 1988, but its impact never faded. Reruns kept it alive, and even a modern reboot couldn’t recapture the original’s magic.

Tom Selleck, now 79, continues to captivate audiences, most notably in "Blue Bloods," where he brings the same mix of authority and warmth that made Magnum beloved. John Hillerman, after a career filled with remarkable performances, passed away in 2017 at 84, leaving behind a legacy that fans continue to cherish.

Their time on "Magnum, P.I." was more than just a TV show. It was an era. An era of adventure, humor, and the kind of timeless storytelling that still makes people smile when they hear that iconic theme song.

[soscarlett1twas]

Dulce et Decorum est

↳ Xanthus serves in World War I. ↳ 2.4k words / also available on ao3! ↳ This fic is far from accurate to the actual Ypres Salient. I wanted to explore Xanthus' mentality as he canonically served in WWI. So, while I did some research, most of this fic is inspired by wartime poetry, particularly 'In Flanders Field' by John McCrae and both 'Dulce et Decorum est' and ‘Exposure’ by Wilfred Owen. Also! I discovered this painting while writing that's basically the exact setting of the fic. ↳ Content warning for blood, disease, guns, and (specifically trench) warfare.

It was hard to believe that, even in the midst of war, silence could envelope the world. Thick layers of it painted the Ypres Salient, as disturbing as the starless midnight it shared the hour with. Not the skuttle of a rat, not grass in a breeze. Death, it seemed, had a way of silencing. 

For all intents and purposes, it was all quiet on the Western front. 

Xanthus didn’t trust it one bit. 

How could he trust the very thing he cheated? His eyes drifted across no-man’s land, the scorched earth left by the Germans, with a tremble he hadn’t felt since his first time serving in the British army. Fog obscured the skyline. Corpses of trees barely stood, crooked and black. For as far as he could see, there was no green. Just the torn-up dirt and puddles of not-quite water. 

Xanthus’ grip tightened on the rifle. His nails were bitten to the quick. 

His gaze never left the scene. Even from the shallow view allotted to him by the firestep, shadows and whispers danced, him a beat behind their rhythm. They would disappear as soon as he glanced at them, then reappear in the peripheral gloom. Still, he chased them, eyes darting from ghost to ghost.  

War, it seemed, had a way of invoking paranoia. 

Xanthus’ trench was along the front lines, and he, given the honor of being on nightwatch during the tense time. Just two years ago, Ypres had been fought for again, and the Entente had lost. Badly. The Germans overran the old British and French trenches which had cleaved into their conquered territory, the Allies calling upon their own for assistance. Canadians, Indians, Algerians, and Moroccans now fought for a war forced upon them, the same way Belgians had to step up and defend Ypres as the Germans marched ever-forward. 

New allies were not the only introductions during the second fight for Ypres. Chlorine gas had swept through the battle and choked out countless men. 

Apparently, that wasn’t enough. 

Xanthus’ gaze flitted back down to the ground. Glass pools replicated the hell above. Swirled in them, the only color was a murky red from the slaughter of soldiers. It was an easy trick. But below, sunk to the bottom of the mixture, was a colorless poison. They had all thought it to be the same as the chlorine; when the smell was faint of mustard and men didn’t immediately drop, they even spat about how the Germans were growing weak.

It took a few hours for the effects to set in. 

Xanthus darted his sights back up to the wasteland. He had known better than to trust hope – the Americans had joined the war not long ago, and the news managed to enhearten some, but not Xanthus. This was penance for that longing for a better future. 

Even still. Xanthus Claiborne: A murderer, an unnatural; and Lawrence Claiborne, the soldier. All his duplicities should have shielded him from this horror. All it managed was to kill his dreams – war was still carnage, and for as much as he could pretend he was distanced from it, bloodbaths would still reflect his face when he bore down on murdered men.  

When the men in his regiment blistered and screamed and died, Xanthus knew that this was a new evil. 

The rifle shook in his hands. Pointed out into the graveyard of a clearing, Xanthus’ memories reminded him of just how futile the gun was. Not when the gas wiped them out. Not when it still lingered.

Xanthus’ teeth bit into his bottom lip, for a moment forgetting his fangs. 

Xanthus had survived the chlorine’s initial deployment, back in 1915. His healing worked wonders in keeping him alive, if incapacitated. The same happened with the new mustard gas. He hid the blistering well enough so as to not alert suspicions, and they dissipated within the day. Most everyone else had dropped like bullet shells. 

But this gas remained. Not just in the soldier’s bodies – it polluted all water and sunk into the dirt. The other faded, but this time, standing in the dug-out trench, the smell and chemicals never wafted away.

Even with each hollow breath he took, Xanthus could smell, could taste, the abomination. And even with his miraculous healing, it was a cancer. His eyes burned. Blisters he thought were gone popped up across his body in changing places. A cough clawed up his throat (he feared his lungs were regularly filling with fluid, then draining, then refilling – a vicious cycle which murdered the rest). 

He was nothing more than an animated corpse, and for the first time in these long centuries, he felt like it.

Xanthus’ rifle loosened in his hands. He scrunched his eyes and drew one hand up to massage his temples. Memories of medical bays fueled his mind. “The lucky one,” they all said. They weren’t all from the Great War. 

For a few more minutes, he stood, gun propped on the parapet. But marionettes could only dance around him for so long. A trickle of sweat ran from his forehead to jowl. 

He knew they were not coming. The silence echoed back. He did not trust it. 

When he jerked to the side, dangerously slinging the gun as well, he collapsed back into the trench.

A sight of mud turned to gray. The small enclave he used for nightwatch was nothing more than piled stones, but a respite nonetheless. 

Xanthus sat for a few moments, heaving. When his gun dropped and rattled to the floor, he grunted, and slammed his knuckles into the bricks. Hot pain instantly rushed from his shaking hands and he watched, in more agony than the impact, as the wounds healed over. Surfaced blood streaked, but dried in mere seconds. 

His breath was ragged. He shoved his fist into the stone, over and over again. 

This war was an assault on all senses, Xanthus thought as he brutalized himself. Sure, the smell and the taste and the sight, but by God, it was the hearing that came first. How ironic that now it was peaceful, now there was quietude, after the dread took its strongest. 

Where was it when Xanthus stood, more attuned than anyone, to the rattle of gunfire and men screaming? Rushing across no-man’s land left him able to hear out to the German trenches and everything between. He simply had to suffer it. And where was it when he laid at night, a being without need of sleep, but desperate for it so he could drown out the tanks and the roaring aviation? When he heard the few friends he made hearts stop pumping? 

Where was it when Xanthus turned his rifle on an ear, and shot the organ clean off? 

And where was it when it, after he blamed it on battle, regrew in four months?

Xanthus’ thrusts into the wall slowed, his hand going limp and running down the bricks, until it rested beside him. 

It didn’t matter. He could not get hurt, not in a meaningful way. He could already feel the wounds closing, the battery insignificant. 

He threw his head against the stone wall carelessly. 

The flesh stitched itself back together in the passing minutes. Meanwhile, Xanthus fueled his disquiet with memory. 

Lawrence had known war. But it was never this, never all-encompassing; there was, after all, a world beyond England and Scotland during the Second Bishop’s War. Xanthus, it seemed, did not – or at least, not the stratagem of modern warfare. He had followed the stepping stones, ignorant until they dropped, himself caught in the freefall. 

A cough ground up his throat, and bile rose with it. 

He had witnessed humanity’s descent – ascent? – into this madness. Hell, he was older than the country his fellow soldiers lauded as their savior. And yet he was here, with them. Suffering, dying in the great quiet, knived by the mental games their very species played. 

Because the gas was a game. Its purpose was the tricks, deployed with shells that broke into a giggling hiss. 

War could not kill Xanthus. But it could do everything else.

When his fist curled, the nails bent into his palm. Briefly, he panicked without the familiar weight of a gun. He snatched it off the ground and brought it to his chest.

He had never expected to truly be hurt, to be affected. But in their efforts to decimate each other, they managed to even wound immortality. A vampire reduced to human fears, because of humans, without the possible human release. 

In some small way, Xanthus felt human. Artificially – their misery, their desires, fitting for a finite life. He knew it was a false mirage. But still, he reached for his gun in comfort, as if his teeth weren’t markers of a much more vicious retribution. 

He hated it. 

He fucking hated it. 

Finally, he and his kind were welcomed back into ‘personhood’ – not because they were deemed more acceptable or humanity grew collective empathy, but because even humans stooped to their level: fodder. 

The vast silence was cut with bitter laughter. 

Subconsciously, Xanthus curled into himself as the laughter turned to coughing. He forced himself to swallow down the mucus. The rifle sat between his legs, pointed upwards, with his hands clenched to it. 

As his fit died down, he rested his forehead on the warm metal. 

And the silence was back, as deafening as ever. 

Except for the heartbeat. 

Xanthus didn’t move his head, but slit an eye open to watch the opposing side of the trench. The beat was coming from inside it – not an enemy – but there was no due for a guard switch. 

A man stumbled around the corner. His pulse was faint, barely a whisper – more powerful was the sound of liquid sloshing in his lungs. Sucker-like sores grew along his arms and chest. His wool coat was unbuttoned and rolled up to the elbows, and he wore no hat. 

He paid Xanthus no mind as he crept forward, walking like it was his first day out of the womb. With too hard of a sway, he collapsed against the wall opposite of Xanthus and sunk to the floor. His eyes remained, though bleary, attached to the sky. 

Closer, the rush of blood echoed. Xanthus’ tongue flicked across a fang. 

It had been so long. He’d staved off desiccating with enemy soldiers or, when in a ward, blood saved for transfusions. He hadn’t properly feeded since his conscription. As if answering his thoughts, the hunger struck, a well in his stomach. 

The man’s chest heaved, face still upwards. 

He would die anyway. 

Xanthus shifted off the firestep slowly so as to not start him. His movements drawled with a predator’s muscle-memory, though more ridge with the discipline of a soldier. 

He drew to the man. It was only when he towered over him, rubies starch in the darkness, that the man looked at him. 

“Hello,” he muttered. It would’ve been unintelligible to anyone else. 

What happened next was methodical. The vampire slid down to his level and applied weight to the others hands, constricting him. His knee buckled on the other’s leg. He leaned forward, and with a swift motion, released his arms (only now did he drop the gun), hands jerking to maneuver his neck as he bared fangs. They sank into the skin with ease. 

It was bitter, he instantly noticed. The blood pumped lazily, carrying with it the poison which seeped into his skin. Despite his own cyclical conditions, Xanthus pressed on, refusing to let his only meal waste away. 

Naturally, the man resisted. He was weak. His burned arms tried to push the vampire’s away, off his neck, though managed nary a scratch. His legs bobbed. His neck strained. Still, it was futile to Xanthus. 

The man continued to mutter to himself. Xanthus pressed on. 

Even as the blood replenished him, it was sickening – he was starved and drank like it, but it was a drunken haze brought on by spoiled wine. Xanthus doubted he’d ever willingly eat mustard again. 

Just as he was about to break for air, the man’s fingers threaded into Xanthus’ hair. For some odd reason, it eased him out of the spur, as his fangs gently retracted. Both of their breaths heaved off-sync. Xanthus was still so close, the heat he expelled onto the man ricocheted back to him. 

The vampire tilted his head slightly, glancing up through mangey threads of hair. Playing on the man’s face, in the depths of night, was the hint of a smile.

His lips still moved, though silently now; Xanthus still recognized their shape. A common soldier’s prayer, said by those dying or over the beds of those who were. 

He didn’t understand it, not until the man looked down at him. With a bleeding neck and a shattered voice, he made a sound below silence, the illusion of words more than anything – “Thank you, sweet angel.”

His fingers stayed soft in his hair. 

“You have come to save me. I am welcomed into His kingdom.” A wiry grin now broke across his face, peeling the skin taut. He was missing a front tooth.

He thought Xanthus was saving him. That he was an angel, ready to take him to Heaven. To his God. Away from hell on earth. 

For a heartbeat, Xanthus could not move. He suddenly felt carved out, nothing but bones and skin. 

There were memories of another dying soldier-boy, the wound-up toy which had marched itself right into the tinderbox. For glory. For God. 

And he remembered his death. Another soul believing they were being saved, only to be taken advantage of by a vampire. 

And it was that thought which frightened him the most. 

If you could believe it, the soldier’s heartbeat slowed even more. Yet in his eyes, the dullness now shone without dust – not reflecting the monotonous shattering of a psyche, but heavy with the need of sleep. He was so close to it. 

Xanthus could become Audric. To ‘save’ as many as he could from this war, only to force them into a future more brutal than anyone could dream. 

So instead, Xanthus gave him what he wanted – what they both wanted. He could not tell which side of him it belonged to, if there was anything truly mortal or supernatural about mercy. 

A soft lullaby drifted from his lips, a soothing command. And the man closed his eyes and mouth, relaxing into Xanthus, like a child in his mothers arms.

The blood stayed warm, even as a body turned to a corpse. And Xanthus, who could do nothing but remain, drank. 

[kylorengarbagedump]

Playing Soldier: Chapter 1

Read on AO3. Part 2 here.

Summary: With your father off to serve the Continental Army, you've taken up the mantle of protector for your family - so when redcoats arrive on your property looking for him, you stand your ground. Sure, this ends in your arrest as a prisoner of war, but you don't plan on making it easy for them.

Until, of course, your interrogation is co-opted by Colonel William Tavington - the cruel, brutal Butcher of the Continentals.

Unfortunately for you, he's also the most beautiful man you've ever seen.

Words: 5500

Warnings: Graphic depictions of violence, William Tavington is Not Nice

Characters: William Tavington x Reader

A/N: THIS IS CO-WRITTEN WITH MY GORGEOUS PERFECT LOVE, @bastillia.

