#frederick knot

[anza-redstar]

Oh, excellent, thank you! And you're right, it looks like everything except the edge trim was done by hand, including the oval outlines.

In fact, with this higher-resolution look at the oval outlines, I think they might be made up of lines of French knots, good Lord. I guess there's not much else to do in prison, but even so, it must have taken him so much time.

reasons for crying today

(transcript of amundsens letter:)

december 29th 1926

dear dr cook,

thank you so much for your last article. i should have written you long ago, but have been rather busy.

i want to wish you a happy year and should i come in the vicinity of fort leavenworth on my lecturetour you may rest assured i will look you up.

kindest regards,

yours very sincerely

roald amundsen

[authortelevision]

arthur frederick and the new producer: chapter 3 ₊˚⊹♡

words: 4,350 ✦ .ᐟ

♯┆arthurtv slow burn, bach and arthur podcast

after lara leaves bach and arthur’s podcast, you become her replacement. after discovering that arthur hates change, it takes a lot for him to warm up to you and become friends. it also takes a lot for him to admit how he truly feels about you.

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Chapter Two

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Chapter Three ₊˚⊹♡

The studio is buzzing with the usual pre-recording activity. You can feel the nerves in the air, though they’re not as sharp today. You’re feeling a little more confident than before, despite the lingering tension from the last few days. Today’s recording feels like it has the potential to be a breakthrough.

Before you start, you glance over at Arthur, trying to break the ice. “Oh, and thanks, Arthur, for saying I looked nice the other day,” you say with a small, light smile. It feels like a safe way to acknowledge the compliment, even if you’re still not entirely sure what to make of it.

Arthur pauses for a moment, his hand still hovering over the controls, before he looks up at you. His expression changes more than you’ve ever seen it before, his eyes were wide like he was surprised you knew. “Yeah. I did,” he replies, his voice strangely flat as he regained his composure.

You can’t quite read the tone, but you force a smile and turn back to your equipment. It wasn’t much, but it was something. At least you acknowledged it, right? But before you can feel too good about it, Arthur’s attention shifts back to what he was doing. He starts talking to everyone in his usual positive tone, that he speaks to everyone but you with.

As the recording begins, you’re hyper-aware of his proximity. He’s on the other side of the room, microphone in front of him, but the way he critiques you and no one else around him makes it impossible to fully relax. Arthur is meticulous, and every word that leaves his mouth sometimes feels a little more like criticism than direction.

“You need to hold your mic a little closer,” he tells Isaac, who’s adjusting the angle of his microphone. “It’ll pick up better sound if it’s just a bit closer to your mouth.”

Isaac nods, adjusting without a word, and you can’t help but feel that familiar weight in the air, the subtle sense that Arthur’s standards are always hovering just out of reach.

When it’s your turn to speak, you can feel his eyes on you, sharp as ever. You know the tone in his voice when he’s about to comment. “You’re rushing through that,” Arthur says, his voice cold, distant. “Try to pace yourself a bit more. It’ll sound more natural.”

You bite your lip, nodding. You were trying to get through it, trying to keep the energy up, but his feedback feels like it’s still focused more on the flaws than on the positives.

You push through the rest of the session, trying to focus on what you are doing. As much as Arthur’s distant tone stings, you know this is what he does. He’s critical, sometimes to a fault, but you’re learning to navigate it. Still, that part of you, the part that wants to be accepted and liked, can’t help but wonder if you’ll ever truly break through that wall he keeps up.

The session continues, and you remind yourself to focus. Keep your head in the game. You’re doing your job, and no matter how critical Arthur gets, you’re here to make this podcast better.

You kick off your shoes as soon as you walk into the flat, the door closing with a soft click behind you. The weight of the day is already starting to settle in, that familiar knot of frustration tightening in your chest. You toss your bag on the sofa and head straight for the kitchen, hoping a glass of water might ease your mind.

Emma’s sitting at the counter, scrolling through her phone, like usual, until she looks up when you walk in. She doesn’t have to say anything. The way you’re moving, like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, is enough of a cue.

“Long day?” she asks, after knowing her for all this time, she just kind of knows when you’re stressed.

“You have no idea,” you mutter, grabbing a glass. “Arthur is impossible to read.”

You pour yourself some water, your mind already racing through the events of the day. You can still feel Arthur’s eyes on you, the odd mix of a compliment and a coldness that follows. It’s like he can’t make up his mind whether he wants to be a complete jerk or at least acknowledge you as a person.

Emma raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything yet. She’s learned that sometimes you need to work through things out loud first.

“I swear, he’s so confusing,” you continue, leaning against the counter as you take a sip. “He complimented me yesterday, told me I looked nice, which… I don’t know, it felt like a big deal. But then he was still acting like I was doing everything wrong during the recording. And I can’t tell if he’s just being critical, or if he’s annoyed with me, or both. He literally can’t make up his mind.”

Emma’s face softens as she listens, clearly understanding where the frustration is coming from. She pushes herself off the counter, walking over to where you’re standing.

“Sounds like he’s being a classic mixed signal guy,” she says, leaning against the kitchen island. “He says something nice, and then immediately goes back to being a critic, like he doesn’t know how to handle being… well, nice. It’s like he wants to soften things but doesn’t know how.”

You run a hand through your hair, exhaling sharply. “Exactly! He can’t even give a compliment without trying to backpedal, and then when he’s being critical, it feels like he’s just trying to keep me in my place. Like he can’t let his guard down for even a second.”

Emma chuckles, but there’s no humor in it, only understanding. “Sounds like he’s got some weird boundaries. Or, he’s just not used to working with someone new and doesn’t know how to handle it. Maybe he’s trying to figure out where he fits in this whole thing.”

“I don’t know,” you murmur, frustrated. “Maybe. But it’s hard to figure out. Why did he even compliment me when the next day he’s acting like I can’t do anything right. I’m just trying to do my job, but it feels like I’m constantly walking on eggshells around him.”

Emma crosses her arms. “You know, it’s not your job to decode his moods. You’re there to do your job, not play therapist to a guy with mood swings. If he can’t make up his mind, that’s on him, not you.”

You let out a long breath, the tension in your shoulders finally starting to ease a little. “Yeah, I know you’re right. It’s just so frustrating. I don’t know if he likes me, if he respects me, or if he thinks I’m doing a terrible job. And I can’t tell if it even matters to him.”

“Of course it matters,” Emma says, “But don’t lose yourself trying to figure him out. Keep doing your thing, and if he’s too much of a dick, you don’t have to keep putting up with it. You’re there for a reason, you’re good at your job. If he can’t see that, that’s his problem, not yours.”

You smile weakly, feeling a little better. It helps to vent, to have someone who gets it, even if she can’t solve the problem for you.

“Thanks, Emma,” you say, grateful for her perspective. “I think I needed that.”

“No problem,” she says with a grin. “Now, are you going to talk about how cute Isaac is, or should we just skip to the part where you obsess about Arthur some more?”

You roll your eyes, but a laugh bubbles up in your chest, easing some of the tension. “He’s literally got a girlfriend you freak. I’m going to bed before you make me spill my entire brain. But seriously, thanks for listening.”

“Anytime,” Emma says, giving you a quick hug. “Go get some rest. Tomorrow’s a new day, and maybe Arthur will stop being a walking red flag.”

You chuckle as you walk past the kitchen, grateful for Emma’s existence. Your mind is still buzzing with thoughts of Arthur, the compliment, the critiques, and the confusing mix of everything in between. But for now, at least you know you can handle it. You just have to keep doing your best, no matter what mood he’s in.

You walk back into your room, still feeling the weight of the conversation with Emma pressing on you. As you shut the door behind you, you sigh, feeling the urge to just zone out for a while. A distraction. Something to take your mind off everything.

You flop onto your bed and grab your phone, scrolling aimlessly through social media for a few minutes. Eventually, you end up on YouTube, opening a random video to let your brain just wander. The title is something unrelated to anything you’ve been dealing with, just a quick laugh before bed, right?

But then your thumb stops, and you freeze for a moment.

There, on the screen, is Arthur.

He’s in a group video with a few friends, laughing so easily, his voice light and genuine as he jokes around with them. You watch for a moment, surprised by how different he looks. In this video, there’s no cold distance, no rigid formality, he’s relaxed, smiling, clearly enjoying himself.

He’s even funny. You hadn’t expected that. He’s laughing so easily with his friends, making jokes and genuinely having a good time, and it stings. The image of him from the recording session earlier, barely acknowledging you except to be a dick, clashes so much with the guy in the video, it’s almost jarring.

You keep watching, biting your lip as you do, a mixture of irritation and confusion brewing in your chest. Arthur is clearly capable of being… well, human. He’s charismatic, funny, and lowkey kind of attractive. Watching him with his friends, you can see a completely different side of him, a side that feels genuine and lovely.

And that just makes you frustrated.

Why couldn’t he act like that around you? Why couldn’t he at least show you that side? Instead, he’s constantly on the defensive, as if every move you make could be the wrong one, as if he’s just waiting for you to mess up. You want to be friends with him, really. You want to break through the cold exterior he’s put up and see the person you’ve just seen on the screen.

But instead, he’s been nothing but distant, and hard to read. It’s like he’s purposely making it difficult for you to get to know him.

You pause the video, staring at the screen for a long moment, the laughter still ringing in your ears.

“God, what is your problem, Arthur?” you mutter under your breath.

Part of you wonders if it’s just a defense mechanism. Maybe he’s afraid of opening up to you because it’s easier to stay distant, easier to stay detached. Or maybe, maybe you’re just a little too eager to decode everything he does.

You shake your head, frustration still gnawing at you. Either way, it’s becoming clear, this whole relationship between you two is going to drive you mad if you don’t get some answers soon.

You move to lay on your bed, phone in hand, staring at the screen. The video of Arthur laughing and having fun with his friends is still fresh in your mind. You’ve been trying to figure him out for weeks, but it’s like you’re only seeing bits and pieces, never the full picture. You can tell there’s more to him than the stiff, professional exterior he puts on at work, and for some reason, you want to know what that is.

Taking a deep breath, you type out the message.

You: Hey, Arthur. I was thinking, maybe we could hang out tomorrow? Just to get to know each other a little better outside of work?

You hesitate for a second, then hit send before you can second-guess yourself. You don’t want to overthink this, even though you’re already doing it.

The reply comes quickly, almost too quickly.

Arthur: Sure, what time?

You blink at the screen, a little taken aback by how fast he responded.

You: How about 2? Maybe grab a coffee or something?

Arthur: Sounds good. See you then.

You can’t help the small grin that tugs at the corner of your mouth. It’s not much, but it’s something. A step toward figuring him out, even if you don’t quite know what you’re expecting yet. You’re just curious, curious about the person he is when he’s not in ‘work mode.’

You’re surprised that Arthur took the coffee thing so seriously. You’ve always known ‘getting a coffee’ to just be saying but with Arthur, everything was just so literal.

You walk into the coffee shop, scanning the room for Arthur. You spot him almost immediately, sitting by the window, looking slightly out of place but calm enough, eyes on his phone. He seems to be waiting for someone but still, there’s something a little stiff about his posture, as if he’s not entirely comfortable here.

You make your way over and sit down across from him. He looks up when you approach. It’s the same reserved Arthur you’ve come to expect, but today, there was something different, like he’s trying a bit harder to make this work.

“Hey,” he says, with a slight nod, his voice a little quieter than usual.

