#does claude ever wonder why he got so much cake?

[channnel]

Someone's a birthday boy! He's getting old! Very quickly!

Also, I put my self-insert oc here for funsies. Hands are hard.

[harpers-tartarus]

I would be very interested in reading the first chapter of the crooked verse because your works are always amazing

:)

LEON WASN’T ALWAYS Leon. In fact, the name had been a gift, chosen by his sister. He’d asked her to before the ritual had begun and when he came out of it, disoriented, two thin scars on his chest, his voice deeper, she was there, in her cleric garb, golden and absolutely radiant.

Her fingers formed four letters. [L-E-O-N. It’s Renouvellian, like your family was. It means ‘lion’.]

“Lion?” Leon had felt heavier than lead. “Don’t think it suits me.”

She’d rolled her eyes, knowing he’d wear the name proudly. And he did, for years, and then…

Leon felt like he was drowning, his lungs burning. There was dirt in his mouth and he needed to fucking breathe. His hands clawed through the earth strangling him until he forced himself through the surface, coughing harshly.

The sky above him was bleak, but, even worse, was the silence.

Leon had grown up with the comfort of his sister’s voice in his head, her presence clear, even if her words were not, even if she was miles upon miles away, devoting herself to the god that she loved so dearly, knee deep in ancient history and myths. ([I’ll leave the piracy to you] she signed to Leon but he’d never missed the look of longing on her face. She’d always been more like Brizo than Nomia and Leon had been the opposite) Luckily, as a cleric, she’d had the opportunity to travel a great deal, and if one thing could be said about Leon’s sister, it was that she’d always had a healthy bit of wanderlust.

To be without her presence in his head was worse than any torture Leon could dream up.

Leon was sitting in his own grave, feeling as though his sister was just as dead, and it was an agony like no other.

He wanted to scream, more than anything he wanted wail his rage and pain to the heavens, but even if his throat hadn’t felt raw and nearly unusable, Leon had known better than to scream. He always knew better than to scream.

Instead, his fingers dug into the wet earth and he pitched himself forward, almost kneeling against the grave dirt and tried to silence the sobs. She’d always cared more about death than he had, the dead had meant something to her and he’d watched her perform death rites on so many forgotten corpses.

“Why does it matter?” he’d asked her. “They’re already dead.”

[I like to think I help them get back home] she’d replied, her smile bright, dark eyes gleaming. But who would help Leon now that she was gone?

She’d lost the innocence of her youth, but his sister had never stopped in her dedication to both the dead and to truth, even when she herself was contributing to the number of bodies. The last time Leon had seen his sister had been when he’d seen her likeness on a wanted poster for treason and murder.

His sister, the girl that had stumbled on a god exactly once and been so enthralled that she’d joined a temple dedicated to that god and never told another lie. His sister, who’d watched him wince every time someone had called him by that name he’d hated so much and held his hand even when she could barely handle his touch so that he wasn’t alone during the ritual. His sister, who used to stand by the seaside, telescope in hand, searching for The Siren out at sea with their mother at the helm back when she still had her love. His sister, wanted for treason and murder.

She’d left the safety of her temple -but the head cleric had said she did that from time to time, always in the company of Ming Zhu and Rajan, except that time- some time before without a word, leaving all of Leon’s letters unopened. He’d tried to reach out to her through their shared bond but had been rebuffed each time.

It was like she hadn’t wanted to be found, which was an incredibly odd stance to take, especially for her. And, unfortunately, Leon couldn’t even remember what had been happening before he’d awoken in his shallow grave.

He pressed a hand to his brow, struggling to remember, but all he could recall was a face shrouded in shadow and a hood that was golden, obscuring most of their face. The bond had remained silent even as the darkness swallowed him up.

He rubbed the tears from his face, he couldn’t deal with this. He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t even know how much time had passed since he’d gone into the ground…he didn’t even know where his sister was.

Leon hadn’t even wanted her to go to that temple in the first place, they’d both just turned twenty and they were so young…but it was like she was enchanted. Nothing had had an effect on her quite like finding Reedspeaker in the woods. She’d said Reedspeaker needed help and she’d given it to her, so Reedspeaker gave her a blessing, but what exactly that blessing entailed, Leon had never learned. She’d packed her things and left the next day to head for her temple.

It had taken years for him to forgive her for that, for leaving him…they were a matched set and she’d just abandoned him…it had taken him even longer to realize that it was a gift; they both needed to figure out who they were without the other at their side.

And then she’d disappeared into the wind like she’d used magic, which was equal parts amusing and exasperating because she’d never had an interest in magic, Leon wasn’t sure she’d even liked it. He had magic, of course, something one of their mothers had called a fluke -he hadn’t gone to school to learn it, he hadn’t made any deal with any unearthly being, and he didn’t even know if he was related to anyone with that gift. He hadn’t appreciated the way she’d said it, but even when his sister didn’t seem to like it much, she’d never minded when he used his magic, and she’d certainly never made him feel like he only had it because of dumb luck.

Leon swallowed thickly and did something he hadn’t ever done before; he prayed.

“Please,” he rasped thickly, “I know…I never liked you, you know that, but I know you cared about her, and-and that’s good enough for me…but I need help, please, what do I do?”

For a moment, there was no answer. Leon was alone, his head was quiet, and it was a kind of torture that he’d never want anyone else to experience.

Then he started to wonder if Reedspeaker even spoke to anyone that wasn’t a devout believer in them…because that was definitely going to make it difficult to communicate.

But those thoughts came to a stop at the sound of a whisper on the wind or perhaps it was in his ears for him alone.

Find your sister.

Find your sister…that probably meant that she was still alive, right? Which was good news…but the bad news was that Leon didn’t even know where to start looking.

She never even gave her true name to the temple when she’d lived and boarded with them, training as a cleric to Reedspeaker.

Leon pulled another folded-up piece of parchment, this time from his coat pocket, where he’d shoved the paper himself.

Medusa, Death-bringer, the paper proudly proclaimed, wanted by the Phlegethon Empire, by order of Her Imperial Majesty, Isolde Bloodseeker, for treason and murder.

The reward had been worn away, but the image of his sister was so unlike how he remembered her.

The woman sketched there was fierce and bold, her curls so wild they could be mistaken for snakes, blackness blotting out the entirety of her eyes, thin, dark veins spreading from the edges of the eyes to her cheeks, a claw-like scar ripped from her brow all the way down to her cheek.

Then Leon spoke aloud into the silence.

“I need a fucking drink,” he muttered harshly.

ͽͼ

The Serpent Tongue was not the most popular pub in town, but it was certainly the oldest, that much everyone knew. It had been around for centuries and many of its first patrons were still patrons, being creatures of long lifespans.

Claude Beaumont was the last of the most recent generation of Beaumonts to own the Serpent Tongue, well, technically, he didn’t own it, his parents did, but he was a decent barkeep and it wasn’t as though Claude could do many occupations with his lame leg.

His mother had never approved of that line of thinking. There were other ways to make a living without needing the use of strong legs, but this was the life Claude was comfortable with. The family loved to tell those old stories about the man who’d built the Serpent Tongue -James Crowley-, their forebear, a human that had once sailed the seas with the Wailing Woman.

It had been a fantastic story to Claude when he’d been younger, knowing he was related to a pirate but now pirates as they had been back then were fewer in number, more often than not absorbed into the Empiric Navy.

No one liked to mess with the Empiric Navy.

