#history will not remember any of them fondly or kindly | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

tonydaddingham · 2 years ago

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Longwinded Anon (LWA)✨ gets their own special hotlink and dedicated masterpost✨mainly because im fed up of searching through my whole entire blog when i need to refer back to their asks:

oldest ones first:

ahhh, the first ever LWA ask, a golden post. i remember it fondly. my response as you can probably tell was just sheer incredulity that was sent to me, instant brain crush. anyway, talks about the influence of politico-moral dynamics on GO and how this extends to how we perceive crowley. i promise my responses get more intelligent after this.

more on crowley in terms of his arguably unreliable narrative and questioning the choices he makes as a result. in this i actually answer the first one as well as this.

see now im not 100% on this one but it sure does feel like it was LWA, maybe not... either way, full response/meta on who the second coming might be is linked within, as i elaborated on it more in a different ask.

this one gave me a cardiac arrest because LWA decided to spam me with everything they could possibly think of, it was so fun! so this time they talk about aziraphale and his own flaws as concerns his superiority complex and the damsel in distress nonsense, a bit about s3, the pre-fall scene and how this sets up the boys' dynamic, discussion on how long the boys have liked let alone loved each other, lucifer theory (sob), and who indeed the wider question on the angel that crowley was (AWCW) might have been. i responded with talk about aziraphale's insecurity, crowley's saviour complex, their love languages, aziraphale pre-fall, and (wails) lucifer theory.

talking about the apology dance and forgiveness between the two of them in general, and i added in a sprinkle of talking about manipulation.

here we discussed the whole business of crowley's temptation to get aziraphale to kill the antichrist (still a bugbear that crops up again later on in the LWA timeline), and more on crowley's tendency to push his protectiveness on aziraphale (and aziraphale laps it up). also talking about aziraphale's superiority complex again, and the nuclear miracle.

a little bit on the emerging topic of how GO looks at religiously allegorical literature, and a ✨challenge✨ to find where bits of the book may have been transposed or conceptualised into s2.

LWA kindly gave me their thoughts of where, if it does, the lockdown audio clip fits into the canon, and then more on the antichrist/aziraphale manipulation business and how the boys keep secrets from each other, as well as how it impacts on their individual morals. there's also, fair warning, a little bit of gentle but intelligent criticism on how this sometimes get mistranslated in fanfiction.

so here gets a little critical of the magic trick theory, but also similarly looks at some of the technical and narrative weaknesses of s2, as well as looking again at how lopsided the love-story element gets when we look at the boys' journey through history.

this looks at how GO is not a carbon copy of any one biblical text or piece of literature but is inspired by, and reimagines, a bit of everything.

a wee rant on the 'god ships it' trope and its moral implications. im sorry but it rubs me up the wrong way (but no shade at all meant to anyone who writes or likes it!), and i tried my best to explain why it does.

so this was following the startling (see: i was absolutely blindsided at 4am by this) confirmation that aziraphale did not in fact know about crowley living in his car. discussed why that might be, but also again a bit more on the antichrist shitstorm from s1 and its effect on the trust between them.

shorter one, once again examining the wider thought that the boys have loved each other since eden, and whether or not this actually has any validity when considering the narrative objectively as it's been given to us.

talking about the theme of rescuing, how crowley somewhat forces this on aziraphale and aziraphale plays into it, even though he can save himself - and what this might spell for their future

further ruminations on the holy water argument and what this spells for in 1941 and 1967

after a small absence, LWA came back!!! with analysis on aziraphale's willingness/disdain for forming human relationships, and a bit on the ethics of miracles too!

the one about 1650/aziraphale's stint as a bishop, about (as always) the boys' fumble with morality, and then about what will/should happen to heaven

LWA's ability to draw parallels absolutely everywhere is mind-boggling and im essentially that spiderverse meme pretending that i know what im talking about. this one was about aziraphale and his depiction with halos/aureola

this one was really difficult! talking about aziraphale and crowley's respective approaches to problem solving throughout the whole story, and how they both view the narrative of their relationship (such as it is) throughout history

they keep getting more challenging to respond to intelligently. getting into the nitty-gritty of how aziraphale and crowley operate in the grey, and what they ask from each other

it never ceases to amaze me that LWA actually reads any of my idiotic ramblings but here we are: some really fun (for me anyway) talk about shax and demon/angel abilities in general

talk about actions and consequences - and aziraphale and crowley's difficulty with understanding and accepting them - and subsequently the occasional fandom-blindness to this very thing ("Dead Whale Theory") (genius)

actually think this is my favourite one so far? talking about the extent to which crowley is content existing in the system, and how much he benefits from it, to the point that he doesn't model any resistant behaviour to aziraphale beyond malicious compliance and exploiting loopholes. lots more than that, and honestly i could have talked about this for a fortnight

LWA lurking in my walls again and choosing to haunt me by talking about, if there is trauma to be interpreted from crowley's fall, why would they have even talked about it? so goes into whether they were even friends for the majority of their association, plus some speculation on how crowley chooses to look back on their time together as having been in love for any great length of time.

wise words of comfort re: s3

okay so here is where LWA look closer at nina and maggie mirroring the boys, where their respective interactions are inappropriate (ie. nina's questioning of crowley and aziraphale's personal lives), how free will gets tampered with in their plotline, and where crowley in typical fashion ends up listening to the wrong part of the ep6 advice that they give him :(

AND THEY'RE BACK BABY✨ a long (lol like a month. calm yourself, rhi) awaited return, where LWA chooses to whack me over the head with questioning the power imbalance between heaven and hell, whether there is anything to say that heaven takes human souls in the first place, and why therefore aziraphale might even be told to do the things he does by heaven

and then on a lighter note; where and when would aziraphale have been a garden designer, as per furfur's little book? and if crowley actually indeed has a green thumb (open for debate)

LWA back to discuss a really good post that explored book vs tv canon, how far this extends into the book/tv characterisations, and then how s3 could resolve when the show has largely lost a lot of the political overtones

this one was really difficult but such a great point - compared to the book, aziraphale and crowley's 'issues' are divided up between them, and what results is that they do not understand or recognise how the other sees themselves, nor are they (imo) able to truly completely empathise with the other's position and beliefs (LWA tag was missing but they came back to confirm it was them!)

a spicy one that made me pace my living room a good few times - but an important one in that it goes further again into actions and consequences. love it love it love it

just a little one about how crowley - for all our thoughts on how he's got a finger on the pulse of fashion - might not really know how to dress himself properly

right i think ive captured all of them (sods law if i haven't, tough shit territory really), and this will be updated as they come in providing that LWA continues to haunt me. feel free to like or ignore, ill be linking this in my main masterpost anyway!!!✨

#no need to interact this is mainly for my own sanity and to keep things neat and tidy #good omens #the legend of the longwinded anon✨

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gatekeeper-watchman · 3 days ago

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Daily Devotionals for Saturday, March 1, 2025

Proverbs: God's Wisdom for Daily Living Devotional Scripture:

Proverbs 10:6-11:(KJV): 6 Blessings are upon the head of the just: but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked. 7 The memory of the just is blessed: but the name of the wicked shall rot. 8 The wise in heart will receive commandments: but a prating fool shall fall. 9 He that walketh uprightly walketh surely: but he that perverteth his ways shall be known. 10 He that winketh with the eye causeth sorrow: but a prating fool shall fall. 11 The mouth of a righteous man is a well of life: but violence covereth the mouth of the wicked.

Thought for the Day

Verse 6 - Throughout Scripture, we are told that we will reap what we sow. If we follow Scriptural advice, we will receive God's blessings. If we disregard it and continue to sin, we will receive the evil that sin produces.

Verse 7 - People remember what kind of things we do in life. History records the deeds of the wicked and the just, as does the Bible. This verse tells us that we will remember fondly the deeds of just people and bless them, while the names of wicked men leave a rotten memory. Even in families, honorable members are recalled with admiration, while shame attends the memory of the "black sheep." We should take inventory of our lives and ask ourselves what kind of legacy we are leaving behind us.

Verses 8-9 - Those who walk according to God's Word take sure steps since they are led by God's Spirit. Fools fall because they do not walk upright; those who pervert their lives eventually will be found out. We are known by our deeds (Proverbs 20:11). Many Christians say the right things, but their lives reveal that they do not "walk the talk." Jesus describes them in Matthew 15:8: "This person draweth nigh unto me with their mouth and honoureth me with their lips, but their heart is far from me."

Verses 10-11 - Winking is often a signal that one is teasing or flirting. As used in verse 10, it indicates insidious designs toward someone. This kind of winking is done with impure intentions. Crafty people are often successful in their schemes against the naive. By contrast, the plans of fools usually fail and they are ruined. A "prating fool" boasts idly, damaging both his own and others' lives. The word, "prating" means one who chatters foolishly and is an idle "blabbermouth." It is emotional violence to say ugly things about others. Scripture warns us to guard our mouths and speak only what is edifying, for we reap the effects of our words. "A man's belly shall be satisfied with the fruit of his mouth; and with the increase of his lips shall he be filled. Death and life are in the power of the tongue: and they that love it shall eat the fruit thereof" (Proverbs 18:20-21). Let us speak what brings life, and not what brings curses and death.

Prayer Devotional for the Day

Dear Heavenly Father, we love you today and are grateful for Your goodness. Please forgive us when we have not spoken kindly of others. Help us guard our mouths from speaking any of evil. May the words of our mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable in Your site. Lord, we cancel all words that we have spoken that have not agreed with the Word of God. We also cancel all evil words spoken against us, our family, or our ministries. Lord, please forgive those who would speak against us. May Your people everywhere be careful to guard their tongues. Help us all to speak Your words and to be gracious and kind to one another. I ask this in the Holy name of Jesus. Amen. Steven P. Miller, Jacksonville, Florida., USA @ParkermillerQ,gatekeeperwatchman.org, TM, ‎Founder and Administrator of Gatekeeper-Watchman International Groups. #GWIG, #GWIN, #GWINGO, #SPARKERMILLER Instagram: steven_parker_miller_1956 2/28/2025 5:22:33 PM EST

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disgracedmilfman · 15 days ago

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həʔapus (heapus) Village Park + t̓uʔəlaltxʷ (toolalt) Village Park

Howdy howdy, it’s time for another Super Park Sunday! I have actually dreaded writing about these parks for weeks! Why is that, you ask?

These are the locations that are going to force me to write about the unspoken and unpleasant background of any discussion on Seattle Parks: colonialism.

To a Westerner, parks may feel like the most benign and kindly manifestation of current land hegemony – but they still wouldn’t exist without ongoing genocide.

I was forced to think about this when I visited heapus park in particular, because I was attending an ecotour administered by the Duwamish people. I felt way too embarrassed to do my manbaby plush photography in front of everyone, so I came back at a later date. Unfortunately, with my other obligations, I had a hard time making it before sundown, so half of these pictures are dark as shit.

Interestingly, the Duwamish aren’t federally recognized as a tribe. They lost their status during a literal fishing war that happened in the 1970’s, which is quite frankly wild fucking history I don’ t have the capacity to get into here. Other neighboring tribes like the Muckleshoot don’t support their mission to get recognized once again. Whether they have reasons for doing so, or if it’s cynical self interest – funding for tribes is finite, and another sibling would only deplete the pot – is not something I feel ready to address. Even contemplating it makes me feel queasy because this stuff isn’t “for” me to decide, you know?

Regardless, our guide had a lot of knowledge about both the local habitat, the local history, and how they fit together. I was furiously tapping away at my phone the entire time he was speaking to take notes. I’m squinting at them right now, and while some of my memory is getting jogged, I can’t encapsulate everything they went over.

To condense it a ton: The Duwamish had longhouses all over the Seattle area. The waterfront actually sits on the site of one of their longhouses, which was burnt down. They were forcibly exiled to reservations which amounted to internment camps, with a death rate of 50%. To accommodate industry and trade, the river system for the entire region was reshaped, with disastrous results for the Duwamish. The completion of the Ballard Locks – the site of many of my treasured childhood memories – dried up the Black River, ending an entire way of life for a whole civilization of people. I knew my place in history in the macro, but hearing it localized so specifically to a place that I remember fondly from an early age rattled me. Never forget that you are the result of the swell of history behind you. You do not get to abdicate your position in history.

The Duwamish also relocated to land near West Seattle, but that wasn’t enough for settlers: they wanted to found a new city called Youngstown. The founder of Youngstown, Timothy Godspeed, was probably guilty of burning down the last of the Duwamish longhouses in a bid to gain more land. The irony is, Youngstown itself was muscled out of existence by burgeoning factories. The only traces of its existence are stories a handful of old people know, and the bricks placed at key points of heapus park. The Youngstown settlers sided with conquerors and did the dirty work, but capitalism did not give a fuck about them, so they could not achieve security or longevity. Unless you can become the biggest fish, white supremacy will eat you too, but that doesn’t stop a lot of people from bloodying their hands.

The only reason heapus became a park – in the middle of this industrial wasteland – was that they found indigenous artifacts in the area. And more artifacts. Several court battles later, here we are.

Seattle Parks smiled beatifically and said, “don’t worry, we got this, we are going to restore the habitat for these parks”. But the problem is, they didn’t actually ask the Duwamish what kind of habitat they were supposed to be restoring. That would establish a level of deference they couldn’t stand. They vaguely remembered forests existing here, so they planted area-appropriate forest plants. The problem is, before the settlers got here, the Duwamish had already been depleted in number by epidemics and local conflicts. Back when the land was more actively tended, it was a prairie. So the plants that Parks planted were all wrong.

The guide showed us plants that actually were appropriate for the area, still tiny sprouts in winter: Pacific Silverweed and Yarrow. Long before industrialization, the Duwamish practiced agriculture, and both of those plants were carefully grown here for thousands of years. Yarrow apparently has decongestant and digestive benefits.

There’s more restoration the Duwamish want to do in the area. This whole place used to be mudflats, flush with life. Now, there’s a fuckload of pollution. The Duwamish are trying to restore the ecosystem, and with a way longer memory for it than the Parks system. Unfortunately, local rail companies like BNSF are deeply antagonistic to these goals, and the have more money to lobby. Ecology can not flourish while the United States is still a country. Despite greenwashed claims otherwise, the United States is beholden to money, and money is gained fastest through shortsighted and exploitative practices.

The last thing I would like to impart to you is: Clams. There are so many signs in this area warning people not to dig for clams. The factories leach toxins into the water, which is absorbed by local wildlife. So the clams are no longer safe to eat. For the last stop of the tour, our guide took us to an old site where people grew and ate clams for thousands of years. It’s easy to forget this practice took place, but the evidence is literally embedded in the soil, because here you can see layers and layers of clam shells. The history is there, but the current practice has been thwarted.

It’s very depressing to come back here at night, see the lights in the distance, and know that shining city was built off the legacy of killing so many people and ending their way of life. I hope America goes the way of Youngstown. It needs to, for anything to get better. Land back.

(visited 2/8/25)

#Super Park Sunday #plush photography

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alottanothing · 3 years ago

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Kismet

Summary: Evie prepares a meal for the stranger who helped her and finds herself more than a little smitten.

Previous Part: Hope

Word Count: 5707

Warnings: Language

Tag List: @ramilicious, @txmel, @edteche2, @gloriousdarkangelsworld, @diasimar, @xmxisxforxmaybe (Let me know if I missed you, or if you would like to be added to the tag list)

A/N: Okay, I almost didn't get this up today because I was up most of the night sewing kilts for Highland Weekend at the Ohio Renfiare. BUT I stayed awake and did my final read-through, so this should be mostly okay. I skipped a couple steps in my editing to get this up on time but I think, for the most part, it's okay. If you see a grammatical booboo, just ignore it, I'll get in here sometime this week with my other two editing steps and find it, then repost this. Capisce? Okay, cool...now. I hope you enjoy it, I also hope my trying to phonetically write Mer's accent doesn't get too annoying. I know you really shouldn't write accents, but I think it helps add to the characters. And I do try to keep it to a minimum so it doesn't get annoying. Thanks for the love the first part received last month! I know waiting so long between updates is a bit sad after weekly updates with LtR. But life is busy right now and once a month is all can guarantee.

Jonny did not know how to keep a house.

In fact, Jonny did not know how to do much more than drink, argue, and get into fights. He was nothing but a thorn in Evie's side—never mind how much she needed him for a place to lay her head. A necessary thorn was still a thorn. Given the opportunity, she would rip it out as soon as she could and dress the wound promptly so she was finally able to heal better. She stayed only because she had no other choice. And every time Jonny raised his voice or stumbled in reeking of alcohol and red-faced, Evie could hear her best friend's warning in her head. Cynthia had begged her not to go with him, but she hadn't listened.

Oh, how she wished she had.

Luckily, Jonny wasn't the kind of man who liked to stay home which eased the ache of the ever-present thorn in her side. Whatever money he did have, he spent out on the town—the town being New Orleans. Like Evie, Jonny had been born and raised in the Big Apple, the noise and the chaos was part of him. As such, he hadn't taken to the quiet suburban life Bridge City offered as well as Evie. She liked the quiet, easy flow of the sleepy town. Her housemate loathed his new home. He thrived in disarray, thus, he found a group of like-minded young men to run amok with in the neighboring metropolis every chance he got.

If Jonny had been any sort of amicable company, the notion of him leaving most every night to wreak havoc several miles away would have been upsetting. Thankfully, his penchant for city life meant a good portion of Evie's days were spent out from under Jonny's tyranny. The hours he was gone were blissful and calm, and she relished in them. Whether she was creating art or tending to chores around the old house, Evie didn't care as long as Jonny wasn't there—never mind how lonely the routine often was.