“Hey,” you reply, smiling. “Did you get anything yet?”

“No,” he answers, still looking a little unsure, but he’s looking at you now, not his phone. “I was waiting for you.”

It’s a small thing, but it hits you in a way you weren’t expecting. You smile a little, warmed by the gesture, though you try not to overthink it.

“Thanks,” you say, your voice softening.

He waves it off quickly, his tone more casual now but still a little awkward. “It’s not a problem,” he says, almost like he’s trying to play it down. “You’re my boss, basically. Just trying to get on your good side.”

You smile, surprised, and chuckle a little. His dry humor is unexpected, but it lands in a way you didn’t anticipate.

“Well, thanks for that,” you reply, feeling oddly flattered despite his strange delivery. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

Arthur gives a half-smile and shrugs, his gaze drifting for a moment. “Don’t worry about it. I don’t mind. I normally wait anyway.”

You watch him for a moment, trying to get a read on him. “What do you mean?”

He shifts, clearly a little uncomfortable, but still tries to explain. “I don’t mind waiting, I guess. It’s just how I do things.”

You nod, taking it in, your mind swirling just a little. “Fair enough,” you say, still not fully sure what to make of him, but there’s something about this whole exchange that feels a bit different, maybe even a little more real.

“So,” Arthur continues, his voice dropping back into more neutral territory, “what do you like to drink?”

You tell him your usual order, casual enough, just trying to make conversion, and he nods before getting up to place his own order at the counter. You glance around, feeling a little awkward, but you don’t think much of it as he steps away.

A few minutes later, Arthur returns with not one, but two drinks, his and yours.

“Oh my god, thank you so much,” you say, genuinely surprised. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Arthur places your cup down in front of you, still looking a little stiff but a little more at ease than he was when you first arrived. “It’s no big deal. Just thought I’d get it right. You know, get on the good side.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head at his dry delivery. “I appreciate it, though. Really.”

He shrugs, still avoiding looking at you directly, but his words come a little easier now. “Like I said, it’s no problem.”

You sip your drink, listening as Arthur talks more freely now, the conversation settling into a familiar rhythm, work talk. He’s talking about logistics for the next podcast episode, tossing around ideas, sharing his thoughts on the content. It’s comfortable in a way, but it’s also… exactly what you expected. There’s no attempt to stray from the professional, no small talk, no attempt to get to know each other beyond the scope of your roles in the podcast.

You try to keep up with the conversation, nodding along, but you can’t help the small sense of disappointment creeping in. You were hoping, maybe foolishly, that this time would be different, that you could break the surface a little, have a real conversation, maybe find some common ground outside of the work stuff.

Arthur stops talking for a moment, glancing at you. “You alright?”

You pause, caught off guard. You’ve been staring at your drink a little too long, caught in your thoughts.

“Yeah, yeah,” you say quickly, shaking your head, trying to brush it off. “I’m fine.”

But Arthur’s still watching you, his brow furrowed slightly, like he’s trying to figure something out. “You sure?”

“Yeah, just…” You trail off, unsure how to put it into words. “I just thought… I don’t know.” You hesitate, then take a breath, trying to voice what you’re feeling. “I wanted to get to know you outside of the podcast. Like, just as people. Not just… the job.”

Arthur looks at you for a long moment, his expression unreadable, before he shrugs, almost like it’s no big deal. “Why?”

You blink, feeling the weight of the question pressing down on you. “I don’t know, I just thought it’d be nice. You know? I want us to be friends.”

Arthur stares at you, his face going blank for a split second. The silence stretches for a moment before he responds, his tone casual, almost like he doesn’t understand why it’s a big deal.

“I thought we were.”

His words hit you harder than you expected. You look at him, feeling a pit in your stomach. He thought you were friends? This whole time, the way he’s been acting, cold, distant, sometimes outright rude, and he thinks you’re friends?

You laugh a little, though it sounds more like a nervous exhale than anything else. “Really? After everything? You think we’re friends?”

Arthur looks a little confused now, “I mean, yeah. We work together, right? I thought that’s how this works.”

You stare at him, still processing what he said. “But you’ve been… kind of a dick to me, Arthur.” The words come out before you can stop them. “I don’t feel like we’ve really been friends at all. You’ve barely said anything outside of work, and when you have, it’s mostly been… well, criticism. Not really friendly.”

Arthur goes quiet for a moment, and you can see the cogs turning in his brain through his eyes as he processes your words.

“I didn’t think it was like that,” he says slowly, his voice quieter now. “I thought you were doing your job, I was doing mine. I didn’t think there was any… tension.”

You shake your head, frustrated, though it’s not really with him anymore. “But there is, Arthur. I mean, why are we even here, having this conversation, if you think everything’s fine? You can’t just keep brushing things under the rug and expect it to be okay.”

He’s still quiet for a moment, staring at his cup, clearly thinking, and for once, you can’t quite read him at all. The conversation feels like it’s slipping away, and you’re unsure of where it’s going or if anything will change after this.

Arthur sighs, finally meeting your gaze again. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make things weird between us.”

You nod, feeling a little lighter but still frustrated. “I just… I don’t know. I wanted to actually be friends, Arthur. I don’t want to keep doing this back-and-forth, professional stuff all the time. It’s tiring.”

Arthur shifts in his seat, his gaze softening just a little. “I get it,” he says, his voice low. “Maybe I’ve been a bit… distant. I didn’t mean to make you feel that way.”

You let out a small breath, realising this conversation may have been more productive than you initially thought. Maybe things aren’t fixed, but at least there’s a crack in the wall between you. A small crack, but a crack nonetheless.

“Okay,” you say quietly, not sure what else to add, but feeling slightly more hopeful than you did before. “Can we be friends, Arthur?”

Arthur nods, his lips quirking just the tiniest bit into a smile. “Yeah, friends.”

You walk back to your flat, your mind still turning over the conversation you just had with Arthur. You weren’t sure what exactly changed between you two. Maybe you could work together without all the tension. Maybe you could actually be friends.

When you get to the door, you step inside and kick off your shoes, the warm familiarity of your flat greeting you. Your flatmate Emma is cooking something and she looks up when you enter.

“So,” she says, sitting up and giving you a knowing look. “How’d it go with Arthur?”

You sit down next to her, exhaling a heavy sigh, trying to shake off the weight of the conversation. “It was… good. We talked. Finally.

“Finally? You mean you didn’t talk before this?”

“Not really,” you say, letting your head fall back against the couch. “It was all just about work, you know? He’s been really distant, and I was starting to think he hated me. But today… today, we talked. Actually talked.”

Emma looks interested now, sitting down next to you. “Okay, come on. What happened?”

You tell her everything, how Arthur had been cold, distant, and how you’d been confused, frustrated, and unsure of what was going on between you. Then you mention his response when you finally opened up about wanting to be friends.

“He said he thought we were already friends,” you finish with a small laugh. “Like, what?”

Emma smiles, clearly amused. “That’s… a little messed up. But hey, at least he didn’t completely shut you down.”

You nod, a little frustrated but also kind of relieved. “Yeah, I guess. But it felt like… like there’s still a lot he doesn’t get. I don’t think he even realised how weird he was making things for me. Like, I was just supposed to understand that he was ‘being professional’ or whatever, but it still felt like he didn’t like me.”

Emma frowns slightly. “That sucks. But it sounds like he’s starting to see where you’re coming from. Maybe things will be different now?”

You’re not sure how to answer, but before you can, your phone buzzes on the coffee table, lighting up with a message from Arthur.

You pick it up, your heart giving a little lurch as you unlock the screen and read:

Arthur: I didn’t realise you felt I didn’t like you. I really enjoyed talking to you today.

You blink at the message, not sure what to think at first. The words are simple enough, but there’s something in them that makes you pause. A small, almost apologetic tone to them, like he’s realising his behavior was off.

You show Emma the message, and she grins. “Well, look at that! Sounds like someone’s trying.”

You bite your lip, feeling conflicted. “I don’t know. It’s nice, but it’s still kind of… weird, you know? Like, it’s not really a big apology. It’s just him saying he didn’t realise.”

Emma shrugs, not without some sympathy. “Well, it’s a start, right? He seems like he actually likes you. He’s at least acknowledging how you feel, even if it’s awkward.”

You nod slowly, still processing the words. “Yeah, I guess. I just wish he’d be more… upfront. Or just, you know, less weird.”

Emma snorts. “Arthur’s a work in progress. I’m sure he’ll figure it out eventually.”

You laugh, shaking your head. “I hope so.”

As you think over the message again, you can’t quite tell if Arthur’s being genuine or if he’s just being polite. But either way, you appreciate that he’s acknowledging the tension. Maybe things between you two will improve.

“Thanks for listening. Again,” you say, sinking back into the sofa, feeling a little lighter. “I needed to vent.”

Emma grins, nudging you playfully. “Anytime, my friend. Just make sure you keep me updated on all this Arthur drama. Sounds like there’s more to come.”

You chuckle, nodding. “Yeah. There probably is.”

And even though you still feel unsure about where you and Arthur are heading, there’s a small sense of hope that maybe, just maybe, you’re on the right path.

You stare at Arthur’s message for a moment, your fingers hovering over the screen. You want to respond, but part of you feels unsure. It’s one thing for him to acknowledge what’s been happening, but you’re still figuring out how to navigate this weird, in-between space you two find yourselves in.

You: Thanks, Arthur. It was nice talking to you too.

You hit send then set the phone down on the table. You’re already preparing for the awkwardness that could follow, or maybe the lack of a response. But almost immediately, your phone buzzes again.

Arthur: A medium iced latte with vanilla.

What a strange man, you thought. Why is he telling you your coffee order? Isaac has told you he was a bit weird and you’d noticed it yourself but you didn’t really know what to say.

You stare at the message for a moment. You start typing a reply, but this time, you take a breath before hitting send.

You: What do you mean?

Your phone buzzes almost immediately.

Arthur: Your drink order, I’ll buy you the same one next time we record.

You find yourself smiling as you put the phone down, feeling not just a little less anxious than before, but kind of excited.

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Chapter four

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a/n: THERE WILL BE PROGRESS I PROMISE

for my lovely commenters:

@rubyskies @rkaya @pookietv @rougetv @arthurhillmastermind @picklepiastri @pretendyoucantseeme @neivivenaj

[unabashedly-so]

📚 SDV Elliott HC 🎭

Being alone with your thoughts for so many hours a day can make one a little... eccentric.

Content warning: none ☺️ just the silliest little HC.

(also if you consider yourself a writer and have never done something like this, you're lying.)

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

It takes, like, YEARS after marriage for this one to come to fruition.

Then, one day, it happens. You bust into the house from the summer heat to grab a drink of water because, fuck, it's hot and--

Elliott didn't expect you back for another couple hours. It's summer! It's the busiest season! He thought he had the house to himself for at least another--

--there's Elliott. Just, uhh... well to be honest you're just not quite sure at first what he's doing.

--he doesn't notice you come in then stand stock-still in the doorway for several confused, dumbstruck, delighted seconds.

Meanwhile: his hair is in a ratty knot on top of his head, he has a very round potato in his hand that he holds aloft like an offering to the gods (the ceiling fan, perhaps?) while he stands barefoot, pajamaed, on top of his desk.

and you don't know what you like more--the voice(s) he uses when he's in-character, or how he so often interrupts himself, out of character, with little nitpicking comments.