Claude was very glad that Renouvel was a democratic country, that much he knew. But that didn’t mean that the Phlegethon Empire wasn’t an issue for them.

It was a quiet evening, the birds were crooning outside the windows and Claude was humming along to them as he wiped a glass with a rag, looking forward to a quiet evening.

Until the door slammed open and Claude almost dropped his glass.

The man framed in the doorway wasted no time in entering the practically empty tavern, making his way towards Claude and demanding, oh so eloquently, for “Whatever you’ve got that’s not utter shit.”

“Uh,” Claude responded just as eloquently. “How about some whiskey?”

The man gave a wave with an air of “Whatever.”

Claude poured him a few inches of whiskey, that he promptly downed, before adding more when the man pushed the glass back towards Claude.

The man, now that Claude could get a right look at him, was completely smeared and caked with mud; not an attractive look.

“You don’t happen to have a bath or something?” the man���s voice was harsh and his fingers twitched like he was used to using them to talk.

“Uh, yeah,” Claude’s tongue started working again. “Upstairs to the left, but it’ll cost you—”

The man threw down a silver coin that was more than enough to cover his drink and the bath, easily, before storming off.

Claude couldn’t help but be a bit miffed by the attitude, though, he supposed he’d feel poorly if he was looking like he’d kicked his way out of a buried coffin and was now immensely regretting the decision of returning to the living.

ͽͼ

It took an age scrub the dirt from his body. Leon must’ve had to empty the tub five times before he could settle into the water without blackening it with muck.

He looked to the mirror balanced on the vanity. His curling facial tattoos were plain to see without the dirt, the only sign of his nymph ancestry. They weren’t like Nomia’s, but it had only been later that she’d explained that they were both adopted, they were a darker and richer blue; Nomia’s had been so faint they were nearly white.

Some days he wished he had all three the traits nymphs possessed; curved ears that came to the faintest point, facial tattoos, and eyes the color of the sea.

His sister had inherited the ears, enough that someone could tell there was something inhuman about her but not enough to be noticed if her hood was up.

Lucky her.

Leon shook off those thoughts. He didn’t have time to think about that…or…

A wide smile with teeth that almost seemed fanged, green eyes with snake-like slitted pupils, and a silky voice that sent a shiver down his spine.

Rajan.

Leon’s voice choked on the name. The first time they’d even met he’d knocked Leon flat on his ass, his gnarly staff with that fluorite lodged in the wood sweeping Leon’s legs out from under him, and he’d been about two seconds away from braining Leon, when his sister had stepped in.

She’d been closer to what he remembered, then. No scars, but that one leg still a stump, an easy smile on her lips. She had never looked more comfortable than she did in the vestments of her god; golden and white and absolutely radiant.

Leon leaned his head back against the edge of the tub, looking at the inside of his right wrist, which bore a tattoo that the twins shared; a snake eating its tail. Nomia’s symbol. Their mother hadn’t been pleased about that tattoo.

It was easier to reminisce than it was to think about the predicament he was in. It was easier to think of his sister or Rajan or his mothers as alive.

They were alive! He thought viciously to himself. And he was going to keep believing that until he was proven otherwise.

He drew himself out of the bath, getting some more clean water to wash his grave-dirt caked clothes. Tomorrow, he decided after hanging them up to dry, tomorrow I’ll get some answers.

ͽͼ

The sun crept up slowly, cutting through the fog of the morning and dancing through the window until it came across his face and Leon scrunched up his nose and rolled over with a groan, trying to avoid the light as much as possible. But he could only escape so much and Leon really needed to figure out where he was and get a clue about his sister’s situation.

He pulled on his dried clothes from where they’d been hanging after he’d cleaned them the previous night, inspecting his long coat closely, only to sigh at how slightly damp it was.

Better than soaking wet and covered in mud, he supposed.

Leon’s stomach growled loudly, twisting in on itself and he winced suddenly. It had to’ve been ages since he’d had a proper meal. He checked his money pouch that he’d nicked on his way into town -in the fashion only a pirate was capable of- and hoped he had enough for some decent food. He had his own coins, sure, just not very much of them and Leon wasn’t totally sure what the currency ratio was and if they even accepted Panthian coins.

The barkeep did a double take when Leon finally wandered down the stairs. Leon could understand that…he’d probably looked half-dead the previous night.

“Got any food in this place?” he grunted, sitting on the same stool he had the previous night.

“…uh, we’ve got some eggs and meat left,” the man admitted after giving himself a mental shake. “It’s covered on what you paid last night for the bath and room.”

“Thanks,” Leon muttered as the man limped off to get him food and drink. “What’s your name?” he asked when he came back with the food, eagerly taking the plate from him and devouring the eggs with ease before moving onto the sausage and bacon.

“Claude Beaumont,” the man smiled helpfully. “And you?”

“Leon.”

“Just Leon?” Claude arched an eyebrow.

“Just Leon,” he agreed.

“Well, Leon…never seen a male nymph before.”

Leon froze too long in taking a drink, nearly choking on the water, just managing to swallow it without making a fool out of himself. “Not a nymph,” he rasped.

“Oh, sorry,” Claude said quickly, “it’s just the facial tattoos—”

“I’m half,” Leon forced out, albeit with great reluctance. And it had taken decades to find out the other half and its deadly capabilities; his throat ached as he swallowed again. “So’s my sister…she’s the one that got the nymph ears, though. Never quite forgave her for that.”

That startled a laugh out of Claude, probably trying to imagine a woman identical to Leon -dark, gleaming skin, blue facial tattoos, hazel eyes, broad shoulders- and it was always amusing to Leon when people saw the twins together; they couldn’t have looked more different.

“So…what country am I in?” Leon thought it best to start with the basics.

Claude stared at him dubiously for a few moments. “Are you serious?”

Leon arched an eyebrow.

“You don’t know what country you’re in?” Claude couldn’t seem to get past it.

“Give me some leeway,” Leon drawled, “I pulled myself out of a grave yesterday. I don’t even know what year it is.” Not that he’d really paid attention to that sort of thing back when he’d been alive the first time (or was it still considered only time since it wasn’t as though he’d been reincarnated or anything like that since coming out of the ground? Leon wasn’t totally sure).

“But…you have an accent,” Claude was flummoxed.

“Yeah?” Leon’s eyebrow twitched. “What’re ya tryin’ to say?” Leon knew he had an accent. He sounded Renouvelian, at least, that was what his sister had said the last time he’d seen her, but Captain Médée had been Renouvelian, as had most of her crew and Leon had been with them for decades, so it made sense that he talked like them. His sister had always had a Panthian twist to her tongue as hoarse as her voice was on the rare occasion that she had spoken aloud.

But she’d always been more like Brizo, their other mother, Leon thought. Kind and loving and patient, good in a fight, if it called for it. But she hadn’t much liked traveling by sea, and being in a family of sea-farers, there was nothing more ironic. She loved traveling as much as the rest of them, but preferred it on her own two feet.

Rajan and Ming Zhu had been the same. Birds of a feather and all that…it was hard not to be jealous of how tightly knit those three were.

“You’re in Renouvel,” Claude had evidently decided to save some face. “It’s the year 1420.”

Leon grunted. “That number doesn’t mean much…how long has it been since the Ash Blight?” That had been a rough time. A curse that had gotten out of control and ended up consuming an entire country. Chikolli had become a funeral pyre overnight and the last thing that Leon remembered was that no one wanted to go near it, by land or by sea, believing the curse still held strong, keeping anyone from setting foot on its ashen soil, lest they become ash as well.