If you made it through, thank you for reading this first chapter to a mini-story about a villain from a film that's 24 years old. No better way to celebrate Fourth of July than fantasizing about fucking a British soldier!

Bastillia and myself are currently in a Jason Isaacs phase and we desperately need him and in particular William Tavington. So! Here you go. <3

Love y'all so so much!

Grace found you in your father’s rocking chair, dressed in his clothes. Taking a seat on the porch bench next to you, she let her head fall back, her gaze following the ceiling. When you didn’t speak, she sucked in air through her nose and sighed. 

“Are you going to sit out here all night again?” 

You shrugged, and she nudged you.  

“You and one gun won’t stand much of a chance against a bunch of redcoats.”

You frowned, glancing from the pistol in your lap to the dirt path cutting across the grassy field in front of you. Evening’s claws crept across the village, sank into the horizon. Since the fall of Charleston to the British, darkness carried an hourglass with it, the bottom growing heavier every night. Jaw stiff, your eyes followed a firefly as it drifted and winked out like an ember over the grass.

“You would rather I let them burn our home?”

Grace sighed again. “They won’t burn our home.”

You turned on her. “Won’t they? Mrs. Miller has a cousin outside of Charleston. Told me they fired her barn.”

“That’s one person.”

“Mr. Allen said his brother told him about a whole town down the way from Camden they found burned to the ground.”

Grace snorted. “Ah, yes, Mr. Allen, our esteemed purveyor of truths.”

“Grace. If…” You gripped the barrel of the pistol, your mouth drawing tight. She didn’t know, and it had to remain that way. There was no ‘if’ to your father’s return in her mind. He’d left the truth behind his departure only with you.  “I won’t let father come home to a pile of ash.”

A family of crickets swelled in song. Grace shifted closer to you. “You would rather I let him come home to your grave?”

You looked at her. Seeing her expression, a small part of you softened. She wasn’t wrong to worry. Your eyes ached, your head heavy from the lack of sleep. But even when you decided to lie down, your mind refused to release you to rest. Your shift as sentinel would end when your father returned home. With a sigh, you slumped back. The chair eked back and forth on the planks, the drumbeat of your station. 

“Let’s talk about something else,” you said. “Nathaniel’s been paying you quite a bit of attention, hasn’t he?”

Grace stiffened, battling a grin. “Yes, he has.” She folded her hands in her lap, her cheeks reddening. “Why?”

A laugh rumbled in your throat. You knew it. “What do you think about him?”

She pinched her lips between her teeth. “Well, he’s very sweet. Very kind. He always has been, you know the Joneses, they’re such good people.” Her shoulders melted into the bench. “He’s been walking with me after church. Just through the town. We look at the flowers.” She sighed, finally letting herself smile, her gaze drifting until her eyes hesitantly found yours. “What do you think about him?”

“Me?” you replied, as if you didn’t know the question was coming. “I don’t know him that well.”

Grace rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. What have you noticed about him?”

You hummed in thought. Nathaniel Jones. 

“Well…” His jawline was seldom free of razor wounds. “Probably a little clumsy.” The grooves in his fingers were always tread with dirt, the collar of his shirt tanned by sweat. His hands had stained almost every page of his Bible. “Not sure if he ever washes without needing a reminder.” He always showed up to church with at least one piece of tack fastened wrong on his horse. His mouth would mimic reading aloud during service, but his eyes would be trained on the floor. “And I don’t think he’s very bright.”

“Really.” Grace studied you. “Mrs. Jones taught all of those boys, though.”

“Doesn’t mean they all have the same capacity to learn,” you mumbled. But before Grace could protest, you shrugged. “Kind is good, though.” You offered a small grin. “Kind is very good.”

With a laugh of relief from Grace, the two of you lapsed into comfortable silence, basking in cricket song. The rocking chair squeaked back, forth, back, forth. It squeaked in tempo with your heart, rumbling, louder, a vibration skittering through your toes. Deeper, deeper it grew, staccato in its cadence, a pounding that rocked your porch. 

It wasn’t until Grace turned to look at you, her eyes shimmering in starlight, that you realized it wasn’t your heart at all. Torches floated over your lawn and up the dirt path, bobbing in rhythm with horse hooves. A dozen of them, each illuminating a soldier in a crimson jacket.

Your throat thickened. Your stomach tightened. You squeezed the handle of your father’s pistol. Beside you, Grace whispered your name.

“Quiet,” you said. “Just get behind me.”

You leapt to your feet, crossing over the top step of your porch to lean against one of the wooden columns, gun held slack but unconcealed at your side. The officer in front—a white-wigged man with a sword on his hip—held his fist in the air. Behind him, the squad stalled to a stop, dust swirling in the halos of light. 

Swallowing, you stuck your chin toward the sky, hoping that your father’s farm boots made you a little bit taller, that the breadth of his shirt made your shoulders even a little bit wider. The officer in front dismounted his horse and waved his hand, and a soldier behind him joined him on the ground. Together, they marched toward your home. 

“Officers,” you said. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

At the foot of the stairs, the inferior officer looked between you and Grace. His brow furrowed, he leaned toward the ear of his superior. “No record of a son according to our intel, sir.”  

You frowned, but didn’t correct him. Being mistaken for a man had its benefits in this situation.

The superior officer scrutinized you, hairline to hips, his lips screwing in thought. Whatever he was considering, he didn’t say it—instead, he cleared his throat and pulled a piece of parchment from one of the pouches on his hip. 

“Good evening,” he began, his nose wrinkling as he glanced at you and Grace. “You may call me Sergeant Dalton, this is Corporal Bancroft. Is this the home of Michael…” His eyes narrowed as he tried to read the last name. But you didn’t care to wait.

“Yes,” you said. “This is his home. We’re his children.” You stared between them. “Is that all? My sister needs to be getting to bed soon.”

Dalton returned the parchment, his hands meeting behind his back. “You’re aware your father is an officer in the Continental Army?”

Your heart—it was definitely your heart, this time—thumped in your temple. This was the part you didn’t want Grace knowing about. The soldiers waited, studying your face. You needed to say something. Words died on your tongue.

“What?” Grace stepped forward, peering around you. “No, he’s not. He’s been away—”

“Grace, be quiet,” you hissed. 

But she’d already caught the interest of Dalton. “Would you like to continue, young miss?” He advanced a step toward you both, and your finger slipped into the pistol’s trigger well. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to submit to questioning regarding your father’s whereabouts?” He glimpsed your hold on the gun. “Come along, quietly, and you may very well be pardoned by His Majesty’s army.”

You shook your head. “Just take me. She doesn’t know anything.”

Grace whispered your name, grabbed your hand, and proceeded to undermine you. “No,” she said. “Take me. I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.”

“Dammit, Grace—”

“That’s enough.” Dalton looked at you, then at Grace, then at Bancroft. “Arrest them both.”

---

In the tent, the air was thick with breath and sweat. Candles swayed in the center, their lambent glow hovering on the walls, deepening every shadow. Voices filtered in from outside, so low that they clogged together through the canvas. Sharper was the ache where your bindings had begun to bite your wrists to rawness. Louder the pulse in your own eardrums, and the sniffled prayers coming from the young man bound beside you. 

Twisting your wrists sent a knife of clarity to your brain. You bit back a hiss—you needed to think. 

By your estimation, they’d brought you between two and five miles beyond the outskirts of town. But between the darkness and the burlap sack which had been so benevolently foisted upon your head for the entire wagon ride here, it was impossible to say for sure.

More alarmingly, you’d lost track of Grace somewhere in the weave of shoves and barked commands. When the tents had been erected, you’d been thrown in with the men—Elijah Smith, Adam Brown, and Nathaniel Jones, as fate would have it. Whether this was somehow a genuine mistake even after your thorough handling by the soldiers, or some drawn-out taunt to your choice of attire, you also had no idea. 

Each unknown seemed to hook itself upon a tender sinew in your mind, and stretch it taut. You tried shaking your head, but that only set off a ringing in your ears. 

Beside you, Nathaniel sobbed out another prayer. Your teeth ground together.

Craven would have to be added among the placards you’d already tacked to his character, you decided. 

Outside, hooves thundered again. As they slowed, one pulled ahead of the others and into the heart of the camp. Your ears pricked. There was an unevenness to its gait, the rattle of a bit shank as the horse threw its head before slowing to a halt several yards away. Voices rose and hushed, soldiers shuffling. A distant chorus of acknowledgement to a new arrival.

“Colonel, sir,” said one that sounded like Dalton. “The Dragoons weren’t—I wasn’t aware you’d be arriving.”

“Another detail among many which seem to slip your awareness, Dalton,” said the voice belonging to this colonel, whoever he was. “The rebels, then. What have we learned?”

Dalton was silent for a moment. “Well… Nothing yet, s—”

“Nothing.” 

“We haven’t begun the interrogations, sir.” 

Boots struck the ground. As his horse was led away, the colonel dusted his coat twice. And, with the manner of someone chiding a forgetful child, said: “Well, no time like the present, is there, Sergeant?” 

There was movement, grass rustling, canvas flapping. You stuck out your neck as if this would help you hear—all it managed to do was strain your collarbones. Beside you, Nathaniel was still sniveling, sorry for himself and his whole family, as if now was the time to be crying. Closing your eyes, you caught the frayed wisps of voices, drowned by the sound of his sobs.

“Nathaniel,” you murmured. When he didn’t respond, you kicked his boot. "Nathaniel.”

He snorted up snot. “What? Who are you?”

You rolled your eyes. “It’s me. Grace’s sister.”

“Grace’s—” He inventoried your outfit. “Dear God. I didn’t recognize you. Is that why you’re in here with…” His eyes gained focus through his tears. “If you’re in here, where’s Grace? Is she all right?”

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out!” You tilted your head toward the origin of the other voices. “Be quiet.”

Nathaniel choked and nodded, his nose still leaking, his face ruddy. You caught a sigh in your chest and sat straight, listening for intakes of breath, stammers, the scrape of metal, the chime of glass, anything that would give you insight.

The colonel’s voice first, dipping in and out of your perception. “All of you have… Captain Michael…”

You swallowed. This was about your father. But he should be with the Continentals up near Virginia by now. 

“... his crimes against the King’s army… may be spared and released.” 

Spared and released? Civilians weren’t targets, torture wasn’t permitted, you had nothing to fear from soldiers who would be your future brethren—this was according to the Loyalists in your village, anyway. Recent reports sparked doubt in their confidence. This colonel concealing threats stoked it further.

God, you hoped Grace wasn’t in that tent.

Silence. The candles wavered under the sodden air. One, two, three steps in the grass. You closed your eyes. 

“Very well.” The click of a pistol. 

Your breath stalled. 

“Wait! Don’t—don’t…” 

Grace. Grace was in that tent. Your consciousness slipped with a skip of your heart, but you sucked in air, fighting the ring in your ears. If you were going to help her, you needed to be alert. 

“Is—is that Grace?” said Nathaniel.

You kicked his boot again.

“I’ll tell you everything I know. Michael is my father.” Grace’s voice was tight, trembling. “But he’s—you have the wrong idea about him, sir. Or the wrong man entirely. He’s not a soldier in the Continental Army, he’s been away visiting our grandmother in Pennsylvania.”

“No,” you whispered. “No, Grace, no…”

“How very interesting,” came the colonel’s even reply.

A gunshot split the night. 

All three men beside you flinched at once, and your bones flashed to ice. When the tin-whistle screech died in your ears, someone outside was screaming. Another was pleading.

“No! No, no…” It was Grace’s voice. Relief hit like opium. She was sobbing, incoherent between retches and sputterings of "you killed her,” and “oh, God, no, please no…”

You swallowed bile. Nathaniel resumed his prayers with fervor, now rocking back and forth. Elijah joined him.

“Colonel Tavington, I must protest,” came Dalton’s voice through the chorus of grief, before dropping lower. “... cannot abide… protocol… my jurisdiction—”

“Fortunately for you,” the colonel—Tavington—said, “these prisoners are no longer under your jurisdiction. They are under mine. But do feel free to stand by, Dalton, if you’ve the stomach for it. Perhaps you and your men could benefit from a demonstration, hm?”

“Sir,” was the only acknowledgment Dalton offered.

“Tavington,” said Adam, looking at Nathaniel and Elijah. “William Tavington? The Butcher?”

Elijah met his gaze and nodded without stopping prayer.

Your father had never mentioned any Butcher, but tonight was giving you plenty of context. Bracing against needles of panic, you closed your eyes, forcing your breathing to slow. Wails wracked Grace, and your chest squeezed. She had never seen death. Perhaps naively, you had hoped to keep it that way. 

A gasp rippled through the women, and then Tavington spoke again.

“Now, now, darling girl. Shall we try this once more? Perhaps without lying.” The scrape of a ramrod resounded, then another click. 

“I’m not lying” The tone of her utter despair tightened your throat. “I—I promise, that’s the truth. You can ask my sister. She—”

“Which of you is her sister?” 

“I…” Silence. “She’s not in this tent. I don’t know where she is. But you arrested both of us, sir, she’s around here somewhere!” Another whimper crawled its way out of her. “There’s no need for anyone to die, please.”

You chewed your lip. You’d had enough. “Colonel!” you called out. “Leave her alone. I’m in here.”

“Stupid girl,” growled Elijah, “you’ll doom us.”

Ignoring him, you sat up straighter and willed your nerves to harden. Grace cried out your name, but was cut off with a yelp as leather cracked against skin. Fury roared within you.