Evie had never gotten the chance to meet Jonny's maternal grandmother, though she suspected she would have liked to. Unlike her grandson, she seemed like any other sweet elderly woman judging by the furnishings she'd left behind. There were dozens of lace doilies, and table cloths with soft patterns, decretive china even, but it was the plethora of photos the old woman kept that told Evie she'd carried a kindly heart. All of them were kept in pristine albums or intricate frames; they were the only barbles that seemed to have been cleaned or dusted with any regularity which spoke of how much she must have treasured them. Evie loved those tiny trinkets and black and white memories. It didn't matter that they were not her legacy of family heirlooms to keep, she adored them anyway.

She couldn't count the number of times she'd replaced a broken frame that had fallen victim to Jonny's drunken belligerence or scrubbed tirelessly at a stain he'd left on the patterned tablecloths. It proved to be a hefty undertaking, but dwelling in the fantasies of someone else's history let her forget the grief of her own. She was willing to sacrifice a little elbow grease if it allowed her mind to roam away from the shadow that never really seemed to vanish.

For all the effort Evie put in on the interior, the cottage held little in the way of curb appeal. The porch was sunken in the middle, the paint was peeling off in chunks, and the yard was mostly weeds. Worst, however, was the screen door which squeaked so loudly, every dog in the neighborhood howled in protest every time someone crossed the threshold. The outside needed love that Evie simply didn't have the energy to lend. Despite the grit, however, the foundations were sturdy enough that she didn't worry. The cottage proved to be stronger than she looked—a feat Evie felt she had in common with the old house. And while it was a swell enough place to rest her head, it never truly felt like home. Home was somewhere safe, and as long as Jonny lived under that roof she wasn't safe. Not really.

Fortunately, Jonny wasn't home when Evie returned after her run-in with Mr. Shelton—Mer, she corrected herself with a hint of a giddy smile. Without her housemate there, her evening promised to be hopeful instead of lonely, and she wasted no time in figuring out what to make for dinner.

With her red pumps replaced by her worn-in slippers and her blue checkered apron secured around her waist, she set a pot of water to boil and dialed the phone conveniently located in the kitchen. Every evening she called her sister-in-law to pass the time and keep up on unimportant gossip back home; this time, however, Evie was excited to finally have some good news to share.

"You got the job, didn't you?" Cynthia Clarke asked on the other end, sounding hopeful. "I knew you would."

Evie grinned, still amazed how the sound of Cyn's voice always seemed to settle some of the ever-present anxieties buzzing in her head. She missed her friend so much.

"I didn't even say yes."

"Did you or did you not get the job?" Cynthia pressed.

"I did," Evie confirmed and her smile grew hearing her friend cheer on the other end of the phone.

"See! I knew it." Cynthia said. "My gut feeling is always right."

Evie rolled her eyes and shook her head fondly.

"I think I'm gonna like working there too, so that's good." she mused as she stood at the stove, eyeing the pot of water she’d set to boil.

"That's so great, Ev. I'm so proud of you." Cynthia paused before continuing. "So, what are you up to tonight? Avoiding Jonny?"

"Sorta," Evie nodded even though she knew her friend wouldn't see.

As she continued to watch her cooking pot of water she told Cynthia all about her trouble with Jonny's car and the man who'd been so kind to help her.

"Wait. You invited the stranger over who fixed the car?" Concern was heavy in Cyn's voice, and Evie half expected a lecture to follow.

Despite knowing each other since childhood, Cynthia had taken on the role of her protector since Evie's family was no longer in the picture. The war had claimed Evie's father, and brother—although they'd never found her brother, Jimmy after he disappeared behind enemy lines. Evie never lost hope that Jimmy would one day be found, Cynthia though, was certain her husband was never coming home. After Cyn’s brother, Charlie, died at Normandy Cynthia had difficulty believing anyone was going to make it home. As for Evie's mother, losing a child and her husband to the war was too much for her tender heart and she passed not long after. Ever since, Cynthia was overcome with the need to act as Evie's guardian.

"He wouldn't let me pay him," Evie explained. "So I'm making him dinner—it seemed like the least I could do."

"I suppose…." Cynthia didn't sound convinced, if anything she sounded slightly irritated there was no quick way for her to argue the logic. "Just be careful, Evie. You don't know this guy—he could be another Jonny Doyle. Or worse."

"He's not," Evie said quickly. She wanted nothing more than to tell her friend all about how benevolent Mer was, but she decided against it. Cynthia would only argue that point somehow.

A long pause followed, and Evie wedged the receiver between her ear and shoulder so her hands were free to work on the meal.

"So, what are you cooking?" This time, there was a hint of jest in her friend's tone when she spoke.

The art of cooking was one creative outlet that Evie struggled with, second only to music. In her youth, her mother did all the cooking—it was a passion of her mother's—thus Evie had done little more than watch in wonder as her mother whipped up meal after meal effortlessly. Breakfast she the meal she was probably best at, apple pies too, but anything beyond that Evie required a step by step guide to prepare. And even then she lacked confidence. Thankfully, when she'd fled south, she remembered to grab her mother's cookbook. It was a cumbersome tome with yellowed pages and notes scribbled into the margins: a piece of art itself cultivated over years of collecting recipe after recipe starting the moment her mother stepped off the boat that brought her from Ireland. And like a witch and her spellbook, Evie depended on it.

"Spaghetti with garlic bread," Evie admitted feeling as though the meal lacked a certain something.

Pasta was something she knew held a low degree of difficulty when it came to preparing. Surely she couldn't mess up pasta.

“Mmm, I can almost smell it,” Cynthia said.

“Shut up.”

“No, seriously,” Cyn replied. “You’re mom’s spaghetti recipe was always my favorite.”

A doleful smile pulled at the corners of her lips, thinking back to her mother happily cooking in the kitchen as she sang a Celtic tune. It seemed strange that those moments would never again play out, instead they’d become bittersweet memories Evie could only relive in her mind.

“Mine too,” she murmured, suddenly missing her family.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, and Evie’s mind roamed the dregs of her grief before blinking back into reality and the hope of something happy to come.

“I need to go, Cyn,” Evie told her friend with a sigh. “I don’t want to burn the garlic bread.”

Cynthia chuckled and said her goodbye, only after making Evie promise to call her in the morning to let her know how everything went.

With her second hand restored after hanging up, Evelyn reached for her mother’s cookbook to give the steps another look over to ensure she had done everything and added every herb and ingredient she was supposed to. She’d followed everything perfectly, even factoring in the little notes scribbled into the margins left there by her mother—those she smiled at fondly and traced the fading ink with her fingers. Everything was as it should be. Even so, without a taste, Evie knew the sauce she had prepared would never be as savory as what her mother made so effortlessly.

“You were the artist in the kitchen, Ma,” she said with a shrug. “I’ll stick to paper and canvas.”

For the smallest of a moment Evie thought she would hear the warmth of her mother’s laugh, and when it never came she sighed again, trying not to dwell on the shadows behind her. What mattered was the light ahead.

Despite her lack of confidence, the meal came together without any severe hiccups. The noodles were not overcooked, the sauce was a complementing mix of savory and sweet (though, as she had guessed after a tiny taste, was not nearly as good as her mother's) and the garlic bread was nicely golden. A small tingle of pride manifested in the form of a surprised, but satisfied, smile as she surveyed the dinner before her.

“Not bad, Ev,” she told herself, knowing her mother would have been delighted.

With the cooking done, Evie threw a glance over her shoulder to the clock mounted on the wall, triggering a surge of anxiety to bubble in her gut. Stranger, perhaps, was the amount of excitement coursing through her veins. It was as though all of her happiness was riding on whether or not she would see Merriell again. None of it made sense; the man was little more than a stranger. The coupling of nerves and delight was not a feeling that put her ill at ease, however. She trusted it. And it was that peculiar sensation that seemed to fuel her movements.

With a few minutes to spare, Evie wandered into the small bathroom to freshen up. She made sure her hair was still pinned the way she liked—up and pretty. Her make-up was holding up nicely despite the heat; all she needed was a fresh layer of lipstick to complete the illusion of a put-together young lady. It wasn't often she wore a dress with heels and a face of cosmetics—she liked to when the opportunity arose, but she was just as comfortable in a pair of old overalls and smudges of charcoal on her face.

Just as she wiggled back into her red pumps—discarding her worn-in house slippers with a couple of calculated kicks—a knock on the door signaled Merriells arrival. Immediately a grin curled onto Evie's lips and her heart began to pound an anxious-excited rhythm. A blush threatened to color her cheeks to give away the torrid muscle beating in her chest—her ever yearning heart already making leaps and bounds for a man she had known for mere hours.

Don't be ridiculous—she warned herself taking in a deep breath to curb the eagerness coursing in her veins. Untying her apron, she tossed it along with her discarded slippers and went to answer the door, taking one last deep breath to steady the fervor in her heart.

Merriell had changed and showered. The sweet bouquet of his shampoo coupled invitingly with the musk of the aftershave he'd chosen, making it difficult for Evie to keep from soaking in the scent he carried. His curls were still somewhat damp—too much moisture in the air to keep the heat from drying them on his way over—though they fought to spring back into their previous fluff. The grease-covered, jeans he'd been wearing had been replaced by a nice pair of tan slacks, and the buttoned shirt he wore was a soft shade of green that made his eyes glitter a deeper emerald as he stood under the glow of the porch light. All Evie could do was stare—utterly beguiled—every rational thought in her head lost to her.

Mer smirked, amused by her ogling. "Hiya."

Evie blinked, coming back to reality, suddenly feeling foolish, and uttered a nervous "hi" before swinging her arm to invite him inside.

"Come in."

Merriell's smile grew as he crossed the threshold, inhaling deeply. "Mm, smells tasty in here."

He gently forced a bottle into her hands as he passed on his way to investigate the savory smells in the kitchen.

"I wasn' sho what ya was makin', but I figured wine usually goes with anythin'."

"Oh, thank you." Evie glanced at the label, unable to read the French words printed there. "You didn't have to bring anything."

"I know," Mer shrugged, placing his hands in his pockets. "I just wanted to make a good impression."

There was something almost boyish when he smiled then—cheeks coloring pink ever-so-slightly—that made him even more of a mystery. One Evie was eager to solve.

"Well," she said placing the bottle on the kitchen table. "It should go perfectly with dinner."

His expression lost a hint of its boyish charm as it grew into a look of delight.

"Make yourself at home," Evie gestured vaguely between the table and the sofa in the living room as she ventured to the cabinet where the stemware was kept.

She placed two crystal glasses on the table along with the wine and retraced her steps to fetch some of the nicer china Jonny's grandmother had kept. Mer watched her, his gaze, gentle and attentive, and a little bit yearning as she methodically sat the table.

"Need help with anythin'?" he asked finally.

"Nope," She replied with a smile. "Everything is almost ready."

The hearty red sauce on the stove was beginning to boil again which told her it was hot enough to serve, and Evie eyed the pot with scrutiny, praying silently her attempt at cooking would go over well.

"I'll pour us a glass then," Mer announced.

"Great, lemme…" Evie spun to fish for the corkscrew in the drawer of misfit utensils, finding it, only to turn to see Merriell holding his lighter against the neck of the dark bottle just below the cork.

Before she could ask, a loud pop sounded, causing her to jump as the cork went flying.

"Oh my goodness!" she laughed, a little surprised, a little impressed. "Where did you learn to do that?"

Mer shrugged, a sly expression on his features, and left her question unanswered.

"How much ya want?" He held the open bottle over the top of her glass, waiting patiently.

"Enough," she said, tossing him a coy smirk without really meaning to.

He bit his lower lip as he smiled, chuckling under his breath when he poured a generous glass of red wine for each of them. She thanked him as he took his seat and grabbed his plate to dish out their dinner.

"How much pasta would you like?"

Mer's face lit with charm and mischief as he turned to face her.

"Enough," he grinned.

The expression on his face was playful, his smirk devious and amused by his own response and his cheekiness settled warmly in Evie's stomach. Not only did she revel in it, but she also played into his whimsy and scooped as much spaghetti into his plate as she could before coupling it with the savory sauce and a slice of bread.

Despite being only strangers, the atmosphere that bloomed that evening was not marked by any hint of bashfulness, instead, it was relaxed and amiable. Warmth that Evie had longed to dwell in again—that unrefutable kindness she'd lost with the passing of her family—flowed uninhibited from the man sitting adjacent to her. His conversation was cautious but still jovial and genuine. It was the first time since running south Evie could recall what life felt like without grief and fear weighing upon her. Merriell was a stranger, but she felt safe with him. Jonny had never made her feel that way.

"So," Evie spoke as she twirled the last bit of pasta with her fork. "What is it you do, Mr. Shelton?"

Mer cast her a look of disapproval—no doubt in retaliation to being addressed so formally—before his features softened back into a neutral, yet somehow still amused side smirk.

"Nothin' too excitin'," he stated vaguely. "The odd jobs are what I like ta do the most—like fixin' ya car this aftah noon."

Without really meaning to, Evie leaned forward, resting her elbow and chin on the table, utterly enchanted by the beautiful stranger at her table.

"You like to get your hands dirty, huh? Fixing things?" she was entirely too intrigued with the thought of what he could do with his hands.

He shrugged, suddenly modest after a foray of playfully arrogant smirks and glances. It made him abruptly twice as charming.

"I've always had a knack for it, I guess." Merriell finished the food on his plate with the help of his remaining garlic bread to mop up the sauce still left on his dish.

"What about you?" he asked after chewing. "Ya workin' anywhere?"

All at once, a proud smile lit up Evie's face. After all the excitement of seeing Merriell again, she'd almost forgotten about her good news.

"Actually, I just got a job today—the general store downtown, Southern Comfort."

Mer's face lit up too, "Birdie's place?"

"Yeah, you know it?" Of course, he knows it! She thought, Bridge City's population was slightly less than the number of people who lived in a single district back home in New York. Everyone knew everyone else.

"Sho do—I was practically raised there…ole Birdie's like a second mothah to me."

"Really?" Evie found a great deal of comfort in that notion. In fact the more she thought on it, the more she realized how similar the old woman and Mer were; they radiated the same magnetism and sincerity.

"Mmhm," he nodded, his eyes focusing elsewhere as the veil of memories danced across the contours of his features. "My mama used ta work there…once upon a time…"

"Does she still work there?"

Merriell's face lost a hit of its levity and he swallowed as though to fight off the onslaught of sudden emotion threatening to cast a shadow onto his expression.

"No…" he said softly. "She—uh—she died, about a year ago."

Shit!

Abruptly, sick knots twisted into Evie's stomach, feeling callous, but understanding of the quiet misery he hid under layers of charm and arrogance.

"Merriell, I'm…I'm sorry—I didn't mean…"

He met her eyes and cast her a quick smile—doleful, but enough to ease the awful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"It's okay," he reassured her, reaching for his glass of wine and taking a good gulp before changing the subject. "Birdie's great—you'll enjoy workin' for her."

"I hope so…" Evie said softly, still too embarrassed to meet Mer's glance longer than a second or two.

For the first time all night the atmosphere they shared felt cumbersome—perhaps more melancholy—than she'd wanted it to get. Evie sat, worrying her bottom lip, her fingers toying with a loose thread in the table cloth as she stole quick glances through her lashes in Mer's direction.

He was nursing the alcohol in his glass with the same sadness she'd caught plaguing him as he sat at the bar hours ago. And while Evie was eager to know if his grief stemmed only from the loss of his mother, or perhaps more, Merriell was still too much of a stranger to warrant such questions. It didn't matter how easy it was to be near him, she had not earned the right to know his narrative.

A soft sigh broke past her lips as she fought to find a way to properly allay the gloom that was quickly ruining an otherwise wonderful evening. It wasn't until her eyes found their desert sitting on the counter, waiting to save the day, that she perked up.

"Got any room for apple pie?" Evie asked with a hesitant smile. She hoped he wanted to stay long enough to have a slice, though she would not have blamed him for wanting to leave.

Immediately Mer perked up too, the shadows on his features retreating with the promise of something sweet.

"I was countin' on it—seems as how you promised a slice earlier," he said with a boyish grin.

When she stood, he did too, helping clear away their dinner plates, and letting them soak in the sink to be washed later. Evie cut them each a slice of apple pie and the delight on Mer’s face made her smile too seeing him lick his lips as his grin continued to grow. Catching that flash of his tongue was like a bolt of hot lightning striking her without warning; a blush rose so quickly on her cheeks Evie had to look away to keep the blunder a secret. Thankfully, the pie was more than enough to hold Merriell’s attention away from her.

“Mmmm… Almost looks too good to eat,” he said ogling the desert in front of him.

When Evie chanced a look his way, the expression on his face caused her to chuckle, “‘oughta be, I made one for my pa every year for his birthday since I was nine. It’s probably the only thing I have any confidence in making in the kitchen.”

“Coulda fooled me,” Mer quipped as he loaded his fork with as much pie as he could.

The moment he took a bite, his brows creased, and eyes closed as he chewed painfully slow. Those few seconds were like agony. Evie’s heart was pounding in her chest with so much anticipation she feared she might faint as she watched him sample the only thing she could actually make that was worth a damn.

“Fuck me, if that ain’t the best apple pie I’ve evah had the pleasure of tasting.”

A somewhat nervous, but relieved chuckle sounded in the back of Evelyn’s throat as she watched Merriell shovel a larger bite of pie into his mouth.