His sister had wanted to go there, Leon didn’t know why, but at the time it seemed so important to her, like there was something waiting for her at Chikolli. Or someone. Leon had told her no; he knew more about curses than she did, magic was his thing the way truth was hers.

She hadn’t spoken to him since then.

“Ash Blight?” Claude’s brow furrowed. “Never heard of it.”

Okay…so it had definitely been a long time since then. Leon wasn’t good with history or the passage of time. The days always seemed to bleed together when all you saw was the endless sea. And Leon really loathed to ask, but— “Is there a library or something around here?” he asked in annoyance.

His sister was the one who’d loved history, especially ancient myths and legends, but Leon was more of a ‘making history’ kind of guy. But she’d never wanted that, she was content to sink into the background and remain unseen.

“Uh, yeah, there’s the Colas-sur-Mer Library.” Claude gave a half shrug, a bit confused. “It’s a big building down the street on the left, you can’t miss it.”

Leon didn’t even thank him, for the food, for the information, he just stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly on the ground, out of the door before Claude could say anything more.

“Don’t let the door hit you on the way out,” Claude muttered to himself.

ͽͼ

The good thing about big libraries: there were lots of books to help you find what you were looking for.

The bad thing about big libraries: there were lots of books to help you find what you were looking for.

It was moments like this that Leon wished he had his sister’s head for academics. She could find the book she was looking for with minimal effort. But Leon didn’t know what the fuck he was doing.

And he sure as hell wasn’t asking for help.

It took him hours and upon hours before he figured out he was looking in the wrong place. Powerful magic like that was illegal these days, which was honestly the most ridiculous thing that Leon had ever heard, but it was the kind of thing that would end up in a terrifying children’s story.

Which it was.

The Red Death.

Seemed appropriate, Leon supposed. It was a tragic story -but those were the best ones, weren’t they? - about an evil witch cursing a land that refused to bend to her whims, searching for a treasure she thought buried within the earth instead of in the heart of a small child. She burned everything away to ash only to find the treasure had been lost with the land she torched.

…how long had it been?

It had to have been more than a couple of centuries, long enough for history to become legend.

So…Leon was officially old, then. Yay for him. And he was the older twin.

[I’ll outlast you] she’d once said with certainty, smirking at him when he squawked in outrage. She was good at that, getting under his skin with a joke.

Or verbally shouting “Coward!” over the roar of waves crashing against a shoreline.

That still stung.

Air whistled through the library and Leon shut the book he was looking through a bit louder than he meant to. Even if he wanted to look for his sister, he had no idea where to start. She had hated their house growing up, he’d never been allowed up to the temple devoted to her god, and he never knew where she and her friends traveled to when they were together.

A piece of parchment, appropriately ancient and ripped, like someone had shredded a page pulled from a book. It had a single name on it.

“What the hell is an Ahnankhem?” Leon demanded out loud.

[merciful-mercenary]

Strawberry Cake - Valentine’s

Hello again! I wrote a oneshot for @askdoctoroliver and @ask-mr-luxembourg bc they’re both sweethearts that deserve the world okay 

Ship: Luxembourg/2p England (Doctor Oliver) Rating: G Themes: Fluff, Human AU, Valentine’s Special Summary: A florist and a confectioner are incredibly busy on Valentine’s Day of course, but that doesn’t mean they can’t celebrate it after they close up shop. Or, at least, celebrate it like friends do, right?

Claude = Luxembourg, Oliver = 2p England 

Valentine's Day was always a busy day for a confectionery and a flower shop, as was to be expected, especially when the two sat next to each other downtown. Claude, a calm and patient man, ran the flower shop while the confectionery was run by Oliver, a cheerful and kind-hearted man that Claude swore was as sweet as his candies. During the day, Claude knew they would both be too busy for him to visit Oliver, but he also knew the day didn't end once their shops closed.

So, once he finally was able to close up shop at the end of the day, he was about to leave to see how Oliver did for the day, but his display for Valentine's Day caught his eye. Unsurprisingly he had sold all of the roses he had prepared, but a few pots of pink and red tulips remained. He looked over each of them with a scrutinizing eye before picking one with a pale blue pot and softer pink tulips. He locked up his shop and headed next door, relieved that Oliver hadn't left yet.

The bell gave a pleasant chime as he walked in. Claude always enjoyed walking into Oliver's shop. Soft pink wallpaper with swirling cream decorations covered the walls, complimenting the wooden shelves that usually held premade boxes of chocolates and candies, though only a few stray boxes remained after the day. A couple of small round tables sat near the entrance, for customers that wished to sit with a cup of tea or coffee to enjoy their sweets with. The glass case that held all of the single chocolates was covered with a sheet. However, Claude's favorite part of the shop was nowhere in sight.

“Mr. Kirkland?” he called out.

The back door opened, and Oliver strolled out a moment later, his apron dusted with powdered sugar. Claude noted that he must have had a busy day as well, if how mussed up his strawberry blonde hair looked was anything to go by. “I'm sorry, I'm closed-- oh, Mr. Weis!” He brightened up at the sight of the florist. “How was your day? Successful, I hope?”

“Very much so. I almost never had a moment to sit down,” Claude sighed at the memory of the constant rush that day.

“Your feet must be sore. Would you like to rest here for a while? I just made tea,” Oliver offered.

“Thank you, I think I will take you on that offer,” Claude said. Any excuse to stay in the cozy shop was good. He held the tulips out to Oliver. “I brought you these. Happy Valentine's Day.”

Oliver's ice blue eyes widened and he took the pot, turning it slightly to admire the pale pink tulips that were almost the same shade as his cheeks. “Oh, thank you. What lovely flowers, you're a kind friend to give me these,” he said. He took the pot and walked away to set it on the windowsill. “I was just thinking today that window could use some decoration,” he mused. “It goes so well with the wallpaper too, how thoughtful.”

He stepped behind Claude and turned the lock on the door, and pulled the blinds down over the windows and door. “There. I am glad you stopped by, but I cannot take any more customers,” he said. “Now follow me, before the tea gets cold.”

Claude followed Oliver into the back room, the scent of chocolates making his mouth water. The back room was almost more comfortable than the main shop, with a cushioned couch and coffee table across the room from the kitchenette area where Oliver made everything by hand. The kitchenette area had tiled floors, but outside of it was plush carpet that made every step much more comfortable than the hard wooden flooring in Claude's shop. A cinnamon candle flickered on the coffee table, next to a tray of chocolates and a radio that played soft piano music.

Claude sat down on the couch while Oliver went to the teapot on the stove and pulled out two mugs to fill with tea.

“I hope chamomile is alright. It was a busy day for me too,” Oliver said. “Would you like honey?”

“Yes, please and thank you. Chamomile is perfect,” Claude assured him. He couldn't help but stare at the tray of sweets sitting on the coffee table. A few chocolates and candies looked misshapen or off color, and some heart-shaped sugar cookies were darker around the edges than Oliver normally cooked them as. However, to Claude, who had barely anything to eat that day, they looked like the  most appetizing things in the world.

“May I have some?” he asked, pointing at the tray.

Oliver turned to look at him and blanched at the sight of the tray. “Oh goodness, I'm sorry. Those were failed batches that were too deformed to give to children, I was eating them before you came in. I will get some better looking ones from the front for you. It's the least I can do for the flowers,” he said as he stirred the honey into their mugs.