Through the hot surge of blood, you heard footsteps marching toward the opening to your tent. Whoever this Butcher was, you’d halfway convinced yourself you’d spit in his face. But you needed to play it smarter than that, needed to keep Grace safe. With what little information you gathered, you at least knew he was a man, and from what you knew about men, they were easily swayed with a bit of physical encouragement.

With the shards of a plan coalescing, you shifted up onto your knees and thrashed your shoulders. Pain leapt from your wrists up your arms, but the movement had the intended effect—the front laces of your shirt slackened, the collar slipping open until it threatened to drape off of one shoulder. Pulse thundering, you settled back onto your heels. Exposed. Ready to bare your throat to the enemy. 

Boots came to a halt outside. Then the entrance peeled open, and the Butcher stalked through. 

You could make out little more than his silhouette. Tall and broad, head bowed to accommodate the tent’s low threshold. Then he straightened, took a step forward, and another, until candlelight thawed the shadows from his face. And as it did, the searing core of your anger surged and flashed to mist. 

He was disarmingly handsome. High cheekbones framed a face carved from cruel marble. His eyes, alive like blue signal fires, penetrated the dimness from beneath the bastion of his brow. Peering down a curved nose, he struck a hawklike poise, with shoulders squared and hands clasped behind his back. His long, dark hair was combed back into a bond at the base of his skull. Immaculate, apart from a single errant strand that drifted down to brush his jaw. Even beneath an ink wash of darkness, you devoured his shape. 

And, against every rational instinct left thrashing for air—found him exquisite.

A prickling sensation rose under your skin, spread hot across your bare collarbones and up your neck. You bolted your eyes to the floor, shifted on your knees. His presence stole even more air from the tent than you’d thought was possible. With a pang of frustration, you blinked hard once. If you were to have any chance of surviving this encounter, if Grace were to have any chance, you needed to pull yourself together. Now. 

One slow, controlled breath flowed in through your nose, out through your mouth. You dared to glance up again. 

The colonel’s head swung down the line of men, surveying his prisoners as a wolf might a flock. And then his eyes landed upon you.

“The sister,” he said, advancing. “Playing soldier with the men.” He clucked his tongue. “Quaint.” Your teeth ground in your skull, but words were not as forthcoming as you’d hoped when you’d shouted his summons into the night. The Butcher moved closer. “Is your father so thoughtless, leaving his daughters vulnerable while he dies in war?”

“My father,” you began, “trusts me to take care of the family while he’s away.” 

Tavington’s eyebrow cocked. “You’ve done a wonderful job, then, haven’t you?”

The venom his beauty had diluted was gathering on your tongue again. With effort, you swallowed it. Stick to the plan. Eyebrows pinching together, you made a show of slouching in capitulation to his jabs. You then conjured a pained whine and wiggled in your restraints, hoping your shirt would expose more of your clavicle, that he’d be able to see the sway of your breasts when you moved.

The colonel frowned, but did not drop his gaze. “Something the matter?”

“I’m sorry, sir.” You pulled breath through your voice, fluttered your lashes. The focus required not to crumble under the frigidity of his gaze could have earned you regional acclaim. “These restraints are just so tight.” You wrested your shoulders back and forth as if to demonstrate, gasping from the very real pain that screamed in your wrists. “Perhaps you could loosen them just a little…”

Next to you, you felt Nathaniel watching, caught from the corner of your sight his mouth agape in horror. The realization irritated you. What had he done for Grace other than whimper like a beaten dog for God’s help? Yet another strike against him.

He wasn’t important. Bargaining for Grace’s safety was. 

Meanwhile, Tavington had tracked your movement, his expression indecipherable. Your palms sweat in fear you’d managed to find the one man impervious to the temptation of sex. 

“Poor dear.” He crossed behind you, and you stifled a sigh of relief.

Strong hands slid down your forearms and found the bindings on your wrists. The leather warmed your skin, his breath skimmed your nape. Goosebumps raced over you along with an undeniable desire to shiver, but you held your breath, fighting it off. Instead, you tipped your head to the side, exposing the bare skin of your shoulder to his view, along with the intriguing pocket of darkness that had formed down the front of your shirt, between your breasts. 

Tavington paused. Your breath stalled. With an unforgiving grip on the ropes, he undid the knot—and then yanked it tighter. The fiber gouged your flesh, air fleeing your chest. 

He stood and wedged the sole of his boot along your spine, shoving you forward. You smacked the dirt with a cough.

Your cheeks burned. So you had managed to find this previously-assumed-mythical man. Fine. If your body wasn’t going to work, you would find an alternative strategy. 

“Perhaps that may help you focus less on squirming and more on the task at hand.” Tavington’s boots crossed your vision, shiny enough that you could almost glimpse your own pathetic reflection. With a grunt, you twisted to glare up at him. He was watching you like a child might watch ants under a magnifying glass on a sunny afternoon. “I’m going to show you a map. You’re going to show me where we can find your father. And if your sister gives me the same answer, you both may leave with your lives.”

Hoping the ground would yield a new perspective, you studied him. The horse he arrived on—it’d had a lame gait. Then there was his hair—a single thread of it kissing his jawline. His hands were concealed, his jacket and boots impeccable. But his stock-tie—the knot had been pulled slack, one tail creeping from beneath his collar. 

There was so little to gamble with. But you had to try your luck anyway.

You snorted, using your shoulder as leverage to hoist yourself back onto your heels. “That will prove fruitless for you. She doesn’t know where he is.” You leveled him with your stare. His own bore into you, almost hollowed you. “My father only entrusted me with that knowledge.”

Tavington stepped forward. “A mistake on his part, perhaps, given the situation you find yourself in now.”

“No,” you said. “I think he had the right idea.” 

A tiny, almost imperceptible smirk curled his mouth. “Then you’ll have no problem telling me exactly where he can be found.” He exhaled, the next words drawn out as if your lives were an inconvenient tedium. “Or you and everyone in this tent will suffer until you do.”

Nathaniel quailed. You jut out your chin. 

“Do your worst.” 

Tavington’s lip twitched. He snatched his pistol from its holster.

“You won’t kill me!” you spat. “You need me. Or you will fail.” Your voice was tight. 

Tavington regarded you coolly from over the pistol’s frizzen. That moment’s silence was admission enough—a mote of triumph surged within you.

“Terribly sure of yourself.” As stony as his expression remained, you caught a certain bile now laced through his tone. “Pity,” he tutted, moving forward to rest the barrel between your brows. “To think such a pale imitation of bravery could save you.”

“It’s your risk to take,” you spat out, heart drumming your chest. 

Something flashed across his expression. Seizing your chance, you held his gaze and pressed your forehead into the gun barrel. 

“No cavalryman of honor rides his horse to lameness.” Fear bubbled in your throat, but you swallowed it. “Look at you, Colonel. Your hair, your stock-tie—utterly disheveled. One might think you rushed here. One might even think you need something. Desperately. But you won’t get it if you kill me.” You flicked your eyes toward the other tent. “And if you hurt Grace, you’ll have to, because I promise that if you lay another finger on her, you will leave here with nothing.”

The tent was silent. Tavington dropped to a crouch before you and pressed the pistol under your chin. The barrel moved, guiding your head side to side as he examined your face. You swallowed, heat creeping onto your neck with the intensity of his attention. He was reading you, calculating his next move. You followed the single strand of his hair. You wondered how it felt against his skin.

”Tell me,” he murmured, his breath brushing your nose, “upon which observation I struck you as a man of honor.”

Tavington stood, unsheathed his sword, and in one swift movement, sliced Elijah across the throat. A sheet of blood draped down his chest. Your eyes widened. Adam and Nathaniel screamed. The sword gored Adam’s neck, silencing him, and with its blade still lodged there, Tavington raised his pistol, cocked the hammer, and blew a bullet right through Nathaniel’s head.

The blast flayed your senses to a single tone pealing through your skull. When the world reformed, something warm and slick had smattered your face. You smelled iron.

You heard Grace shout your name, ripped through with terror, and as you heaved a breath to reply, Tavington wrenched the sword from Adam’s flesh and trained it against your windpipe. Adam’s body joined the rest, the dirt rusting with their blood.

“Ah, ah,” Tavington said, eyes sparkling with glee. “Best if sister dearest thinks you’re dead. Kinder that way, don’t you think? At least, of course, until we find out if you have anything of value to offer.” 

Dalton charged into the tent and cursed. He gestured toward the bodies still soaking the ground. “Colonel, please,” he said. “I must insist. I won’t know how to explain all of this to the General.”

Tavington turned toward him, his excitement waning. “How unfortunate for you.”

“I—I know, sir. But please. Let us just take the rest of these women to Charleston. We can handle this there.”

Crickets hummed in unison again. Tavington looked back at you. The terrible thrill flickered alive again.

“Take them, then,” he said, regarding you like a cougar would regard a lamb. “But leave this one with me.”

The sergeant nodded. “Uh, yes. Yes, Colonel.”

He disappeared again. Orders echoed to round up the women and get them on carts to Charleston. From the other tent, you caught Grace’s horrified, desperate tears. Everything inside you was bursting to call out to her, to soothe her despair. But Tavington’s blade prodded your throat. One noise could send it through.

You waited like that with him until the carts creaked off into the night. The bodies around you settled into death, their final breaths a gurgled epode to the dirt. It was impossible to stop the tears of anger that stung the corners of your eyes. Worse still, there was no way to hide them. No move you could make that wouldn’t add you to the litter of cooling corpses. All you could do with your last scrap of dignity was hold the Butcher’s stare.

A smirk flashed over his face. Your throat thickened.

“Now, there’s an obedient little soldier, hm?”

You held your breath, cheeks hot with humiliation or agitation or something altogether unfamiliar. God, what a bastard. If only you’d had your gun on you; you would’ve been happy to demonstrate just how much of a soldier you could be. 

Tavington watched you, checking your compliance as if you were his dog in training. The closer he moved, the greater the heat in your chest, the thinner the air waned. His attention in any other scenario would've felt flattering—he followed every line, every curve of your body, eyes scouring your skin like chipped timber—only he sought the evidence of your deceit, anxious for an excuse to pile you on top of his casualties. 

In any other scenario, the something altogether unfamiliar would've been simpler to define. In any other scenario, you might have wanted him closer.

Tavington raised a brow. Whatever he was searching for, he didn’t find it—or the weight of your information while alive was greater than his desire for your death. 

He lowered the blade. You exhaled.

“Your father is a fugitive. Tell me where I can find him,” he said quietly, jaw tight. “And your sister may fare well in her trial for treason.”

Your heart pounded in your throat, in your temples. You had no idea where your father might have headed, and you didn’t have any intention of handing that information to this monster, regardless. But you first needed to survive him. The rest would come later.

“Yes, sir,” you said, nodding. “If you show me on a map where he escaped from, I can show you the path he likely followed.”

Tavington considered you for a moment, then offered a mirthless grin. “I advise you not to move.”

With that, he turned on his heel, striding outside. Breath trembled through you, your eyes jumping around the tent. They’d stripped it of anything potentially useful—no knives, swords, guns, not even a damn rasp or a pair of nippers for the horses.

“Colonel Tavington, sir,” came a voice from outside. 

“Do I appear at liberty, Bancroft?”

“Well, no—”

“Then it can wait.”

“But sir, it’s—”

“As you were.”

“It’s correspondence from General Cornwallis, sir.”

Silence. Your head cocked. He was unmoored. And behind you, candles crackled dutifully. 

If you had any stitch of time to take at all, it would be now. 

Your limbs moved autonomously. You rolled onto your side, working your bound hands beneath your thighs, tucking your legs to your chest. Wincing at the strain in your wrists, you forced them all the way around your legs. Now in an awkward quadrupedal position, you turned and focused on the candles. With a dizzying level of concentration, you managed to suppress the cries of pain as you dragged yourself forward. 

Your wrists throbbed. Numbness pricked your fingertips. Your lungs screamed for air. None of it mattered. Balancing on your heels once more, you wedged your shirt collar between your teeth. Then you reached up and held your wrists over the flame. 

Pain wasn't immediate. First there was only heat. Heat, and the acrid taste of your own heartbeat in your mouth. The fibers between your wrists frayed, dissolving like sugar upon the little tongue of flame. And then, it began to bite. 

If you’d wanted to shout before, it had been nothing compared to this. Everything inside you lurched with the singular need to snatch your wrists from the flame, cradle them to your chest. Your teeth tore into linen. Your eyes squeezed shut.

Blisters bubbled to life on your flesh, agony lodging in your throat. Vision blanching, you could feel every muscle shake violently as they went to war with your will. 

Just as surrender mapped a cannonfire course down your arms, the fiber snapped and your wrists sprang apart. You collapsed to your knees and elbows, wrangling the sobs that clawed your chest, blinking against the cotton fog that threatened to blanket your senses. 

Move. You need to move.

You spared one glance back toward the tent entrance before prying a candle from its pricket and shambling for the lip of the tent. As you flattened yourself to slide under, you caught the vacant stare of Nathaniel Jones. Behind him, the shapes of the other two men could have been cloth-covered stone. A lump wedged in your throat, which you swallowed with force. 

Was it regret? Maybe. Pity? Assuredly. Either way, all you could do now was slip beneath the edge of your canvas prison and light them a pyre. You left the candle on its side, the flame licking at a piece of rope rigging. And you ran.

Silhouetted against the summer night sky, you could just make out a treeline. That would be your haven, if only you could make it. Your feet attacked the uneven ground, somehow keeping you upright. You looked back just in time to see the tent erupt in flame, to hear the bellowing of redcoats and screeching of their horses.

The fire’s ghost haunted your skin. Pain hammered up your shoulders, and as you made your way into the forest, you bit your tongue to silence a burgeoning whimper. Familiarity with the terrain was your advantage, but you needed silence to make full use of it.