"--and with every ounce of my power--ounce? don't they measure in metrics? and is the nature of power fluid or, *gasp* gaseous? ...No, has to be fluid--holdable, shapeable. But fluidity of power," he kneels, scribbling something on the one paper left on the desk. "definitely include that somewhere else, yes..." He stands up, clears his throat and resumes, "--and with all the power now within my reach--nope, already holding it--grasp, I can finally--"

His eyes meet yours with a tiny yelp and he freezes.

Neither of you speak. A bead of sweat falls from your face and plips on the floor. He continues to hold the potato aloft.

Finally, "You're home early, dear."

"Just, uh... need some water," you manage. A few seconds pass by, so you helpfully add, "It's hot."

"Indeed."

Another pause.

Your turn. "Sooo... whatcha doin' up there, dear?"

He slowly lowers the potato. "I... was having trouble figuring out the blocking, you see. Frederick just obtained the orb of power and he's quite conflicted about it. So..."

"...so you stand on your desk and offer it to the ceiling fan?"

"No," he pouts, but you know that's a sign that he's incredibly relieved--you're playing along so he plays along. "No, you go stand on a cliff," he motions to the desk, "and seek communion with the Great Omnipotence," he gestures to the ceiling fan.

"Yes, that's... yup. That's what that is."

He clicks his tongue, non-potatoed hand on his hip. "...this might surprise you, but I have a very vivid imagination. Now, can you help me down?--I accidentally kicked my chair away during the villain's soliloquy."

You walk over, despite: "I'm very sure you're more than capable of getting down safely on your own."

He holds out his hand. "And miss the chance to hold your hand and jump into your arms?"

(depending on the stature of the farmer, he very well may! But only if there's not a single ounce of doubt he wouldn't overwhelm the farmer.)

From there, it's gradual, but he little by little lets his guard down. He talks to himself in low muttrances at first, like quiet bickering when he's particularly focused. Then he takes to dramatic readings while he's cooking or cleaning, trying to strike the right cadence and rhythm. Months later he's pushing furniture aside and pacing out choreographed scenes in the living room. In the winter, you're roped into them with him and... he loves it, and he loves you all the more for it.

He uses your help for scenes he's stuck on, gives you a page or two to work with, then tells you to just say and do what feels right! He doesn't always use exactly what you riff up, but it helps point him in the right direction.

He'll do any kind of scene you're comfortable with, but he especially seems fond of putting you in romantic scenes. 😘

even though half of them never show up in his novels or poetry collections??????? and yet???????

He still maintains his composed facade outside of the house, but inside your little house by the pond, all bets are off. You routinely come home with Elliott pacing, muttering, giving a grandiose speech, nitpicking--he stops, but only a pause, to acknowledge you with a peck on the cheek before he whisks himself away again--prophesizing, arguing, nitpicking, etc....

Your home has never been so full of life, laughter, and love.

[justrainandcoffee]

Never again (Alfie Solomons x fem!oc)

Alfie x Rose Masterlist

Summary: 1911. This is the first time she has the chance to celebrate Hanukkah again. For the last four years, December for her was synonymous with nightmares. But now, back in the arms of the love of her life, this is about to change.

Warnings: Mentions of antisemitism. Sexual abuse. Angst. Hurt/Comfort. Happy ending. || I hurt my fucking feelings writing this.

Words: 700.

December 1911.

This is the first Hanukkah night she shares with Alfie after four years being apart. It's also the first one they share as husband and wife. They've been married for six months now and this is a dream that came true.

Rose remembers very well the celebrations before 1907. Usually her and Alfie's family together sharing the little they have, but the eight nights of Hanukkah were full of love and good memories. When her grandmother was still alive she was in charge of the meals and Rose, her brothers and Alfie helped her with decorations and the table. Mrs. Solomons helped the old woman sharing her recipes with Russian food. Those were the moments she cherished the most.

Then the night arrived: The Everts. Them and all their money saving her from the misery and the imminent famine in exchange for her soul and body. Her Decembers full of love and good memories were now in very big manor, wearing expensive clothes and eating the most delicious meals... Them eating. She never ate in Christmas eve or the next morning because Mildred Evert, knowing her daughter-in-law was Jewish, exclusively ordered pork as main menu. Mildred Evert also encouraged her two sons to tell jokes about Jews and matriarch herself laughed about Hanukkah traditions. And to end the night, Lawrence Evert decided to abuse her as Christmas gift for himself.

That's why this December she feels overwhelmed. She wants to celebrate Hanukkah again with Alfie but in her mind her late husband is going to cross the door and dragged her to Pebblebrock where his mother has pork as dinner and Frederick, her former brother-in-law, is telling jokes about her people.

Alfie sees her tears in her eyes and can guess what's happening. He takes her hand and guides her to the balcony of the house they have in London. His arms are around her body as he rests his head on hers.

"One day," he says, "I'm going to kill that fuckin' bastards, luv. I promise ya."

He doesn't know that's a promise he's going to fullfil in less than two years.

"Al?" she says.

"Yes?"

"Sing to me. That song we used to sing as kids. Do you remember? All together in my grandmother's house."

Alfie chuckles "You don't want to hear me sing, Rosie."

"I do. In Yiddish, please."

"Okay, then." Alfie starts to sing, tightening the embrace with one arm and caressing her hair with his free hand. He feels her shoulders shaking because she's crying against him.

He keeps singing but the hatred against the Everts grows in his heart. The one he wants dead, sadly for him, is already dead but his mother and brother are somewhere else and Alfie is ready to find them.

"Join me, mayn zisinke (my sweetheart)" he says in Yiddish pulling apart from her a bit and cleaning her tears with his thumb.

With red, puffy eyes and still a knot in her throat she follows him in that song that both of them knows so well since they were kids. Slowly, she finds more strength and her voice rises a little and sounds more enthusiastic.

Suddenly, there's no more Evert in her mind. Suddenly she's back to the present. It's 1911 and she's about to celebrate Hanukkah again and she's happy about it. No more Christmas for her. No more pork. The Menorah on the table has it first candle already lit up and the cook Alfie hired prepared a delicious lamb. Alfie himself baked Challah for her, because Alfie knows his Rosie loves his bread above everything. In the morning they planned to go to their synagogue where the rabbi that married them is waiting for the couple to share a breakfast together.

And then, the second Hanukkah night awaits for them again.

The song finishes and Alfie finds her looking at him with absolutely devotion. There are no words to explain the love they feel for eachother.

"You never again are going to live that shit, Rosie. Never again, you heard me?"

Her eyes are full of tears again but this time, she's happy. They kiss.

"I love you, Rosie and happy Hanukkah."

"Happy Hanukkah, Al. I love you too, mayn zisinke."

The words in Yiddish are from a forum were actual Jewish people help those who doesn't speak Yiddish. I hope it's accurate. If I need to correct it, let me know.

Alfie Taglist (npt) : @mischievouslittlecreature @hoodeddreams13 @zablife @wonderlanddreamer @call-sign-shark @peakyswritings @brummiereader

[holdingup-fallingsky]

As today is the 49th anniversary of the sinking of the Mighty Fitz, I wanna talk about the facts of what happened. I've been hyperfixated on this shipwreck for a full year now, so if you'd like to learn more about it, please keep reading.

I feel that a good way to present this is with the Gordon Lightfoot song as an outline, as it's what most people are familiar with. When it was written in November and December of 1975 after Lightfoot heard about the disaster, he felt that it was his moral obligation to get the facts of the event as correct as possible. However, an official investigation would not take place until May of 1976 - it was delayed due to weather conditions - months after the song was recorded. That is why his guitarist Terry Clements convinced Lightfoot to do what his favorite author (Mark Twain) would have done; tell a story. 

Superior, they said, never gives up her dead when the skies of November turn gloomy. Lake Superior is the largest body of freshwater on the planet, able to fit the other four Great Lakes inside of her. She’s also the deepest, with the average depth being close to 500 ft and the deepest point being 1,332 ft deep. It is also the coldest Great Lake, the bottom clocking in at a frigid 32 degrees Fahrenheit, making it just a hair above freezing. Because of this, that means that it is too cold for bacteria to grow and makes it impossible for bodies to undergo decomposition. So, instead of float to the surface as they would in other bodies of water, the bodies of Lake Superior instead sink and remain frozen in time. As of the time that this is being written, there has only been one body found from the crew of the SS Edmund Fitzgerald. It was because of the discovery of this crewman that the wreck site has been designated as a graveyard and dives to the shipwreck have been severely restricted. 

The ship was the Pride of the American Side… The Edmund Fitzgerald had many nicknames: “The Mighty Fitz”, “The Pride of the American Side”, “The Singing Ship”, just to name a few. “The Pride of the American Side” was given to her due to her size. When she was built in 1957, the specs of the ship were made so that it would challenge those of all other freighters. She would break shipping records throughout her entire career; six times, to be exact, often breaking her own records. She was given the name “The Singing Ship” because her third captain, Captain Peter Pulcer, would play music over her loudspeakers for boat watchers to enjoy, even going out on deck with a megaphone to give off facts about the ship - such as where it was headed and what it was hauling. Her fourth captain, Captain Ernest McSroely, took command in 1972. He would remain captain through the rest of her career. 

As big freighters go, it was bigger than most… The specs of the Mighty Fitz were 729’ in length, with a depth of 39’ and a draft (how much of the ship is submerged in water) of 25’. She was given such a specific length so that she could just fit in the Soo Locks - the engineering marvel that connects the Huron and Superior lakes in Sault Ste Marie, MI (pronounced “soo saint Marie”) - which had a max length of 730’. She was the largest ship on the Lakes (earning her the title “Queen of the Lakes”, a title passed on to whichever ship is the largest sailing the Lakes) until the SS Murray Bay was launched, beating her out by a foot of length. However, despite her hulking size, she was one of the fastest freighters to sail the freshwater, her top speed clocking in at 14 knots (~ 16 mph). A very impressive speed when you take into account that she weighed 13,632 tons with an empty cargo hold. 

With a crew and good captain well seasoned… It took 29 men to sail the Mighty Fitz. Michael Armagost, 37, third mate. Frederick Beetcher, 56, porter. Thomas Bentson, 32, oiler. Edward Bindon, 47, first assistant engineer. Thomas Borgeson, 41, maintenance man. Oliver Champeau, 41, third assistant engineer. Nolan Church, 55, porter. Ransom Cundy, 53, watchman. Thomas Edwards, 50, second assistant engineer. Russell Haskell, 40, second assistant engineer. George Holl, 60, chief engineer. Bruce Husdon, 22, deck hand. Allen Kalmon, 43, second cook. Gordon MacLellan, 30, wiper. Joseph Mazes, 50, special maintenance man. John McCarthy, 62, first mate. Ernest McSorely, 63, captain. Eugene O’Brain, 50, wheelsman. Karl Peckol, 20, watchman. John Poviach, 50, wheelsman. James Pratt, 44, second mate. Robert Rafferty, 62, steward. Paul Riippa, 22, deck hand. John Simmons, 63, wheelsman. William Spengler, 59, watchman. Mark Thomas, 21, deck hand. Ralph Walton, 58, oiler. David Weiss, 22, cadet. Blaine Wilhelm, 52, oiler. These are the names of all 29 men who went down with the Edmund Fitzgerald. 