“Mmm… Yep. God damn delightful.”

“Stop,” Evie said sheepishly, suddenly afraid he was overselling his reaction to keep from hurting her feelings.

“No,” he wiped his mouth and leaned across the table to meet her gaze with a sincere expression that stole away all the doubt writhing in her stomach.

“I mean it. If I wasn’t so full of pasta, I’d eat that whole damn pie right now.”

“Well,” Evie grinned softly, trying not to let her blush color her cheeks too obviously. “Thank you. And you’re welcome to take the rest of it when you go.”

Excitement took form on his face with a smirk that was sweet but roguish all at once—a sort of debonair charm that amplified his magnetism—as if his bright eyes dark curls and razor-sharp jaw did not make him alluring enough already. Again she had to look away knowing the pink in her cheeks would be too strong to combat.

“Imma have ta take ya up on that offah. An’ I’ll be thinkin’ ‘bout you every time I cut me a slice.”

That blush was unstoppable; her heart was suddenly so smitten, it felt as though butterflies were fluttering merrily in her stomach. She felt weightless with warmth and hope swelling in her bosom, fearing any slight breeze would carry her off. It was ridiculous how at ease Evie felt sitting there eating pie with a complete stranger. The conversation had been easy all night; even when it had delved into less savory topics he still made her feel comfortable. Evelyn had forgotten what it was like to be in the company of a man who wasn’t easy to anger, who was genuine and kind and wanted only to live in the moment.

For a time the whimsy of the atmosphere faded as the warmth in her heart ached, suddenly missing her brother James and Cynthia's brother Charlie. Both of them were good men, kind and genuine—like Merriell—but they had been swallowed by the rages of war. Brave young men were lost forever, while a man like Jonny Doyle was still alive How was that fair?

No matter how pleasant her thoughts could be, they always fell back to the grief that plagued her. She sighed, deeply, pushing those intrusive memories back into the depths of her mind so she could find joy once more in the moment with a kind stranger.

When Merrill finished his plate he made a beeline for the sink full of soaking dishes.

“Oh, no,” she said jumping to her feet. “I can do those.”

Merriell, however, shook his head. “Uh-uh, you did the cookin’, I can do the cleanin’.”

When Evie tried to argue, Mer simply shook his head, his grin amused but determined as he kept scrubbing the dirty dishes.

“Let me help at least,” she suggested. “I’ll dry and put them away.”

Before he could protest, she snatched the freshly rinsed dish from his hand and began wiping away the droplets of water clinging to the porcelain surface, throwing him a smug smirk that made him chuckle.

“Alright,“ he smirked.

She watched him for a moment not really paying attention to her task as he scrubbed the old plates clean, overcome with a blissful vision of peaceful domesticity. It made her stomach fill to the brim with whimsy and her heart was fluttering again; had this stranger bewitched her already? Or did what she feel bubbling lightly in her gut like a seltzer stem from an end to her loneliness—even if it was only for a few hours? Evelyn didn’t know. Nevertheless, she was intrigued with a profound feeling and she wanted to dwell in it for as long as she could.

Occasionally as he would hand a freshly washed dish her way, his calloused fingertips would brush against her skin, igniting a spark she didn’t know how to react to. It was more than an amicable tingle racing from the tips of her fingers right to her heart. And each time they touched, Merriell would cast her a gentle smile that held nothing more than his inherent charm and magnetism. She wondered if he felt it too, or if her need for companionship was playing a dirty trick on her.

When the dishes were all back in their usual places—the night drawing to a close—Evelyn realized she was not ready to say farewell to her Beautiful Stranger. She longed to stay up all night just chatting with him, she did not care about what, Evelyn only wanted to stay encompassed a while longer in the blissful warmth he brought into her life. Once he was gone, all she would be able to do was stay up and ponder the significance of those little touches and the sparks they brought.

Thankfully, Merriell lingered on the old rickety porch, one hand in his pocket, the other holding onto his plate of leftover pie, seeming to stall their inevitable departure.

“Well,” he said with a grin. “Thank you for invitin’ a stranger ovah for dinna.” He paused, glancing at the leftover pie in his hand. “Can’t recall ever having a better plate of pasta, an’ nothin’ evah gonna beat this pie.”

Evie quickly looked at her feet to hide another blush.

“It was the least I could do,” she told him before looking back to meet his eyes. “You have no idea how much of a savior you were this afternoon…”

A glint of concern flashed in his eye, his brows beginning to crease as his unspoken question lingered between them.

She thought about telling him—telling him how Jonny was nothing more than a throne in her side, and how much she cherished Merriells company—but Mer was still a stranger. It wasn’t right to unload so much onto someone she’d only known for a few hours.

Before Mer could offer any reply, the sound of screeching tires stole all their focus as an old wagon pulled along the curb—narrowly missing a collision with the mailbox. The rowdy passengers were laughing and shouting loud enough even before the door opened to let Jonny stumble out. He staggered on drunk feet and screamed a handful of profanities to his buddies in the car which made them all roar with laughter.

It was only after the wagon full of hooligans pulled away that Jonny began to stagger towards the house, and it was exactly then that Evie’s fluttering heart became consumed with panic.

She and Mer watched him cross the yard, unseen, both frozen: Evie in fear and Merriell in confusion. Jonny’s intoxication level inhibited him from taking notice of them until he was at the base of the steps leading onto the porch. Immediately, his eyes narrowed and he frowned.

“Who the hell are you?”

“Jonny, this is Mr. Merriell Shelton,” Evie said quickly, willing her voice not to shake.

The Doyle’s were not known for their hospitality, nor were they known to trust most people. Especially strangers.

“He helped me this afternoon with a bit of trouble I was having,” she explained vaguely, hoping to thwart any more suspicion. “I made him dinner to say thank you—he’s just about to leave.”

Jonny eyed Merriell, seizing him up as best he could through drunken lenses. Mer stood his ground, eyeing him back with a subtle intensity that never so much as cracked under Jonny’s scrutiny.

Finally, being the better man, Mer held out his hand in a friendly manner, “nice ta meet ya.”

Jonny cast a prolonged glare at Merriell's open hand, his brows furrowed and part of his lip hiked up in a sort of snarl. Instead of returning the kind gesture, Jonny made a show of spitting at his feet before tossing his heavy leer at Evelyn.

"Evie, do not invite any more strangers into my house. I don't care if they are dying." He shoved past them both, purposely bumping Mer's shoulder (most likely in hopes to start something) muttering as he went: "I don't trust any of these filthy southerners."

Shock sent Evie's jaw slack; this time the redness in her cheeks was a symptom of embarrassment instead of infatuation. She should have known Jonny would say something rude and uncouth. Without another thought, she grabbed Mer by his sleeve and pulled him across the lawn until they stood next to his truck parked along the curb.

"I am so sorry about him," she said, crossing her arms and glaring at Jonny's house, ashamed and angry.

Mer shrugged as he placed his partially eaten pie in the passenger seat through the open window before fixing his hands in his front pockets.

"Ya boyfriend's a bit of an asshole."

"He is not my boyfriend," Evie corrected vehemently. "I don't think he knows that though. I'm just staying here until I can figure some things out."

Merriell was quiet a moment, nodding silently. It seemed as though he was taking his time processing the whole situation. There was compassion on his face and behind his eyes, but it was guarded somehow. Evie caught it though and she was grateful when he didn't ask the questions plainly forming in his mind.

"Well," he said finally, his tone light as one corner of his mouth quirked into a grin. "Since he ain't ya othah half, I feel more inclined ta leave ya with this…"

Gently, Merriell caressed her upper arm as he leaned forward to plant a tender kiss on her cheek. He let his lips linger slightly longer than was common for such an act, that all at once wove a new hopefulness into her heart.

"Dinna was swell," he added as he pulled away, his smile somehow more charming than it had been all night. "Hope I see ya again, Evie."

"Me too," she murmured.

Evie watched as he got in his truck to leave, her hand held to the cheek he'd graced with his kiss. And when he drove away, it took everything inside of her to keep from running after him.

#Beautiful Stranger Series #Merriell Shelton x Original Character #Merriell Shelton #Snafu Shelton #HBO War #The Pacific #The Pacific Fanfiction #Rami Malek Fanfiction

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100hearteyes · 5 years ago

Photo

Clexa Week 2020 - Day 7 - Free Day

(thank you @butmakeitgayblog for beta'ing and cheering me on 🙌 and @dreamsaremywords for helping me avoid the pitchforks and torches)

Read it on AO3.

–

Eventide

“Your Majesty?”

A queen did not start.

A queen did not get distracted while being courted by a handsome foreign duke, either, but Clarke had never been quite like her peers, for better and for worse.

She dragged her gaze from the horizon line and met the kind eyes of Duke Finneas; a boy who meant well but could never be her equal match.

Perhaps he too meant well. Though Clarke’s heart yearned for the kind of devotion he would give, her brain craved a wicked mind like hers. Someone just as brilliant and terrible as her.

Someone else.

“You are distracted today.”

He said it kindly, amusement clear in his voice, and Clarke hated him for it. Still she bowed her head, as she should, and blushed like the besotted girl she was supposed to be.

“My apologies, Finn.” He preened at hearing the sound of his nickname, as he had asked her to call him by it countless times before. “I sent the best of my Queensguard to the border and they are expected to return today. I can barely wait to hear whatever news they bring me. And I am… naturally worried about their safety.”

He smiled softly at her. “Few would be so concerned about the lives of those who are sworn to protect them. You have a noble heart, my queen.”

The irony almost made her smile.

The Captain of the Queensguard knelt before her, head bowed and a fist closed upon the left breastplate of ornate, light grey armor.

“As I am sure you remember, Your Majesty, your cousin, Earl Aden, lost both his parents to the harsh bite of winter this year. He has requested to spend the next winter with you, so as to avoid further tragedy.”

Clarke nodded, thinking fondly of the boy with unruly blonde curls and a gentle smile. “I shall make arrangements in that regard. Is there anything else?”

“Your Majesty, the rest of the information I bring you,” distrustful eyes landed on Prince Finneas, “is meant for your ears only.”

Clarke did her best not to roll her eyes. The Captain of her Queensguard was extraordinarily competent, dedicated, and brave, but had a drastic tendency to be dramatic. There was no need for such showmanship, yet the Captain seemed intent on fanning out feathers and strutting back and forth like a peacock.

“If you say so, Captain,” she conceded at last. “Would you care to accompany me to the balcony?”

The Captain stood up and the two of them strolled past the thick curtains that separated the throne room from a balcony that oversaw acres upon acres of beautiful, green fields and thick forests.

Clarke walked up to the railing, resting both her hands on it. At times like this, it was soothing to feel the rough stone under her palms, scraping at the fair skin.

It grounded her.

She steeled herself as she felt the Captain sidle in next to her.

“Did you have a safe trip home?”

Clarke felt more than she saw the Captain nod next to her. She hadn’t expected any different. When she glanced at the elegant figure next to her, she found the Captain’s gaze trained on the horizon.

“What sensitive information is this that you requested a private audience?”

Green eyes finally met her own, dancing with mischief and something else tender and forbidden. “Everything was in order while we were there.”

Clarke raised an eyebrow. “So you wasted your queen’s precious time to tell her everything is exactly as it should be?”

The sky was painted in broad, reckless strokes of pink and purple, and the sun had started to hide behind the skyline. The moon would soon take its place on the throne with the stars as her witness.

“I would not go so far as to say it was a waste of time.” The Captain’s tone was teasing, but laced with fondness. “I gave you the chance to see the sunset, I know how much you like it.”

Clarke liked the night best. It was at night that stolen moments were a solution rather than a problem and sneaking, when the palace was cold and silent, didn’t feel so scandalous anymore. Sunsets were the promise of night. A promise that just for a few hours, she could take the crown off her head, leave the corset on the bed, and be just Clarke. The girl in love with another girl.

“Your absence was felt.”

Lexa’s lips twisted minutely. When she spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “Be careful, my Queen. The walls have ears.”

The Captain’s cautious words were betrayed by the tips of long fingers brushing against Clarke’s on the balcony rail.

Their hands were concealed by coats and dresses, but Lexa’s touch was featherlight nonetheless. It still gave Clarke pause; her entire body’s focus was on the points where their skin came into contact and her heart was a fist banging at the doors of her chest. It wanted out, as it always had; it yearned to flee its golden cage and tell the secrets the walls around them would have killed to hear.

“The stars have eyes, too.”

“Luckily, they haven’t mouths to tell a secret.”

Lexa’s words may have been meant to be soothing, but they awakened Clarke’s mind. They reminded her of the boy in the throne room, of long walks along the palace gardens and the crown atop her head.

“Duke Finneas of Traisson will be staying at the palace for a few weeks. He has stated his intention to court me.”

It was only because she was so attuned to Lexa’s touch that Clarke felt the sudden absence of delicate fingers against her own, so light had the pressure been to begin with. Nevertheless, it felt like a stab to her chest. The world around her dimmed, colors became duller. Clarke felt trapped in a world in tones of grey.

“He took me to the orchards. It seems to be a popular spot for courtship.”

“What makes you say that?”

“We found this… carving on a tree. Very queer.” A smile played at the edge of her lips, teasing at more carefree times. She found it mirrored in the Captain’s clever eyes. “Couples ought to be more discreet, don’t you think?”

“They ought to.”

“Can a queen ever marry for love?”

The bench they sat on, made of stone only, wasn’t the most comfortable to perch on. However, the way the moonlight slanted and made the orchards look like a pathway to heaven more than compensated for a stiff behind. When she turned and saw how Lexa’s features looked in the same light — cheekbones sharper, lips fuller and eyes prettier than she had ever seen them —, Clarke realized she could spend days sitting on that bench, never moving.

Lexa looked like those otherworldly spirits mythology books told tales about, so impossibly, painfully beautiful one may turn to stone just from looking into her eyes. Clarke would’ve taken that risk. She would’ve dared never moving again for just one chance to bask in the glow of Lexa’s eyes. For all of the Captain’s aloofness and penchant for speaking as few words as possible, her eyes spoke loudest than any Clarke had ever seen. Their expressiveness… The way they could never hide what Lexa was feeling… Clarke had tried to replicate them on paper countless times, only to come up short. She’d usually get the shape, the lights, and the shadows right, but— something in those eyes was simply unrepeatable.

Human hands couldn’t recreate it. Lexa had been shaped by the gods, and her eyes were the map to eternity.

And Clarke was always oh so close to unlocking the secret, to reaching the summit, but something always pushed her off a cliff and sent her hurtling back to the ground.

“Love is weakness, Your Majesty.”

Clarke was used to the impact. It didn’t hurt any less. Still, she stood, then and again, and braced herself for the climb. One day she would make it to the top.

“And civilizations are fickle. History is ephemeral. We live and die and whatever mark we leave on this world can easily be erased by war and pillage. Love is forever.”

“It lasts only as long as those who feel it.”

“No,” she countered, stubborn as ever. “It lasts longer. Love is immaterial, it lingers in the air around us, beneath our breaths and through this life and the next. Castles and parchment stay here until someone burns them. Love travels with us to the afterlife.”

Lexa stood up without a word and waited for Clarke to do the same, before taking off on a brisk pace towards the castle.

Catching up to Lexa was neither easy nor dignified, but Clarke eventually fell into step with the Captain, who took pity on her and slowed her pace to a languid stroll. Now going at an appropriate pace for a queen, Clarke took her chance to admire the trees around her, with ripe fruit hanging from thin branches and pulling them towards the ground.

No matter the heights one reached, gravity always did its bidding and pulled one back to earth. Clarke felt its effect now. She had reached for the stars once and been pulled so violently back she’d lost her footing. Then again, and again, and again. Every time, Lexa was there to catch her fall. And Clarke would swear the earth had turned upside down, it had to have, for Lexa was the very stars she had been trying to grasp.

How lucky she was, to touch the stars without having to lift her feet off the ground.

It had only been much later in life, when she’d been told to find a husband or doom her kingdom to ruin, that Clarke had realized just how cruel it all really was — the stars would always be within her reach but she would never be able to catch them.

Why love a star if you cannot have her heart?

As they neared the edge, Lexa halted, eyes locked on a tree in one of the final rows. Clarke followed her gaze and felt her lips sketch an outline of a smile.

Feeling reckless, Clarke followed a short, but uneven trail towards the tree and laid a hand on the rough bark. Her palm grazed the bumps and ridges of an age old carving and she read the words without seeing them.

L + C

Feelings cut into wood a lifetime ago, indelible as they were immutable, able to endure generations for the robustness of their canvas. Only human hands could erase them; only human words could disprove them.

Clarke felt Lexa’s presence behind her and turned around, her hand never leaving its home. They shared a secret smile, although Lexa’s was somber as her eyes swept over the entire orchard. One of many trees. As if it ever fell, it could be replaced with another. The earth it drank from and gave its strength to, however, could not.

Clarke knew the knife was coming before it embedded itself in her heart.

“If we are to be judged at the gates to heaven,” Lexa started, voice not quite trembling, though thin and weighed down by regret, “let it be because I failed my heart rather than the people I am sworn to protect, above all you.”

Clarke knew that song from heart. Lexa would’ve died before being selfish and taking something, or someone, for herself. And Clarke would’ve given her the world, yet she couldn’t afford to relinquish the political hold on her own heart.

Clarke and Lexa held the axe in their hands and little by little they were chipping away at the trunk. Human hands and human words.