Claude grabbed a misshapen chocolate, which he assumed was meant to look like a heart but looked more like a triangle with a small indent in the top. He popped it into his mouth, humming in content as the chocolate melted on his tongue.

“Mr. Weis--!”

“It tastes good as ever,” Claude assured him with a confident smile. “They may not look perfect, but they taste perfect and sweet as always, and that is all that matters, isn't it?”

Oliver carried the mugs over and hesitated for a moment, looking at the misshapen sweets before sighing and sitting down next to Claude. “If you insist,” he said, handing one of the mugs to Claude before taking a sip of his own tea.

“Was today a good day for you as well?” Claude asked.

“Yes, but quite busy,” Oliver sighed. “I came in at 4 this morning to make sure I had enough stock ready for the day, and I still ran out of a lot.”

“Do you have any plans for tonight?” Claude asked, scooting closer to Oliver until their legs brushed.

Oliver visibly tensed at the contact and he glanced to the side as he held his mug close. “No, I think..only baking tonight to fill up the shelves again.”

“That sounds like a lot of work. I can stay and help, if you'd like,” Claude offered, taking a sugar cookie off of the tray to nibble on it.

“Oh, I could not possibly ask you to do that. I'm sure you have your own plans,” Oliver defended, a light worried frown on his face.

Claude smiled and wrapped his arm around Oliver's shoulders. “I cannot think of any better way to spend Valentine's. We could make it a date.”

“Yes, of course, a date as friends, right?” Oliver said with a weak laugh. “Ha, that reminds me. I had prepared boxes of chocolates, with the chocolates in letters that said 'Happy Valentine's Day'. One young man asked for me to replace the 'v' in Valentine's with a 'p', so that it was 'Palentine's'. A valentine who is your pal. Isn't that clever?” he chuckled. “It's a palentine's date then.”

Ever the patient man, and also enjoying seeing Oliver so flustered, Claude pressed on. “I would rather have it be a real Valentine's date, Oliver.”

Oliver coughed and cleared his throat. “Yes, I suppose it is ridiculous to give it a different name, isn't it?” he mused. “A valentine does not have to be romantic, after all.”

“It could be romantic,” Claude insisted.

“Yes, yes, er, of course it can be, Valentine's is seen as a romantic holiday first and foremost, but friendship truly is just as important, and I am glad to have such a friend like you,” Oliver agreed, his cheeks red as he pointedly stared down and to the side at a spot on the carpet. “And I would greatly appreciate the help. The shop was nearly cleared out today.”

Claude wondered if the confectioner's head was filled with sugar with how sweet but oblivious he was. However, it was nothing new to him, so he only gave a small sigh and grabbed another chocolate to take a bite out of. Oliver was cute when he was flustered, though. “It's a good thing I stopped by then,” he said. “You know you can call me, right? You have my number.”

“Yes, but I have been able to handle it,” Oliver assured him as he sipped at his tea. “It's caused a few late nights and early mornings, but it is like this every year.”

“Is it not better to have company while you bake?”

“It does get quiet,” Oliver sighed. He smiled and gave Claude a small nudge. “But it's okay, because I've got you here tonight,” he reasoned. “What a wonderful Valentine's date, two friends baking together.”

“Yes,” Claude said, his grip tightening ever so slightly on his mug.

The piano music drifted lazily around the room as they drank their tea and ate the reject sweets. Oliver wished he could enjoy the comfortable silence that settled over them, but he sat tensed as Claude shifted to rest his cheek on top of his head. Cuddling was a friendly thing to do, right? Surely it must be. His cheeks warm, he shifted to try to get comfortable against Claude, though the tension never left his shoulders. He only hoped that Claude couldn't feel how hard his heart hammered against his chest, as if he had run across town. Not that he knew why, Claude was his friend. It was normal for friends to sit close to each other, right?

Oliver finished his second cup of tea quickly, worried about dropping the mug from his hands shaking. “Maybe chamomile tea wasn't the best idea so early,” he mumbled.

“Perhaps a quick rest before we start would help,” Claude suggested.

Oliver stood to gather up the now empty tray, teapot, and their mugs, trying to ignore how cold he felt without Claude's arm around him. He glanced back at the couch with pursed lips. “There's not enough room on the couch for both of us,” he pointed out.

Claude hummed in thought and took off his shoes to lay down on the couch while Oliver washed everything off.

“What if you sleep on top of me?” Claude suggested. Oliver nearly dropped the tray in the sink, and he turned off the water.

“What did you say?” he asked.

“You can sleep on top of me,” Claude repeated. “Lay down on top of me, and sleep.”

“No, no. I can sleep on the floor,” Oliver insisted. He walked back towards the couch, and moved to lay down in front of it. “Perfectly comfortable,” he reasoned.

“I think I would be more comfortable, and warmer too,” Claude reasoned with a mischievous smile.

“Yes but I am perfectly content down here, thank you.” To prove his point, Oliver turned on his side, his back to the couch. Claude turned to trail his fingers over Oliver's shoulder.

“You're too tense, you'll be sore if you sleep down there for any longer than a few minutes,” he reasoned. “You cannot be in pain while you bake, it might result in more mistakes.”

Oliver pressed his lips into a thin line. Claude did have a point, and if he could avoid making any errors in his sweets, it would be a good opportunity to take. He glanced over his shoulder at Claude, who gave him an innocent smile.

“So?” Claude asked.

“...I will just have to take a short nap then before getting to work,” Oliver reasoned, turning back over. It almost felt like he didn't need to nap anymore, with how fast his heart was racing. He jumped in surprise when Claude stepped over him to get up.

“Then I will sleep on the floor,” Claude said, sitting down on the floor cross legged. “So that you can sleep on the couch.”

“Mr. Weis, you are a friend and guest! I cannot let you sleep on the floor,” Oliver defended.

“Then I guess the couch will just have to go to waste, because I will not sleep on it unless you are sleeping on it as well,” Claude said, crossing his arms.

Oliver hesitated and sat up, looking at the couch and then at Claude. Would it really be so bad for friends to sleep on top of one another? As long as nothing happened, which it wouldn't, then it was just a friendly gesture. He gave a resigned sigh and got to his feet.

“Fine,” he said as he sat on the couch to take off his shoes. Oliver tried not to stare too hard at the triumphant smile on Claude's face as he laid down on his back and got comfortable. “Okay, come here.”

He looked over when he only got silence in response, and saw Claude covering his mouth as his face flushed bright red.

“What? You wanted me to lay on you a minute ago. Surely this is the same,” Oliver reasoned. Claude struggled to find the right words.

“Well, yes, but..I--” Claude paused and took a breath to regain composure, and he slowly hissed it out. “Okay.” He got up, stiff from trying to hold back how flustered he was, and hesitantly laid down on top of Oliver. He folded his arms on top of Oliver's chest to rest his head on, and try to hide his red cheeks.

Oliver only hoped that Claude was too flustered to notice how fast his own heart was racing. “Yes, I do think this is more comfortable,” he agreed, wrapping an arm around Claude. “I think this has already been one of the best Valentine's dates I have had in a while. Thank you for..for being such a good friend, Mr. Weis.”

Claude sighed and closed his eyes, unable to hide the slight smile tugging at his lips. “Of course. Happy Valentine's day, Mr. Kirkland.”