When they left fully loaded for Cleveland… The final voyage of the Mighty Fitz started on November 9th, 1975. They had a cargo load of just over 26,000 tons of iron taconite. This is where we run into our first discrepancy of the song. The Fitzgerald was actually headed for a steel mill on Zug Island near Detroit where it usually made berth. However, the word Detroit doesn’t fit well within the structure of that part of the song, especially with the Canadian pronunciation of “De-troy-at” which we hear Lightfoot use later in the song. So, Lightfoot can be forgiven here.  

The wind in the wires made a tattle-tale sound and a wave crashed over the railing. The weather conditions on Lake Superior went from bad to worse over the duration of the storm. A few hours before the Fitzgerald sank, the SS Arthur M Anderson reported at 1620 hours (4:20 pm) that winds had reached a speed of 58 knots (~67 mph) and waves reached a staggering height of 25’. The infamous Gale of November was upon them, and they were stuck in the middle of that merciless storm. 

And every man knew, as the captain did, too, ‘twas the Witch of November come stealin’. November is infamously the most difficult month of the year to be sailing the Great Lakes. An estimated 70 plus ships have been claimed by the lakes during November alone. While November gets a bad rap, these deadly storms can occur during any of the fall months. The warmer air coming up from the south clashes violently with the colder fronts from the north, culminating into deadly gales. However, the worst of these storms happen most frequently during the 11th month. The deadliest storm on record to occur on Lake Superior was that of the Mataafa Storm. Occurring on November 27th, 1905, the storm was named after the SS Mataafa, a freighter that found itself caught in the storm and a massive loss of crew, despite only running aground 700’ from shore. These infamous gales are nicknamed the “Witch of November”. 

At 7 p.m. a main hatchway caved in… Here, we run into our next, and largest, discrepancy of the song. Now, as I stated before, the song was written and recorded before an official investigation could even be launched. So, Lightfoot had to embellish a few details to finish the song. However, the U.S. Coast Guard would actually corroborate Lightfoot’s claim that the sinking of the Fitzgerald was due to water entering through the hatchways. This report would actually anger a few mariners, some even stating that it was flat out wrong. Now, in 2024, we know that it was simply not the case. In 2010, National Geographic conducted an investigation of their own on the Mighty Fitz. While they were unable to dive on the wreckage itself, they were able to use footage of the wreck taken in the 90s that was shot in High Definition. Not only did they use the footage, but the researchers interviewed Great Lakes ship captains, one of the inspectors that inspected the Fitzgerald herself, as well as a survivor of a similar shipwreck - Dennis Hale, lone survivor of the sinking of the SS Daniel J Morrell. After conducting experiments on a scale model as well as in a simulator, they concluded that the Mighty Fitz had sunk due to rogue waves - waves that can reach upwards of 60’ and were previously believed to be a myth - splitting her in half. 

Gordon Lightfoot was asked if his song could be used in the ending credits of the documentary, Lightfoot agreeing after watching the film. It was after this investigation that Lightfoot began changing the lyrics while performing the song live. No longer did a faulty hatchway cause the Fitzgerald’s demise in Lightfoot’s eyes, so the lyric was changed to “at 7 p.m. it grew darker and then…” One of the deck hands that was onboard the Might Fitz on her last voyage was Bruce Hudson. For 36 years, his mother - Ruth Hudson - had proclaimed and insisted that her son had always done his job at securing the hatchways, and that he did it with pride. In an interview with Lightfoot that same year, he said: “It wasn’t a hatchway. I don’t know what I’m gonna change [the lyrics] to, but I’m gonna change it. I hope Ruth Hudson will be around long enough to hear it, because she’s 82 and she’s worried about that all her life”. 

The captain wired in, he had water coming in… Throughout that fateful last voyage the SS Edmund Fitzgerald, she was not alone. Another freighter, the SS Arthur M Anderson was traveling a similar path as the Mighty Fitz with an end destination of Gary, Indiana. The Anderson was, at first, smaller in length than the Fitzgerald. However, after the Anderson was refitted, she would be longer than the Fitzgerald. Though, the Mighty Fitz would take the Anderson in speed as she was still the faster vessel. The two ships would stay in communication throughout the 9th and the 10th of November, their communications becoming more frequent as the storm became worse and worse. At approximately 1530 (3:30 p.m.), the Fitzgerald had radioed in to the Anderson, telling the captain (Captain Jesse “Bernie” Cooper) that his ship had taken on water and was beginning to list (the tilting of a ship to one side that is not caused by an external force). It was at this time that the Fitzgerald informed the Anderson that it would reduce speed so that it might catch up with the Anderson. An hour later, Captain McSorely of the Fitzgerald radioed Captain Cooper of the Anderson that they had lost function of their navigation equipment - namely both of their radars - and asked the crew of the Anderson to be her eyes. The ships were approximately 20 miles away from each other, well within radar range. Both captains made the decision to hug the north side of Superior, close to the Canadian shoreline so that they might have a better chance at weathering the storm before making it to the relative safety of Whitefish Bay. 

And later that night when his lights went out of sight came the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald. Captain Cooper had stated on record that the snow had been falling so intensely that when the Fitzgerald was within 10 miles of the Anderson, the only thing that they could make out of her was her lights. At 1910 (7:10 p.m.), the Anderson radioed the Fitzgerald about a ship that was about 9 miles ahead of the Fitzgerald, stating that they were going to clear one another and did not have to worry about colliding. Offhandedly, the first mate aboard the Anderson asked “by the way, how are you making out with your problems”. Captain McSorely answered “we are holding our own”. “He showed no signs of panic,” Captain Cooper would later admit. At 1920, the crew of the Anderson could not find the Fitzgerald on radar and attempted to radio the ship. No answer came. Fearing their radio had malfunctioned, the Anderson wired another ship close by to test their comm systems. They worked just fine. At this point, the snow had stopped heavily falling and visibility opened up. The lights of the Mighty Fitz were nowhere in sight, despite being within visual distance of the Anderson. Captain Cooper gave the order to his crew to watch for a silhouette of the freighter, thinking the ship had lost power. 

Does anyone know where the love of god goes when the waves turn the minutes to hours? The searchers all say they’d have made Whitefish Bay if they put 15 more miles behind her. According to the official U.S. Coast Guard report, the Fitzgerald was about 17 miles away from Whitefish Bay, the site of the wreck being at 46°59.9’N, 85°06.6’W. If she had maintained her top speed, the SS Edmund Fitzgerald would have made it to the salvation of Whitefish Bay in just an hour. The Fitgerald would never even send out a mayday or any indication that she was sinking. Within the blink of the Anderson’s watchful eye, the Fitzgerald disappeared. “I firmly believe that [Captain McSorely] thought that ship was gonna get him through,” Captain Cooper spoke when asked about that fateful night years later. The Anderson was the freighter to report to the Coast Guard that the Fitzgerald had gone missing after she reached Whitefish Bay at 2025 (8:25 p.m.). When Captain Cooper radioed about his fears concerning the Fitzgerald, the Coast Guard asked the Anderson if she would be willing to help with the search for the Mighty Fitz. Despite the danger of the still raging gale that claimed the Mighty Fitz, Captain Cooper agreed to aid in the search along with the SS William Clay Ford offering their help. No survivors were found, only pieces of debris from the freighter. 

And all that remains is the faces and the names of the wives and the sons and the daughters. On July 17th, 1999, all of the families of the victims claimed by the Fitzgerald’s sinking gathered on the water on the exact spot of the wreckage. This ceremony was the official consecration of the site to be a protected graveyard. No longer would anyone be allowed to dive on the site; a direct response to a voyage to the wreck in the mid-90s capturing footage of one of the bodies of a crewman. Two wreaths were tossed over the site, one donated by Gordon Lightfoot, with the names of all the 29 lost that November night. 

The church bell chimed ‘till it rang 29 times for each man on the Edmund Fitzgerald. A funeral service for the men aboard the SS Edmund Fitzgerald was held at the Mariner’s Church in Detroit. Its bell rang a somber 29 times, each toll an honoring to a sailor’s soul claimed by Lake Superior that November 10th. Every year on the anniversary of the Fitzgerald’s sinking, the Mariner’s Church tolls its bell in remembrance of the men lost in the freshwater sea. On the 48th anniversary in 2023, the bell was rang an additional time, tolling 30 times. On May 1st, 2023, Gordon Lightfoot passed away due to natural causes. That additional toll was in honor of his life and all that he did to keep the story of the Edmund Fitzgerald alive, his song immortalizing the ship’s tragic end. 

The legend lives on from the Chippewa on down of the big lake they call Gitche Gumee. To this day, part of this fateful legend still survives. The SS Arthur M Anderson still serves on the very lake that claimed her sister 49 years ago. Her continued service is proof that, had the SS Edmund Fitzgerald not met her untimely demise so early in her life at the hands of the very frigid mistress that floated her cargo, she would still be its faithful servant. Every November 10th, the Anderson calls out to her sister; her horn wailing to both salute and mourn the beloved sister she honors with every trip she takes across Lake Superior. The Fitzgerald is a reminder to all of us. We do not know how long we have in this world and it could all be taken from us in an instant. Choose to live a life that you are proud of rather than one that is controlled and ruled by fear. 

[firawren]

🎃 Trick or Treat! 👻

Well hello! Have some candy!

🍫

No no, take some more!

🍬🍭🍫

I don't know how much of a treat this is to you, but you can also have this snippet from my Persuasion WIP:

Still, he had wanted to be sure, so he had found a way of casually asking the housekeeper whose room this had once been. Miss Anne, she had said. His stomach had gone more sour than the first time he’d been to sea as a boy. He had stayed away from the room as long as he could, convincing his brother-in-law to stay up very late playing billiards and drinking with him, but eventually the admiral had said he needed to be off to see his wife, and left Frederick alone. He’d scowled at himself and gathered his courage and marched himself back to her room. And now here he was, in the middle of the night, staring at her bed. He was expected to sleep in Anne’s very bed. He ought to have been used to it by now, he thought bitterly, for he ought to have been sleeping in her bed for the last eight years, beside her, as her husband. Instead, he had slept every one of those nights those last eight years alone. Bitterness began to dull into the sorrow of loss, then ball itself up into a knot in his throat. He tried to swallow against it, but it grew larger and more painful with his resistance. He gasped in a breath, then released it in a low shuddering cry. His hands flew to cover his face, blocking out the view of the bed and catching his tears as his shoulders shook with his weeping.

Who doesn't love a man crying, what a treat, right?? (Sorry I am very low on supplies of anything fun in my WIPs at the moment!)

(I have not forgotten your Ficlet Friday ask about Emma! It's on the way too!)

Happy Halloween! 🎃

[ltwilliammowett]

Royal Navy cocked hat, sword and artifacts of Midshipman A. J. Crichton, 1820s

Midshipman Augustus J. Crichton was the youngest of two sons of Commander James A. S. Crichton and his wife Mary, Augustus was born in Halifax, Nova Scotia in 1812.

He followed in his father’s footsteps, pursuing a naval career. While serving as a midshipman aboard SPARTIATE (74), “when coming down the Maintop…he miss’d his footing, and shocking to relate, fell life less on the Deck” on 16 January 1828 during the ship’s homeward voyage from South America.

His cocked hat or “chapeau bras”, 1820 pattern sword and scabbard with sword-knot and belt were sent home with his other effects, along with a letter of condolence from the ship’s captain, Frederick Warren, a former shipmate and friend of the father. 