You leapt to avoid leaving footprints and snapping branches and dropped against a tree. The tent’s blaze pulsed in your periphery. Drawing a slow, long breath, a familiar rhythm rumbled close, closer. Rumbled, then pounded and clanked in an awkward, head-tossing gallop. 

Tavington’s horse. 

You froze, sunk to the ground, spying the torch that danced with the horse’s gait and watched as it met the treeline, spilled light on the leaves. It tracked through the forest, a flame aching to swallow a moth. The light’s edge nearly skimmed your toes. 

Tavington growled—a deep, furious grind in his chest—and tore off down the perimeter.

When you were certain he’d gone, you stood and kept moving, pressing your wrists together to will the pain away. You’d find somewhere to hide. You’d wait them out tonight. 

Tomorrow, you’d find Grace.

[naxalbari1967]

Charu Mazumdar: The Only True Revolutionary India Ever Had

Charu Mazumdar was not a terrorist, not a fringe ideologue, not a man drunk on bloodlust. He was the first communist in India to rip the mask off both the colonial state and its so-called nationalist inheritors. He said clearly that the Indian ruling class had not liberated the people in 1947. They had simply inherited the whip from the British. The landlords stayed. The police stayed. The courts stayed. The army stayed. Only the flag changed. Charu was the first to declare total war on that illusion. While the CPI and CPI(M) were contesting elections, shaking hands with Congress, and issuing polite manifestos, Charu was building a war machine in the villages, organizing the landless to seize property, and declaring open combat against the bourgeois-feudal Indian state. That made him public enemy number one not just to the Congress, but to every party that called itself left and still begged for votes from the very landlords they claimed to oppose.

Charu didn’t just read Marx, Lenin, and Mao. He applied them with ruthless precision. He said India was not a democracy but a semi-feudal, semi-colonial system dominated by comprador capitalists who served foreign interests and protected native landlords. The ballot was a farce. Courts were instruments of class domination. The police were nothing but armed thugs of the rich. He rejected every form of compromise. No elections. No reform. No NGO deals. No coalition politics. Just protracted people’s war. He took Mao’s strategy and planted it in the soil of Bengal. He created the CPI(ML) not as a discussion club but as a command center for insurrection. Naxalbari was not an accident. It was a deliberate assault on centuries of oppression.

When peasants in Naxalbari rose up in 1967, seized land, formed armed committees, and began executing landlords, the state panicked. Congress called it criminal. CPI(M) called it adventurism. The press called it madness. Charu called it revolution. He said the annihilation of class enemies was not just necessary. It was the beginning of justice. Every landlord hung was a message to the poor: your chains are breakable. Every police station torched was a reminder that power does not sit in courtrooms or ministries but in the hands of those willing to fight. This was not extremism. It was clarity. A clarity the Indian left had lacked for decades.

Charu rejected the idea that the Indian army, police, or judiciary could ever be instruments of socialism. He saw through the myth of peaceful transition. The state would never allow the poor to vote away capitalism. It had to be overthrown. That meant killing landlords, burning title deeds, setting up people’s courts, and building dual power in the villages. His critics called it “left adventurism.” But what did the moderates offer? Decades of tailing after bourgeois parties, administering capitalist rule at the state level, and abandoning every armed struggle they once supported. Charu saw the rot and said: tear it all down.

He was not naïve. He knew the state would respond with massacres. And it did. Thousands of young Naxalite cadre were arrested, tortured, disappeared. But the movement spread because it spoke the truth. Workers, students, and peasants joined because they saw that CPI(M) governments did nothing to stop feudal violence. The Naxalites did. Where the police raped, Naxal squads retaliated. Where landlords evicted, Red militias redistributed. Where the law protected the rich, people’s courts delivered justice. This wasn’t ideology. It was practice.

Charu died in 1972 after brutal torture in police custody. But his death was not a defeat. His vision outlived him. His documents, especially the Eight Documents, became the foundation for decades of armed struggle. The CPI(ML) splintered, but its flame never went out. From Andhra to Bihar to Bastar, his line continues. Every bullet fired by the Maoists today carries the imprint of Charu. Every village committee that refuses to bow to the police carries his legacy. He showed that revolution in India was not a dream. It was a strategy. One the state fears more than any parliament speech or NGO report.

And despite state propaganda, there was no famine in the Naxal zones under people’s control. Where the Red Flag ruled, land was redistributed. Education committees were formed. Women were armed. Caste violence was punished. In the areas where Charu’s line took hold, life for the oppressed improved. No amount of TV propaganda can erase that. No Congress or BJP regime has ever delivered land to the tiller. Charu did. No CPI(M) government ever disarmed landlords. Charu did. No court ever punished police for mass rape. Charu’s cadres did.

He remains controversial because he did not play the game. He didn’t ask for state recognition. He didn’t write for journals. He didn’t wait for the next election. He picked a side—the side of the landless, the jobless, the brutalized—and he armed them. That is why the state calls him a criminal. That is why liberals call him a fanatic. That is why revisionists call him a deviationist. And that is why the poor, in every Naxal zone from Bengal to Bastar, still carry his face in their hearts.

Charu Mazumdar was not a man of compromise. He was a man of rupture. He broke from legalism. He broke from revisionism. He broke from the polite death that most leftists settle for. He gave Indian communism a spine, a gun, and a path. And for that, the system will never forgive him. But history will. Because in a country where the oppressed are told to wait, to vote, to hope, Charu told them to rise. That is his crime. And that is his greatness.

[acquariusgb]

I had never been more proud of her. Chelsea enrolled as a Master’s candidate in the fall of 2001, accepted by University College, Oxford, thirty-three years after I became a student there. In November 2002, in her second year, Hillary and I flew to England to celebrate Thanksgiving with her. She and her roommate, Jen Lee, a Harvard graduate and Juilliard-trained cellist, had moved into a small house in North Oxford for their final year and invited us to share a meal with more than twenty of their fellow students, including Americans who couldn’t go home and British and other students who’d never celebrated the holiday. We liked our daughter’s eclectic collection of friends, including two U.S. Army officers soon to go on active duty, who invited me to join in a game of touch football the afternoon before dinner. One of them, Wes Moore, won the Maryland governor’s race in 2022 and is one of our most promising young political leaders. The other, Seth Bodnar, is now the president of the University of Montana. A typical rainy Oxford fall morning had left the playing field slippery and muddy, but they were used to it. The conditions didn’t hamper their enthusiasm or their efforts. I still had a pretty good throwing arm back then but the other team cut me no slack. I left the field covered in mud and a few bruises, glad to have survived. The dinner was a great success, as we devoured the traditional Thanksgiving meal, tightly packed around tables in two small rooms, all the while carrying on vigorous conversations. I remembered how intimidated I was when I was a student at Oxford more than thirty years earlier whenever I was invited to tea at a women’s college. Sitting through their conversations was like being the ballboy at a fast- paced tennis match as the verbal serves and volleys flew across the net. It was hard to keep up and not get hit. The women and the men were impressive this night, too, so I tried to draw them out and speak only to answer the questions they asked. Chelsea has had good judgment and good fortune in her friends, from her early years to today. I’ve always enjoyed spending time with and learning from them. After Chelsea finished at Oxford, we moved Thanksgiving to our home in Chappaqua, where Chelsea began inviting longtime friends from New York and England to join us. They soon brought their spouses, significant others, and visiting parents. Before long, there were kids, too. We couldn’t do it at all in 2020 because of Covid, had only a small gathering in 2021, but in 2019, we had forty-three people. About that many came to the restart in 2022. Since that first celebration, everyone has been invited to say what he or she was grateful for. Some came just after or still in the midst of steep personal or professional challenges. Yet everybody always found something to be grateful for. In our family, the toughest task fell to Hillary after the 2016 election. She found her voice when most of us, me included, were still searching for ours.

From Citizen- Bill Clinton quote about Thanksgiving

[girlactionfigure]

The Holocaust Whistle-Blower: Jan Karski

He tried to save the Jews of Europe.

Jan Karski was a Polish resistance fighter and diplomat who warned world leaders about the Nazi extermination of European Jews. Tragically, none of the leaders of Allied countries did anything to stop the atrocity – including U.S. President Franklin Roosevelt.

Jan was born in 1914 in Lodz, Poland to a devout Catholic family. His father died when he was a small child, and his mother struggled to provide for her eight children. They lived in a neighborhood of overcrowded tenements where most of the residents were Jewish. Jan attended military school where he trained to be a mounted artillery officer and graduated first in his class.

He then trained to be a diplomat, and between 1935 and 1938 he worked at Polish consulates in Romania, Germany, Switzerland and the UK.  At the beginning of 1939 Jan returned to Poland to work at the Polish Ministry of Foreign Affairs. In the fall of that year, World War II started when Germany invaded Poland. Jan – Officer Karski – was called up to lead a unit of the Krakow Cavalry Brigade. On September 10 the Krakow Army was defeated by the Germans in the Battle of Tomaszow Lubelski and Jan was captured as a prisoner of war. He managed to escape and went to Warsaw, where he joined the SZP, the first resistance movement in occupied Europe.

At that time, the Polish Government in Exile, overthrown by the Germans, was based in Paris. Jan organized secret courier missions to transport important information to the exiled Polish leaders. He traveled frequently between France, Great Britain and Poland, at great risk to himself. In July 1940 his luck ran out and he was arrested by the Gestapo while traveling through Czechoslovakia on his way to France. He was imprisoned and tortured so badly that he was transferred to a hospital. Fortunately Polish resistance leaders found out where he was and managed to smuggle him out of the hospital.

Returning to Warsaw, Jan served in the information bureau of the Polish Home Army, the main resistance movement in Poland. He and other Polish resistance leaders were horrified by the Nazi persecution of Polish Jews, and increasingly aware that the Germans planned to exterminate millions of them. Desperate to alert the rest of the world about the destruction of Polish Jewry, they chose Jan to gather evidence and then travel to Paris to report to prime minister Wladyslaw Sikorski, leader of the Polish government in exile.

Jan worked with Jewish resistance leader Leon Feiner, who smuggled him into the Warsaw Ghetto to observe conditions there. Jan later described the experience: “My job was just to walk. And observe. And remember. The odour. The children. Dirty. I saw a man standing with blank eyes. I asked the guide, what is he doing? The guide whispered, ‘He’s just dying.’ I remember degradation, starvation and dead bodies lying on the street. We were walking the streets and my guide kept repeating, ‘Look at it, remember, remember.’ And I did remember. The dirty streets. The stench. Everywhere. Suffocating. Nervousness.”

Jan also visited a transit camp for Jews on their way to death camps. He took photographs of what he saw there and in the ghetto, and carried them out of the country on microfilm. His testimony and pictures formed the first accurate account of the genocide of European Jews. Polish Foreign Minister Edward Raczynski published Jan’s reports in a pamphlet which was widely distributed. Jan traveled to several countries and met with high-level government officials including British Foreign Secretary Anthony Eden, but they either didn’t believe him, or they feared the political consequences of helping Jewish refugees.

In July 1943 Jan traveled to the United States, where he personally met with President Franklin D. Roosevelt in the Oval Office. Jan vividly described the Warsaw Ghetto and the concentration camps where Jews were being murdered en masse. After telling his grim tale, Jan expected Roosevelt to be emotionally affected and want to learn more. Instead, Roosevelt displayed no reaction and didn’t ask a single question. The president heard first-hand about the murder of millions of Jews – and saw the evidence – but he refused to help in any way and showed Jan the door. Ironically, the majority of American Jews voted for Roosevelt, and many Jews still revere him.

While in the States, Jan met with other important personages including Jewish Supreme Court Justice Felix Frankfurter. Jan told his story, answered a few questions, and then the great jurist said, “I am unable to believe what you have told me.” Like Roosevelt, he chose to ignore the inconvenient truth of what was happening to the Jews of Europe. A Polish diplomat later confronted Justice Frankfurter and asked if he thought Karski was lying. “I did not say that this young man was lying. I said that I was unable to believe what he told me. There is a difference.” The difference was likely not clear to the millions of European Jews being tortured and murdered while a Jewish Supreme Court justice chose ignorance over a difficult reality.

Jan Karski’s identity was discovered by the Nazi occupiers in Poland, and he was unable to return home. He stayed in Washington DC, and earned his PhD at Georgetown University. After graduating, he began teaching at the Georgetown School of Foreign Service. Jan remained at Georgetown for forty years, teaching generations of American political leaders about East European and international affairs and comparative government. Jan’s students included Bill Clinton and Madeleine Albright. Jan wrote several books about the Holocaust, and gave lectures around the world about the horrors he witnessed, and the tragic inaction of world leaders. He was determined to make sure the Jews of Poland were not forgotten.

Jan said that he had two missions in life. The first was to bear witness to the genocide of the Jews of Europe. The second was to reveal the tragic indifference of Allied leaders.

In 1965, Jan married Pola Nirenska, a Polish Jew who was an acclaimed dancer and choreographer. He adored her, but Pola was scarred by losing 75 (!) members of her extended family in the Holocaust, and suffered from mental health issues. Pola tragically killed herself in 1992.

Jan Karski was honored as Righteous Among the Nations by Israeli Holocaust Memorial Yad Vashem. He was made an honorary citizen of Israel and received many other awards and honors in Poland, the United States, and Israel. He was nominated for a Nobel Prize. In 2000, Jan Karski was formally recognized as a human rights hero by the UN General Assembly. Soon after, Jan died in Georgetown at age 86. Jan continued to be honored posthumously, and in 2012 President Obama awarded him the country’s highest civilian honor, the Presidential Medal of Freedom. He has been the subject of multiple books, plays and movies. There is a statue of Jan sitting on a bench on Madison Avenue in New York City.