[flauntpage]

The Flyers Gift Their Fans (At Least) One More Home Playoff Game

It was all but over.

After two listless performances on home ice, the Flyers limped into Pittsburgh facing a 3-1 series deficit against a Penguins team looking to hoist the Stanley Cup for the third straight season.

The patient clung to life – barely. All that remained was for Sidney Crosby to administer last rites, Evgeni Malkin to drive the final nail into the coffin, and the local beat writers to shovel dirt on the grave that would serve as the final resting place of the 2017-18 campaign.

And then something unexpected happened. The Flyers showed a pulse.

They didn’t deserve to win. The Penguins dominated large stretches of the 2nd and 3rd periods while the Flyers took bad penalties and relied on Michal Neuvirth to cover for poor play in the defensive zone. Pittsburgh claimed a big advantage in the faceoff circle, possessed the puck for much of the contest, and consequently had the Flyers chasing the game instead of dictating it.

Neuvirth was spectacular, except when he wasn’t. The two goals he conceded were incredibly soft. The first came after Neuvirth carelessly turned over the puck, leading to extended offensive zone time and a wraparound goal delivered by Penguins forward Bryan Rust. Neuvirth was able to get to the post to stop the shot, but somehow the puck squeaked through his pads.

The second goal was equally inexcusable given the situation. Jake Guentzel took a pass from Crosby, depositing the puck through the five-hole and into the back of the net. Neuvirth’s second period nadir put the orange and black in a 2-1 deficit. If they had put forth the effort they exhibited in Games 3 and 4, the series would have ended.

Instead, the Flyers battled back. A short-handed tally from Valtteri Filppula tied the game late in the second, while a Sean Couturier blast from the blue line late in the third pulled the Flyers ahead. Matt Read sealed the victory with an empty net goal, and the Flyers lived to play another day.

Given the evidence of the past week, the result seemed improbable, but in the context of the longer arc of the Flyers’ season, the Game 5 triumph was not unusual.

This is an organization whose only consistent attribute is its inconsistency. After dropping 10 in a row during a horrid November skid that stretched into December and pushed them into the NHL basement, the Flyers responded with a 10-1-2 February run that catapulted them ever so briefly to the top of the Metropolitan Division.

Through it all, the fans who support this organization have been along for the ride. They have exhibited a remarkable degree of patience while Ron Hextall slowly reconstructs the roster. Hextall’s plan does not feature a catchy name like “The Process.” It more closely resembles a multi-year renovation project than the wholesale demolition and rebuilding campaign that the 76ers executed under Sam Hinkie.

In the battle between the present and the future, the general manager has been more inclined to favor the latter. The offseason trade of Brayden Schenn exemplified this posture. Though the deal was met with some consternation, particularly early in the season when Schenn got off to a hot start, it was a good haul for the Flyers. In return for assuming Jori Lehtera’s salary, which comes off the books after next season, Hextall netted two first round draft picks for a player whose point production was overly reliant on Claude Giroux and the power play. One of those selections was used on Morgan Frost, a promising prospect who had a dominant season in the OHL. The swap also opened up an opportunity for Sean Couturier to play on the top line, which unlocked his offensive game and catapulted the young center to a Selke Trophy nomination.

Hextall has shed the go-for-broke approach that characterized the Ed Snider era. Gone are the days of mortgaging the future for increasing the chance at the Stanley Cup in the present. Given the demands of the salary cap era, it’s the right strategy. However, the fan base has been saddled with a team that lives on the fringes of contention – sometimes exciting, other times frustrating, and ultimately disappointing.

As a reward for their loyalty, Flyers fans have been granted another opportunity to experience playoff hockey. Although Philadelphia Inquirer columnist Mike Sielski might feel differently, the fans deserve it.

"#Flyers fans know at their subconscious core that they would adore [Crosby] if he played for their team. God forbid they admit as much, of course. Better to piddle on his image. And their own." https://t.co/5cQAIHteYw #Penguins

— Mike Sielski (@MikeSielski) April 16, 2018

Sielski is a smart and talented journalist. Nevertheless, the column he wrote after Game 3 was a condescending pile of garbage written from the perspective of a person who seems disconnected from the fans to which his writing is directed.

It wasn’t bad because it was written poorly. Just take a look at Sielski’s lede and appreciate the wonderful display of alliteration:

There is no shame, if you have any sense of grace or even a small measure of self-respect, in taking perverse pleasure in watching Sidney Crosby torment and toy with the Flyers in this first-round playoff series.

It was bad because Sielski stubbornly refused to allow facts and context to get in the way of a good story. In his piece, Sielski propped up the “Philly fan” straw man and took some swings. The source of his outrage was the placement of “custom-made” Sidney Crosby urinal cakes in various bathrooms at the Wells Fargo Center:

No opposing athlete arouses the same animosity here that Crosby does, none drives the most repellent segment of the Flyers’ fan base battier than he does, and none responds to the vitriol with the same excellence. He was the best and most productive player on the ice in the Penguins’ 5-1 Game 3 rout on Sunday, scoring their first goal and adding three assists thereafter. This, four days after a hat trick in Game 1. This, amid another example of the puerile behavior that too many Flyers fans are too happy to exhibit.

In a paragraph that is peppered with specific numbers, it’s the “too many” quantifier that really stands out. “Too many Flyers fans” engage in bad behavior, says the bard from his lofty perch in the media room. How many, exactly? How many fans does it take for an ugly, unearned stereotype to take hold?

It’s one thing to be subjected to trite descriptions of the forest from national journalists in search of easy copy and a hot take, but a local sports writer who lives and works among the trees should know better.

The fans in Philadelphia will boo Sidney Crosby, just as they do in New York and Washington. Such is life for one of the best players ever to grace the NHL stage. A player that the fans believed actually sucked would be met with indifference, not hostility.

Left unmentioned in Sielski’s screed is the way the NHL has leaned into the polarizing reaction its star athlete engenders. There’s a reason why the Flyers-Penguins series is assuming a central place on the NHL’s dwindling national platform. For a league that has long played fourth fiddle in the professional sports quartet, any reaction besides indifference is beneficial from a ratings standpoint. And better ratings produce more lucrative television deals, which means a higher salary cap and richer salaries (plus increased endorsement opportunities) for players like Sidney Crosby.

Flyers fans show up and support their team. The same cannot always be said for their counterparts in Pittsburgh. In the year prior to the arrival of Crosby, the Penguins were last in the league in attendance. The city almost lost the franchise in 2007. But the presence of a roster littered with superstars has a way of resuscitating a moribund hockey town.

What can you do? Even among the local sports media, no one likes us, and we don’t care. Well, maybe we care a little.

None of it matters now. On Sunday afternoon, a hated fan base will greet its embattled hockey team. The atmosphere will be raucous, but the Flyers will need to sustain the interest of the crowd by displaying the type of effort they produced during Game 5. I wouldn’t mind a start that resembled the last time the Flyers and Penguins met in a Game 6 in Philadelphia:

The trajectory of the series suggests a Penguins win. But when it comes to the Flyers, it’s best to expect the unexpected.

The Flyers Gift Their Fans (At Least) One More Home Playoff Game published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[mysteryfanfictheatre3000]

Back to the Frollo, Chapter 17

Warning: a teenager is treated like scum for picking up his siblings at a reasonable time.