Lexa turned around, ready to return to the palace. She stopped only at the sound of Clarke’s voice, scraping like sharp claws against the walls of her throat. “One day they will weigh my heart and find it heavy with sin and regret. None greater than for allowing the world to convince me to let go of you.”

“Duke Finneas proposed today.”

Clarke could see Lexa stiffen despite the dim light. The Captain turned on her heels and approached the window, laying a quivering hand on the parapet, back turned to her sovereign.

It was unusual for the Queen to visit her Captain’s quarters. The rumor mill surely would’ve started running the moment Clarke stepped inside Lexa’s chambers if not for the circumstances they found themselves in.

Lexa’s room was as Spartan as could be in a royal palace. Moonlight shrouded it in mystery, much as it did its owner’s expression, whose features were unreadable from ten feet away.

Words weren’t a clue, either, when spoken blankly. “Have you given him an answer?”

Clarke desperately wanted to let the ensuing silence speak for her, but she knew she owed Lexa a proper answer. She, who helped take down their tree, should swing the axe.

“I said yes.”

For a moment, Clarke thought she saw Lexa’s knees buckle and she might collapse. However, the Captain stood tall and brave, and Clarke admired her so for her stalwart asceticism.

“I see.” Lexa’s voice was brittle, no more than a murmur, and it was only the grim silence that carried it to Clarke and cut her with it.

Clarke bled, and with the pain came resolve. She took a step forward, then another, and a third. A deep breath later, she’d gathered the courage to take the leap.

“It’s my last night of freedom. We could finally—”

“No,” Lexa interrupted, turning to face her.

The Captain’s tone left no room for discussion, but Clarke had never been one to be content with the space she was assigned. She felt the need to push the walls, expand the perimeter and win back the room she had been denied.

So she stepped closer even, broaching Lexa’s personal space. “I cannot fathom a world where I don’t know the taste of your lips.”

Lexa’s eyes shone with agony, as though Clarke had struck a dagger to her gut and was twisting, and twisting, and twisting. They were mere inches asunder, so close Clarke could feel Lexa’s shallow breath on her cheek. She couldn’t remember a time there had been less than the width of her crown between them.

“You can’t say things like that, Clarke. Not when—”

Lexa reached for Clarke’s face, but froze before allowing herself to touch. Her hand hovered, fingers yearning and twitching minutely above a pale cheek. “I shan’t let you disgrace yourself for me.”

Clarke closed her eyes, sighing, mustering the courage to lean away from Lexa’s absent touch and speak the words that lingered in the back of her mind since she’d said yes.

“Then I am letting you go.”

Lexa lowered her hand as though she’d been burned, but made no other motion to draw back. She remained steadfast as Clarke watched the questions flit across her eyes, all of them going unasked.

All but one.

“Why?”

Clarke swallowed, though it did nothing to untie the knot in her throat. “I am setting you free,” she husked, resisting the ever-present urge to take Lexa’s hands in hers. “I can find another captain, someone you would recommend. Just… Please go, Lexa. Find someone else. Love someone else. Be happy.”

This time, Lexa recoiled, face twisting with resentment. She would have looked less affronted had Clarke slapped her.

For once, Clarke wished the stars would bear witness to one of their trysts and grow mouths to yell at Lexa to go and never look back — to love someone else, anyone else. Someone who would not chain her to a love story without closure.

No great epopee ever ended with a broken heart.

“I will not leave, Clarke. I shall stay and see you married and love you like the day I carved my soul into a tree.” Lexa took a step towards her, closing the rift she’d created moments ago. Clarke counted the lashes resting on the elegant bow of her cheeks, long and dark and thick like the night that hid them from prying eyes and outstretched ears. Lexa’s lips were parted and Clarke would have given her kingdom to be able to brush a finger over the bottom one; to feel the supple flesh give under her thumb. Longing green eyes danced between Clarke’s own and dropped to her lips for just a moment, before once again plunging into pools of midday sky blue. “Who I love is not my choice to make. My heart has never been my own, Clarke. I believe you’ve held it in your hands since long before we were even born into this life.”

No great tragedy ever ended with a smile.

Clarke was dressed in white and gold when the letter arrived.

Amongst a thousand apologies, Finneas relayed about how he had fallen in love with one of her ladies in waiting and decided to run away with her before the wedding. Clarke would have felt humiliated, if she’d cared for anything except the way her heart sang for joy.

She was free.

Clarke all but ran up stairs and down corridors, towards the hall where she knew her most faithful soldier stood waiting and suffering, withering under the weight of their most dreaded day.

There Clarke found her Captain, and something about her (perhaps the light shining in from the window and setting her hair on fire or the way her eyes widened with concern when Clarke barged through the heavy double doors; maybe it was simply that freedom made everything look twice as beautiful) almost propelled Clarke to start crying a river at the mere sight of her.

So focused was she on the object of her adoration, Clarke didn’t register everyone else filing out of the room at the flick of the Captain’s wrist. It was but a coincidence that the moment the door closed behind the last intruder, Clarke fell to her knees at Lexa’s feet, taking flummoxed hands between her own. Her fingers trembled, but she had never felt so steady.

“He’s gone. He ran away with one of my maids.”

The stricken look on Lexa’s face — the tragic, mechanized selflessness — made Clarke love her just that little bit more. “Your Highness, I am so sor—”

“Don’t you finish that sentence, Captain, for I am not.”

Clarke brought Lexa’s hands to her lips and kissed the knuckles one by one, tasting the salt of her own tears. When she looked back up, she found them mirrored in Lexa’s eyes. “What will you do now?”

The question yanked a laugh from Clarke, wet with tears and husky with bliss. She brushed a kiss to long fingers and held Lexa’s burning gaze, unfaltering.

“I swear myself to you, my love,” she whispered reverently. “My heart is your heart, my soul is your soul. My life is now yours. I needn’t a ring to speak my vows.”

“Clarke, you can't—”

“I can,” she stated, pushing to her feet, “and I will. Let the people know I’m no less of a queen without a man at my side.”

If anything, she would have been less of a queen for not being brave enough to follow her heart, Clarke decided. How could she be expected to make hard decisions for her people if she couldn’t make them for herself?

“What about the throne, Clarke? Your kingdom needs an heir, or else it will be at the mercy of its enemies,” Lexa insisted, raising mountains across the road of Clarke’s dreams. “I will not accept that.”

Clarke’s will knew no boundaries or chokeholds however, and she’d weave roads around mountains and over precipices to meet her goals. This time, with or without witnesses, and despite the slumber of all stars but one, Clarke would finally make promises she could keep.

“I plan to train Aden to be king and appoint him as my heir. He will carry on the bloodline and keep the crown from falling into the wrong hands.”

She knew Lexa had a soft spot for the young Earl and would gladly help her broaden his shoulders enough to trust upon them the burden of sovereignty. Meanwhile, Clarke would be so powerful and so ruthless none would dare question the absence of a king consort. Human hands and human words bore the power to devastate, but also to mend what was broken and etch new life into faded vows.

She looked out the window; the sun was setting, hanging new oaths on the sky and yielding up its holy perch for the moon to take. Sunsets held the promise of tonight, when a lifetime’s worth of dreams could finally become true.

Lexa’s voice pulled her focus back to the present. “If this worked… How would I fit into it?”

Clarke had always been bravest at eventide.

With hands that no longer hovered, she grabbed the back of Lexa’s neck and reeled her in for a kiss.

#Clexaweek2020 #Clexaweek2020 Day 7 #Day 7 free day #free day #mine #my fics #clexa #clexa au #aesthetic #eventide #royal au

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shadowhuntertrash · 4 years ago

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High Notes

Chapter Two

Characters belong to Cassandra Clare

It had been two days since the girls had told them about the tour and Thomas was freaking out. How was he supposed to one, go out in front of all those people every night, two, see Alastair practically every day for five months? Thomas had barely packed anything, he was currently standing in his room staring at his suitcase which so far held a pair of sweatpants and his “Move, I’m gay.” t-shirt his friends had gotten him when he came out.

He hadn’t come out to anyone other than Matthew, James, Cordelia, Lucie, Christopher, and his sister Barbara. It wasn’t that he was scared to tell the rest of his family because they were very accepting of Matthew and James, but this voice in the back of his mind kept telling him that if he told his family they wouldn’t like it because it was their son.

Their only son. The only person in his family who could carry on the name. Well there was always Christopher and Anna but no one in his immediate family besides himself. Thomas also had quite the fanbase and did not want to find out what their opinion was. He was scared they would turn on him which had happened to others before.

So when he told his friends they kept his secret. They respected his reasons for not telling anyone but it didn’t keep them from telling him he was an idiot for not believing them when they said his family wouldn’t care.

Thomas snapped out of his thoughts when he saw Matthew leaning against the door to Thomas’ room. Christopher and James were out with their families spending time with them before they left for the tour.

“Thomas, sweetheart, love, dear friend of mine, please stop stressing. You’re stressing over Alastair more than I ever did over Jamie and that’s really saying something.” Thomas feels a familiar heat rise up to his face. He was blushing like a grade school girl. Was he really that obvious?

“No one can ever beat you in gay pining Matthew Fairchild.” Is what Thomas chose to say. Matthew threw his head back and laughed. “That may be but you sure are putting up a fight. I’m serious though Tom, the more you stress about it the worse it’ll be.” Matthew said flashing him a serious look. It looked out of place on Matthew’s face. It was a rare sight.

Thomas smiled slightly at him. Matthew had never liked Alastair much, something about childhood enemies, so it meant a lot that Matthew was being so chill about Thomas liking Alastair. “Thank you, Matthew. I’m serious thank you.” Thomas says in a small voice smiling at Matthew crookedly.

Matthew rolls his eyes and smirks. “It would make me a bit of a hypocritical asshole to have judged you for that. I’ve done far worse things than loving Alastair Carstairs.” It hit Thomas then, just how much Matthew saw through him. As if he was see-through. That’s what always made them so close. They were such total opposites that it was almost unbelievable just how they read each other so well.

Thomas smiled sincerely at Matthew and Matthew swatted his arm. “Okay, enough seriousness I can only endure small doses at a time.” Thomas laughed and shook his head at his friend. Matthew laughed back. “Do you want some help packing? I’ve already finished.”

Thomas smiled, that was such a Matthew thing. It was a common misconception that Matthew was a procrastinator. He was actually the opposite, he was one of those ungodly people who do things as soon as they are asked to.

“Of course you have, Matthew.” Thomas said exasperated. “If you could, I would greatly appreciate it. I always forget something important.” Matthew gave him a knowing look. “Don’t worry Tom. I won’t let you forget anything important.” Thomas nods and they spend the next three hours packing. With a brief intermission where they had a pillow fight after Thomas accidentally hit Matthew with his pillow.

At least he wasn’t as freaked out as he was before.

____________________________________________________________________________

Thomas, four days later, was standing in his parent's living room laughing with a glass of wine in his hand. His mother was sitting on the sofa next to his father.

His father, Gideon, was a successful politician like his father had been before he went corrupt. Unlike Thomas’ grandfather, Gideon was well-loved among the people. Thomas’s father and mother, Sophie, had one of those sickeningly sweet love stories that the people loved.

His father had gotten a maid when he was sixteen (spoiler, it was his Sophie). Gideon had been in love with her “from the moment he met her” and had done everything he could to see her. Including asking her to do just about anything and everything for him which his foolish teenage brain had thought was a brilliant idea.

It wasn’t and Sophie had grown up despising him until one day they fought over scones, Thomas had always found that part hilarious. Once Gideon had had a chance to explain why there was a pile of scones under his bed Sophie had allowed him to take her on a date. And the rest was, well, history.

Thomas had always loved that story. He had grown up wanting one just like it, his two sisters were in the same boat. His oldest sister Barbara had found that in her current boyfriend Oliver. They had that cute barista, coffee addiction story. Oliver had to write his number on Barbara’s cut four times before she finally called him. They had been sickeningly lovey-dovey ever since. Thomas’s other sister Eugenia hadn’t found that yet and so they whispered about how disgusting Barbara and Oliver were when they came to family dinners.

They were all sitting in the living room. Barbara was sitting in one of the lounge chairs next to Eugenia's chair. Thomas was sitting on the floor with his back against Barbara’s legs. “It was hilarious I have never seen him so red!” Barbara exclaimed in hysterics, over some story about Oliver spilling coffee all over some scary-looking man covered in tattoos.

"What a Prince Charming." Thomas said tilting his head back so he could look up at his sister. Barbara smacked his face lightly and laughed. "Isn't he!" They all laugh again. Thomas looks back to his parents to see them both looking at him, sweet smiles on their faces. Thomas smiles back immediately.

"Tommy we're so proud of you." Sophie says in a soft voice. Thomas beams at her, it was no secret he was 100% a momma's boy. “Your music, your lyrics are who you are. We have always encouraged you to be your true self and you always are.” His father said affectionately. Thomas feels a ball of guilt tightens in his stomach.

It was true they did always tell him to be himself. He wished he could be. He really really did, but alas it wasn’t the time. He couldn’t really tell them and then take off for five months. So he holds it in and flashes them a carefree smile.

“Thank you. I hope you know you’re all my inspiration. I wouldn’t be where I am without you.” I say looking around at all of them making a point to look at my sisters as well. Barbara smiles kindly at him. “As lovely as it is to hear your brother tell you you’re the inspiration to all his love songs, I do hope we’re not your only inspiration.”

I shove her and laugh. “Barb! Stop! Not at all what I meant! Way to ruin a moment!” Barbara and Eugenia laugh and Gideon and Sophie roll their eyes fondly. “Okay! Okay! Sorry but Genie and I were wondering who you write all those love songs about!” Barbara says wiggling her eyebrows suggestively. I freeze and force a laugh out looking down at my hands. I clear my throat but no words come out.

“I think that’s quite enough girls.” Sophie said in her simultaneously kind and stern voice. The girls stop laughing and pout. “But-”

“You’re mother’s quite right, girls. I think we should leave poor Thomas alone.” Gideon says backing Sophie up as he always did. Thomas felt a rush of affection for his parents, so loving, so kind. So unlike some of his other friends' parents. He feels a pang of sadness go through him as he thinks of Matthew with his nice but absentee parents and Cordelia and Alastair whose father abandoned them and whose mother died.

“I love you all. I’m going to miss you quite a deal more than I thought I would.” His sisters each squeeze one of his hands. “Oh darling, you say that as if we aren’t going to call every night!” Sophie says with a sparkle in her eyes. Thomas groans acting annoyed but his smile is a dead giveaway.

Gideon stands up and walks over to Thomas. “Thank you for coming and saying goodbye. We will miss you sorely, I wish I could stay longer but I have a pressing meeting I attend to.” Thomas smiles and stands up feeling his father’s arms around him. He holds on tightly. His father wasn’t the most affectionate person so it was nice when this happens.

He squeezes one more time before Gideon lets him go. “It’s quite alright Pops. I’m glad I get the chance to see you all one more time before I head off. I would stop by tomorrow but we are heading out at five and I’m afraid I won’t get the chance.” Sophie smiled kindly walking over to him to hug him goodbye.

“That’s quite alright Tommy, but don’t you dare forget to call when you leave and arrive no matter the time.” Thomas nods leaning down to rest his chin on his mother’s head. Thomas was quite tall and affectionately called ‘Giant’ by his sisters quite frequently so his mother and her petite figure didn’t even come up to his chin.

Thomas pulls back and kisses his mother’s cheek. “I wouldn’t dream of it mum.” Sophie nods her approval and moves to let Eugenia hug him. “I hope you have fun, Tommy, but not too much.” she says, pulling away enough for him to see her wink before pulling him back in and whispering, “But remember protection, we don’t want any little feet running around just yet.”

Thomas pulls away abruptly sputtering. Eugenia laughed and pats his shoulder. “Genie!” He says betrayed. She laughs again before moving out of his way. “Now get out and go see the world brother!” Thomas shakes his head and waves to his mother, father, and sister once more before walking to the door with Barbara.

They stepped outside the door and Barbara closed it softly before turning to Thomas, it was then that Thomas noticed the tears in her eyes. He frowns and shakes his head. “Don’t you dare start crying Barb, you know it makes me cry.” Barbara let out a wet laugh before pulling him in close for a hug. He melts into it.

Out of all his family, he was closest to Barbara, mostly because he didn’t have to hide anything from her. “I do suggest you keep me updated with Alastair. I mean it. Every detail. If he sneezes I want to know. She says tears started to slide down her face. Thomas feels the back of his throat and his nose starts to burn.

He clings to Barbara tighter. “Stop it. I’m crying now stop it!” He says pathetically, starting to shake slightly. Barbara hugs him tightly once more before pulling away and hastily wiping the tears off her face. “Sorry sorry don’t cry it’ll make me worse and it’ll be an endless cycle.” Thomas laughed and nodded, drying his own eyes.

Barbara smiled at Thomas through her wet eyes, she placed a hand on each of his shoulders. “I love you Tommy don’t forget that.” She pulled away and smiled wider. She reached up to her neck and unclasped her necklace. It was just a chain and Thomas wondered what it was for before she handed it to him and took her ring off her finger. It had footprints around the band. It was very pretty Thomas had to admit.

Barbara handed it to him and flipped it so he could see the writing on the inside. He frowned and took it from her so he could hold it closer and read it. He felt tears building in his eyes as he read it. ‘Where we go, we go as one.’ It was something Barbara had been saying to him since he was five. Thomas felt the tears slide down his face and grabbed Barbara in a bone-crushing hug.

She laughed but Thomas could hear the tears in her voice. “Thank you.” He whispered through the tears. Barbara sighed and patted his back before whispering a quiet, “Always.” and pulling away.