For bearing witness to genocide and speaking truth to power, we honor Jan Karski as this week’s Thursday Hero.

[fan-a-saurus-rex]

Silence || Part One

Plot: World War II continues to rage on. Y/N is an Army nurse working at the infirmary on an Army base just outside of London, England. One day, troops bring in a clearly injured and unconscious British soldier, whom they found in a field separated from the rest of his men in the chaos.

Pairing: WWII Army!Tom Holland x Reader

Warnings: mentions of war

Masterlist

For whatever odd reason, it had been an eerily quiet morning. Silence was something you rarely heard around here. A few planes had been heard overhead, but other than that it was calm, too calm perhaps. The troops had gone out earlier in the morning, just before sunrise, but had not yet returned.

You continued with your daily duties, tending to the few patients that were in the infirmary with minor injuries, at least minor when it came to warfare. You were in the middle of changing the bandages of a young man who had come in a few days before with a bullet wound in his left arm.

“Your wound seems to be healing nicely Peterson, no sign of infection” you said smiling. “You should be out of here in a few weeks”

“Thank you {y/n}” he replied with a smile as he relaxed back into his bed.

He had quickly become one of your favorites. He was very young, 19 years old. He dreamed of becoming a historian. But those dreams were torn from him when he was unexpectedly drafted and had to drop out of college.

He reminded you of your younger sister, shy but witty, with a sense of humor that was childlike and innocent. You thought he’d make a good match for her, but knew it could never work out considering his line of work at the moment and the state of the world.

Your train of thought was soon interrupted by the sound of air raid sirens. This was a big indication that things were about to get busy again in the infirmary. Most didn’t come back from an air raid unscathed.

You and the other nurses continued your current tasks as well as prepared new beds, for sure knowing that you would have new patients by the end of the night. The sounds of distant bombs and gunshots echoing through the valley was nothing new for you, just a daily occurrence you’d unfortunately become numb to, desensitized after a year of service as an Army nurse.

“Can you see who’s attacking?” You heard a nurse ask.

You looked out the window into the distance, seeing nothing but smoke. “No, but it’s most likely the Germans” you said “they’ve been relentless lately”

This too, was nothing new for you, as sad as that seemed. In all honesty, you could have been back home in Upstate New York, working a factory job, but something about being out here and healing the sick and wounded gave you a sense of pride. You felt you were better served to help people directly, rather than safe on the sidelines like all the other women in your life. You weren’t afraid to put your life on the line for others.

The chaos in the distance carried on until late in the afternoon. Just before sunset you could hear the sound of vehicles speeding through the base. That could only mean one thing, new patients.

You ran outside the infirmary to find the men pulling several injured individuals out their vehicles. You directed them inside quickly and instructed the other nurses to help where they could. One last soldier was carried in, but there was something different about him, a British uniform.

“Who is he?” You asked over the chaos, as they placed the clearly unconscious man on a nearby bed.

“Private Holland, British Royal Army. We found him in the field, passed out. The other men on his team didn’t make it, we did everything we could, but they succumbed to their wounds” one of the men told you.

You noticed several bloody wounds and what appeared to be a fractured or broken leg. You were careful to remove his jacket to further access his wounds. His undershirt was bloodied. You carefully cut it off the check where the bleeding was coming from. A bullet wound. “Call Dr. Carroll, we need x-rays and a bullet extraction!” You yelled over the noise.

The doctor soon rushed over. You handed him some gloves and quickly grabbed the tools needed. This was always the most stressful part. You monitored the young man’s vitals as the doctor quickly removed the bullet from under his rib cage. After it was successfully removed you bandaged him up and tended any other wounds he had. His leg was also placed in a cast as it had been broken.

“Keep a close eye on him, hopefully he’ll regain consciousness soon. He’ll be here a while, it will be a slow recovery” Dr. Carroll said with a sigh m.

You nodded and cleaned up after the emergency surgery. The rest of the patients had been tended to already and most were now asleep. You asked the few who were still awake if they needed anything, doing whatever you could to keep them comfortable.

At the end of the night, you and the other nurses began cleaning up, washing towels, dishes, and medical instruments.

“Do you think he’ll be alright? The Englishman?” You heard a nurse ask you.

“I hope so. He was definitely the worst casualty of the day.” You said, looking over at and the other patients. “I’m honestly afraid for him to wake up here, a broken leg, a bullet hole in his abdomen, his comrades…gone” you said quietly.

As the head nurse, it was always your job to deliver news that wasn’t always the greatest. The bringer of band news. Someone had to do it though. The other nurses reassured you that it would be alright.

“At least he wasn’t left out in that field to die” one of them mentioned.

You nodded. “He’ll be well taken care of here”

You did the last of your rounds, checking each patient before retiring to your barracks with the other nurses.

• • • • •

You were up early the next morning, before the sun. You prepared for the day, putting on your uniform and pulling your hair back into a bun.

You walked out into the infirmary and began your day as normal. You brought freshly cleaned linens, and clothes if needed, for each patient. Bandages and vitals were checked for each patient as well.

After all of that you began to fill out the charts for each patient to send to both the doctor and the General. Just as we’re about to the leave the infirmary to take the files down to the General’s office, you were interrupted by one of the nurses.

“{Y/n}, the English Private is awake”

You nodded “I’ll go in and talk to him, could you take these down to the General’s office, let him know I’m busy with our guest patient”

She nodded and took the files and you proceeded inside, walking towards the very confused looking man.

“Good morning, how are you feeling?” you asked, checking his bandages wounds. He seemed uneasy. “Don’t worry, you’re on a US Army base, you’re safe here” you said smiling softly, watching as he became more at ease. “Can you tell me, do you know who you are?” You asked.

“Private Thomas Holland, British Royal Army” he responded.

“And do you know what year it is?”

“1942, ma’am. September I believe”

It was protocol to ask questions such as these. If patients couldn’t comprehend then it could be a sign of head trauma, which could not be treated here. Patients with brain damage were immediately sent to the nearest military hospital by helicopter.

“Very good Private” you said. “You were out cold for a while, but it seems you still have all your mental capabilities intact. I wish I could say the same for the rest of you”

“How did I get here?” He asked.

“Our men found you passed out in the field, they didn’t want to leave you there so they brought you back with the other wounded troops” you said

“And my men? Where are they?”

You sighed and looked at him. “I’m sorry Private, but they didn’t make it out. Our men did the best they could, but it was too late”

He nodded “so, what happens now?”

“Well, you’ll be with us a while. You’ve sustained a nasty bullet wound, a broken leg, not to mention losing consciousness. The US Army has reached out to your General to let him know your situation, but with all the air raids and the German’s pushing in closer, your transfer would be risky” you said honestly.

He nodded “makes sense, at least I’m in good hands”

“Of course” you said. “Well, your wound seems to healing nicely, no infection so far, and breakfast will be delivered from the mess hall soon, but can I get you anything else?” You asked.

“Um…I didn’t get your name”

“{Y/n}” you said with a smile.

He smiled softly “it’s nice to meet you, and…thank you”

“You’re welcome” you said smiling.

You turned around and walked back into the other room to assist the other nurses. To your surprise they had all been snooping from around the corner.

“Ladies?” You said raising an eyebrow. “Find something interesting?

“Sorry y/n” one of them said “we were just curious”

“He’s very handsome” one of them confided.

You rolled your eyes “handsome or not, he is a patient and you will treat him as such, no more no less.” You scolded.

The younger nurses often had a tendency to become infatuated with the handsome young soldiers who arrived at the infirmary, but seemed to forget that this was not a dating service and these men had been through hell. It was not the time or place to seek out a husband. Friendships with the wounded were fine, but romantic relationships were frowned upon, however this did not stop humans from being humans. Feelings were inevitable, but could never be pursued, and you were fine with that. You had never been interested in marriage. You were very independent and career driven, you didn’t need a man getting your way.

You heard a knock at the back door of the infirmary, indicating that breakfast for the patients had been delivered. You and the other nurses made your rounds, giving each patient their meals, helping them sit up in bed if needed. The next patient you delivered breakfast to was Private Holland.

You smiled at him “I hope you like eggs and potatoes”

“I’ll honestly eat anything I can get” he said with a chuckle.

You set his tray down on his bedside table to help him sit up. He winced a bit, holding his abdomen.

“Careful, slowly” you said guiding him up and placing his pillow behind his back. “You’re going to be very sore for a few days” you said, setting his tray on his lap. “Let me know if the pain gets too bad and I can give you something to manage it” you said smiling.

“Thank you ma’am” he said with a polite smile.

You smiled “you can call me y/n, everyone does” you reassured him.

He smiled and nodded.

“I’ll be back later to check in, feel free to let any of us know if you need something” you said before going to give Peterson his breakfast.

“Good morning Peterson, I hope you’re hungry” you said smiling.

“As always” he said chuckling.

“How are you feeling today?” You asked.

“Getting better, it doesn’t hurt as bad today” he said looking at his arm.

“That’s great, I’m glad you’re feeling a bit better” you said handing him his breakfast tray.

“How is the new guy doing?” He asked curiously, referring to the English Private.

“He’s….coping. It’s going to take time for him to heal. Physically and emotionally. He was the only survivor on the his team.” You mentioned, looking over at him. You looked back over to Peterson and smiled “he could probably use a friend”

He nodded “I know the feeling” he took a sip of his coffee before looking towards you “once he’s settled in, maybe we’ll have a chat”

You smiled “I’m sure he’d like that” you said before ruffling the youngsters hair “sweet boy” you said laughing softly. “Let me know if you need anything”

Your day continued as usual. Changing bandages, keeping things clean, and reading novels to patients or playing cards with those who enjoyed the company. While playing cards with a few of the men, you noticed that Peterson had gone to introduce himself to Private Holland. You smiled as he pulled a chair over and began a conversation with newcomer. You were happy to see that Peterson was coming out of his shell a bit. Seeing how the English Private’s face lit up as the two discussed history gave you a sense of hope that he’d be alright.

Around 5pm, dinner was delivered from by the cooks and passed out to each patient. During this time you and the other nurses also had your dinner. You always a point to enjoy dinner with the patients to give them some sense of normality in these cruel circumstances. They always seemed to enjoy the conversations we had with them.

After dinner it was time for us to start cleaning up, by the time we finished it was dark outside. We took our last rounds around the infirmary, changing bandages, and helping the patients settle in for the night.

I went to check Peterson’s wounds and change his bandages. I smiled at him “you and Private Holland seem to be getting along”

“He’s really nice. He studied history and literature like me, we had a lot to talk about” he said smiling

I smiled and finished applying his new bandage. I kissed his forehead gently “thank you for being so kind and I’m proud of you for finally coming out of your shell with someone other than me” I said with a smile.

“Thank you” he said with a shy smile.

“So you need anything else before bed?” I asked

“No, I’m fine, thank you {y/n}”

I nodded and smiled, moving on to my other patients before finally getting to Private Holland.

“Hello Private, it’s time to change your bandages” I said with a smile. I helped him sit up and gently removed the old bandages before tending to his wound.

“This might hurt a bit, I’m sorry” I said, getting out a swab and something to clean up the wound.

“Can’t hurt much worse than it already does” he said with a cheeky grin

I laughed softly and tried to clean the wound as gently as I could. He winced in pain a little bit, but I couldn’t blame him, he’d just a bullet removed from his abdomen 24 hours ago.

After cleaning the wound I applied a clean bandage, wrapping it tightly around his torso.

“I see you and Peterson have been talking, discussing history” I said smiling.

“He’s a good kid” he said smiling “and really smart, I enjoyed his company”

I smiled “I’m sure he told you he was studying history in college before being drafted”

“He did, he plans to continue his education when the war is over. He wants to be a teacher, I think that’s wonderful”

“He’s very ambitious, I’m proud of all he’s accomplished” I said. “Is there anything I can get you before you retire for the night?”

“Um, just one thing…” he said

“Of course, I can get you anything”

“I’d like some company, if you don’t mind. If you’d rather not stay, that’s fine”

“I’d love to stay” I said “I’m sure you’re feeling out of sorts, in an unfamiliar place”

He nodded. “After what happened, I’d rather not be alone”

I pulled a chair over beside his bed. “I understand” I said as I sat down “it’s a terrifying world out there right now. But you’re safe here and I’ll be here whenever you need” I said with a reassuring smile.

“Thank you {y/n}”

“You’re welcome”

“Can I just ask one more thing?” He asked

“Anything” I said

“Would you mind holding my hand, to keep me calm?” He asked, his cheeks turning slightly pink.

“Of course not” I said reaching over, gently taking his hand in mind “many of the men have benefited from physical touch, it’s reassuring and comforting. We’re all human and we could all use a bit of reassurance at the moment” I said with a smile.

He smiled “I really appreciate your kindness”

I could feel his thumb rubbing the back of hand as he held it. In that moment, I was reminded that being a nurse isn’t always about changing bandages, cleaning wounds, administering meds, and aiding in emergency surgeries. Sometimes, it’s about being a companion to someone in a time of need, when it feels like the world has ripped every bit of happiness or hope from them.

I knew he would be here for several months. It would be a long tough road ahead, but I made a silent vow to do everything I could for him. I had seen some of my patients through some very dark places during the healing process and I would be damned if I didn’t help him just the same.