Chapter Seventeen

"Jehan", I began, as I petted Snowball's nose, "what happened?" Jehan Frollo, obviously upset and concerned about the soldier's condition, replied, "I was in Paris Saturday; I had planned to visit my brother. When I learned he wasn't in town..." I said to Jehan, "Claude was with me, in my home." Jehan smiled; it was not as dazzling as Claude's, but warm and friendly. "I had a feeling he was with one of his ladies."

He has multiple ladies? Isn’t Jehan the deadbeat and Claude the hyper-religious one?

He continued to tell me how he had found the soldier, who was severely injured, perhaps dying. "I was on my way to the Chateau d'Arcy...you do remember...we had a wonderful Sunday afternoon...", His voice trailed off; he paused to collect his thoughts, then continued. "Apparently, the horse kicked him several times. He fell backwards down the embankment; it's very rocky down there. His head was...I'm glad my brother made you stay outside...all bruised and bloody." Jehan sat down on the ground; the recollection of the gravely injured man had clearly disturbed him. "There's also some internal damage ...at least I think so...I could hear blood...gurgling..."

Is that how head injures sound? And why is Frollo in there? What medical knowledge does he have? How could he ever hope to help this guy, and why would he?

Jehan's voice began to quaver as he continued. Even I began to feel a little queasy at Jehan's descriptions of the man's injuries. "I went for help at once. The caretaker's cottage was just a few miles away. We brought him back here", he nodded towards the small cottage. I then asked, "Jehan, where's the caretaker? Claude and I didn't see anyone, except the servant and two guards." Jehan replied, "The servant told me that the caretaker left for Paris several days ago, to search for his wife." I looked puzzled, then Jehan continued, "I knew to contact my brother because the man kept saying, 'I want to apologize to Minister Frollo...and to my cousin.'" Now, I was truly puzzled. I know what the man did to Claude...but....who's the cousin? It wouldn't dawn on me until....

Please don’t be Phoebus, please don’t be Phoebus…

Jehan sighed as he got to his feet. "Well....I guess I should go inside. Claude will thank me; at least, this time, his little brother did something right for a change." After Jehan went inside the cottage, I walked up to Snowball. I've always loved this massive, beautiful animal. I told the boy to run along; I'll watch the horse. I petted Snowball's nose and stroked his silky mane. Good old Snowball...I'm glad you're OK....you're a nice horse...want to go for a walk?... To keep myself occupied while Claude and company were dealing with that soldier, I recalled that day of the farewell party. It was an affair that everyone, especially Claude Frollo, would never forget.

Oh shut up. No one cares about your stupid party and your stupid relationship. ****** "My darling Nisha, you and your friends have truly outdone yourselves", said Claude Frollo as he surveyed the table laden with a variety of delicious food. We really knocked ourselves out to make this party a truly memorable experience. Fern and Kyle cooked mounds of barbequed ribs, chicken, and turkey (Kyle's idea -- to introduce medieval Parisians to native American foods). Jacki and I worked overtime, preparing salads and scrumptious desserts. I proudly pointed to the pecan cake. saying to Claude, "I baked this especially for you." Claude was truly pleased. "You remembered how much I like your American pecans," he said lovingly.

… and then everyone got sick from all this extensive, chemical-loaded, genetically modified American food, right? Right?

It was a glorious Saturday afternoon; the early August weather was extremely pleasant, nothing like the hot, sticky days back home. We had set up tables and chairs in the street; our block was wide enough to accommodate all our guests. Just as Claude had promised, he had his men block off the area to traffic; that way, we wouldn't be bothered with the entire populace of Paris swarming all over. There wouldn't be enough food anyway! Jehan, as usual, helped himself to everything, and asked, "What is this? What do you call that?" Upon tasting my potato salad and sugar cream pie, he favorably commented, "Mmm...delicious...you must make more of this before you leave."

We don’t need more unnecessary descriptions of random things. Food, clothes… it never ends.

Claude just smiled at his brother, then he leaned over and said to me, "Typical behavior...pay him no mind." Claude complimented Fern on the barbeque. I think it was then he developed a particular fondness for my sweet, spicy sauce. He then chuckled good-humoredly as he reached under the table and grasped my hand. I made sure I didn't mention our eventual parting; I wanted this to be an enjoyable experience for everyone.

Everyone knows and no one cares.

Aunt Perle kept everyone entralled with stories of her childhood and her long career as a teacher. Claude said to Perle, "I hope you aren't too homesick, being without all your 20th Century conveniences." Perle just laughed and said, "Your Honor, I grew up in a two-room cabin. No running water, no electricity, no indoor plumbing. Staying at Marie-Louise's is almost like that - But a lot grander and more comfortable!" We all broke up in laughter; then, Jehan asked, "Why didn't you marry?" Aunt Perle explained that, back where she first taught, "schoolteachers weren't allowed to marry. or at least marriage was discouraged. Oh, I could have married, but I decided to devote my life to the children." Claude praised Perle's devotion to her chosen profession.

‘Cause Frollo’s just so kind and caring and feminist.

“Expunge this heathen gypsy whore- before we’re overrun, we must attack!” -Frollo in the song Esmeralda

Just before he could ask Aunt Perle more about her life, Fern excused herself from the table. She then turned to me and said, "You think you, Jacki and Shelli (Kyle's girlfriend, whom he invited to medieval Paris - this would be her SECOND trip!)

STOP INTRODUCING THESE RANDOM IDIOTS NO ONE CARES ABOUT.

can hold down the fort until I get back?" I looked at Fern with questioning eyes. Why does she have to leave? What's she up to?

[long passage about Danisha singing random accapela cut because I have no words other than “this sucks”]

Oooh Claude....I can feel you getting all steamed up...now, sugar, please keep yourself in check...this is definitely NOT the place nor the time!

It is never the time! No one wants to read this!

The crowd erupted in thunderous applause as soon as we finished. "We've never heard anything like this before! Sing more!", came the cries from the audience. But I could see Fern coming with a group of people, so we left the stage, but not before I introduced Fern.

And then everyone clapped and gave me %100$ and the President came and shook my hand…and his name was Albert Einstein! Paging r/thathappened.

Fern, her full-figure clad in a long, colorful gingham dress and white pinafore, looked more like a farmer's wife from Indiana than a stylish Parisianne. She was carrying what I knew was her autoharp. Fern stepped up onstage, faced the crowd, then proudly announced, "Ladies and gentleman, and distinguished guests", she nodded to Claude and Jehan Frollo. "First off, I'd like to thank y'all for coming out on this beautiful day. We truly hate to leave y'all but it's been a joyous summer. Good friends, good memories..." Her voice stopped as she glanced over at Claude and me. I was sitting next to him; we were holding hands. Then Fern, all smiles, announced, "It gives me great pleasure to introduce these good folks. I've known these guys ever since I was a young'un. Matter of fact, some of them taught me to play this thing," she held up the autoharp, "when I was still a-toddlin'." She laughed heartily, then continued, "Here, I'm wasting time, when we should be tappin' our toes, clappin' our hands,and singin' along. Good people of Paris, meet the Front Porch String Band!"

It’s like that part where Esmeralda dances and everyone throws money at her. Except Esmeralda had a beautiful voice and could actually dance and sing. And deserved the money she got because she was a good person in a disadvantaged position. 

[yet another long passage about said spring band cut because, you guessed it, it’s stupid]

"Gonna start out with a little tune called, The Wabash Cannonball. OK, folks, let's go...one, two, three.." The whole block was filled with the rustic sounds of the American Heartland. I was somewhat apprehensive when Fern told me she was bringing the band; Parisians may be put off by 'hillbilly' music. I was wrong - our guests loved it! Especially Claude and Jehan, who were tapping their toes to the lively beat of the music.