She shoved him away without bothering to wipe her tears. “Okay now go you big loof.” Thomas smiled and kissed her cheek before turning and walking back to his car. He missed them already.

#high notes #high notes: chapter two #thomas lightwood #alastair carstairs #sophie lightwood #gideon lightwood #eugenia lightwood #barbara lightwood

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grapefruitsketches · 5 years ago

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Untamed Spring Fest - Day 14: Butterfly

2,601 Words

The Junior Quartet, fluff, hurt/comfort, post-canon.

“Whoa - Zizhen, be careful! If you can’t even make this step, we’ll start to think you’re a fierce corpse yourself!” Lan Jingyi laughed as he caught the Ouyang heir before he tripped over Sizhui’s doorstep.

“She is beautiful like the dawn, kind like a… a… like ripples on the pond!” Zizhen sang, off any key he might have been trying to hit.

“I didn’t think it was possible for you to be any worse at poetry than you usually are, but good for your drunk-self for proving me wrong!” Jingyi dragged his friend over to the table and sat him down. “Why did you even challenge that old man to a drinking contest? You’re the lightest light weight I know.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Sizhui said cheerily as he entered his room behind his friends, grinning as if at some private joke. He turned to Ouyang Zizhen, “Who are you talking about, Zizhen?” Sizhui asked kindly, but had a hint of amusement in his eyes.

“Only the most beautiful, the loveliest, the…” Zizhen paused, scrunching his face and scratching his chin, “I can’t remember.”

Jin Ling shook his head, sighing heavily, “I don’t know why I’m friends with you.” Zizhen only shrugged in response, grinning.

The four of them had just come back from the annual Spring festival in Gusu, planning to stay over in Sizhui’s room given that Jin Ling and Ouyang Zizhen would not (could not, given Zizhen’s current state) travel back that night. Jin Ling rolled his eyes, and took a glance around the room.

His eyes widened.

Zizhen, who had followed Jin Ling’s gaze but didn’t have the benefit of a sober man’s restraint, blurted, slurring his words almost incomprehensively “What’s up with all the butterflies, Sizhui?” He gestured vaguely at the dozens of grass butterflies decorating the room, disrupting the otherwise very-Lan appropriate, minimalist aesthetic.

Jingyi whacked him over the head, “He invites you to stay in his home and you ask such rude questions? You should have stayed away from that special Emperor’s Smile brew when you had the chance.”

But Sizhui only smiled, deciding to answer Zizhen’s question, “They’re stories,” he said, as though this explained everything.

Jin Ling turned to him, “Stories?” He raised an eyebrow.

Sizhui nodded, and sighed, “They’re all from…” he pursed his lips and glanced quickly at Jin Ling, then the floor, “They’re from Wen Ning.”

Jin Ling gaped. Zizhen swayed, though only from the wine. Jingyi glared at Jin Ling, challenging him to comment.

Sizhui explained, “He made all of these for me.”

Jin Ling looked around the room, taking in the various colours and sizes of the butterflies, “He made… all of these?” he asked, incredulous.

Sizhui nodded, a bashful smile on his face.

“They’re so pretty!” Zizhen remarked.

Jingyi rolled his eyes, jabbing Zizhen in the side, “Of course they are! Did you expect an uncle to give his nephew an ugly gift?”

Sizhui hadn’t taken his eyes off of Jin Ling, worried at his reaction to the subject of Wen Ning. Jin Ling didn’t seem bothered, though, just curious.

“Why did he make you so many?” the Jin Clan Leader asked.

Sizhui flushed, “They’re each… Well, he makes them, and he tells me a story each time he gives one to me. A story of one of my… my family members.”

Jin Ling blinked, understanding dawning on his face, “What kind of stories?” he asked.

Sizhui glanced around at the various figures, smiling softly, “All kinds of stories. What they were like, things we did together, life in the Burial Mounds, memories from Dafan Mountains, that kind of thing.” His smile faltered as he finished. He looked back to Jin Ling, who had unconsciously reached for Suihua, touching it gently and nodding.

Jingyi steadied Zizhen in a seated position, and made his way to Sizhui, touching him lightly on the shoulder, “Sizhui…” he said.

“I’m ok, Jingyi.”

Something that sounded like choking came from the other side of the room, and the three junior cultivators closest to the door looked up to see tears streaming down Zizhen’s face.

“So each of these,” he blubbered, looking around, “Each of these is one of your clan members?”

Sizhui nodded, “I know it makes things seem a bit messy in here, but it’s nice to have them around.”

“Sizhui…” Zizhen cried, “That’s so… so beautiful…”

It was Jingyi’s turn to roll his eyes, “Be quiet. You’re making Sizhui think about depressing things. Tonight is supposed to be about having fun.”

But Jin Ling was intrigued. “What were they like?”

Lan Sizhui leaned forward, “I’ve heard so many stories.” He looked around the room, and stood up to grab a butterfly dyed a vibrant orange, “This one is Fourth Uncle. He used to carry me on his back when I was little, while he planted vegetables.” He put the butterfly down, and picked up deep red one, adding excitedly, “This one is Wen Ning’s sister, Wen Qing. She was apparently the best at getting me to stop crying, and the best doctor in the world.” He blushed, looking around to see if the thought of him wailing like an infant would make his friends laugh, but they all looked on, nodding, or, in Zizhen’s case, leaning forward on the table, chin supported by both hands, smiling dopily. Encouraged, Sizhui reached for a pair of butterflies sitting side by side, one blue and white, the other red and black, “Uncle Ning made these to be my fathers, so they could always be with me even when they were away.” He paused, stroking the two tiny sculptures softly before returning them to their perch.

He shook his head, “I mean, each one has a story but…” he sighed, looking around fondly at the display, “Well, I don’t want to bore you. Like Jingyi said, we should be having fun.”

“Family memories are never boring.” Jin Ling said firmly. His grip on Suihua tightened. Jingyi, who was currently trying to force Zizhen to drink some water, nodded vigorously.

Sizhui smiled at the two of them, “Well if the two of you agree on something, that must mean it’s true.”

“I disagree though.” Zizhen barely avoided falling flat on the table as he pointed forward wildly. The three others turned to him, one curious, one angry, one annoyed. Zizhen went on, “Yours might be interesting but… my family story is…” he exhaled heavily, “Very. Boring.”

“Why do you say that, Zizhen?” Sizhui asked. Jin Ling and Lan Jingyi, who had seemed set to ignore this interjection, looked to Sizhui, mirroring each other’s single raised eyebrows. Sizhui cast them a glance that prevented any interference.

“Where do I start?” Zizhen grumbled, “I mean, my dad’s a coward - you saw him at the Burial Mounds. At least your uncle,” he looked at Jin Ling, “actually had personal stuff going on with the Yiling Patriarch, and wasn’t just siding against him because everyone else was.” He bit his lip, “And my mother? I mean, I love her, but she’s hardly as intense as all of your ancestors - Lan Yi, Madam Yu. They were awesome.” He took another look around at the butterflies, “And look at all these! Sizhui, your family’s story is incredible! Refugees, wrongfully accused! Your fathers are the Yiling Patriarch and Hanguang Jun, who have the most incredible love story in history!” He looked around to his friends, then down to his lap, “I mean… it’s stupid, but… I don’t know, it’d be nice to have some epic story like that as my legacy, you know?”

A silence worthier of the Jingshi’s name fell on Sizhui’s quarters, before Jin Ling broke it.

“Yeah. It is stupid.” The other three looked up at Jin Ling’s harshness. He sounded more like Clan Leader Jiang than ever, “You want a legacy? You want a family tragedy worthy of those stories you spend all your time reading? You want the heroic deaths of your parents put up on a wall by the person who orchestrated their murders? You want to grow up with one uncle who’s too sad to talk about them and another who worshipped them too much to tell you anything meaningful about their lives? Fine. I’d trade you in an instant.” Jin Ling huffed, crossing his arms. Tears grew out of the corner of his eyes, and he wiped them away fiercely, sitting down on the floor. He gritted his teeth, “An. Instant.”

Zizhen gulped. “Jin Ling, that’s not… I-“ He looked helplessly around to his friend, his inebriated mind only now catching up with what he had said, and what it must have sounded like to the others, “I’m sorry, of course I wouldn’t…”

“I’m sure he didn’t mean it that way.” Jingyi jumped in. Zizhen looked to him gratefully. Sizhui was trying to look anywhere but any of the other Juniors’ faces, choosing instead to linger on a few of the more prominently placed butterflies.

Jin Ling’s shoulders shook as he tried to hold back his frustration, “I know… I just… I mean…” he looked to Zizhen, “Your dad sucks,” he said bluntly. Zizhen recoiled in surprise, Sizhui blinked, torn away from his thoughts and contemplating jumping in given the turn to more personal attacks. Jin Ling went on, his desperate expression and the group’s understanding of this subject’s significance to him preventing further interruptions, “But at least he’s there, you know?”

Zizhen put a hand over his chest, nodding earnestly, “You’re right,” he said, genuinely apologetic, “I shouldn’t be so selfish.” He paused, following Jin Ling’s eyes, which had drifted towards Suihua, “But Jin Ling?” he added, “Your parents were amazing. I wouldn’t trade my parents for anything, but I’m still jealous of the ones you got.” Jin Ling didn’t look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched in appreciation. Zizhen took this as a sign to keep going, looking up as his voice shifted to the tone he usually used when he was reciting his most recent love poem to them, though his voice was more garbled than usual, “They had the most epic romance. They fought to the end to protect the things they loved.” He looked at Jin Ling, “To protect you.” He pointed sloppily at the golden-clad teen.

Jin Ling coughed, once, twice, but this was only a fruitless attempt to stop the tears that came anyway. Sizhui placed a hand on each of his shaking shoulders.

“You’re still stupid, but… thanks, Zizhen,” the Jin Clan Leader managed, “Sorry I said your dad sucks.”

Zizhen shrugged, and clasped his hands together, going into a bow which only ended with a faceplant into the table. He was asleep immediately.

Jingyi rolled his eyes, “Idiot.” But he smiled, alongside Sizhui and Jin Ling (although the latter still had tears streaking his face). Jingyi stood up. “I’m gonna go grab some blankets for all of us, and I guess we can just cover him up there if he’s comfortable. No use in him catching a cold before our night hunt tomorrow.”

Sizhui nodded, arms still wrapped around Jin Ling’s back comfortingly, “Thanks Jingyi.” Jingyi nodded, and left.

“Jin Ling?” Sizhui tilted his head, trying to catch his friend’s eye, “Are you okay?”

Jin Ling sniffed, wiping his nose with his sleeve, “Yeah. Yeah it’s nothing. It’s no big deal. I shouldn’t have yelled like that - Zizhen was just being his stupid drunk self anyway.”

Sizhui patted his shoulder before standing up. “I have something for you,” he said.

Jin Ling looked up, watching Sizhui as he walked towards a shelf not far from the butterfly-Yiling Patriarch and butterfly-Hanguang Jun’s places. The Lan disciple stood there for a moment, scanning the various figures before reaching for one that Jin Ling couldn’t quite see. Sizhui cupped it in his hands and made his way back around the table to Jin Ling.

“I want you to have this.” Sizhui said, opening his hands to reveal a delicate grass butterfly, light purple with what looked like dried lotus leaves weaved decoratively into its wings.

Jin Ling looked to Sizhui in confusion, but reached out and took the butterfly anyway.

Sizhui smiled. “While I was still living in the Burial Mounds, my uncle, the Ghost General, he brought me a bowl of soup one day. He had brought it all the way from Yiling. When he told me this story, I tried to think back. I think I can remember that day just a bit - it was a delicious, but stone-cold soup, better than anything I’d eaten in a long time.” He sighed. Jin Ling was confused, wondering if Sizhui was just getting pointlessly sentimental so far past the Lan bedtime, “When he gave me this butterfly, my uncle told me that the soup had come from the nicest woman he’d ever met, and the best cook too. He told me that it had been from Wei Wuxian’s sister, that she had given it to Uncle Ning but that he couldn’t eat it so he had wanted me to have it instead.” Sizhui looked up at Jin Ling in time to see realization dawning on the other boy’s face, “I only remembered the taste of the soup when Uncle Ning told me this story. When he gave me this.” Sizhui held up Jin Ling’s hands, which were still clutching the carefully woven insect. “I think he’d want you to have it.”

Jin Ling held the butterfly up to his face, stroking the sides tenderly, “This…” he gulped, “The Ghost General made one of these… this one is… my mother?”

Sizhui nodded, smiling. “He almost cried when he told me about her. Jin Ling…” Sizhui caught his gaze, “She was an amazing person, kind even to someone like Wen Ning who most of the world hated at that point.” Sizhui sighed, “I’m sorry I don’t know more about your father but, knowing you? He must have been amazing too.”

Jin Ling smiled, though his chin trembled, “Sizhui…” he held the butterfly close to his chest, “Thank you.”

Sizhui smiled, “No need. We all need something to remember people by, right?”

Jin Ling nodded, looking around at the memories of all the people who had been incredible enough to be related to Sizhui.

By the time Jingyi got back, heavy blankets gathered from the guest rooms, he had to cover up not just one but three cultivators. He would make fun of Jin Ling for drooling on his sleeve the next day, but was happy to see the peaceful expressions on all three of their faces.

“I am never. Drinking. Again.” Zizhen groaned, holding his head and plodding along behind the others. The four of them followed Wei Wuxian and Hanguang Jun for what was sure to be an exciting night hunt.

Wei Wuxian laughed, “I’ve said that to myself more than once. It never works out.” He punched his husband lightly on the arm, “Right, Lan Zhan?”

Hanguang-Jun only said “mmm” in response, but Wei Wuxian could see the hint of a smirk on his face. Wei Wuxian glanced back at the Juniors. All except Zizhen, who was still too hungover to offer more than a half-hearted grin, laughed with him. It was then that Wei Wuxian noticed, contrasting sharply against the golds of his robes, a little purple butterfly dangling from Suihua’s hilt. Sizhui, who had followed his father’s eyes, looked to him and smiled, confirming Wei Wuxian’s suspicions.

Wei Wuxian sighed happily, turning to look forward again. I’m glad you can still be at his side, Shijie.

#untamed spring fest #the untamed #junior quartet #lan sizhui #jin ling #ouyang zizhen #lan jingyi #cql #the kids are alright #also I just really like the idea of wen ning picking up some nice quiet hobbies #my writing

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aion-rsa · 4 years ago

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15 Hardest PlayStation One Games of All-Time

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The PlayStation is fondly remembered for its classic collection of revolutionary games, advancements in 3D technology, and CD player functionality that let you easily play the Men in Black soundtrack whenever you wanted. As you’ve probably guessed from the title of this article, though, it’s also the home of some of the hardest games of the ’90s.

The PlayStation may have helped move us out of the arcade era and its notorious difficulty levels, but with the challenges of 3D game design came a new set of in-game challenges that tested a generation of gamers in ways that they simply were not prepared for.

Even after we’ve grown accustomed to the machinations and expectations of 3D game design all these years later, I suspect that many modern gamers would struggle to beat the 15 hardest PlayStation One games ever.

15. Crash Bandicoot

One of the funniest things about the release of 2017’s Crash Bandicoot N. Sane Trilogy was watching everyone suddenly remember that the Crash Bandicoot games were absurdly difficult.

Despite their linear design, the Crash Bandicoot games demanded a level of platforming perfection that proved to be elusive enough at a time when modern video game graphics, cameras, and controls made the remakes of the Crash Bandicoot games much more accessible but was nearly impossible to achieve in the early days of PlayStation gaming.

The later Crash Bandicoot games made things slightly easier, but the first title’s combination of intentionally challenging obstacles and a few questionable design decisions make it one of the most truly difficult games of its era.

14. Fear Effect

The original Fear Effect games are awkward to play today for a lot of reasons (casual racism and strange “softcore” cutscenes, for instance), but if you find yourself struggling to make it through these titles, it’s not just because they haven’t aged especially well. Fear Effect was an incredibly difficult game even for its time.

Essentially a blend of Resident Evil-like controls, point and click adventure puzzles, and awkward stealth sequences, Fear Effect is like a Hall of Fame for the most challenging and infuriating gameplay concepts of its era.

Fear Effect 2 might even be harder than the first game, but the nod here goes to the original for featuring one of the most uniquely difficult gaming experiences the PlayStation has to offer.

13. Driver

22 years after its release, I’m still convinced that Driver is a prank. How else can you explain developer Reflections Interactive’s decision to make this game’s tutorial mission one of the hardest levels in video game history?

Driver’s first level requires you to complete a series of complex maneuvers in a confined space while racing against a way too short time limit. To make matters worse, the game often fails to recognize when you’ve properly completed a maneuver, which means that you might not pass the test even if you’ve somehow mastered the game’s most complex movies the first time you’re ever asked to perform them.

If you’re one of the many who has never beaten Driver’s opening level, you may be shocked to find that there are difficulty spikes later in the game that are even more difficult than its notorious opener. At least this game is still better than the sequel.

12. Oddworld: Abe’s Odyssey

Oddworld’s unique puzzles and strange core mechanics would have made it challenging enough for players just trying to figure out what’s expected of them, but this game goes one step further by employing some of the most unforgiving level design tactics in PlayStation history.

Your margin for error in this game rarely rises above zero as gunfire and traps constantly threaten to end your fun. While that kind of unforgiving gameplay makes sense in something like a bullet hell title, it can be frustrating to work with in a puzzle game where your trial and error attempts are hindered by an additional series of wrong moves.