[fe-fictions]

I may have sent this one in pre new year, but could you maybe write some Frederick angst with hypothermia (in honor of the freezing weather; the angstier the better). No pressure, of course, and happy new year!!! 🥳

(It's starting to warm up, so here's one last freezing story before we welcome a stupid hot spring U V U / )

The village in the high north of Ferox was besieged by Risen. It wasn’t a terribly difficult job to dispatch them, on their own.

It was the weather, the sheer number of civilians, and the swiftly sinking sun that was creating a whole host of dangers and threatened your plans.

Frederick tried his damndest to keep things in line, barking out echoes of your orders to those who couldn’t hear your voice over the howling winds.

The civilians who could pay attention to him and focus outside of screaming in fear at the sight of the undead, were able to get somewhat organized into a barreling crowd, rushing towards the back of the village. Getting them as far from the fight as possible was key.

“Sumia!! Get me a number on what’s left-- we’re losing daylight and I need a body count!” Your orders cracked across the field like a whip, demanding the attention of those wh ocould hear you. Frederick was fighting up ahead, ready for the battle to shift towards its end.

It was never that Risen were particularly powerful or challenging; it was always the numbers.

Whoever summoned them, they did everything in their power to tire out the Shepherds so they might pick off a few from their ranks.

It was particularly distressing between the civilians, the snow, and the never-ending hoarde of monsters.

“I’ve got two dozen left to the southeast, and another 14 to the direct south!”

Well, almost never-ending.

“That’s not bad…we can rout them quickly if we keep pushing them away from the village!!” You realized, “Frederick, I need you in the backline, protecting the gates with Stahl and Sully. I’ll take the mages, and we’ll clear the Risen in the field. If any stragglers get near-”

“They will be dispatched.” Frederick confirmed, giving you a curt nod before pulling Hebert around and galloping back into the town.

With the push to clear the remaining enemies, but made it easier to work around the rest. He charged back to the gates, rallying the civilians that were struggling to escape the hoard and shepherding them to the chief’s home, the furthest back in the village territory.

It was the safest place they could be, while the army handled the rest of the battle.

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

It wouldn’t be until two more hours before the battle finally ended. The cavaliers had successfully kept the bastards from the villagers, and had hurried as many civilians as possible into the safety of the chief’s home. It was quite cramped, but it was indeed protective of the innocent people.

“Lieutenant!!” Chrom’s voice cut across the billowing wind, frost and ice piercing any exposed skin with no mercy. The snow seemed to be getting worse, making it harder for Frederick to spot the prince…especially with the white cape and blue clothes that seemed to blend into the landscape.

“Milord! Is it done?”

“They’ve been cleared- I think we’re all right. The only problem is the villagers- we found multiple out in the field trying to escape from Risen. I don’t know how many more there are. Robin and the others went into the forest to try and recover people spotted running away, but they’ll need help.”

“They went deeper into the forest?” Frederick repeated when the Exalt crunched his way over, the snow halfway to their knees. A knot of worry lowered his brow, feeling a stirring in his chest. 

He had been militant in educating you on the dangers of winter weather; especially given your Plegian constitution; the desert environment couldn’t have been more different from Ferox. You weren’t exactly built for the snow, but with education and plenty of precautions taken, you would be fine.

He wasn’t sure how well that would hold up if you were navigating the frozen tundra alone.

“How long ago did they start the search?” He demanded, looking back into the crowd milling about inside the bursting house.

“It was little over a half hour, I believe.” He thought hard, eyes narrowed against the snow. “We need to organize a search party to make sure everyone comes back safe. Are the horses handling the cold well enough to work through it a bit longer?”

“Hebert is still strong enough to carry on; I’ll inform the pegasus riders and the rest of the cavalier squadron what we need to do.”

The Shepherds quickly rallied around the Exalt when he informed them of the situation. The chieftain managed to pull together focus among his citizens, asking if anyone was missing.

A few families were missing siblings or cousins, some friends and some more prone to panic than others.

But it was fewer than a dozen. How far could they have wandered that Robin and the others weren’t back yet?

“Frederick, take my flare spell; it’s the last one I’ve got, but I assume you’ll want to wait to return until everyone’s accounted for.”

“I will make certain we have saved everyone.” Frederick promised, taking the small tome into hand and tucking it into his cloak. 

The search party left the warmth they craved to return to the bitter cold. Even in those few minutes of planning their search, the wind grew much faster and biting.

It did not settle the pit in his stomach any less.

“The wind is too strong for voices to be heard over it; save your strength and don’t send up any signals unless you or the civilians you find are in immediate danger! Am I understood?!”

“Sir, yes sir!!”

And with that, they burst into the unforgiving snow once more. The knight could only hope that you were safe and healthy, returning with as many villagers as you could manage.

The alternative would be unthinkable.

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

If you were struggling with snow blindness before the storm got worse, it was completely impossible to see, now.

Between the wind whipping your hair about your face, and the ice crystals forming on your lashes, it was a miserable challenge just to put a coherent thought together.

A sliver of panic was setting in, but you were determined not to let it show. Not when you had a child in your arms, shivering violently against your chest. You held them tightly, having them underneath your coat and buttoned in to protect against the cold, but even with the woolen interior that Frederick had sewn in, you were finding it difficult to maintain either of your temperatures.

If the child had been a little older, perhaps you could’ve gone farther and gotten closer to the village before you lost sight of everything, altogether.

But there was little time to regret it. Your limbs were growing more numb by the second, and all you knew was to keep moving forward. 

One of the many navigational skills Frederick had taught you was to focus on the moss on the southern side of trees; it always grew on the southern side.

…Right?

That didn’t seem right.

The fog in your brain was getting thicker. Heavier, much like your limbs. With a shaking gasp, you tried to take in more air; each breath filled your lungs with ice.

“Aaah!!”

The child’s squeal vibrated against your chest, startling you; it seemed like you’d lost your balance. With a staggering few steps, you fought to stay upright, the wind beating into your body making it far more difficult than it should ever be.

“S-sorry…sorry…” You mumbled, tightening your grip on the little one. At least, you thought you did. You told your fingers to press into their small body, but…you weren’t sure if that mental command had traveled to your hands.

You couldn’t feel them anymore.

The pain of your struggle onward was getting harder to focus on. The numbness was worse. You kept apologizing. The word “sorry” left your mouth again…and again…

Where was the village? No…where were the trees? It was all so white…so blinding…

“Robin!!”

You felt the child jolt in your arms; someone had called your name. It must be loud, because the child started squirming, shouting back.

It was hard to hear even that much, though you could vaguely feel the vibrations of their voice against your chest.

“Gods, Robin!! What the hells happened?!”

You kept hearing a voice, but you didn’t recognize it. There was a flash of brown hair that came into view, and a big, blob that appeared to be walking on four sticks.

The young one squirmed from your arms, just as a pair of large hands came to your shoulders. You couldn’t feel them squeeze, but you felt the world suddenly stop.

They must have caught you. There was a frantic, muffled noise in front of you…was that their voice? Gods, you were so tired.

That was just about the last thing that crossed your mind, before the blinding white tilted into darkness.

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

Hebert was whinnying with great displeasure, having to go back into the punishing cold. Frederick understood the feeling well, but he was far more worried about locating his missing wife.

It hadn’t been long after he’d prepared the Shepherds for the search before he heard the panicked wails of a young mother; her little boy hadn’t come back.

He’d been separated in the panic, trying to get all the civilians away from the battle. He was too young to be out there alone; no way he could find his way back in all the madness.

That, and the storm was so bad now, that little one would surely be dead if he wasn’t found.

Frederick prayed to every god he could think of that you had found the boy, and the pair of you were quickly on your way back to the village.

“Onward, Hebert!! Faster!!” He snapped the reins, pushing as fast as he could go. It was a grueling process; the hopes of spotting the black coat in this sea of ice were becoming dashed with every passing moment.

After ten minutes, there was still no luck. Frederick’s heartbeat quickened, the dread creeping in with every slam of Hebert’s hooves into the ground.

It wasn’t fast enough.

Every second you were out there, the chances of survival were slipping away. They were going to run out of time to get you and return to the village.

If things got any worse, they’d have to go back empty hande.

He searched the ky for a flare, flistened for someone shouting they’d found you. But of coufres, no signs came to suggest you were found.

That would be far too easy.

Frederick dug his heels in, prssing further into the white and prayed for your safety.

He bore the brunt of the ice for twelve more minutes…when he finally had a breakthrough.

A single, dark blot against the horizon.

It was moving slowly, moving away from him…but it was no doubt a person. He He pressed forward despite Hebert’s whinnied protests, the wind picking up speed and blowing at the poor beasts’ side.

“A little farther Hebert. We’re almost- you!! You, there!!”

He shouted out at the sight of the distant figure. They did not seem to acknowledge his voice. 

“Robin?! Is that you??” He shouted louder. The distance was quickly closing, and the blot turned into what was without a doubt your coat. The patterns on the sleeves were purple; there was only one person it could possibly be.

“H-help!! Help, please!!” 

A small body was running towards him, forcing Hebert to a stop. Frederick quickly closed the distance with his dismount, finding a small child trudging towards him with a complete lack of balance and coordination. The poor thing must have had his limbs half frozen.

“You must be the child that went missing.” Frederick found it hard to speak over the weather’s howls, but the boy acknowledged him, welcoming the knight’s hands as he lifted him up, placing him on Hebert’s saddle. Quickly, he unclasped his cloak, draping it around the boy. He seemed lucid and sound, and looked warmer than he would’ve thought.

“I-I don’t need much help-- it’s her. She needs it.” The boy pointed back to the figure who he’d looked away from.

The figure that had turned slowly, clearly confused. 

The fear struck him like a lightning bolt.

“Gods, Robin!!” He sprinted to you, grasping your shoulders. You didn’t acknowledge him at all. "What the hells happened??"

Your eyes were glassy; skin pale, lips blue. Well past blue.

You were on You looked on the verge of death.

“It’s all right, I’ve got you.” He bit back the panic, fumbling the flare from his pocket and launching it into the sky. The magic made the bright red sigil impossible to miss.

It was the one saving grace they had.

“Don’t worry, I’m here. I’ve got the boy. You did brilliantly.” He said, tearing his scarf from his neck and wrapping it around your neck.

It bothered him more when you didn’t react to his actions.

“Robin?” 

You blinked, a slurred “Sorry” falling from your lips. Then your knees buckled. A strangled noise escaped him when you suddenly fell, the whole of your body weight coming against his hands. He nearly dropped you into the snow. 

“Dammit…!” He growled, finding the strength to lift you to his chest, carrying you back to his restless horse. The others would arive soon- surely they’d seen the flare by now, hovering bright and shining in the sky.

He had found you. He was bringing you to safety…but this was only the beginning of teh battle.

With a twist of his heart, he turned Hebert around and started the race back to teh village.

This was a battle you could still lose.

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

It was a merc that some Shepherds had met them halfway back to the village; Frederick had you wrapped up in the cloak with the boy, trying desperately to retain some of your body heat. When Sully and Maribelle caught up to him, they had her pulled from Hebert and placed into a village cart, its wheels carefully grafted to handle the snow far better than poor Hebert’s hooves could.

It mdae the return much easier; Maribelle was quick in administering first aide, focusing on yourr injuries and the frostbite nipping into your skin even as the ice turned her perfect curls into a frantic mop.

“She’s got hypothermia,” Maribelle deduced as they rushed through the front gates. “She’s losing her body emperature fast- she needs more than what I can do, and she needs emergency medics, now!!”