Because they just love America so much! It’s totally not the author shoehorning in their own interests or anything!

The band continued to play many favorite numbers. Fern got up and danced with Ray to Redbird.

[long, immensely stupid passage in which Kyle dances and everyone loves it so much]

... I heard a sound from under the table. I pulled back the tablecloth and, to my surprise, stared directly into the eyes of Quasimodo. He was munching on cookies and drinking lemonade.

Oh, come on! Just leave the poor guy alone! He doesn’t have to be involved in this! Just let him be!

"Quasi! What are doing here? You're going to get into trouble!" Quasi shushed me and whispered, "I heard about your party, and I wanted to come. Please don't tell my master."

He still calls Frollo his master. Danisha, activist as she is, should be able to notice the parallels between this and slavery. Alas, she’s an idiot.

I thought for a few seconds, then decided not to tell Claude; after all, Quasi's my little buddy. Even though Claude and I were lovers, and told each other nearly everything, I wasn't about to inform him of this. Let Quasi have a little fun...what can it hurt? "Look, Quasi," I told him, "Keep out of sight, and promise me you'll go back to the cathedral. I don't want to risk falling out with Claude Frollo." Quasimodo promised me he would stay out of trouble.

So Frollo still abuses and keeps hidden this 20-something man. This is totally not messed up, at all!

"What took so long?", Kyle asked me as I returned with lemonade and cookies. I replied, "I had to make another batch of lemonade; these guys are really running through it." I'm not a good liar, but I thought everyone, especially Claude, bought it. Our party was winding down; the band played its final numbers as daylight was quickly fading. "Play Rocky Top!", called someone from the crowd. It was Perle Darcey. Everyone laughed as Fern said from her seat on the stage, "Miss Perle, this is especially for you!" And with that, the band launched into one of my favorites.

[long passage in which Danisha and Frollo dance and he cries because of course he does. Then they explain the telephone to Jehan, who is confused, and is treated like an idiot because of it despite that being a completely reasonable reaction on his part]

Why is Frollo such a crybaby all the time? It’s so annoying to read, and the image of him sobbing is gross.

Claude and I continued to embrace and kiss when, just then, we heard a rustling sound in the alley. "What was that? A rat?", I said somewhat alarmedly, for I HATE rats! "Hmmm...", Claude began, "I rather think it's the two-legged variety." At that moment, a young, blond-haired man rushed past us; I recognized him at once. "Claude", I said, "isn't that..." Claude Frollo declared, "Malus de Chateaupers...that damned boy! He must have gotten past the guards."

So we can already tell he’s an antagonist because Malus means bad. Because this author is subtle. Also, de Chateaupers? This guy is going to be Phoebus’s cousin, son or brother, I guarantee it.

Without hestitation, Claude summoned two of his men to arrest Malus for disorderly conduct, but Malus did not come to disrupt the party. Rather, he came to take his younger brother and sister home. These were Renée and Jules, aged ten and fourteen, respectively. They were part of the little group of children who took part in my playtimes; they were my particular favorites. The children protested going home so soon. I took Malus aside and said, "Can't you let them stay a little longer? We hadn't had ice cream yet. I'll see them home...promise." I glanced over at Jacki who was bringing out Aunt Perle's homemade ice cream. Jacki kept it frozen in a chest lined in dry ice. Malus shot me a withering look. I remember Claude telling me about this young man; he was nothing but trouble. He said nothing as he dragged his siblings away from the festivities; their protests were in vain.

How dare he pick up his siblings at a reasonable time from a festival run by strange drunken adults? How DARE he? Boy, Malus has some nerve!

"Claude, aren't you going to arrest him?" Claude Frollo replied, "Oh, don't worry, my dearest. I put a...what is that 20th Century expression...'tail'?...on young Malus de Chateaupers. I believe he was spying on us." I looked at Claude uncomfortably and said, "Spying...snooping?..." I felt a slight twinge of fear.

Yet another unnecessary subplot for drama. Why can’t this story just end?!

Why would Malus spy on us?...All he wanted to do was come get his siblings... Claude embraced me, warning me to, "stay away from that young man, my love." Then he sighed and said, "It's a pity he's not like his more illustrious cousin, Phoebus de Chateaupers."

CALLED IT. KNEW IT. BAM. TOLD YOU.

Phoebus.... I heard about him from some of our neighbors. Finally, I pushed all negative thoughts from my mind then said to Claude, "I thought we were supposed to have a good time. Besides, you don't want to miss out on ice cream." Claude grinned. "You're right...I can deal with juvenile delinquents another day." Then his eyes widened in anticipation. "Ice cream?", he began with a broad smile. "My mouth is literally watering in expectation."

He’s a delinquent and a spy… because he picked up his siblings. Talk about a Designated Villain.

That said, we enjoyed the waning hours of an unforgettable day.

You mean another dull, uninspired, boring day filled with wish fulfillment and useless OCs?

****** I walked Snowball around the grounds surrounding the little cottage. I think we were both bored from waiting so long. What is going on in there? Is he..... Just then, Jehan came out and pulled me by the hand. "What's the matter, Jehan?", I demanded. Jehan, looking somewhat alarmed and worried at the same time, said, "Danisha! You need to come in here. The man wants to say something to you."

Wait, so what timeline are we in now? This is just annoying, skipping between time periods endlessly with no indication of where or when we are.

I don't know this man...what could he possibly say to me?...and why? "Hurry!", insisted Jehan, "I don't think there's much time left." I followed Jehan into the caretaker's cottage, but turned my eyes towards the road, in time to spot a tall figure in the distance, riding a white horse.

If this is Phoebus and Achilles, I’m going to kill someone.

[mysteryfanfictheatre3000]

Back to the Frollo, Chapter 10

Warning: No one kills Hitler in this one.

Chapter Ten

"So you finally met him, eh?", chuckled Fern as I mentioned my first few meetings with Claude Frollo. She kept laughing as I helped her unload supplies from a wagon. One nice thing about Jacki's invention was that we were able to travel back and forth through time and space with little trouble.

And you’re using this revolutionary technology to go to 1400s France, do absolutely nothing important or interesting, and mess with the plot of a Disney movie. You could be killing Hitler right now, couldn’t you?

Fern and I had just returned from a special shopping trip back home; we had to stock up on things that we couldn't possibly get in 15th century France: corn, sweet potatoes, sugar, coffee, and other foods we took for granted in our own time. We were getting somewhat homesick.

So go home. No one wants you here, and again, I’m more comfortable with these crazies being in America where they’re powerless and jail is a thing.

We even brought back some recorded music. This was Fern's idea, though I was apprehensive about bringing the CDs. Jacki had rigged a special device on a boombox so we could listen to recorded music whenever we wanted. I never asked Jacki how it worked, must've been solar-powered, since we obviously had no electricity. All I knew was it worked.

This Jacki chick is a genius. Why is she devoting all her advancements in science to helping her teacher’s friend fall in love with an elderly priest from centuries ago instead of actually doing anything good in the world?

So now I had my Motown and R&B, and Fern had her country tunes. We had to either keep the volume down or listen with headphones. We would've had a LOT of explaining to do if we ever got caught, and I knew what the charge would be: Witchcraft.