To be continued…

[maggiec70]

I read a post about you saying on how josephines affairs are actually made up to make her look bad. Im just curious what you mean by that because i thought she did cheat or is that just as you said "rumours"? I genuinely want to know more about this

I have always been amused by the number of people claiming that Josephine was so flagrantly unfaithful to Bonaparte during both the Italian and Egyptian campaigns, swallowing whole the highly dubious sources who made these claims in the first place and without any attempt to examine their veracity. I also find it interesting that folks don’t recognize the amazingly hypocritical view that it was perfectly fine for Bonaparte to carry on in Egypt, but excoriate Josephine for allegedly carrying on with Hippolyte Charles, who was gay and earlier, before and then after her marriage to Bonaparte, with Paul Barras, who was bi-sexual.

The purveyors of the allegations concerning Josephine’s infidelities were, of course, Bonaparte’s family: his mother and most of his siblings, who were jealous of her perceived influence and feared losing theirs with him as his career advanced. They never let up, either. Other potential rumormongers were not necessarily in at the beginning, but they certainly joined in with a certain amount of glee, even during the Empire. Some of those folks who wrote often spurious memoirs published after the Bourbon restoration piled on about Josephine.

However, the short version is this: the Josephine/Barras relationship was purely symbiotic. As a director with significant power, Barras still lacked access to the more refined salons and other gatherings of the emerging consular social class. He wanted to meet and mingle with the “right folks,” and asked Josephine to help him. She agreed, and in exchange, she asked Barras to assist her with several business transactions and introduce her to certain influential army contractors. He did so. Thus, here is a relationship where two people agreed to share their contacts for mutual benefit. But generally speaking, almost no one in the 19th century could imagine that a man and a woman could be friends without a sexual element as a logical outcome.

Concerning Lieutenant Hippolyte Charles, he was a dashing young man who agreed to serve as Josephine’s “arm candy” when Bonaparte was away during the Egyptian Campaign. He was a necessary adjunct for all the ties when a lady couldn’t traipse about Paris without a male escort. Nothing to see here, folks. Lieutenant Charles was openly gay. But that didn’t stop the Bonaparte family. A few of their letters, replete with outrage at Josephine’s alleged conduct, managed to evade the British blockade and reach Bonaparte. I’m sure you know how that turned out.

My friend, the author Sandra Gulland, wrote the “Josephine Trilogy,” three historical fiction books about her life from Martinique to her death in 1814. I can say that, without question, Sandra’s research far outstripped what passes for research by other authors and academics. She spent weeks in Paris at Malmaison, reviewing documents in archival and private collections, and worked with the former historian/curator there, Bernard Chevallier, who was and still is the foremost expert on Josephine anywhere. There is no mention here of Barras, Charles, and infidelity. On the polar opposite, read the perfectly horrible travesty of historical fiction, “Becoming Josephine,” by Heather Webb. It not only has sex with Barras as a focal point, but it’s accompanied by red satin sheets in the Luxembourg Palace, and black lace underwear. There is also a “tropical-themed party at the Bonaparte house on the rue Chantereine. I kid you not.

[weirdestbooks]

The Shot Heard Around the World Chapter 32

Fight For The Forts (Wattpad | Ao3)

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October 22, 1777

Saratoga had changed everything. United States had never felt more confident in his ability to win against his father. For he had captured a British army, something no one had done before. His northern border was no longer under threat, and that meant he could return his focus to the battles around Philadelphia. 

He tried to, at least. He really did try. But almost against his will, his mind kept wandering back to the other news surrounding the loss of Saratoga.

How his cousin and her son were now prisoners of war. United States knew it was unlikely that they would be allowed to leave and return to his father, too valuable as prisoners of war. It worried United States.

He didn’t think his people would hurt them, but…

“You’re afraid of losing them,” James said. United States hummed and nodded.

Nova Scotia was one of his best friends. United States had never wanted to lose her. He just hoped she would understand that this was war and he didn’t have a choice. He knew he would visit her as soon as the winter set and the fighting calmed.

Hopefully, that would allow any anger she might hold towards United States to dissipate. 

He hoped.

“She loves us. I…I don’t think she will be blinded by anger,” Virginia said, her voice light. United States sighed. He hoped Virginia was right.

Still, there were more important concerns than the worries he held and the drafts of letters for Nova Scotia that he had abandoned in his tent.

Hessians were attacking Fort Mercer.

United States knew why they were attacking the fort. United States’ people had been using them to keep the British ships out of the Delaware River and away from Philadelphia. So long as they remained, Father would have a logistical nightmare on his hands. 

Both United States and his father knew that.

However, United States was not one of the defenders of Fort Mercer, as he served at General Washington’s side. So, instead of defending the fort from the fort, United States had gotten permission to be on one of the gunboats in the area, a boat that was now preparing to provide Fort Mercer with support fire.

“I still think I should be allowed to fight this battle,” Connecticut said, a hint of bitterness in his voice. United States knew his son was frustrated and wanted to be able to fight, but…United States wanted to fight in the few battles that he could, the ones where his father was not looming across the battlefield like a malevolent spectator.

It also gave him a small amount of pride. His father had always been proud of his command of the sea. United States wanted to undermine that.

There were very few alternative methods for undermining his father.

So, despite Connecticut’s pleading, United States remained in command of the body as the defenders of Fort Mercer drove off the Hessian attackers. 

It wasn’t until he saw them all withdraw that United States let out a sigh of relief. He still controlled the Delaware River.

If he wanted to cause his father as many problems as he could during his father’s occupation, United States needed to keep that control.

He only hoped that he would be able to. The British still had Fort Mifflin besieged, and skirmishes for that fort were ongoing.

He needed to keep these forts. He had to win these battles.

• ───────────────── •

November 16, 1777

Britain had made himself comfortable in Philadelphia. He deserved to, after all that Thirteen Colonies’ rebellion had done to him and his family. He earned a respite from the fighting, a chance to handle more important issues as he chased the fleeting hope that Thirteen Colonies would return to his side willingly. 

His choice was mainly influenced by the news of the capture of Nova Scotia and St. John’s Island. Britain had never seen Scotland so worried and frazzled, and it scared him. Scotland still had far more faith in Thirteen Colonies than Britain did, but Scotland had no faith in the rebels.

It didn’t help that they had received no letters or updates besides the news that they had been captured.

The rebels now had a powerful bargaining chip, and no matter how heartless people might call Britain, he wasn’t going to risk the safety of Nova Scotia and St. John’s Island. He didn’t know if or when they were going to be used against him, but Britain had no doubt they would be.

It was what made him more convinced than ever that Thirteen Colonies was either lost in delusions of grandeur and independence or being held against his will by the rebels, as Britain knew his son would not risk the safety of someone he was so close to. 

Of course, they could now be used as blackmail to keep Thirteen Colonies fighting in a foolish rebellion.

The entire situation worried Britain. 

A knock on the door of his room had Britain looking up from a letter to England, and, sighing loudly, Britain went to get the door. As he walked to the door, he smoothed the wrinkles from his shirt, hoping it was news that could put his worried mind to ease.

Opening the door, Britain was met with a scared-looking messenger.

“He–hello, your holiness. I have a message from the—from the soldiers who were besieging Fort Mifflin,” the boy said, holding out the letter, arm shaking slightly. Britain took the letter, smiling slightly.

“Thank you. You’re dismissed.” The boy’s arm dropped, and he quickly rushed away, causing Britain to let out a little laugh as he opened the letter.

“Humans,” he muttered, shaking his head, before reading the letter. His eyes widened in excitement as he read it before he quickly left the room, marching to Scotland’s room.

Scotland needed to know. It might help soothe at least some of his mind.

“Scotland, I have news!” Britain said as he entered. Scotland’s ears perked up, excitement in his eyes as he turned to face Britain.

“Is it about Scotia or Eoin?” he asked, hopeful. Britain’s shook his head, and Scotland’s face crumbled.

“I’m sorry, it isn’t. But it is still good news. We have captured one of the rebel forts blocking the Delaware, securing our position here in Philadelphia,” Britain said, but the news didn’t seem to do much to cheer Scotland up. Britain frowned, voice softening. “We’ll get them back. I promise.”

“I know. I have faith,” Scotland said, “I just worry. Eoin is too young to be caught up in this nonsense, and you know how soldiers will sometimes treat women.”

“Anyone who hurts them will face the full wrath of the British Empire,” Britain said, voice firm, “I will not let anyone get away with that.”

A slight smile appeared on Scotland’s face.

“I know you will. Thank you.”

• ───────────────── •

December 8, 1777

Britain was furious.

Three days of fighting, three days of victories against the rebels, and for what? For General Howe to retreat when they had the advantage? When the end of the war and Thirteen Colonies were so close?

Next thing you knew, General Howe was going to tell them that he was surrendering to the rebels because they were too hard for him to beat!

“Crùn,” Scotland said from behind him, his voice so familiar and soothing that it pissed Britain off even more. 

“What?” Britain snapped.

“This isn’t the end of things. The war isn’t over because we didn’t capture him here,” Scotland said, speaking to Britain as if he were some wild animal that needed to be calmed, needed to be tamed.

As if Britain were the one infected with primitiveness.

“Howe is a coward. We could have ended things here,” Britain snarled. “We could have gotten back Nova Scotia and St. John’s Island. Why retreat when you have the advantage, when you are winning?”

“You know why,” Scotland answered. Britain scowled, glaring down at the reins in his hands.

“We still should have tried,” Britain said.

“And risk losing more men? General Howe made the decision he thought was best. We have low provisions, and after three days of fighting, we haven’t broken the rebel defenses. That’s not a position we can hold. I know you want this war to be over. I do, too, but…being idiots gives the rebels more of an advantage.” Scotland said. Britain looked away, knowing the older man was right.

“It still feels wrong,” he said.

“I know.” Scotland answered, “I had hoped this would be the answer to my prayers, and I would see my daughter and grandson in time for Christmas. Now, I have no idea how long it will be until I see them once more.”

“I wish he had seen sense,” Britain muttered. Scotland hummed.

“Me too.”

[hrhhenry-sussex]

Prince Harry surprises service members in Chula Vista

Chula Vista —  

GraceAnn Skidmore only joked when she told her parents it would be awesome if Prince Harry showed up to the screening of his new Netflix docuseries that premiered last Tuesday at a Chula Vista theater.

“Never did I think that he would actually show up,” she said.

AMC 10 in Chula Vista seemed unusually empty that day, and there were extra security measures, such as metal detectors and attendees’ bags being screened.

“I didn’t think much of it, but it did seem a little eerie, like, there’s not very many people here,” Skidmore said.

The United Service Organizations, a nonprofit that assists active-duty military members and their families, hosted the screening, and it invited several families. Among them was Skidmore, a volunteer with the organization whose husband serves in the Marine Corps at Camp Pendleton.

Just before the start of the first episode, the Duke of Sussex appeared in front of the screen to share how special the series was for him after producing it over the past two years.

“We were sitting down for a while just eating our popcorn and there were some remarks like, ‘Thank you guys so much for being here. We appreciate that. We have somebody that we think you might like to meet: the executive director himself, Prince Harry,’” Skidmore said. “That was really exciting, and to hear how he really truly had poured his heart into the project.”

And how could he not? Harry knows first-hand the physical and mental struggles behind service.

Between 2005 and 2015, he served in the British Army, going on two tours of Afghanistan. Today, he focuses on supporting wounded veterans. In 2014 he took that support to the next level when he launched the Invictus Games, an international athletics competition for injured or ill service members.

He took inspiration from the Warrior Games, which is also for wounded veterans who compete in all sorts of sports, including swimming, wheelchair basketball, powerlifting, track and field and archery. In June, the Naval Air Station North Island in Coronado held the 2023 Warrior Games. Harry surprised veterans with a courtside appearance then, too.

His five-episode series follows six people from around the world who compete in the 2022 Invictus Games.

Skidmore said she was moved by the camaraderie and what all the subjects in the documentary can teach a person.

“The real emotion service members from across the world show and the adversities they face are just really, really well done,” she said. “A lot of the times you hear them referred to as (having) disabilities, but when you really take a look, they’re way stronger than you or I could ever be.”

Marcus Pace, a veteran and regional program director of the Navy Wounded Warrior Program’s Southwest Region, said in a statement that it was extra special to have watched the screening alongside others who serve.

“It gave us moments of hope, especially knowing many of them are in some of the most difficult times of their lives,” he said. “But more than anything, it was an evening about community for our wounded warriors and being around other service members going through the same thing.”

The series is out now on Netflix.

[donfadrique]

I've decided to re-watch “The Mark of Zorro” (1940) to cheer myself up. 

I have sort of a plan: 1) watch the black and white version (in the old Soviet dubbing) and write down an emotional brief review in the process of watching it; 2) watch the colorized version; 3) watch the movie in the original dubbing; 4) perhaps write a full review.

I watched this movie a long time ago for the first time (I wanted to watch famous films with Basil Rathbone). But unfortunately, I didn't get to watch the movie properly, and all I remembered were a few scenes. I didn’t like Tyrone Power then, and only this year, after taking a closer look at him, I changed my mind. So this is the first time I'm watching Zorro'40 carefully.

Before we start, a few words need to be said. (However, the film has my full attention from the very first frame, and I'll have a very hard time pausing and writing down these notes!)

First of all, I am not a native English speaker, so I apologize for any mistakes.

Secondly, after watching the movie I want to give my assessment of a) screenplay, b) cast and director’s work, c) posters, costumes, locations, camera work, soundtrack etc. Also, I wanna find the answer to the question, what makes the movie a masterpiece for me.

A separate topic is the homoeroticism of "The Mark of Zorro". We know that Diego's flirtation with Captain Pasquale was part of his plan to eliminate his enemies, but was there a "gay message" in the film, as some movie reviewers claim? Perhaps it was ambiguous humor or an analogue of modern fan service for those viewers who positively evaluate same-sex relationships? Let's try to figure it out.