There was little more that needed to be said.

Frederick handed the boy off to his weeping parents, but had little tim eto accept their thanks; you were already being pulled frmo the cart and rushed to the cleric’s housewith the SHepherds’ best healers in tow.

He followed after them, Chrom and Ricken rushing with armfuls of blankets and enchanted stones to warm you quickly.

“Put her there, Frederick!” Lissa’s hand pointed to the pallet of blankets all but thrown together on the floor. The few beds were already filled with a mix of injured soldier and civilian alike.

You could only make do with what you had.

Frederick grit his teeth, following the command and lowering you carefully onto the blankets. His gloves were soaked through when he withdrew; your clothes were sopping wet.

“We need privacy-- Chrom, get those sheets up on the lines, here; fasten them so no one can look in.”

The prince did not dawdle, handing off the thicker blankets he and Ricken brought and started to fasten up the sheets around the clothes line hastily tacked up during the rush to protect the tactician’s privacy.

Frederick well understood what was happening, and had already begun to remove your clothes; the coat, sweater, scarf and tunic were difficult to peel away, but mercifully, your underclothes were not beyond rescue.

As soon as you were out from under your layers, he had you bundled tightly beneath the blankets, pressing the warming stones to your palms and your feet, and another to your chest. 

He fought to suppress the anguish in his heart when he saw the tips of your fingers and toes had grown discolored. Had hypothermia already set in?

Was it already too...

“Frederick, armor off, now!!”

“Yes, milady!”

The buckles were being undone just as Lissa darted to the floor beside you, strategically speaking healing spells over the more dire areas in need of repair.

Your breathing had yet to steady, and your pulse was still weak. Maribelle looked utterly frantic, working opposite the princess to try and stabilize your temperature.

Frederick’s armor was fully off, clattering off of him in lieu of his carefully setting it on its stand. There would be little time for procedure. Not when you needed him.

“Your clothes, are they-?”

“They are dry, milady. If it is not enough body heat quickly enough, I will take them off. Give me the order when you must.” His words were clipped, the knight wasting not a second longer before lifting the blankets and joining you beneath them.

Gingerly, cautiously, you were pulled into him, making sure not to hold you in a way that would inhibit the healers from getting to you.

He cradled your head to his neck, your nose like ice against his skin. You were still so cold…this was surely a nightmare, wasn’t it?

“Stay with her, just like that. Any loss of body heat could be deadly for her, at this point.” Maribelle instructed in a grave tone.

Frederick squeezed you closer. The thundering of his heart was deafening in his ears��surely, you could hear it.

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

The first thought you had when your thoughts finally came out of the darkness was that you were very, very warm.

That wouldn’t make any sense, considering the last place you were was in the middle of a raging blizzard.

Then your second thought was that you couldn’t really move. It felt like you were being held by someone. Was it the little boy? The child that-

Oh, gods, where was he?

“Ungh…” 

You couldn’t quite form words, yet. Your mind was filled with fog. And your head hurt. Well, really, a lot of you hurt. As your consciousness started to come through the grogginess, you felt a shift around you.

“Robin?”

Your vision was still blurred, despite rapid blinks attempting to clarify what you were looking at. Or rather, what you were looking for. All you could really see was the knitting of a thick, dark blue tunic…it smelled quite familiar. 

“Robin, can you hear me? Are you- Milady, I think she’s coming to.”

That sounded like Frederick’s voice. The hands that were on you retreated from your back, one gingerly cupping your cheek, tilting your face up.

Your vision went from the dark blue haziness into a much brighter, warmer shift of light. You found yourself looking up, into the blurry vision of your husband’s face.

You’d recognize that cowlick anywhere.

“Robin…you’re finally awake…can you hear me? A-are you…?” He sounded so fragile. What could’ve happened that would have him so worried? 

It did bother you, but there was a much more important matter at hand.

“Boy…t-the…the boy…”

“Thank the gods.” He breathed a heavy sigh of relief, holding you tighter. He pressed you to his chest, his other hand threading into your hair. He buried his face in your neck, and you could feel the grimace on his lips. “You’re all right…!”

“Fred…the child, he’s-”

“He’s all right. You saved him.” He spoke softly, his voice vibrating pleasantly along your skin. “I found you both, just in time. He’s with his parents, and you’re in the cleric’s home.”

The cleric’s home. 

“Lissa’s nearby. She’ll come to check on you in a moment. You were…it was touch and go for a while.”

Oh. That explained the tremor in his fingertips.

“What happened?”

“When I found you…you were unresponsive. The boy had actually run from you to come and get me. It was right when I’d gotten to you, that you collapsed. Your hands…you were frostbitten, and you’d been walking the wrong way, and…and you were delirious.”

You raised your hands to his chest, fingers curled into his tunic. They did not seem to be frostbitten any longer, at least. They were stiff and sore, but they weren’t discolored.

“I don’t remember much, I’m afraid.” Your voice was hoarse, despite the best attempts to clear your throat. Frederick stroked your hair, an attempt at comfort for the both of you. “But I’m…so glad you found me.”

“I would not have lost you to the winter.” He murmured, “I refused to. I know how much you hate the cold.”

“Ha.” You pressed your face into his chest, snuggling as close as you could. His hand tightened on your waist, and you were acutely aware that his calloused fingers were pressed to your skin. “Um…am I…?”

“Your clothes were utterly soaked through. We had to undress you, but rest assured, it is just the two of us. Lissa was kind enough to prepare some privacy for you while treating you.”

“I see.” You were too tired to be embarrassed. Given the circumstances, you weren’t surprised that was the course of action taken. “Well…thank you. For coming to my aid.”

“Good wife, I will not hesitate to do so. Just as you do the same for me.” He hummed, pressing a kiss to your forehead. You curled your arms around his back, hugging him as tightly as you could.

You pushed your leg between his, all but wrapping yourself around your husband with the energy you could spare.

He had been so worried. You could feel the remnants of the stress in his form, how he had yet to fully relax despite cradling you so closely.

It was his favorite place to be, in the best of circumstances. Having you close in his embrace was a luxury that you had not been afforded since the Plegians first struck.

Perhaps being put in mortal danger wasn’t so bad, if this is what awaited you on the other side. Though you were careful not to speak of such a thing while your husband doted on you, remarking here and there about how utterly frightened he’d been at the thought you’d been lost in the snow.

Instead you simply lavished in his warmth, rising from your delightfully cozy nest to be examined by a tearful Lissa, and later to enjoy a bowl of hot stew lovingly prepared by your relieved comrades.

It would be a few days before you were back on your feet, but Frederick was with you every step of the way to make sure you recovered fully (and you were sure to give him as much physical comfort as possible in that time…there couldn’t have been enough hugs and kisses in the world until he was confident you were all right).

[inlovewithregencyera]

Granningham, July 4th 1818

Aurelia by now was dressed for her travels to visit her favorite Aunt in Henford. Her stomach was in knots and butterflies fluttered immensely within. Her heart could scarcely keep a steady beat and she was now more anxious than ever. What if her Mama told her no? What if she had to see him and make an awkward conversation? What would he think of her now that it's been 2 years? Aurelia was her own enemy, and her mind never knew peace. Sarah could always tell when Aurelia's anxiety was at its highest, and she would do anything to calm her nerves.

Sarah: Well m'lady, shall I go tell your Mama you wish to call on Lady Helena?

Aurelia: Oh yes please, I can't bear looking at him.

Emmeline: Ah, dear Sarah!

Sarah: Your grace..

It seemed that the sounds of the maids cleaning the foyer got louder with Aurelia's heartbeat. *Thump, thump, swoosh, swish*. Sarah was taking a lifetime to ask a simple question.

Emmeline: Well, the carriage wheel has broken, but do call her in!

Sarah: Your mama wants to see you...

Aurelia: But-

Sarah: She also says that the carriage wheel is broken and some footmen are out fixing it.

*Aurelia lets out a long, dreadful sigh*

Emmeline: And you know Lord Worthington, my dear Aurelia will be most galvanized upon your return!

Frederick: I'm not so sure about that your grace.

Emmeline: Oh nonsense! You two were very good friends back in 16' before you left.

Frederick: Yes..good friends we were.

Louisa: Oh need not worry Lord Worthington! I'm sure once you see her you'll become good friends again..

Frederick: ....

Emmeline: Yes, yes! Aurelia has quite blossomed since her 18th year. She's much more mature and serious, yet so beautiful!

Louisa: Mama is thankful for Aurelia's melancholic disposition. She says it makes her more beaut-

*Emmeline smacks Louisa's arm*

Louisa: MAMA!

A concerned and saddened look appeared on Frederick's face when Louisa's lips let the word melancholic fall out, but he continued to glare at the porcelain vases so mother and daughter would neither see. What could this mean? Was he the cause of this? He had to know.

Frederick: Melanch-

Emmeline: Oh look, here she comes!

Aurelia: Hello Mama..Louie.

Aurelia's stance was firm as well as her voice. Frederick felt the hushed symphony of memories awaken in Aurelia's voice. The sound of her words, once etched in his heart, stirring the echoes of the past he had almost let slip away. He turned around swiftly.

Frederick: Lady Aure-

Aurelia's stance no longer stood firm. As soon as he turned his body towards her she became weak and recoiled into an insecure posture. She couldn't dare meet his eyes, she might faint. She began fidgeting with her gloves.

Aurelia: *looking away* Lord Worthington..

Her voice was now soft and reserved. As if they had just met and were strangers.

An anguished look appeared upon Frederick's face. Did she hate him now? Did she hold some animosity towards him? He held none toward her and found it impossible to ever be cross with her. Even after that terrible night in 1816, he wasn't vexed, as he had blamed himself. Now he really blamed himself, maybe he shouldn't have run away to some foreign country for two years. Perhaps he should wait to talk to her, she was never open with her emotions, but he had a way of cracking her shell. He had always been patient with her, as he understood where her sorrows had come from.

Aurelia knew that look and saw it clearly out of the corner of her eye. It was the same look he gave her on August 2nd, 1816 except this time no tears were falling. She hated how she could remember how he looked in detail that night, and how his weeping was entirely her fault. She replayed that night in her head constantly, all day, every day. Why did she have to ruin her own happiness along with his? Why did he smile at her, for he should be the one to frown and look away. Why was she so cruel at times to the people who cared for her the most? Frederick was always kind to her, even when she'd been terrible to him. Not many people's sorrows had such an effect on Aurelia, but Frederick's did. Sadness lingered between them.

Emmeline: My God girl, are you deaf?

Aurelia: Maam?

Emmeline: I said what's all this business about calling on Helena? Surely you've never told me about it until I heard it from Sarah today.

Aurelia: Oh *brushing lint off sleeves* nothing Mama. I had just wished to pay my Aunt a call but since the carriage wheel is broken I suppose I'll have to do it another time. Or I could walk?

Emmeline: I do believe it will rain today and I'll not have my daughter appearing like a wet dog on the doors of the Ramsburys.

Frederick: I can take her.

Aurelia: WHA-

*Louisa starts giggling*

Emmeline: Oh surely, it's out of your way?

Frederick: I had plans to call on my mama. Lady Helena still lives in Henford, yes?

Aurelia: WHY-

Emmeline: Oh then splendid! You are an amiable young man, Sarah will accompany you two so I see it fit and Aurelia won't have to get wet! You three go along now, Louisa and I have to finish telling the servants what to pack us.