She keeps worrying about being accused of being a witch, but she keeps bringing back unnecessary future technology that would heighten everyone’s suspicions of her being a witch!

I never told Fern everything about my encounters with Frollo nor did I tell her my true feelings for the Minister of Justice, that I was gradually falling in love with him, and he didn't even know. Fern just gave me a stern warning. "Please try to stay out of trouble, especially if it involves Minister Frollo." She looked at me intently. "I'd hate to tell your folks that their darling daughter's -- ahem -- 'tied up' in Paris and won't be coming home."

Tied up as in tied to a pyre about to get burned to death? Because that seems like it could happen.

She then embraced me, chuckling in that southern Indiana twang, "Girlfriend, if you want to be friendly with the likes of Claude Frollo, that's your business." As Fern settled herself in the wagon and took the reins in hand, she said, "It's weird but it's your business. Just be careful."

It is weird, but it’s absolutely your business because Danisha messing the most powerful man in Paris could absolutely get you both killed.

"Don't worry about me, Fern", I said, "I won't get in trouble." Fern left for that old chateau where she kept the '59 Chevy. She said she had to take care of some business. Odd, I thought, she never let me venture inside that magnificant house. I always had to stay outside while Fern readied the Chevy. The car remained secure in another building on the estate. How could she just stash the car on private property without permission? Why hasn't anyone discovered it by now? Why hasn't anyone questioned our comings and goings? And why were these trips always made at night?

Probably because you’re a sick weirdo and she wants to get away from you. And how is she living here anyway? Why is Danisha referring to Fern’s chateau as private property she isn’t supposed to be on? I thought she owned the house somehow. Is she just casually living with a random Parisian family?

I pushed those thoughts from my mind as I pondered Fern's warning, 'be careful'. There was no need to be extra cautious around Claude Frollo any more, as I encountered him several times since that odd business in the cathedral. Just pleasant small talk and a few smiles passed between us, nothing more. I really felt that we could finally become friends. What happened later that morning proved me right. A nice compliment and some homebaking at last helped to break the ice.

Home baking is two words. Also, that would probably make him sick, seeing as he’s never had 90% of modern-day foods.

Fern had brought back so many pecans that I decided to take advantage of the pleasant late-June weather and do some baking. I baked a variety of wonderful things: cookies for the kids, a pie for Quasimodo. I then packed some cookies in a pretty tin for Minister Frollo; he should appreciate this.

So she just wanders around giving people strange food they’ve never seen before? Also, how is she cooking right now? Modern stove tops and ovens didn’t exist back then. Is it another of Jacki’s marvelous inventions that won’t be mentioned ever again unless the plot demands it?

I must've had an attack of ESP, for at that very moment, Claude Frollo had just rode past our house. I immediately went to the door and started to call out to him. He must've sensed my presence as he circled back and stopped. Oh, he looks so handsome! He wasn't wearing the splendid black velvet judicial robe with its jewel-trimmed yoke and epaulets. Instead, he wore a casual, hunter-style outfit complete with tall boots, tunic, form-fitting black hose, a sweeping cloak, and the famous triangular hat with its long red veil. The entire ensemble fitted his tall, slender form perfectly.

Every time she describes him like this, I think I lose a year off my lifespan.

Claude Frollo smiled as he greeted me. "Good Morning, my dear. And what a good morning it is now that I have seen your charming face." I returned the smile and, feeling a little silly, replied in a mock-Southern, down-on-de-ole-plantation dialect, "Mornin', Min'ster Frollo, suh. Much 'bliged y'all kin stop by an' set a spell. I has some pow'ful tasty pecan cake in yonder. Y'all sho' is welcomed."

Why does she speak in these weird, racist old dialects when she’s trying to flirt? No part of that makes me think “sexy,” it makes me think she’s an idiot.

Claude Frollo couldn't stop laughing as he dismounted and approached me. "Is this the language of the New World? It's rather odd and harsh...", he said as I welcomed him inside. "Coming from you, my dear Mlle. Wood, it is like pure music." "I would be delighted", continued Frollo, "to partake some light refreshment, especially in the company of such a beautiful hostess."

I can’t even talk about how out of character this is without being redundant anymore. He’s an abusive genocidal maniac! Why is he flirting with a girl and eating cookies?!

I tried to keep my nervousness from showing during Frollo's brief visit, but here he was, the Minister of Justice himself, sharing a piece of cake, a cup of lemonade, and pleasant conversation. Frollo favorably commented on my baking skills and developed a fondness for pecans that persists to this day. It was a pleasant, although short, visit. My heart sank as I showed him to the door.

And then he threw up because you’re overloading his odd with food he’s never had before, chock-full of chemicals and microorganisms that didn’t exist back then and would make him sick.

"Good looking horse, Your Grace", I said as Frollo mounted that gorgeous black stallion. I handed over the tin of cookies. "Percheron stallion, am I right?", I asked. Claude Frollo grinned. "You are as keenly observant as you are lovely. How did you know?" "My grandpa owned Belgians", I replied, "and I just like big horses." I asked, "What's his name?" "I call him 'Snowball'", replied His Grace. I looked at Frollo quizzically. "Minister Frollo, this horse is not white, he's black. Naming a black horse 'Snowball'?...That's like naming a polar bear 'Midnight'."

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I was certain that the good judge would slap me upside my head, but he just softly chuckled and said, "My dear, never lose that special style of humor. I will admit I am getting used to it..." He paused for a few seconds, then adding at last, "And getting used to you."

That’s not funny, that’s just her not understanding a simple joke.

His eyes met mine and he grew strangely silent. We looked at each other for several moments, then Claude Frollo spoke at last. "I thank you for the treats. I'd love to stay longer but I do have duties to perform." I offered him a bright smile. "Minister Frollo, you're welcomed here anytime. I know you're busy, but, drop by every now and then." Claude Frollo returned the smile. "I shall," he said, "Oh yes, one more thing. Do call me 'Claude'. I know you have been very polite and formal, but we know each other well enough to be on Christian terms, Danisha." He smiled again, said good-bye, and rode off.

He’s not even “on Christian terms” with Quasimodo, the baby he raised for years! Why is he so buddy-buddy with this chick he just met?

It was so weird, I thought, that only a few days ago we were at odds. Now Claude and I were growing closer with each passing day, but only as friends. I didn't care what people said about him, about his cruel nature and cold-heartedness. In those early days of our friendship, Claude always treated me with patience and kindness.

Does it really matter if he “treats you with kindness” if he tried to rape and murder another woman and commit genocide against an entire people? I mean, the fact that he likes your food shouldn’t erase literally every bad thing he’s ever done. And he’s done a lot of them.

Often I would go to the Palace of Justice and we would read poetry to each other. Sometimes Claude would show me his collection of tapestries because, somehow, he knew of my keen interest in the textile arts. For several weeks, I had hoped that things would change for us, but I didn't have the guts to tell him that I loved him. I imagined he'd be offended if I confessed my true feelings; he never voiced his for me.

What’s more romantic than sharing poetry in front of soldiers getting tortured?

Maybe it was all for the best, since, as of August, I would never see him again. I decided to treasure the close bond between us while my vacation lasted. But an innocent game -- a game that wouldn't be invented for another 400 years -- nearly ended a special friendship that was destined to blossom into romance and passion.

Just out of curiosity, why can’t you see him again? What’s stopping you from going back in time? You have all this miracle technology, why can’t you use it?