So, let's start.

1/🗡️

Wow, Diego receives his military education (!) in Madrid (judging by his uniform, he is a hussar), he has a reputation as a duelist (he was nicknamed "Californian cockerel") and, probably, a womanizer. It is not yet known how old Diego is, but the actor (Tyrone Power) is 26, which means the screenwriters were most likely focusing on the canonical novel by Johnston McCulley.

I also really like the design of the credits, the preface and the first lines of the characters, as well as the costumes and the balance between realism and spectacularity of the movie (and this spectacularity is the result of the work of the film crew and fencing skill of actors, and not modern computer graphics etc).

2/🗡️

Aha, "Cadet Vega".

And, saying goodbye to his comrades, Diego thrusts his saber into the ceiling.

"Leave it there. And when you see it think of me in the land of gentle missions, happy peons, sleepy caballeros, and everlasting boredom. Wine! A toast, señores! To California! Where a man can only marry, raise fat children, and watch his vineyards grow."

The most amazing thing is that Diego gives the impression of a very mature and strong-willed person. Like a military general, not a young cadet :) I have three explanations: 1) Tyrone Power himself was like that, 2) he played Cadet Vega like that so viewers would later see the contrast between true Diego and his dandy mask, 3) both factors. But, of course, Power was not just a talented and good-looking actor, he was a charismatic person. A fine choice of an actor to play Zorro. Moreover, Power had a Spanish-like appearance, which is important, for my taste. And his slim body would allow him to convincingly play both a dandy and the "elusive ghost" El Zorro.

3/🗡️

Before I continue watching the movie and taking notes, here are a few interesting facts about actors and my thoughts out loud.

🎭 Everyone knows that Basil Rathbone was one of the best swordsmen in Hollywood. But perhaps not everyone knows that he was twice the British Army Fencing Champion, a skill that served him well in movies and allowed him to even teach actors Errol Flynn and Tyrone Power swordsmanship. (By the way, Rathbone was awarded the Military Cross in 1918.) And! He said about Tyrone Power, "Power was the most agile man with a sword I've ever faced before a camera. Tyrone could have fenced Errol Flynn into a cocked hat." Rathbone's opinion was worth a lot, because he was not only famous for his fencing and acting skills—he was a mega-celebrity (well, years ago I became interested in "The Mark of Zorro" precisely because Rathbone starred there; I had never even heard of Power xD). And yup, as we already know, the movie became a hit, and 20th Century-Fox often cast Power in other swashbucklers in the years that followed.

🎭 The fact that Flynn and Power were lovers can only be of interest to us because Power, due to his bisexuality and communication with homosexuals, was able to play ideally a man who pretended (?) to be interested in the same sex. But since Power's Diego was flirting with Rathbone's Captain Pasquale, I was interested in his views on same-sex relationships. Rathbone probably had a positive attitude towards them, since in 1926 he was very angry about the censorship because he believed that homosexuality needed to be brought into the open (Rathbone was arrested along with every other member of the cast of "The Captive", a play in which his character's wife left him for another woman).

🎭 So far, I like everything about "The Mark of Zorro", except that the screen image is reminiscent of "Captain Blood" (1935), not "Gone with the Wind" (1939), filmed in Technicolor. Perhaps modern viewers often underestimate Zorro'40 precisely because both versions of the movie, black-and-white and colorized, seem "old-fashioned" to them.

An interesting fact. According to Hollywood legend, Rathbone was Margaret Mitchell's first choice to play Rhett Butler in the film version of her novel "Gone with the Wind".

🔥References (if you need them)🔥

Rathbone, Basil (1962). In and Out of Character (Ebook ed.). Lanham, MD: Limelight Publishers.

Higham, Charles (1980). Errol Flynn: The Untold Story. New York City: Doubleday.

[mariacallous]

The Full Story: A monthly column published by Foreign Policy and reported by journalists at The Fuller Project, a global newsroom that catalyzes positive change for women.

On April 15, Fahima Hashim awoke to the sound of her nephew shouting her name. “The war has started!” he yelled. Her family hunkered down in their Khartoum home, hoping the conflict between two warring factions of Sudan’s military would be short-lived, and they’d be able to wait it out.

“I didn’t sleep at night,” Hashim recalled. “I’d sleep when everyone woke up, because I wanted to protect them from anything [that might happen] in their sleep.”

After 14 days, supplies started to run low, and Hashim decided they needed to flee. It wasn’t the first time.

In 2014, Sudan’s military dictator Omar al-Bashir accused Hashim of destroying the fabric of Sudanese society because of her work as the founder of Salmmah Women’s Resource Center, a group that documented violence against women and fought for reforms to Sudan’s legal system. She escaped to Canada and built a new life for herself and her daughter. When al-Bashir fell from power five years later, she thought it would finally be safe to return.

Women like Hashim were at the forefront of a grassroots movement to topple al-Bashir—one of the revolution’s most iconic images was of a young woman named Alaa Salah standing atop a car in front of army headquarters with her finger raised in fierce protest. These women had hoped al-Bashir’s downfall would earn them equal rights and freedoms alongside men at last. Instead, the transitional government—led by fundamentalist military commanders who had served under al-Bashir—sidelined women, continued to emphasize the primacy of Islamic law, and supported a coup in 2021.

Far from securing equality and a seat at the negotiating table, Sudanese women continued to be targeted with sexual violence, systemic exclusion from the political sphere, and imposition of strict dress codes.

“After the revolution, whenever women talked about representation or participation or [the need] to include women’s rights … [male politicians] just said ‘this is actually not the right time’ and ‘these women are so annoying,’” said 31-year-old activist Lina Marwan, who was arrested in January 2019 alongside 86 other young women during intense protests against the al-Bashir administration.

Despite the backslide, women such as Marwan and Hashim refuse to give up. They continue to coalesce in online spaces, leading emergency relief efforts, organizing health care, and helping women and children to flee the country. They’re still fighting for what they’ve demanded for nearly a century: a meaningful seat at the peace talks and a significant role in the governance of a new Sudan.

Sudan has a rich history of strong women’s rights movements that stretches back to the 19th century. The formation of the Sudanese Women’s Union in the 1950s marked a critical moment as women took up the cause of independence from British colonial rule. In 2018-19, their momentous protests against al-Bashir in front of the Army Central Command led to them being called Kandakat after powerful historical queens.

“You could hear in the cell [that] the girls are talking and chatting,” said Marwan about her time in prison during that period. “The girls are beautiful and very strong and have a very revolutionary spirit, and they made a lot of joy inside this dark, lifeless place.”

But Sudanese leaders have always attacked values they deemed antithetical to Islam and Sudanese culture. Sudan’s first dictator, Ibrahim Abboud, banned the Sudanese Women’s Union in 1958. In the 1980s, Jaafar Muhammad Nimeiry’s military dictatorship imposed Islamic law on the country, removing a ban on female genital mutilation in the process. Al-Bashir came to power in 1989 on the back of a military-led Islamization project that institutionalized discriminatory anti-women policies, such as stoning and flogging for women who wore pants or refused to cover their hair.

“The women’s movement has always been a target for dictators. And that shows you how strong the women’s movement was,” said Quscondy Abdulshafi, an advisor at Freedom House, a Washington, D.C.-based think tank.

When al-Bashir fell, Sudanese women saw a wide range of possibilities open up in front of them. Sudan’s new Constitutional Declaration contained strong language about the role of women and a 40 percent quota requirement for women’s participation in parliament. Religion was separated  from the state, and al-Bashir’s public order act was repealed—reflecting the hopeful nature of that moment for women.

But the promise was short-lived. The military-led transitional government soon revealed that it had not strayed far from the conservative Islamic ideology of al-Bashir’s regime. On reviewing civil society proposals for a new democratic government, the 10-member military council expressed a key reservation: “The declaration failed to mention the sources of legislation, and the Islamic Sharia law and tradition should be the source of legislation,” Lt. Gen. Shamseddine Kabbashi, a spokesman for the military council, told reporters at a press conference.

Following the 2021 coup, the military leaders dissolved the ruling body instituted by the Constitution Declaration and declared a state of emergency. Then, they turned on themselves. In April, civil war broke up between two rival generals. The transitional government had included the Rapid Support Forces (RSF), a paramilitary unit that faces several accusations of mass rape; this group is now at the forefront of the civil war.

Today, women are experiencing widespread gender-based violence, sexual assault, and rape; pregnant women are struggling to give birth as the health care system crumbles; and women and children make up the majority of the refugee population fleeing across Sudan’s borders.

Since the outbreak of civil war, Sudan’s women’s movement has morphed from fighting for rights to fighting for lives. Women have become key providers of support services and emergency relief.

“Women from civil society all around Sudan, they have a WhatsApp group called Women for Peace,” Marwan said. The group is providing health care for displaced pregnant women and distributing hygiene kits for women and girls.

They’re providing some services for men, but the focus is on women. “Because throughout environmental disasters or anything that’s broken out in Sudan, men started to see women’s needs as secondary,” Marwan explained.

Other groups include Sudanese women doctors based abroad who participate in WhatsApp clinics, providing telemedicine services. Some, such as Sara Abdelgalil, a National Health Service physician in the United Kingdom, are also coordinating with organizations on the ground to provide online training for Sudanese medical students who still have access to the internet.

Meanwhile, from Canada, Hashim is helping high-profile activists escape the country. She’s organizing paperwork and visas with the support of women’s rights organizations, raising money for the harrowing bus journey from Sudan into Egypt, and securing funds to support women with rent and food for at least three months as they settle into their new lives.

Hashim is also engaged with a WhatsApp group called Women Against the War, which supports Sudanese resistance committees.

Foreign-policy experts such as Sanam Naraghi Anderlini, the executive director of the International Civil Society Action Network, a women, peace, and security organization, say research shows that the presence of women can make a massive difference in peacebuilding. Including women as negotiators, mediators, and signatories increases the likelihood of an agreement lasting at least two years by 20 percent, and the likelihood of it lasting at least 15 years by 35 percent.

“[Women] are bringing a very stark human lens into these political power discussions,” Anderlini said. “The women are going to be asking, ‘does your cease-fire include stopping rape? Does it include getting the RSF soldiers out of people’s homes? Stopping the looting? What are the elements of the cease-fire?”

Hashim wants to take it a step further: She believes that a new Sudan will rise only if women take control of the country. She says the women’s movement has already developed its own policies on climate change, health, and reproductive rights. They were working out their preferred educational policies when the war broke out.

“Enough is enough,” Hashim said. “I think men have destroyed Sudan. What has the army done? The war in South Sudan. The war in Darfur. It’s been 67 years since independence, and those men haven’t done anything [for] Sudan. They made it worse.”

“I think we should make a shadow government with all our ministers,” she said. “It can only be done by women, by feminists.”

[petermorwood]

At its height the Roman Empire looked like this and, from its very beginning, the elements which moved around most (merchants, military) did that a lot. 

Did you worship correctly? (”Mockery of the Jews and their one god shall be kept to an appropriate minimum...”) Did you keep the peace? Did you pay your taxes? (”Render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s...”) 

Then salve, civis Romanus, because it didn’t matter what colour you were or where you came from. Of course if you were from a region currently or with a history of being troublesome, you might get a bit of the old oculus foetor, but that’s no different nowadays.

*****

Besides trading, tourism (complete with a souvenir trade), immigration, emigration, slavery and manumission (freedom), service in the army had excellent post-service benefits including citizenship if not one already. 

This made wife, kids and THEIR kids citizens too, regardless of whether they were Brits or Gauls or Germans or Libyans or whatever, and it had value because being able to say “I am a Roman citizen" had value. 

There was also a retirement-grant of land, networking, and veteran mateship (remember ”Thirteen! Thirteen!” in “Rome”?) Italy and Switzerland still have echoes of that land-grant business: the Dolomite Mountains region of Northern Italy has a dialect called Ladin, while Switzerland’s fourth official language is Romansh. 

Some day I’d like to see a study about whether this originated merely with spoken Latin, or specifically with Army Latin, the equivalent of French-with-specialist-military-terms taught by the Foreign Legion. 

It would help confirm my own theory that the language(s) originated with soldiers who’d signed up together, served together, reached end of service together, got their land-grants together and settled there. This wouldn’t have been discouraged. It created a pool of known-loyal retired vets to call on, always useful if only as trainers for a local militia.

*****

As for Roman soldiers not serving in their home districts for fear of “conflicted loyalties” during unrest, that’s nothing new. The same policy was invoked in the 1970s at the height of The Troubles, when the British Army’s Irish regiments - Irish Guards, Royal Irish Rangers, Iniskilling Dragoons etc. - were notably not deployed in Northern Ireland. 

The Government’s official line was “to avoid danger to relatives in Ireland if soldiers were identified”, but the unofficial attitude was much more like “we don’t trust Micks to keep their priorities straight when dealing with other Micks”. 

Imperial Rome would have thought the same. Troops on Hadrian’s Wall wouldn’t be chummy with Caledonians on that side or Britons on this side if they were Spaniards, Italians, North Africans or Egyptians. However a cohort of auxiliaries from Brigante or Atrebate lands just down the road might need a bit more watching - so they’d get posted to Augsburg or Athens or Alexandria instead...

*****

As for that St Maurice armour @dduane​ tagged me about, it’s an excellent representation of the Maximilian-style (ca. 1520) with a rondel dagger, a bastard-sword with a rain-chape, and a hat which suggests someone had a job-lot of ostrich feathers needing shifted.

It also has a chainmail brayette (crotch-guard). These looked like Speedos or a nappy (diaper) made of metal...

...though later fashion called for a plate codpiece which was a lot more noticeable - some look like a very personal steel soup bowl, and a couple look more like a soup can...