Oddworld: Abe’s Odyssey is clearly meant to be a difficult game, but knowing that doesn’t make it feel any less unforgiving.

11. Rayman

As strange as it may seem given the evolution of the franchise over the years, the original Rayman is by far one of the hardest games of the ‘90s and arguably one of the hardest platformer games ever made.

Unlike other platformers that challenge you with rewarding gameplay that requires precision movements, most of Rayman’s challenges can be best described as “bulls***.” The slippery slopes and spiked pits spread generously throughout levels might kill you, but the game’s bizarre enemy spawning system that makes it practically impossible to anticipate their placement certainly will.

If Rayman isn’t one of the hardest games ever made its certainty among the most frustrating.

10. Vagrant Story

For years, fans have called Vagrant Story one of the most underrated PlayStation games and one of the most overlooked RPGs ever made. It deserves both those titles, but I think Vagrant Story also deserves to be remembered as an absurdly difficult epic.

Initially, the challenge of Vagrant Story comes from learning its unique combat system that often leaves you feeling helpless. Even after you’ve made sense of the basics, Vagrant Story’s brutal bosses, clever traps, and even “basic” enemies will constantly make you wonder whether or not you can ever really master what this game throws at you.

Like Dark Souls, Vagrant Story’s difficulty is very much part of what makes the game work as well as it does. Appreciating that doesn’t make the game any easier, though.

9. Heart of Darkness

Never heard of Heart of Darkness? I’m not surprised. Even for its time, this was a relatively obscure title that is now fondly remembered for its visuals, excellent story, and interesting gameplay. Mostly, though, Heart of Darkness is remembered for its nearly unrivaled difficulty spikes.

In fact, Heart of Darkness could give Driver a run for its money in the battle between games with the most absurdly difficult opening levels. Enemies swarm you in this opening section like you’re playing a bullet hell shooter, but the game controls like a particularly clunky FMV puzzler. Even if you know what you’re doing, it’s incredibly difficult to respond to the on-screen action in time.

Things get slightly better from there, but I’d still say that most gamers will not have the patience for this game’s labyrinth levels, bewildering puzzles, and often painful controls.

8. Blasto

To be fair to Blasto, this PS1 action game was probably released a generation before technology could properly support it. In another timeline, it might have turned out to be as good as the first Ratchet and Clank game. To be even fairer to Blasto, it starred the late Phil Hartman who always went above and beyond for everything he did, including the voice work for this game.

With all of that out of the way, let’s focus on Blasto’s real reputation as one of the PS1’s most reliable sources of broken controllers. It’s bad enough that this game’s slow movements and dodgy camera make even basic sections challenging, but the fact that many levels have no barriers to speak of means you spend most of your time falling to your death while trying to complete even simple jumps.

This is a truly painful gaming experience that snared many unsuspecting gamers with its charm and front-loaded good ideas.

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7. Einhander

While not the most difficult 2D shoot ‘em up ever made, Einhander was high-profile enough to lure in many early PS1 adopters who were completely unprepared for its retro difficulty level.

Rather than throw as many enemies at you as possible and call it a day, Einhander increases the health pool of the average enemy while requiring you to navigate some truly devastating death zones. The impact of that design decision really comes thorugh in the game’s boss fights which task you with taking down massive foes who employ complex and shifting attack strategies.

This is a truly great game that stands the test of time, but don’t let its looks and sounds convince you that Einhander is anything less than a classic example of “NES hard.”

6. Irritating Stick

Yes, the game’s title gives its difficulty level away, but to truly appreciate how frustrating Irritating Stick is, you’ve got to play it for yourself.

Irritating Stick is like a blend of Super Monkey Ball and the board game Operation. It requires you to guide a small ball through a series of themed mazes that leave you almost no room to safely maneuver. To make matters worse, you have to race against a constantly ticking clock that’s absurd restrictions essentially require you to truly master this game within a few levels. Of course, true mastery may not be possible for most players as each level seems to add a new wrinkle that makes you wonder how you will ever get through in time.

Oh, and I have to give a special shout-out to the game’s announcer who screams “Watch out, you’re too close to the edge!” whenever you’re near the game’s barriers. Yes, I know I’m too close to the edge, now kindly leave me the **** alone.

5. Incredible Crisis

Remember that scene in Metal Gear Solid when you had to mash the Circle button to survive the torture device until it felt like your wrist was going to break? Well, imagine that scene stretched out across most of a full game. That’s Incredible Crisis.

Incredible Crisis is a collection of eclectic minigames that often require you to mash buttons as fast as humanly possible. Actually, I take that back. No human can be expected to survive this gauntlet of finger destroying terror. Oh, and if a minigame doesn’t require you to furiously mash buttons, that means it’s only going to destroy you in some other strange way.

The bizarre set of skills required to beat this game means that it may even frustrate gamers who otherwise seek such challenges.

4. Tomb Raider 3

Yes, the first two Tomb Raider games are difficult. However, part of their challenge (especially today) stems from their ambitious design which was often ahead of what you could reasonably expect from video game technology at the time.

Tomb Raider 3 is on a different (difficulty) level, though. Even if the game didn’t add a ridiculous number of spikes, boulders, pits, and traps waiting to end your run before you know they’re there, its bewildering level design that tried to recreate the experience of having no idea what you’re doing in the middle of a dark tomb has broken even diehard series fans.

Despite its better moments and incredible pedigree, it’s genuinely hard to recommend this game to anyone but masochists. I genuinely don’t know if it’s possible to beat this game without a strategy guide or walkthrough.

3. Nightmare Creatures

There’s a degree to which early PlayStation games were fundamentally unprepared to handle the challenges of 3D action/adventure game design. That means that any additional difficulties added to that underlying level of challenge make some games of that era nearly impossible to properly play today.

I guess that’s just my way of saying that Nightmare Creatures is indeed the nightmare it bills itself as. What would already be a challenging romp through a hellish world of monsters is made that much worse by the presence of an adrenaline system that effectively serves as a time limit and forces you to kill enemies as quickly as possible despite often being unprepared for them in every conceivable way.

Some games throw you into the water to teach you how to swim. Nightmare Creatures holds your head under the water as you lean because it fundamentally doesn’t want you to succeed.

2. Tenchu: Stealth Assassins

The “fall” of the stealth genre from mainstream gaming in recent years has long disappointed genre fans who rank such games among their favorites of all-time. Yet, it has to be acknowledged that even the best stealth games were often difficult in a way that could immediately dissuade even tested gamers.

While difficulty is a given in many stealth titles, Tenchu sometimes abuses the privilege by going out of your way to remind you that you are weak. Maybe it’s because many of us were just excited to play a game where we were a badass ninja assassin, but the way that Tenchu required you to play it safe and employ trial-and-error tactics to survive its various challenges left many burying their hands in their face as they tried to understand what they were doing wrong.

Even after you appreciated Tenchu for what it was and even discovered what the game expected of you, it always found a way to force you to make that little mistake that would instantly end a run.

1. King’s Field

Is it cliche to name a game from eventual Dark Souls developer FromSoftware as the hardest PS1 title ever? For the sake of argument, let’s say it is. That doesn’t change the fact that even Dark Souls veterans will find themselves surprised by how difficult this game truly is.

King’s Field was pretty revolutionary for its time, which means that many gamers simply didn’t know what they were supposed to be doing when they booted up this title. What the most patient PS1 gamers discovered, though, is that King’s Field is basically a rough draft of Dark Souls combined with an especially difficult dungeon crawler. Even if the game’s ambitious 3D visuals and the jank they produce didn’t create additional challenges, this title’s brutal combat, a parade of traps, confounding controls, deliberately slow pace, and complete lack of direction even made hardcore PC RPG fans wonder what this game was and why it hated them so much.

cnx.cmd.push(function() { cnx({ playerId: "106e33c0-3911-473c-b599-b1426db57530", }).render("0270c398a82f44f49c23c16122516796"); });

King’s Field doesn’t hate you, but it’s a testament to what the game was going for that it’s both clearly an early look at the next 25 years of gaming and a title that will likely still challenge generations to come.

The post 15 Hardest PlayStation One Games of All-Time appeared first on Den of Geek.

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#aion-rsa #Den of Geek

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colorseeingchick · 4 years ago

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Congratulations on your Milestone :D. Could I have a Romantic matchup for Naruto please? I’m a introverted straight female, 17 years old. Personality-wise, I am really shy when first meeting people, not rude, just quiet and more of listener than a talker. When I open up I’m much more bubbly, sarcastic (playfully), and talkative. I’m very empathetic, laidback and open minded and extremely loyal to everyone in my life. I have a good sense of humour and laugh at most jokes. I love having banter back and forth. I’m also a pretty stubborn person and don’t swayed by peer pressure easily even though I’m extremely insecure regarding my personality, appearance and how I’m viewed by other people. I need to time to recharge after and sometimes during social events and am content with just listening to the other people speak to/around me. Bad traits of mine would be, impatience, tendency to overwork myself with schoolwork and study, get stressed easily and overanalyse everything (social stuff mostly). Likes: Drawing, Music, Singing, Daydreaming, Going on walks and Reading. Dislikes: The Dark (horrible phobia), Bugs, Spiders and Overly Aggressive, Loud and Pushy people. No one like Orochimaru, Kabuto or the Akatsuki please. I really don’t like them. Thank you! -🔆

Hello Sunshine Anon! I’m so excited you’re my first Naruto matchup hehe :D

I match you with the man, the myth, the legend himself…

Naruto Uzumaki!

There are so many reasons why I match you with Naruto, the first reason being you both genuinely deserve each other’s love. But I think, given your personality, you’d have a long history with Naruto, and you’d both support each other through thick and thin.

You, Naruto, and the rest of the gang would be together from childhood. You were well aware of the stigma around Naruto, and like everyone else, you had no idea why. Because you were all friends with each other from a young age, you didn’t have any problem being open, sarcastic, and bubbly with them. But for you, that groujp of people you felt comfortable with included Naruto as well.

You wouldn’t say you were close to Naruto. He was loud, and a bit in your face, but you felt for him. You knew he was more than what met the eye, and you didn’t particularly care what other people told you when you said you didn’t mind him. You were always kind when you interacted with him. It was because you were so open minded and empathetic that you could be kind to Naruto. Though you didn’t know it at the time, this would affect your relationship down the line.

Things changed a lot when Naruto came back from his training with Jiraiya. He was different. More mature, a little bit calmer, and a lot stronger. And you had grown, too. You were a part of team 10 with Ino, Shikamaru, and Choji (a rare 4 man team). Naruto's team would be sent on missions with you four, and that was the time when you guys fell for each other.

Getting to re-meet Naruto was a journey. You felt like you were talking to a new man, but he was quick to be super kind and friendly with you. He thought you were pretty, which was more incentive for him. But he loved how you listened to all his thoughts and stories of his adventures. He didn’t mind if you didn’t talk back all the time, he was happy to have you listen. He felt like you cared, and that also made him like you more. He also went crazy over the fact that you laughed at his jokes. He thought no one laughed at his jokes, so he was always so happy to entertain you. On top of all that, he remembered how you treated him when you were younger, and he still held onto those memories so fondly. You still treated him so kindly, and for that he’d literally die for you. He wanted to return that kindness you gave him right back and even more.

Which is why he asked you to be his girlfriend. When you said yes, I know for a fact that he lost his cool and cheered so aggressively, happy to finally call you his. Shikamaru would tell Naruto he knew you would say yes, and Ino would joke that you could’ve done better than a crazy guy like Naruto (Naruto got soo defensive). Choji would ask to go to dinner to celebrate. It was a great start to your relationship.

As a couple, you who would support each other to no end. You were both insanely loyal and too stubborn to give in on that loyalty, and as a result you would grow to be a couple the Leaf could rely on. We know the things that Naruto has had to do. You, like most others, weren't on that insane of a power level to keep up with him, but you would either help with healing or fighting on the side. The ninja that worked with you knew you would show up to help them if they needed you. You both knew you were putting yourselves on the line and were willing to take that risk for the sake of the people you cared for. That mutual understanding helped a lot.

When you’re not in battles or on missions, you and Naruto would take rest and heal by just being with each other. As a couple he still told you many stories, and he was delighted to have your commentary sprinkled in. He loved to sweet talk and flirt with you, no matter how long you’d been together. Naruto knew you were insecure with yourself, and I just know that this man would remind you every day you are beautiful, loved, and perfect. He’d do it every morning, he’d send toads with notes - anything to remind you. He was also willing to give you space when you needed it, well aware that being with people could be draining. He’d entertain people just to give you time to sneak away and relax if need be. He’d also know when you were overworking yourself and overstressing (he did it too, so he knew), so he’d be the first person to stop you. He would force you to rest, and he’d take care of you. If he couldn't be there he'd make sure someone else was watching you on his behalf (probably Sakura or Shikamaru). He learned to not let people looking down on him stop him, and he’d try and get you to see the world the same way. If he had to run around for missions or got busy, you were laid back enough to not get worked up over it. You’d just hang out with Shikamaru in the meantime, and Naruto would always know where to find you.

He’d take you for ramen dates whenever he could, but his favorite thing to do with you was to go on walks through the forest and listen to you sing. It made his heart stop. And if you were ever afraid of the dark on a walk, he’d whip out a whole RESENGAN just to give you light and let you know that no one would dare attack you, because he’d be ready to keep you safe at a moment’s notice. He’d hold you tight at night just to remind you he was there, and that he would never leave you alone in the dark.