[magicofthepen]

I would love to ask you about one of your Toby Daye fics. Unfortunately... 😆

So open prompt for anything fic-related you want to share that isn't too spoilery

fic writing asks!

yes, unfortunately. 😄

This isn't any of the ask questions, but for you specifically, I have decided to cryptically list out as much of the first line of each Toby fic as I can give you, without spoiling anything. and for co-written fics where I did not write the first line, I will be listing the first line that I personally wrote.

Against Your Peace: Liz is too pale.

That Sorrow-Wreathen Knot: The sky is dappled violet, the suns sinking into the sea, when [REDACTED] stops at [REDACTED].

A Star Danced: The fog brushes against my skin, unspeakably gentle.

Made of Tears: I don’t realize how much I missed [REDACTED] until [REDACTED].

Weep to See: I visited [REDACTED] for the first time a month after [REDACTED].

Brave New World: Beltane is the smaller of our two Moving Day celebrations.

The Duchy’s Ward: [REDACTED] breezes into the backroom, a couple of books in her arms, and stops dead.

The Selkie’s Heir: The hatch behind us creaks open, and I startle away from [REDACTED] like I’ve been shocked, certain [REDACTED]’s caught us again.

Beyond the Hour of Death: [REDACTED]

A Serpent’s Sting: “I’m calling to announce the birth of my granddaughter,” says Frederick Ryan.

The Blood We Share: The first baby I ever hold is a girl who hasn’t yet figured out how to walk, but is making a determined effort.

When the Bough Breaks: [REDACTED]’s grief is as deep as the sea, and as unknowable.

pull apart the dark: The world is so quiet.

even the stars, they burn: [REDACTED] winds slowly up the road to our house.

catch you through it all: [REDACTED]

Against the Tide: The car screeches up to the red light, my foot slammed on the brake.

The Fretful Elements: “What trouble have you brought me this time?”

and ooh wait! there is one fic I can talk about without spoilers, my Liz/Toby AU, so randomly generating a question:

📈- Was there a clear character arc you wanted____ character to go on?

this fic is, more or less, about Toby colliding with an alternative to Home a few months after she ran away from her mother’s tower and threw her lot in with Devin. it’s about her experiencing an early shift in loyalties—from Devin to the girl she’s supposed to be manipulating on Devin’s behalf but oops, actually likes quite a bit. it’s not enough for her to leave Home, not yet, but it’s enough for her to draw some boundaries with Devin much earlier.

Toby’s arc is also about discovering her attraction to women, as a result of Liz definitely thinking they’re dating, Devin wanting Liz to think she and Toby are dating, and Toby being completely oblivious to Liz’s flirtation and her own growing ~feelings~ until it gets Real Obvious and Stacy sits her down and is like. Toby, you have a crush on this girl.

[mara-xx217]

Ending H (Fear & Hunger) Ch. 13.0- Wizened or Witless?

I'm doing something a little different this time and making what I guess could be called a 'multi-choice' chapter. The parts will be finished soon so I hope you enjoy!

The last of the Fellowship is the current reigning king of Ma'habre but it couldn't be the old man that stands before you, could it? Still... there's an undeniable power in his eyes that makes you shiver in disgust. Is there a point to delving any deeper, or should you just give up while you still retain the remnants of your sanity?

Warnings: Canon Typical Violence, Leering, Genuinely Unpleasant Discussions

“You’d do well to stay clear of that cursed, rotted place.” 

You had already delved too deep. Could you simply just… leave? The man before you was old, ancient, with dark, leathered skin and an iron-grey beard that spilled over his legs and onto the ground. He was hunched over as though pained by the years that he carried on his back. There was… something about him, what, you were uncertain of, but whatever it was, it made your stomach twist into knots and made your fingers reflexively tremble and reach for your weapon. Your companion, Frederick, already had his weapon drawn and was pointing it at the stranger, who didn’t even spare him a glance as he stared a hole straight through to your core. 

“A man cannot attain true godhood. The souls of men are too wicked and tainted, too frail to do so.” With the heel of his foot, the old man tapped on one of the cages behind him, the dog within barking loudly and lunging against the metal walls that contained its feral fury. Every time the cage jostled violently, your heart sank to the depths of the Abyss and came surging back up whenever the beast remained locked in place. 

“What do you know of godhood, old man?! You’re nothing but a fool! A fool that-” As Frederick spoke, the man burst out into laughter, though it was sharp and cruel and lacking any warmth of joy. 

“‘A fool’! Yes, yes! A fool, indeed! Though a fool that you will not best, methinks.” His eyes finally shift away from you and land on your companion, his shoulders visibly bristling under the old man’s gaze. 

“What was that?! You think I am incapable of killing the likes of you-?!”

“D-Don’t-”

“-do not TOUCH me-! You little wretch-!” As you reached for his sword arm, Frederick pulled it from your grasp. He never turned away from the stranger and spat in his direction. Phlegm landed on the man’s steel-toed foot, his facial expression never wavering as he watched your companion turn to walk away from him. 

“-you aren’t worth the effort it takes to raise my sword arm. Come-” Frederick beckoned you over his shoulder as he left the kennel. His footsteps were wet in the urine-soaked floor and echoed against the temple’s walls. A knot formed in your stomach as you watched him walk away.

“...fool. A fool’s ego is a terrible thing, indeed.” The old man was staring at you again, almost as if he was sizing you up. You feel that, if he weren’t so enfeebled and you armed, that he would have inflicted some sort of evil upon you. Sensing your discomfort, he smiled, again void of any warmth or friendliness, just as most things in this accursed place was. 

“Are you a little weasel? Or are you capable of something more?” He was looking you up and down, his eyes raking against your body with enough intensity that you could feel his gaze on your bare skin. It made you shudder in disgust and fear. 

“Hmph- No, I doubt very much that you could do more than be an extension of a foolish man’s dominion…” The old man’s laugh was harsh and kicked your body into motion. You left him, gooseflesh covering you from head to toe. 

Rounding the corner, you can still hear the man’s laugh ricocheting off the walls around you. Frederick was already down the hall, not having bothered to wait for you to follow him. He knew that you would follow him and you did, blindly and with your head down as the old man’s words still repeated in your head. 

‘I doubt you could do more than be an extension of a foolish man’s dominion…’ 

In between the clacking of your and Frederick’s heels, a loud, metallic clank snaps you out of your thoughts. It must have started Frederick too, as he stopped mid stride and exclaimed aloud-

“What the hell was-?!”

The sound of claws scraping for purchase on the urine-slick floor and barks loud enough to reverberate throughout your bones nearly deafens you and freezes you in place. Four large, ragged and frothy-mouthed dogs barreled down from the side room that the old man was standing in. Cold fear freezes the blood in your veins. W-Why would he-? 

Frederick was frozen too, eyes wide and limbs stiff, unable to raise his sword. You both only need to flee deeper into the temple to reach the end of it all. The end…? Or… another path? The temple was the beating heart of this old, decaying place and the entire reason why he journeyed to this terrible place. He couldn’t even remember what the country that he hailed from looked like. What it sounded like… What it smelled like… You were just the same as he, losing what you once were every passing second that you are in this terrible black. 

If you remain in place, you will die, but you will die as yourself and not what you could possibly become should you fall into the shadow of the last withering new god. 

However, if you don’t… 

What will you do?

Run

Stay and fight

@prettycutebunny, @infinitewhore, @kennbb, @slutwithadegree, @dead-bxxxtch-walking, @space-arsonist, @pink-soft-shadow, @sinlessdesire, @hoemine, @memoryofheather, @horny-3

[omies-odd-writing-spot]

Nymphaea Thermarum 04

Teaching The Important Things:

“Okay, now tighten the knot.” Fredrick said as he was watching the miniscule hands and what they were doing intently.

Lily carefully tightened the line, thin cord but a line that can well support her weight and then some. She sat up and looked at the propped up phone set beside her that had the reference pictures, “I… think I got it. It makes more sense seeing the pictures dad.”

“Good,” the man smiled, proud as he shifted in his seat to reach for his coffee mug on the table. “Want to test your knots baby girl?” 

“Yes!” Lily brightened up as the small girl perked up. She found the line, and started to loop it up to be neat and once her adopted, giant father had settled again. She measured a good distance of six inches in the line starting where it was connected to herself. The girl lifted the spot once her dad's attention was back on her fully. “This should be a safe distance right?”

Fredrick checked the distance and picked up the line. Twisting some more on the other side through his fingers, “Looks good, ready?”

Lily wiggled exactly and nodded, “Yes!”

The man grinned as he planted his left elbow and lifted his bitty daughter up slowly until she was off her feet. Pausing so only two inches were under her and his right hand hovered near but not so much to interfere. “Don't forget to sit back, let the harness hold you Lily, don't hang from it to cinch it around your middle.”

The tiny girl concentrated, but got in the position she needed to be. All at once a lot of things they had talked about and watched on the phone made sense. She swayed for a few moments before shifting her lower legs and started to swing back and forth. Testing the feel and movement before making a face.

“Can you put me down dad?”

“What did you notice?” Fredrick asked, carefully lowering Lily back to the table top. Smiling a little as she leaned back onto the knuckles of his other hand as she adjusted the harness. 

“It feels looser and…slippery? Like my leg could slide out.” Lily said as she finished, getting up and testing movement before looking back and up at her giant father. “Okay, we can try again!”

Fredrick lifted the line again, and watched intently as Lily started her testing. She was notably a lot more confident as she swung again. Then unprompted started to climb the line up to his hand. Fredrick grinned, “hey, you remembered what we talked about. Good leg work baby girl.”

“Thanks!” Lily gasped once she was up on the back of the massive hand. Her dad had kept his hand steady and though he did not shift to accommodate, he did not hinder, letting her sort out her balance and mechanics herself for the most part.

It was one of the things Lily was learning she loved about her giant adopted dad. He was more than happy to help teach Lily survival skills, mechanics, electronics on top of everything else like reading, writing and math. Even if Lily was not nearly big enough to use some of this, but also just… whatever she wanted to learn there was no hesitation. 

Even repealing like in the video of her dad doing it in training. Or if she was not up to something at all. Lily grinned and held up her arms to the human, “dad!”

“What baby girl?” 

“I want a hug.”

Fredrick rolled his eyes playfully, not sure what thoughts his little daughter had in her head for those expression changes.  His other hand came up and pulled the girl up by the line, getting a startled yelp as he brought Lily over. It was just a moment of seemingly being unstable before he hunched. Holding Lily in his hand and press on his cheek to her small self. 

The man smiled at the laughing and small smack against his cheek before Lily pressed her head against him. Shamelessly in this random want for a cuddle. “You're such a brat.”

“No I'm not,” Lily said confidently, standing up with her hands on Frederick’s cheek and looking up at the big brown eye half lidded. Recognizing the happy expression. “But now I'm ready to learn about repelling!”

“Okay you're a dork not a brat,” Frederick said with a fod smile, but helped Lily down so they could make sure her line was untangled and wrapped back up, then picked her up with his own confidence of experience now.

“Where are we going?” Lily asked, as they left the table and then to the living room.

“Over by the couch, I made something for you last night.” Frederick said as he set Lily in the low coffee table before pulling something off the couch to set up near her. 

“Is that sand paper?” Lily gasped, making her her line was over a shoulder and out of the way as she looked at the odd things as they were set down before being assembled. She touched the poster board, recognizing that, as it worked pretty good for making models with her adopted mom. There were carefully pinned course sandpaper on the board in a line.