Here’s a plate brayette on another Maximilian-style armour. This one also sports a helmet with a “grotesque” (humorous mask) visor of the kind worn during non-serious combat at tournaments.

These could be exchanged for more sensible shapes as required, which is just as well, because some were very silly indeed...

Finally here’s a much older (ca. 1250) representation of St Maurice in armour of that period: mail coif, long-sleeved hauberk, and a coat of plates over the top.

The whole thing would have looked like this:

Surprise. :)

[luvmyindia]

Pingali Venkayya The Man Who Wove India’s Soul into a Flag

When Pingali Venkayya first sketched the design on a piece of khadi, he wasn’t just drawing a flag—he was stitching together the spirit of a nation. Each thread spoke of resistance, dignity, and unity. That flag would go on to fly over rallies, jails, protests, and parliaments. But its maker, the quiet visionary from Andhra Pradesh, remains a name too few remember.

At Luv My India, we believe it’s time that changed.

A Life Rooted in Curiosity and Service

Born on 2 August 1876 in the small village of Bhatlapenumarru, Pingali Venkayya’s early life was marked by a restless curiosity. A polyglot and a polymath, he immersed himself in studies ranging from geology and agriculture to languages and education. He earned unusual nicknames—Diamond Venkayya for his work in minerals, Japan Venkayya for his linguistic talents, and Patti Venkayya for his work with cotton.

But beyond his many interests, his defining passion would emerge through a single idea: India must have its own flag.

A Turning Point in South Africa

As a young man, Pingali served in the British Indian Army during the Second Boer War in South Africa. There, he met Mahatma Gandhi and witnessed first-hand the indignity of colonial rule—especially the requirement for Indian soldiers to salute the Union Jack, a flag that symbolised their subjugation. That moment deeply affected him. From then on, he resolved to create a national flag that Indians could salute with pride.

Designing a Nation’s Identity

On returning to India, Venkayya began a deep study of flags from around the world. He researched more than 30 national flags, trying to understand what made a nation’s banner meaningful and unifying. His dedication culminated in 1916, with the publication of a booklet titled A National Flag for India, showcasing thirty original designs.

He didn’t stop there. For over a decade, he kept refining his ideas—often urging Congress leaders to adopt a national flag. His plea remained largely unheard—until a defining moment came in March 1921.

The Birth of the Swaraj Flag

At the Indian National Congress session in Vijayawada, Mahatma Gandhi requested Pingali to present a design. In just a few hours, Venkayya returned with a hand-drawn flag on khadi cloth—two broad bands, red and green (symbolising Hindus and Muslims), with a spinning wheel (charkha) at the center.

Gandhiji loved the concept but suggested one addition: a white stripe, representing India’s other faiths and communities, to reflect inclusivity and unity.

Thus was born the Swaraj Flag—a powerful symbol of hope, self-reliance, and harmony. It wasn’t just fabric; it was a silent protest, a shared dream, and a portable revolution.

A Forgotten Legacy

Though his flag flew high across the freedom movement, Pingali Venkayya himself faded into obscurity. He passed away on 4 July 1963, far from the limelight, with one final wish—to be draped in the flag he had given to India.

Today, his name appears only faintly in textbooks. There are no monuments in every city, no annual commemorations on primetime television. But his legacy lives on in every Tiranga that flutters in the wind.

Why We Remember

At Luv My India, we pay tribute to Pingali Venkayya not just by remembering his name, but by celebrating the values he stood for. Our khadi Tiranga flags reflect the very texture and tradition he believed in—a fabric woven not just with threads, but with spirit.

Because a flag is more than a symbol. It is a story. And Pingali Venkayya was its author.

Let us honour his contribution not just on national holidays, but in everyday acts of patriotism—by understanding, sharing, and cherishing the story of the man who gave India its identity in colour.

[piggyisfromblackpool]

@boatsrbetter more developed oc explanation. This won’t be going on the account because I solely want to have asks on there and then post any unrelated stuff on piggyisfromblackpool, though all Tommy related posts will be under the tag boatsrbetter. Beware!!!! I am proper deeping it!!

Tommy is basically meant to be someone who resembles the lower, northern class which is very imperative to British culture because of the north, south divide (just for any Americans if you’re reading LOL). Whilst we did get some sort of perspective on the struggles of the lower class through piggy it wasn’t really depicted much more than the fact he’s the only one with an accent and he’s often dismissed by the other boys. This is actually what inspired me to create an oc in the first place, I made a joke post about how there’s no northern boys on the island for a reason and then developed it into an actual character LMAO+the joke ‘piggy is from Blackpool’ head cannon.

So the reason I created Tommy in the first place was as a character depicting those struggles. Not necessarily though the fact he’s not the leader (though that is unintentionally reflective of the fact the prime minister is almost never northern lol) but the alienation he feels from others. Once moving to London backstory wise he felt alienated from the posh southerners he often had to spend his time around leading to often dismissing them outright, especially since he struggles to make friends with them and relate to their experiences as someone whose parents had to struggle for their next meal, his father being a coal miner and his mother having a job at the time as a waitress full stop.

(To quickly explain the possible inconsistency of Ambrose being conscripted despite working as a coal miner, more on that later, coal miners were conscripted during WW2 from what I can tell though this was particularly in the beginning of the war in 1939 when the national service act was released stating that men aged 19-41 were liable for conscription. The coal shortage of 1941 happened because of the large amount of coal miners that had been conscripted to fight, leading to the Bevin Boys initiative where young men were conscripted to work in coal mines rather than the army. Ambrose Bell is conscripted to fight in 1939, he attempts to dodge the draft by feigning injuries but after deciding he’d rather serve in the army than serve a prison sentence, he very reluctantly leaves his family prompting Tommy and his mother Florence to move to London to live with Tommy’s Auntie Cathy as they could not afford to leave on their own and his mother needed emotional support to. Tommy’s auntie is wealthy and thus she sent him to a private school to attempt to sort out his short-tempered and generally bad behaviour leading to his feelings of alienation. Heavy bombing began to occur in 1940, leading to the children’s evacuation initiative where children were sent to other countries rather than simply to the countryside. My personal head cannon is that Lord of the flies takes place in South Africa at this point, though it is likely that Lord of the flies takes place in a universe where ww2 extended past the 1940’s to the 1950’s or something. My friend is a geographer and she told me all the stuff about the geography of the area and how the mountain could be a dormant volcano and that, I think it suggested it might’ve taken place there but I barely remember any of it so if anyone knows otherwise lmk!! Furthermore, If any of my research at all is wrong lmk because I didn’t really go that deep into it!!!)

Tommy’s disconnect with the other boys is shown more so later on in the story than the boatsrbetter account is currently taking place mind you when he shows concern over the hunters pig killing as he grew up with a family that struggled to afford food and applies that to the amount of food they have available on the island. Tommy is of the firm belief they won’t be rescued anytime soon and believes that they shouldn’t go around murdering all the animals on the island because food will then become scarce leaving them to starve and often wonders if they’ve ever really had to ration food up until the war maybe or even ever the way he did growing up. Some of his ideas and suggestions are generally quite good but because he’s 10 and they’re generally quite vague and not thought through to the extent they should be his ideas are often dismissed, plus his general behaviour, heavy accent that others struggle to understand and general upbringing is something the other boys can’t really relate to as much and thus he’s generally ignored.

His focus on cleanliness is driven by his mother who stressed that he always had to look clean and presentable, particularly when he started attending a private school in London, as she wanted him to look proper, fit in with the other boys and make friends. Whilst this didn’t necessarily work in any way, he takes this message to heart due to him witnessing his mothers struggles with depression (which will be touched more on later in on the blog) and wanting to give her something to be proud of when he returns. Once the island begins to degrade and break down, he focuses on this aspect the most as he begins to actually lose faith in those around him and becomes obsessive in his routine and personal hygiene. This can also be interpreted as him clinging onto the civilisation they previously had despite his early jealousy fuelled objections to it. His faith in those around him entirely breaks when he begs Ralph to do something and realises Ralph has become a person who entirely buries himself in the past as a way of coping with his current reality. This is something Tommy used to do himself to cope prior to Lord of the flies but his concern with the current situation overrides his desire to hide away. Despite his sulking and avoidance of the others, he is a very persistent and brave character leading to his ending (running straight into the fire in the woods once he notices that some of the littluns are missing on the shore of the beach and they do often go in the woods to pick berries.)

Tommy doesn’t necessarily hate/not get along with everyone on the island.

Tommy does get along with Roger and Piggy in particular for these reasons:

-With Piggy there’s a bit less of a disconnect, whilst Piggy does irritate him on occasion with his nagging, they share a similar background in the fact they are lower class and alienated to some extent. He thinks Piggy is genuinely smart and should be listened to above Ralph. He dislikes how smart piggy is at some times because he’s never been ‘smart’ himself but that’s mainly because he’s a very jealous character. If I remember right Piggy suggested they make a sundial so they can remember what time it is?? Tommy is very supportive of that idea.

-Roger, realistically, should be someone that Tommy would dislike. He’s in the hunters, wants to kill the pigs and aligns himself with the other boys. However, because Roger is so quiet, it’s difficult to really know where his true opinions lie. Roger is the one who suggests the vote for chief, which Tommy agrees with fundamentally, he just thinks he should have won that vote. Because Roger is so quiet with his opinions, he doesn’t really mind him very much and likes sitting on the rocks with him since he’s quiet and easy to talk at. Moreover, he and Roger have the same ‘violent’ way of expressing their emotions. To clarify, I’m not outright saying Roger is a violent person at all, I’m more so referring to him throwing rocks at the littluns near the beginning of the book and his arm being ‘conditioned by a civilisation that knew nothing of him and was in ruins.’ This is somewhat relatable to Tommy whose grandparents literally put him in boxing as a way of trying to contain his temperament LMAO. Watching someone act on something he has definitely thought of doing and overall just expressing their emotions in just a physical way in general catches his interest therefore leading Roger to be someone he identifies with in a way. Though, he does end up nagging Roger quite a bit BAHAHA. Whether Roger actually likes him or just tolerates him is deliberately left vague.

Tommy on Ralph is also very important to.

From my last post, it’s obvious that Tommy constantly brings down Ralph and completely shits on him the entire time. This is out of jealousy. He acknowledges that Ralph’s plans are not working in the way they should and uses it as fire against him. However, he also inflates the importance that Ralph has. Whilst Ralph is undoubtedly an important character and symbol, Tommy continues to view him as such even after the islands breakdown because of jealousy blinding him. He only disregards this belief once confronting Ralph and realising how fucked they are. Thats the point where he realises he has to try and pick up the pieces and ultimately fails to do so entirely because at that point civilisation has completely broken down. Some people do humour him but these are quite exclusively limited to OC’s, if any of the other boys humour him it’s ill-intended (not that he really tries to approach the hunters very often at all). Anyways, Tommy does have a level of deep rooted respect for Ralph but he refuses to acknowledge this.

His desire to be chief is comparable to a child wanting to be the leader of a game, in a way.

Other important themes:

Conscription and the way it affects families. Tommys story goes from reflecting the rural idyll, despite his parents struggling low income and his father’s brutal job, they do get along and have simple family time whilst in the northern countryside. Tommy has friends, plays and whilst school gets him down at times it’s generally very fun and life hearted. Sort of like, things are difficult but we make the best of it and live a good and happy life despite that. Though, this tone quickly changes once they move to London after his father’s conscription. His auntie is cold and distant, he rarely ever sees his mother anymore and when he does she’s a ghost of the person he once was, he has no friends, the atmospheres a lot dimmer and stale. Etc etc. He made a habit of sitting by the door and waiting for his father to come back so things can return back to normal, though his father has died at that point.

The ways in which people struggle with grief and how it can negatively impact a persons actions and they’re state of mind in general. (as shown through Tommy’s mother and auntie who both lost their husbands and ,in his aunties case, her son to the war. Florence becomes completely depressed and ultimately ends up committing suicide, Tommy’s auntie becomes cold and distant and Tommy himself lives in denial.)

You can also sort of count a general criticism of the school system. Tommy is deemed someone who isn’t very smart as he struggles to focus in school and gets absolutely abysmally bad grades but he’s good at other things like cooking, baking, sports and noticing small details others don’t often notice. He can be quite perceptive:he knows deep down from the beginning that Ralph’s leadership isn’t working and picks up on small signs of that like the littluns refusing to take a bath and, he at first uses this to gloat, but once the situation gets absolutely god awful, he pushes that realisation deep down and focuses on the idea that things can be changed so long as the island has a strong leader. Tommy subconsciously views this as Ralph but once he realises Ralph can’t do much anymore he’s just like ‘well I’ll pick up the pieces of what’s left’, though, at that point there’s nothing left to pick up. (He’s naive or downright living in denial in someways, he’s willing to admit that things don’t work and he notices that from the beginning but he fills that with his own reasons and prefers to believe that things can work if done right.)

Also he doesn’t take part in the murder of Simon. This isn’t because he’s different, it’s just because he refuses to attend the feast because he’s sulking about how Jack is basically in charge now when he surely thought he’d be next in line+the hunters ignoring him going ‘guys don’t kill off all our food I beg’. He absolutely would have, were he there. It would be contradictory to say he wouldn’t+the ways the feast can be interpreted in general (how everyone can participate in savagery no matter how civilised they appear to be, reflective of ww2 as a whole). He sees Simon’s body once he goes to see if there’s any food left over and is absolutely shook to his goddamn core.

TLDR;Eden deeps her lotf oc for much much too long. Lowk embarrassing icl BAHAHAH. “Look at my silly and funny lotf oc! and this is the silly funny lotf oc in question.