And that he’d never leave you, period.

~~~ Eeeeeee I hope you like it! I haven't talked about Naruto in a while so writing this request was so fun for me heheh

#naruto #naruto matchup #csc hits 200 #colorseeingchick milestone

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maaaddiexo · 5 years ago

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Chapter Eight | Peter Pevensie

[Red Series Book One: Roses]

Synopsis: With World War Two ravaging the world, no one is safe and no one is happy.

Despite their protests, Peter, Susan, Edmund, and Lucy Pevensie are evacuated from London and sent to live in the English countryside with an old professor. Scared and unhappy, only the youngest Pevensie child remains optimistic and ends up sharing her hope with her siblings in the form of a wardrobe that takes them to Narnia, a different world where they are the only form of hope to bring an end to an evil witch's reign of terror.

Rosemary Bennett has no more hope left in her heart. Her brother and father are off fighting for their country, the former having gone missing months ago, and her mother ignores her, preferring the company of a bottle over her own daughter. Giving up seems the only logical plan of action. But when it finally comes to carrying it out, she's transported to a different world, with talking animals and a prophecy that doesn't involve her. Unsure as to why she is there, she must navigate a new world and ponder the possibility that maybe - just maybe - she doesn't actually want to die.

*Warning: this book deals with depression and suicide. Though mental illness isn't what this story revolves around, the act of suicide and depressive thoughts are intertwined with the plot and act as 'backseat drivers' to the novel.

[Chapter Nine] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

The small party of six ventured in and out of woods, across cliffsides and mountains, and alongside streams in silence. A while back, Lucy had run out of things to talk about and questions to ask. She now dragged her feet in the snow in silence while Peter pulled her along by their joined hands, also silently.

Beaver finally stopped on the top of a cliff and pointed to the other end of a frozen river. "Now, Aslan's camp is near the Stone Table, just across the frozen river."

"River?" Rosemary sputtered. Since she wasn't planning on dying just yet in Narnia (if at all), she wasn't comfortable with going near the water.

"Don't worry, Rosemary," Mrs. Beaver replied. "The river's been frozen solid for a hundred years."

Rosemary nodded and took a deep breath, trying to steel her resolve. "Just like walking on slippery dirt."

"More like the snow that we're already walking on," Beaver corrected. "There's so much snow on there, you won't feel the ice underneath. Now come on. We won't make it there today, but if we get up early tomorrow, we should make it before sundown."

Peter gazed over at the cliff where he thought he could see the Stone Table. "It's so far."

"Well, it's the world, dear. Did you expect it to be small?"

Susan looked at her brother. "Smaller. We did get here through a wardrobe after all."

•

The river must've been as wide as the English Channel, but Rosemary didn't complain. She focused on doing her best to walk in Susan's footprints. The sun wasn't high but it still bounced off of the snow and right into her eyes, giving her a headache. She was sure the lack of sleep and food weren't helping either.

Peter had insisted he take the bag from her when they first began walking across the river so the extra weight off of her back was nice, but her feet were beginning to hurt and her peacoat was no fur coat.

A rumble suddenly came from below them and Rosemary shrieked, freezing in place. Her hands trembled and her knees locked and she frantically looked around to see where the crack in the ice was. With her luck, it would be right below her.

"Relax, Rosemary," Susan smiled, walking back to Rosemary. It's just the ice shifting. It's not going to break on us."

From ahead of them, Beaver turned around. "Come on, humans! While we're still young."

Lucy and Peter joined Susan and Rosemary, who still hadn't moved. "If he tells us to hurry one more time," Peter began, wordlessly handing the bag back to Rosemary so that Lucy could climb onto his back. "I'm gonna turn him into a big, fluffy hat."

Rosemary and Susan smiled as they were - once again - ushered by the beavers.

"He is getting a little bossy," Lucy remarked.

"He isn't telling us to hurry because he's impatient," Rosemary said gravely, pointing a shaking hand at something behind them. "He's telling us to hurry because of her!"

Not too far behind them, the White Witch approached. She rode across the ice on a white sleigh pulled by what looked like white caribou. But nobody had time to focus on the details. She was gaining on them and fast.

"Hurry! Run!" Beaver instructed. "Into the trees!"

They still had one hundred meters to go, but Rosemary and Daniel used to have races across the field when they were bored or done early so it was no problem for her. Throwing the bag back at Peter, she grabbed Lucy's hand, pulling her behind her.

The sound of the bells and hooves on the ice motivated Rosemary to push her legs faster, despite the burning in her calves and lungs. She and Lucy were at the back of the pack, but not by much. Once in the trees, they went left in hopes of finding thicker foliage, but instead found a small overhang for them to hide underneath.

"Inside," Beaver ordered. "Dive! Dive!

Out of breath and panicking, it's difficult for the group to quiet their panting but they try nonetheless, waiting for the Witch to enter the woods. The bells on the sleigh signal where the Witch was and she stopped right above them. Her footsteps crunched in the snow and when she shuffled around, snow fell off the overhang and they watched her shadow from below. After scouring for a more moments, her shadow disappeared and she slowly walked away. For a moment, it was completely silent.

"Maybe she's gone?" Lucy suggested, but it came out as a question.

Nervously, Peter moved Lucy off of him. "I suppose I'll go look."

"No!" Beaver whisper-shouted. "You're worth nothing to Narnia if you're dead. I'll go."

"And if you're dead then you can't get them to Aslan," Rosemary argues. "I'm not part of the prophecy. I don't even know why I'm here. I'll go. I have nothing to lose."

"Rosemary," Mrs. Beaver cried softly. But she understood. She was the only one who understood why Rosemary was so quickly willing to sacrifice herself.

Crawling out far enough until she could stand up, Rosemary poked her head up and looked around. At first, she didn't see anybody - just an empty sleigh. But then a body popped into view and she shrieked, falling backwards. Looking up, the sun highlighted the beard and rosy cheeks and she laughed. "I think we're safe, guys. It's Santa Claus."

"But Mr. Tumnus says there hasn't been Christmas for a hundred years," Lucy replied, walking behind Peter. But nonetheless, there stood Santa Claus in all his glory, smiling and laughing at them.

"Merry Christmas, sir," Lucy smiled, walking forward.

"It certainly is, Lucy Pevensie. Since you've arrived."

"Sorry, we thought you were the Witch," Peter explained.

"That would explain Miss Bennett's reaction then," the old man mused. "My apologies, Rosemary."

In shock, Rosemary could only laugh. "I can't believe Santa Claus just apologized to me."

"I thought there was no Christmas in Narnia," Susan repeated Lucy's words from earlier.

"No. Not for a long time. But the hope that you have brought, Your Majesties, is finally starting to weaken the Witch's power. Still, it wouldn't hurt to have some protection."

"Presents," Lucy jumped excitedly, running forward. First, Santa Claus pulled out a cordial and gently handed it over to her.

"The juice of the fire-flower. One drop will cure any injury. And though I hope you never have to use it," Santa passed her a matching double-edged dagger. "Just in case."

"Thank you, sir," Lucy gripped her gifts. "I think I could be brave enough."

"I'm sure you could," Santa Claus smiled kindly. "But battles are ugly affairs."

Lucy stepped back beside Peter as Susan was called forward and handed her a bow and a quiver full of arrows. "Trust in this bow, and it will not easily miss. And though you don't seem to have a problem making yourself heard, blow on this and wherever you are, help will come." Susan looked down at the horn, running her fingers over its intricate design before taking it from him.

"Thanks," Susan whispered, stepping back.

"Peter, the time to use these may be near at hand." Santa Claus watched fondly as Peter took the shield and sword from him and pulled the sword out of its sheath, the sun glinting off the unused blade. He'd been waiting a long time to give these gifts to the Pevensie children. Both he and Peter gazed at the sword, even unused and without battle history it demanded attention

"Thank you, sir."

"Rosemary Bennett, I have something for you as well." Santa Claus turned back to his sleigh, reaching for something in the front seat. "It isn't a tool or weapon, but I believe it will come to have great value to you and therefore save you in its own way." Santa Claus dangled the chain in front of Rosemary and slowly lowered it into her open palm. On the chain was a ring that was as long as her thumb was wide. "Now, there's a story behind that ring. Hundreds of years ago, when a completely different war was going on, two lovers died on the battlefield. As they were dying, they promised to be together until the end of time itself and with magic, they fused their rings together and formed this one. According to legend, it will only part for the right two people. I can already see that you are one of them. The other ring will go to a person who will remind you for the rest of your life that you are not alone and that you never will be. For you see - only the best of us deserve a second chance."

Rosemary couldn't speak, shocked by how much meaning the object held, and how Santa Claus seemed to know everything about her. She always thought that Santa Claus only knew whether or not she'd been good and what she wanted for Christmas. Speechless, she nodded and stepped back in line with the others. Discretely, she wiped away unshed tears.

"Now remember - these are tools, not toys. Bear them well and wisely."

"We will," promised Peter.

"I know," Santa Claus smiled, his crows feet crinkling by his eyes. "Now, I must be off. Winter is almost over and things tend to pile up when you've been gone a hundred years. Long live Aslan, and Merry Christmas!"

Everybody shouted their goodbyes as Santa rode off in his sleigh, looking between him and their gifts.

Lucy smirked up at Susan, "I told you he was real."

Peter frowned. "Did you hear what he said? Winter is almost over. And do you know what that means? No more ice."

[Chapter Nine] [Series Masterlist] [Masterlist]

#narnia #the chronicles of narnia #the lion the witch and the wardrobe #peter pevensie #edmund pevensie #susan pevensie #lucy pevensie #william moseley #peter pevensie x oc #peter pevensie x fem!oc #peter pevensie fanfiction #peter pevensie imagine #fantasy #romance #love #adventure #chronicles of narnia

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meteor-writes · 5 years ago

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Death Threats For An Astronomer

A short story about two cousins venturing along country lanes to solve the mystery behind the death of a Victorian gentlemen a century earlier.

Rating: Teen Wordcount: 4446 Buzzwords: Exploration, Mystery, Cousins, Country Lanes, Abandoned Houses

Please enjoy!

In the countryside, roads ran into field as easily as concrete ran into carparks. Walking in tire tracks, you could be sure to land somewhere, but whether it be amongst yellowing bales of hay or meandering mooing cows was less obvious. All Zoe could see below the crystal blue sky was towering grass banks. For all she knew, this path she walked was a crop circle and her cousin Callum was actually an alien about to abduct her. It wasn’t like they looked that similar, her skin brown like the woods, his an olive tone, her hair falling in pencil-tight ringlets, his the windswept mess of a seasoned surfer. Could she really trust anything this boy declared?

Then again, her Auntie never failed to mention the curiosity in their cat’s eye at every single childhood scolding and she pinched their cheeks with equal success so there was evidence to suggest some sort of relation. Plus, a vague idea of a house could be observed if you focussed past the garden growing with neglect and remembered that by all logic ivy had to be attached to walls. Still, Zoe would have liked a road sign too, just to be safe. But then who would sign post an abandoned mansion nestled between even more abandoned fields?

If you were a foreigner to Buckfield you could be forgiven for assuming that this place was just another area left to go wild. A last outpost of human-nature solidarity. Unfortunately, this was not the case. Had there been a less gruesome tale attached to this house, Zoe was sure it would be in the hands of a plucky young couple with jobs in the city and heads in the clouds. But Zoe wouldn’t be visiting if that were the case.

“Zoe, horse shit.”

The squelch sounded before Zoe could react. Beneath her, a huge pile of dung splattered the grass like cannonballs, and Zoe realised with disgust, her boot was lopped centre of attention. She grimaced.

“Coulda told me sooner.” She muttered, easing her foot out and gagging as the smell released like a bomb.

Callum shrugged. “M’not your keeper.”

Then, instead of stopping to offer help, Callum continued lumbering up the path as if nothing had occurred, picking grass off the bank and casually scattering the seeds like a gremlin reaping mischief.

Zoe fought against a growl.

Callum wasn’t just irritating. He was insufferable. There was always an excuse. Always a way out. The perfect thing to say that would take responsibility cleanly off his shoulders and slam it down on Zoe’s. Because, no, he was not her keeper, and no, it was not his fault she stepped in horse excrement on the daily, and yes, he did say something, but by God couldn’t he have said it a little sooner!? Wasn’t there some sort of cousin code!? A common decency between relatives! Zoe was sure in all Callum’s laidback, child of the woods, we’ll get there when we get there attitudes, there was a little weasel waiting to get out, and it just so happened to make a break for freedom every time Zoe was about.

The rest of the trek was made in simmering silence. Zoe kept her eyes pinned to the earth, making sure to stamp around any dung piles present. It seemed this path, whilst barely being a path, was a frequent haunt for horses. Maybe even cows if the smell was anything to go by. Or perhaps that UFO from before hadn’t come down to probe humans and instead simply used Earth as its personal toilet. Zoe shuddered at the thought. At least the extra traffic meant the hedges were relatively kempt. Callum couldn’t flick her in the face with stray brambles.

“We’re here.” Callum announced.

Where the boy stopped was in no shape or form a house.

Zoe folded her arms, stepping up suspiciously to the roadside, where Callum stood, hands on hips, staring at a hedge. She toed at the brambles with her boot. There was some sort of rusted metal pole poking through the undergrowth. Zoe determined it to be hiding tetanus.

“Expand.” She said, pressing her weight into the pole and finding more than a little give.

“We’re here.” Callum repeated. Zoe was not amused. But after a brief cold war of blank stares, the boy sighed. Pulling the sleeve of his waterproof over his hand, he crouched down and stuck his hand into the nettles, forcing a clump aside like a curtain. Zoe leaned closer. There seemed to be a large headstone sitting in the undergrowth. It was a little moss covered, but she could just about make out letters carved into the lump of grey.

“orho, ar?”

Zoe’s tongue knotted just trying to form the words.

“Manorhouse farm.” Callum said easily, dropping the weeds. And before Zoe could ask how he knew, there was a loud clang and the boy threw himself over the hedge.

“Wha- Cal! What are you doing!?”

A puff of brown hair popped over the greenery. “Going to the house?”

Zoe squeezed her nails into her palm. Don’t rise to it, she told herself breathing deeply through her nose, it’s just what he does.

“Just grab onto the gate and climb over.” He said, already heading off.

Zoe wanted to yell. Of all the cousins in the world, why did hers have to be Callum? Just once, she’d like to explore as a team. Instead she was left tearing ivy out a hedgerow, trying to find a hidden gate just so she can jump over it without getting dismembered. Obviously, Callum didn’t have to since the weasel was protecting him.

Zoe dropped onto the other side and a sharp pain shot up her shins. It seemed Callum had forgotten to mention the path this side was nestled into a ditch. How kind. She kicked the nearest fern.

“This really the way?” Zoe yelled, wrinkling her nose at the smell of earth mixed with cat pee.

“To the murder house?” Callum asked, swinging around with his hands in his pockets. His mouth twitched with mischief. “Yep!”

Murder house was not it’s given name. That was Manorhouse farm – not too far off really, but far enough for the last innocent dwellers never to have suspected a thing. Of course, the house itself was not murderous. Neither was the setting. Buckfield saw its fair share of petty theft, sure, and the strange incident of ’06 where a man claimed to receive death threats from Mars, but cases of serious crime were few and far between. Murder certainly was not to be expected. Especially not involving this particular family who resided in Manorhouse farm circa 1893.

The Winter family were a respectable family of three, one daughter, two parents and a domestic servant who was paid kindly. They visited the village every Saturday, sparing change for root vegetables and home-brewed mead. Their farm was kept by local hands, all of whom spoke fondly of the landowners. That was until the 23rd night of November 1893.

It had been an evening sitting just the wrong side of bonfire night for sparkle and fizz. A chill permeated the air and the maid pulled on her gloves as she set out to gather firewood from the garden. Cornelius Winter entered the orangery. A keen astronomer he simply could not resist peaking at the stars on a clear night. His daughter, Mary, held a disdain towards the hobby a “mere woman” could not understand. She remained in the drawing room, practicing her scales on the grand piano, as her mother listened on, wishing that for once in his life, her husband would listen too.

Then there was a crash.

The women came hurrying. But it was too late.

At eighteen minutes past nine on a normal Thursday evening, Cornelius Winter dropped dead.

Zoe hadn’t found her Uncle’s ghost story of much interest when she was twelve. The Coroner reported an impact to the head. The police suggested a faulty roof tile. The family left and never returned. In her eyes it was a case closed. Worse happened on a Friday night in the city. Fortunately, her Uncle held a grudge. And on Zoe’s thirteenth birthday gifted her the age-appropriate book: ‘murder, mystery and malice, what the history books won’t tell you about Buckfield’. Here the story became far more interesting.

Because the roof tile was never found.

And a quick flick through the Buckfield Press returned a less than picturesque story of the Winter family. Accounts of a father over-indulging in ale, a maid but skin and bone and a daughter screaming bloody murder whenever she was told to act like a “proper woman”. Bitterness. Strife. Resent. It was all brewing under the thin veil of class at Manorhouse farm. Eventually, it had to break.

But by who? And how?

Zoe had to know.

Which brought her to her own investigation numerous years later. And a begrudging partnership with Callum.

The two waded their way up the path, dodging overbearing ferns and nettles that grew high enough to sting Zoe through the rip in her jeans. She wondered whether this path really would lead them to the house. And whether it was visible from space. Between the large mounds of earth and megafauna sprouted on top, Zoe hadn’t even seen a chimney spire in the last half an hour. And when Callum disappeared around the corner, Zoe was convinced she had entered a labyrinth. But then, she followed.

Around the corner, the path immediately opened up. Gorse spread in sheets and brambles crept out from underneath, thin branches interlocking like barbed wire. And what it protected was the dilapidated mansion itself; Manorhouse farm. The building sat like a single brick thrown out a Giant’s castle, lumped onto the landscape with only its two tiny antennae keeping it the right way up. Any exposed brickwork was moth bitten and water stained, rust dripping down the walls like blood from a wound. Vampiric ivy clung to the masonry, winding around the arches of the porch before spilling across the front door where broken bay windows sat miserably either side. Through them, Zoe could just about make out the ceiling collapsing under hefty beams. She pressed closer, rising on her toes, but the spikes were unforgiving.

She fell back, clicking her tongue.

“How exactly are we supposed to get through that?”

Her cousin was nowhere to be seen.

“Callum?”

The house was far more overbearing when it stared at just one. Zoe edged back towards the path, the quiet disconcerting. She peaked back around the corner but there was only grass waving back at her. Tugging on the strings of her hoodie, Zoe began toeing at the gorse, the unhelpful image of a pair of rotting feet slowly manifesting in her mind.

“Here!”

Zoe had to catch her heart when it sprang out her chest. Callum’s face had popped out from nowhere, right in the thick of the brambles.

“What are you doing over there!?”

Callum disappeared again. Zoe could feel the wind on her neck like the breath of a stalker. Then, like a Jack in the box, Callum jumped out again right on the edge of the thicket. He nodded back towards it.

“Path.”

“Right.”

Zoe’s heart had trouble sitting still.

“Come on.”

Zoe frowned. Was this going to be another shin-splitting tetanus gate? Because seeing the house was enough really. Callum could go ahead, how important was evidence to a century old crime? Being amongst nature, that was the real treat. All the fresh air, the peace, the emptiness, the feeling of being watched when no eyes were visible except that of the ghosts trapped inside a murder scene. Zoe miraculously found her feet.