“Yep, I thought it would be good for you for traction as you first start.” The man nodded, taking that part once Lily was clear, and attached it at an angle that seemed about what starters should be on. Frederick just had to adjust it for Lily's size. 

As he did so Lily ran around the structure he made, the top end had to be a good two feet high! It was made with wood and seemed like it could adjust? It was at the highest settings? 

“You remember what we went over with anchor points?” Her dad's voice drew Lily's attention away from the excitement building.

“Yeah! I mean yes. Uuh we haven't made anything yet for me to use yet.” Lily started and then stood up, focusing on the reminder of safety.

“We will, I have an idea for now though,” Frederick reassured, “Part of the reason I want you to practice here with me instead of jumping off the kitchen counter.”

Lily grinned, through had the good sense to seem a bit sheepish. She still shamelessly tried that now and then, but not nearly as much as she used to do! And she waited for her parent's attention first now. She started to try and sort how to climb up as her dad pushed a thick scarf around the bottom of the practice ramp. Squeak g as she was carefully picked up and lifted to the top.

“Don't worry about climbing up for now, you're going to be tired enough with repealing today.” The man reassured before going over the checklist of safety points they had learned and gone over that morning. 

Lily was excited, yes, but very proud that she could answer everything. The first several times of actual practice were…awkward to say the least. She was very grateful that her dad had quick reflexes. She was determined to get the hang of this before her mom got off work. 

They only really stopped for a quick snack and used the facilities, then off to try again. Lily was tired when she was finally able to get down, back up and down again all by herself. Her arms her, her back hurt and it was a relief to sprawled in the massive, but warm hands after getting the harness off. Then some needed rest against her dad's chest.

Lily dosed without realizing it as she was listening to the deep heartbeat under her. Not really aware of when Frederick got up. The man still had a proud and fond look as he carried Lily to the kitchen, finding the spot she liked to be in where she could watch normally. It was a warmer area of the kitchen and… and…

Frederick sighed, having a fond smile as he gently rubbed his thumb against Lily's side. “Why do you have to be so small, baby girl? you're going to melt my heart.”

The tiny girl just curled up to be comfortable in her hammock-like spot. The motion had Lily pressing her forehead against the side of the pad of his thumb. Frederick fell in love all over again, and though he had to hold chest as his heart turned to mush, the man's legs thankfully stayed solid. For his tiny daughter, his wife, their home, just…

This was so worth the deployment times. Or coming back from them in reality.

[leiawritesstories]

illicit affairs for the ask game👀👀👀

LMAOOO BESTIE ILY FOR THIS

okay well OBVIOUSLY the first story that comes to mind is your Illicit Affairs, it's captured me completely and even though it is so so much pain i love it (ps everyone go read it!! ezra is such a brilliant writer!!)

now, if *i* were to write a fic called "Illicit Affairs," here's how it would go mwahahahahahahahaa *cackles in Frederick*

Aelin didn't know when the spark had gone out, only that it had. She woke up that July morning to an empty bed, an empty house, and her hopeful half-smile faltered and crumbled, all her illusions of the fairytale marriage she'd dreamed of since childhood splintering into dust and ashes.

That night, she put on her little gold dress and did her makeup heavier than usual, texted her best friends, and went to her favorite nightclub, fully prepared to forget her failed marriage in the arms of any man who wanted her. That night, she found herself pressed against the club bathroom's sinks, panties shoved into her mouth, her fingers knotted into short, silvery hair, her nerves alight with fiery pleasure like nothing she'd ever felt. That night, Aelin Galathynius cheated on her husband with a man she'd just met.

And gods burn her, it was the most alive she'd ever felt.

thank you for the ask my dear!

[macawbre]

Frederick hasn't slept in so long. It feels like weeks, but it probably hasn't been that long; he just really does not like the idea of sleeping right now. After what he's been through ( or, not been through? the details are hazy, fog filled, distant things ) he would rather avoid thinking about Verdane at all.

But, as it is, he needs to. For himself, at the very least.

He finds Henry alone and approaches him, his hands behind his back. His face is solemn and serious, though he doubts the mage will find anything amiss with such an expression. He's not sure how to apologize ( can he? for letting his son die in a dream? it seems absurd ) -- but if he doesn't, it will weigh on him.

"Henry," he says, because that's what comes out. "It's good to see you. I've met up with Las-- with your son, Inigo."

"Freddybear!" His face lit up, wick to flame, enthused by the length of thread that had intertwined their paths in the past. Henry was a sick man, a twisted one. But in the tangling knots of his own depravity, there was a silly little concept he had come to terms with—a thread so thoroughly gold, it pulled him from his labyrinth. The Shepherds. They had taken up a guy like him... and for what? Were they suckered into it? And after all the Plegians had done to them? There was one guy in particular, who liked order in a way that should've oiled-to-watered him to Henry's chaos. The key here, was "should've." Because he still dragged Henry around like a rag doll, like one of them. A shepherd instead of a wolf. "I've been looking everyyyywhere for you!"

Forget Cassandra. Sometimes the things Henry said felt like a lie by default.

But he was. That is. He was looking for him.

To be honest, now that he had a good look at him, Henry's thighs started to ache just from the thought of those hellish workout routines Frederick used to drag him on. "Nya ha ha! Why the long face? Borrowed it from a horse or something?" He paused, at mention of Inigo so abruptly into the conversation. "Huh... So you were with the boyo, were you?"

His 'not-from-here-nor-anywhere-really' son. His 'damn-now-I-have-someone-to-live-for' son.

"Hey, uh. You good, bud?"

He was never good at these touchy-feely things. Or maybe he was deluding himself into thinking that. Either way, there's something distant in Frederick's eyes that made him feel like the guy had been through a doozy or three. Maybe he should recommend him to one of the psychologists he had on the line. Hmmmm. It would sound a bit nuts coming from him though.

"The last time I went on a mission in August, I looked juuuust as rough as you did! I shoulda warned ya, but y'know, I kinda missed the memo." He wagged his finger once, conducting the air in his ever-nonchalant attitude. Maybe he should have mentioned that he died the last time he went on a mission like that. Henry made death feel un-intimate, yet carried his crosses like he knew every corpse he came across by name. A crow cawed, landing playfully into Frederick's nest of hair. "Guess Crowm missed ya."

It was the closest thing to Henry admitting the same. The Shepherds had become a silly home for a silly man, after all. After the world had threatened to come down on them, Henry was glad this time around, it didn't. It hadn't. Because he had a little too much care for these folks, this time around. It'd be a bloody crime to rip them away from him now.

"Anywayyyys, you're going to have to catch me up to speed. And not in the Frederick's Fanatical Fitness Hour kinda way. Like... tell me something I can latch onto. Maybe I'll send a curse or two their way?"

"...Ahaha~" He rested a hand on Frederick's shoulder, to help anchor him a bit. Ship to shore. "Just like old times."

[lizhi-studiies]

07/11/2023 - tuesday 002/200 days of productivity

today was a lot better! i read two chapters of narrative of the life of frederick douglass and took notes, then took notes on a chapter of my ap bio textbook. i got a question wrong on the self quiz, but i looked it over and was able to figure out where i went wrong.

i'm so glad it's white peach season, they make the best study snacks! i cut up a peach today and it was perfect, each piece was crunchy and sweet, it took everything i had to not eat the whole peach at once. in this morning's green tea, one of the leaves tied itself into a knot. i hope it's a good sign!

[the-paintrist]

William Dobson - Group portrait of Prince Rupert, Colonel William Legge, and Colonel John Russell - ca. 1645

Ashmolean Museum, Oxford, UK

William Dobson (4 March 1611 (baptised); 28 October 1646 (buried)) was a portraitist and one of the first significant English painters, praised by his contemporary John Aubrey as “the most excellent painter that England has yet bred”. He died relatively young and his final years were disrupted by the English Civil War.

Prince Rupert of the Rhine, Duke of Cumberland, KG, PC, FRS (17 December 1619 (O.S.) / 27 December (N.S.) – 29 November 1682 (O.S.) 9 December 1682 (N.S)) was an English army officer, admiral, scientist, and colonial governor. He first came to prominence as a Royalist cavalry commander during the English Civil War. Rupert was the third son of the German Prince Frederick V of the Palatinate and Elizabeth, eldest daughter of King James VI and I of Scotland and England.

Prince Rupert had a varied career. He was a soldier as a child, fighting alongside Dutch forces against Habsburg Spain during the Eighty Years' War (1568–1648), and against the Holy Roman Emperor in Germany during the Thirty Years' War (1618–1648). Aged 23, he was appointed commander of the Royalist cavalry during the English Civil War, becoming the archetypal "Cavalier" of the war and ultimately the senior Royalist general. He surrendered after the fall of Bristol and was banished from England. He served under King Louis XIV of France against Spain, and then as a Royalist privateer in the Caribbean Sea. Following the Restoration, Rupert returned to England, becoming a senior English naval commander during the Second Anglo-Dutch War and Third Anglo-Dutch War, and serving as the first governor of the Hudson's Bay Company. He died in England in 1682, aged 62.

Rupert is considered to have been a quick-thinking and energetic cavalry general, but ultimately undermined by his youthful impatience in dealing with his peers during the Civil War. In the Interregnum, Rupert continued the conflict against Parliament by sea from the Mediterranean to the Caribbean, showing considerable persistence in the face of adversity. As the head of the Royal Navy in his later years, he showed greater maturity and made impressive and long-lasting contributions to the Royal Navy's doctrine and development. As a colonial governor, Rupert shaped the political geography of modern Canada: Rupert's Land was named in his honour, and he was a founder of the Hudson's Bay Company. Rupert's varied and numerous scientific and administrative interests, combined with his considerable artistic skills, made him one of the more colourful public figures in England of the Restoration period.

William Legge (1608 – 13 October 1670) was an English royalist army officer, a close associate of Prince Rupert of the Rhine.

John Russell (1620-1687) was an English soldier and politician who sat in the House of Commons from 1641 to 1644. He fought in the Royalist army in the English Civil War.

Russell was the third son of Francis Russell, fourth Earl of Bedford, known as the "wise earl", and his wife Catherine Brydges, daughter of Giles Brydges, 3rd Baron Chandos. He was a wealthy man with estates at Shingay, Cambridgeshire.

In 1641, Russell was elected Member of Parliament for Tavistock in the Long Parliament after his brother William Lord Russell inherited the peerage. Russell served in the King's army and was a member of the Sealed Knot. The family had divided loyalties in the Civil War. His father had been a champion of the parliamentary cause and his brother changed sides twice. He had many aristocratic equally vacillating connections among his brothers-in-law: the Parliamentarians, Lord Brooke and Lord Grey of Wark, the turncoat Earl of Carlisle and the Royalists Lord Bristol and Lord Newport of High Ercall. Russell commanded Prince Rupert's blue coated regiment of foot, and was disabled from sitting in parliament in 1644. He was prominent at the storming of Leicester in May 1645, was wounded at Naseby and was in the Oxford garrison before its surrender.

After the Restoration Russell was commissioned colonel and captain of John Russell's Regiment of Guards which became incorporated into the 1st Regiment of Foot Guards, or later the Grenadier Guards. He commanded the regiment until 1681. He enjoyed dress, dance, and music although his taste belonged to the fashion of an earlier generation.