Hurrying up to the boy, Zoe discovered some sort of path, or more accurately, a semi-traversable gap between the gorse. It curved towards the rear of the house and was mined entirely with thistles and thorns. At least none reached past Zoe’s knees. It was not ideal. But equally, it far surpassed the other option of getting shredded to pieces hiking through spiky gorse. Or being left alone. Zoe shuddered. Zipping up her hoodie, she tucked her trouser cuffs firmly into her socks, and proceeded to stamp on any thickets that tried to get in her way.

As it turned out, the back of the house had fared no better against time than the front, ironic for all the dandelion clocks. Overgrown butterfly bushes sprawled higher than the first floor and knotweed was the only lifeform to launch counterattack, leaving behind countless twigging trees that appeared like zombies dragging themselves out the grave. Past the foliage, or lack thereof, Zoe’s eyes were drawn to the shiny shards sticking out the side of the house. Although the glass was cracking, and the wood rotting, Zoe gasped as if witnessing Venus herself. The orangery. The exact scene of the crime. It was there at the end of this golden path.

Zoe stumbled up to the white door. The paint peeled in thin lines and the metal handle was rusted red, but Zoe pulled the sleeve of her hoodie over her hand and attempted to turn it.

“It’s locked.” Said Callum helpfully. Zoe tried forcing it with her shoulder.

“You’ll have to come up here.” He added. Zoe glared at the door. She doubted Fort Knox had better security.

Stamping around the side of the conservatory, Zoe found the weasel in control once again. Callum was balancing on the very tips of his toes on the thin lip of brick that acted like a windowsill. He wasn’t standing still either. The boy eased his way along, poking at each waxy window until one gave with a mighty shriek.

“This one.” He said, sending Zoe a mightily pleased grin. “Just step up here and-”

The boy slipped inside with the ease of a slinky.

Zoe stared at the space he left. Those instructions were… less than par. But she had no choice but to follow them.

Shoving a foot onto the barely-there ledge, Zoe launched herself upwards, catching the open window and immediately losing her footing. Slipping towards the ground, panic struck her like a shot, and she kicked off the sill swinging wide. It was brief respite before she noticed the gleaming of the glass and let out a screech, squeezing her eyes shut just in time to crash through the window like a battering ram.

“Shit!” Callum yelped. Zoe winced at how loud and unblocked his voice was. “Guess that’s one way to do it.”

Zoe tentatively opened her eyes. The entire table was covered in tiny diamonds.

“You okay?”

“Uhh…”

Zoe looked back at the window smirking with its new bite. Those teeth. They were sharp. She curled her toes, rolling her ankles. No pain - luckily. She shuffled around onto her knees, pulling at the frayed fabric of her hoodie to check for cuts. Nothing more than hairline.

“Yes.” She said finally, sitting up straight.

Now, the heat hit Zoe. Like the blast of air expelled from a bag of crisps left out in the sun. It smelt the same too; stale and vaguely reminiscent of potatoes. Though, looking around, Zoe doubted any vegetables were ever grown here as underneath the doming windows and vines dropping through like a jungle canopy there was a telescope. Complete with tableside reading and a dusty velvet stool, it stood proud at the centre of the hexagonal room, painted with gold trim and delicate cursive font. Cornelius Winter’s true love. The cause of his undoing.

Taking Callum’s hand, Zoe picked her way across the bench, avoiding the insect carcasses and dead leaves that lay scattered like blossom of the underworld. Falling more than jumping onto the floor, she hissed out a thanks and let Callum go to poke around the old telescope. What must it have been like? Observing the sky. Cornelius alone, in his study, under the watch of the moon and the stars and the murderer waiting in the dark.

Zoe tugged her sleeves over her hands. In all the fuss getting here, she’d forgotten about the murder. Now, the splotch of blood on the concrete had her immediately wanting to forget. Maybe there was an argument for letting nature take over? Free this place of all its ghosts.

Sufficiently unnerved, Zoe went back to inspecting the room itself. There was something growing– aside from the mould – in the back corner, a fuschia bush, thriving under the abundance of light and water dribbling out a broken pipe. It was almost a comfort to Zoe. As if the incident all those years ago had a bright side. It returned the land back to nature. Set it free from human hands. That was, until Zoe noticed the mattress propped up against the far wall and the bleached magazines stuffed down the back of it.

“Oh nice!”

Zoe jumped. Having almost forgotten Callum was exploring with her, it was a surprise to find the boy, butt in the air, scraping for something on the floor next to the rusted door.

“What!? What’s nice? What’s going on?”

“This.” Callum flipped something shiny into the air and span around. “A coke bottle top. From the 90s.”

“The 90s!?”

Had people really been exploring Manorhouse Farm for that long? Nature didn’t stand a chance.

“Are you sure?”

Callum hummed in affirmation and Zoe moved closer. The red cap was severely rusted, but the swirly logo was unmissable. It was certainly cola, but not quite the same as usual. A bunch of ingredients were printed below and although the stamped-on production number was severely scratched, Zoe could see at least one of the characters being a nine. All the evidence, it pointed somewhere. Zoe took the cap and turned it between her fingers. Some teenager, some twenty years ago, had held this cap too. Had used this place as a hideaway. Or a hangout. Or an exciting adventure they could reminisce about on this future day. Zoe’s stomach went warm.

“Add it to the collection.” She said firmly, placing it back in his hand. Callum’s eyes sparked. He grinned widely, stuffing it into his pocket.

“I’m gonna look for more.”

With that, Callum hurried back to his corner. Zoe watched him a moment, bobbing about the greenhouse making little hisses and whoops as he picked at the seams. She thought of the collection, sitting on the wonky shelf in Callum’s bedroom. It was something to behold. Gnarly old beer tops, outdated sweet wrappers, questionable magazine ads, even an unsteady Homepride man kitted out in black bowler hat and suit found at the back of their gran’s shed. Every time Zoe visited, a little bit more space was taken up. And every time it felt a little less like Zoe’s. Granted, the shelf was in Callum’s room, in his house, but still… when was the last time she’d added to it?

Zoe turned around. There was no use in watching. Callum was far beyond her in terms of collecting. So, she had to find something worthy. Analysing the gaps between the weeds where the stone met the walls, Zoe felt like a hawk stalking it’s prey. A bottle top? But they already had plenty. A dead beetle? She didn’t fancy picking it up. An old crisp packet? It didn’t hold enough presence. She wanted something grabby. A show piece. Something with drama. Perhaps, a vintage murder weapon? The idea hit Zoe like the slap of a recoiling branch. The roof tile. It had to be here.

Zipping about the orangery, Zoe dived under the benches and rifled through vines. She whisked about the telescope and hauled aside the mattress. Nothing but mould and debris. Zoe threw it back with a huff. Then she made a beeline for the fuchsia bush. There was no way a roof tile could have fallen in at this angle, but, given the right throw, a weapon could almost certainly be hidden in the growth.

Zoe dived in.

Immediately she was met with the smell of soil, followed by a sudden hit of memory. It was of the afternoon she spent planting sunflowers with her cousin in her Auntie’s back garden. Dripping with sweat, Zoe had been desperate to finish and watch cartoons. The problem was Callum had been digging for hours. With a spoon. Finally, she’d had enough and waltzed over to yell. But she didn’t even finish the first word as, when she looked over the boys shoulder, Zoe found Callum holding an old Roman coin. Bastard. He had been one-upping her from the start. With renewed vigour, Zoe ploughed forward, snapping twigs and crushing leaves.

The greenery was surprisingly thick. Even squinting didn’t aid Zoe’s view as she buried herself deeper. So, shifting onto her side, Zoe tugged a miniature torch out her jeans pocket. Her uncle had gifted it her before they left with a very strict: ‘don’t come back without a ghost’ and a rather less strict: ruffle of the hair. With a click there was light, and Zoe grinned at the circle, crawling further in at a more leisurely pace. She took time to peek inside a pile of ripped tires, finding criss-crossing spider webs and unfortunate flies. She ran her light along the lines of pebbles. And the gravel that got stuck to her palms. None of it seemed particularly sinister. But, in the back corner, there was something bigger.

“D’you think they were looking at Mars?”

“What?” Zoe flipped around and winced as her hair tangled with the branches. Callum was sitting at the telescope, flicking through the little book on the table beside. He lifted it up to her, pointing to a page she assumed was describing Mars.

“I don’t know, look?” She suggested, leaning back to uncurl her hair from the bush’s spindly grip.

“Oh!” Callum’s face popped with idea before melding into a grin. Dropping the book, he swivelled around, lowering his eye to the lens. Zoe rolled hers, opting to break the branch rather than her hair.

Then, she resumed her investigation.

The ground grew muddier as she crept closer, and she did not enjoy the way the slime slithered between her fingers. But, in the yellow light, the mound was taking form. A tantalising lump of something. Zoe licked her lips.

“Mmm.” Callum’s hum was like an echo in Zoe’s head. “Yeah. That’s totally Mars. Has to be. No doubt. Zoe? You think it’s Mars?”

“I dunno!” Zoe called, dragging herself closer to the dirt pile. There seemed to be something hiding underneath. “Is it red? Wait.”

She stopped and grabbed a handful of leave, ripping her head around to face Callum.

“It’s daytime! There’s no way you can see Mars!”

“Oh shit yeah.” Callum laughed to himself. “Must have been a cloud.”

Zoe rolled her eyes. Stupid Callum, asking inane questions. She had important business to attend to. Namely, playing archaeologist as Zoe had just landed on top of the mud pile and there was definitely something hiding.

Zoe brushed away the dirt.

Underneath was a rock.

It was the colour of charcoal, but the consistency was smooth and undulating. Like someone had smelted it with their thumb. She brought her torch closer, missing how the magnet on its end swayed until it snapped suddenly, attaching itself to the rock. Zoe peeled the magnetic back, testing the field. It was magnetic. So not a rock at all. Zoe grabbed it now. It was cool to touch. Picking up another stone, she tested the weights. The magnetic one was far heavier. Like a lump of metal.

“Hey, Callum?” She called. The bushes rustled. Then a slash of light slapped Zoe in the eyes.

“Yeah?”

Zoe growled. “You trying to blind me?”

Callum had the decency to look sheepish. He offered Zoe a hand and she hauled herself up, fuchsia flowers spilling onto the floor around her.

“Look at this.”

Callum leaned in close enough for his lashes to brush the stone. “What is it, a rock?”

“I think…” Zoe said carefully, a warmth bubbling in her veins. “I think, it might be meteorite.”

Callum’s eyes blew wide. “Whoa!”

She hadn’t really believed it before, but after seeing Callum’s reaction, Zoe’s chest began to ripple with her racing heart. She turned the rock over in the light, observing how the nooks caught against her thumb. A stone from space. That was pretty cool - a decent substitute for a murder weapon. Callum seemed to agree too, if the way his knees were bouncing was anything to go by. Zoe was getting giddy. Deciding it was too much not to share, she went to hand over the rock when she stopped.

There was something stuck to it. Like the remnant of a label on the back of an ornament. Ignoring a crestfallen Callum, Zoe brought the meteorite closer to her face. Scratching at the strange overhanging, Zoe was relieved to find it was not stuck to the rock but rather more suspicious when she realised it was something buried inside. Taking the scrap between her nails she tugged. The remnant became a piece and it grew larger as she pulled, until she was able to catch it between her thumb and forefinger and pull it all the way out. Shifting the stone into the crook of her elbow, she unrolled the scroll, breath hitching as she realised a curling script had been drawn over the paper, all in a bright aqua.

It read: ‘Quit watching us, human.’

Zoe read it again. And again. And a third time as an unease crept into her stomach. She looked over to the corner where the meteorite was hiding. Followed the line back, past the telescope, up to the hole in the roof and beyond to the sky. Mars. That’s what Callum had said. And if this were a meteorite…

“Oh my god.” Zoe breathed, hearing every puzzle piece snap into place. “It was a murder.”

“What!?” Callum jumped back like the thing was a bomb about to go off.

“Manslaughter at the very least.” Zoe muttered, shoving the note and the meteorite into Callum’s un-awaiting hands.

“Cornelius Winter was looking at Mars,” she continued, walking over to the table and sliding the book towards herself. On the open page was a diagram of the planet, instructions for spotting it highlighted and indecipherable scrawl surrounding every line. What was the headline in ’06? Death threats for an astronomer? Zoe felt the eyes watching her again, the breath tickling the hairs on her neck. She didn’t dare look up as she finished her sentence.

“And Mars was looking back.”

#writeblr #short story #original writing #countryside #abandoned house #storytime #story 37

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anneapocalypse · 6 years ago

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Chorus Rewatch: Season 12: Story & Characters

Crossposted from dreamwidth. Back in March, I started a full rewatch of the Chorus Trilogy with the purpose of studying its worldbuilding more closely. This series of posts is from that rewatch.

Season 12 is one of those that always held up better on the rewatch than week-to-week. While undeniably enjoyable, episodically it comes off a bit repetitive before you can see the whole arc. I remember at the time having complaints to the tune of multiple episodes in the first half in which the Reds and Blues try to train their soldiers and fail, and multiple episodes in the back half in which they try to evade the pirates, get found, escape, and so forth.

But my biggest beef with season 12 the first time around was definitely how it treats Carolina. I’m not really going to get into that here, because much was said about it and Miles heard the disappointment and he very much rectified things in season 13, and I forgave him! And since then I have only looked more kindly on season 12, appreciating it more and more not just for what comes later, but for what it accomplishes in its own right.

There is so much to talk about in this season that I’m splitting it up—the worldbuilding stuff, which was my primary purpose for this rewatch, will be its own post. In this one, I’m just going to talk about character stuff and general storytelling observations.

I like the way the helmet cam is planted early in the New Republic portion of the season, and paid off at the end when Tucker uses it to outsmart Felix.

I will always remember @farfromdaylight’s theory about Dr. Grey being Control rather fondly, even though in the end I’m glad she turned out not to be, both because Hargrove was a fantastic villain and because the Fed side of things desperately needed some sympathetic characters. I notice how genuinely scared Dr. Grey seems when the pirates attack her base; she sounds equally terrified when the pirates catch up to them at the jungle temple in season 13. Given how rarely her cheerful demeanor breaks, this comes across as sincere.

Yet there is also an odd moment with Dr. Grey, and for me this moment really fed the theory about her being Control. When the mercs offer the Reds and Blues safe passage off the planet, Dr. Grey seems to believe them, and actually encourages the Reds and Blues to take the deal and go home. This seems particularly strange given that she’s witnessed the mercs’ brutality firsthand and seems genuinely afraid of them in other scenes. I still don’t really know what to make of that, or why she would believe the offer to be genuine, other than the fact that narratively it’s useful to have a Chorus character tell them it’s okay to leave so as to increase the impact when they choose to stay.

Dr. Grey also drops a couple of odd worldbuilding elements in dialogue that aren’t really corroborated anywhere else in the text and yet we have no reason to doubt her on them. But we’ll get to those in another post.

This is not quite a new observation, but I am convinced Doyle has never actually been in combat himself. He faints at the sight of a weapon pointed at him, and when he confronts Kimball in downtown Armonia he says, “Don’t make me use this!” and I’m pretty sure his hands shake. It speaks to not simply cowardice but a lack of experience; how that reflects on Doyle’s character honestly depends a lot on how long he’s been the General. If he’s been in the position for a long time, sending a lot of other people to fight and die, the fact that unlike Kimball he’s never seen combat himself just isn’t a cute look.

I think Miles did make a real effort to smooth over the weirdness of the season 10 epilogue, letting Carolina and Epsilon talk a bit about what motivated them to go off alone. It’s still rocky, and I still don’t totally think the epilogue holds up as canon, but I can much more clearly picture how it would happen—Carolina and Church searching the wreck of the Merope for supplies, spotting some pirates boosting cargo, picking up radio chatter about selling a cloaking device, and setting off to investigate. Maybe they don't intend to be gone long, and then one thing leads to another and they travel farther and farther from the crash site, and then when they try to radio back they can’t get through. I tend to think Carolina was not at all sure the others even wanted her around at that point. It’s still weird on both ends, both that Wash seems to know they ran off on purpose (and aren’t, you know, injured or dead) and that it doesn’t occur to Carolina that Wash might not know that. But you know. It helps. An effort was made.

I was always disappointed Carolina and Wash never really talked during the Chorus Trilogy. While I don’t primarily ship them romantically (I enjoy other people’s portrayals of the ship but it’s not one I’m drawn to write myself), their relationship is important to me, in fact one of my favorite relationships in RvB; if you look at my AO3 stats from a few posts back, Agent Carolina & Agent Washington sits just below my two OTPs as my third most commonly-used relationship tag. They are important to me, with their shared history, their sometimes rocky relationship and the understanding they eventually reach. And I’ll admit, I’m partial to seeing characters actually talk things out, especially characters who don’t often open up, as that makes it all the more meaningful.

However, as a long time Rooster Teeth fan I’ve come to recognize that in RT shows, action sequences often serve the same purpose that conversation would for showing character dynamics and relationship growth. “Great Destroyers” served that purpose for Wash and Carolina in season 13, and I’ve come to appreciate that for what it is. But I’ve also come to appreciate some of the small things in season 12 that show their bond. There is a moment, for example, when Epsilon is a massive dick, acts like everyone but him is the problem, and goes offline. Carolina wearily announces she’s going to go check the perimeter. And Wash? Immediately volunteers to go with her. They both sound tired and stressed out. We don’t see them go patrol together, and maybe they don’t even talk. But they go together, for a moment away from the Reds and Blues, and I think that says something.

Much has been said and much will be said about Wash’s writing across RvB’s many arcs; that’s Another Post and one I’ve been working on for some time. But I will say that for me, most of his Chorus writing really does hold up these days. Perhaps I have more appreciation now for any proactive Wash at all, after the crash dummy seasons 15 and 16 made of him. But I like Chorus Wash, even when he’s wrong. I like that he still (consistent with past seasons) has trouble with unfamiliar weapons and prefers a trusty battle rifle. I even like that he’s the one who most conspicuously refuses to take sides in the Chorus conflict, where Donut and Sarge show at least a bit of an affinity for the Feds, and the Captains are pretty invested in the New Republic. Wash has been there, done that, and served the prison sentence when it comes to believing in the wrong cause, and he is not about to throw his allegiance behind either of this planet’s factions. The Reds and Blues are his people now, full stop.

So we come back to that Locus-Wash parallel. And I have to say—this time around, it almost works for me. It works a lot better when I set aside its narrative utility and the way it’s framed, and look at it from both characters’ perspectives mostly independent of one another. I have @hokuton-punch to thank for some of this, as our conversations on my season 11 post have sparked some further thought for me. I’d like to expand my present Locus thoughts into their own post, so I’ll keep it brief here—only say that I think Locus wants to see himself in Wash, wants to see something in Wash that probably isn’t there, while Wash sees in Locus what he doesn’t want to be and lets that drive him to some self-reflection he’s long been avoiding. And that reading mostly works for me, for both characters.

Wash’s fever dream is the stickiest part of it for me, but I think I’ve worked out a reading of that I can live with as well, which will also be another post.

Something else I notice about Locus is that he does not like the plan to use the Reds and Blues to fuel the civil war—pretty much from the minute go. It’s not just a season 11 anomaly that Locus thinks killing the prisoners on the Fed side is a better idea. He does a very poor job of gaining Wash and Donut and Sarge’s sympathy for the Federal Army—to the point that it really doesn’t feel like he’s trying. He repeatedly points out that everything will be fucked if they make contact; even Felix acknowledges Locus’s concerns on that front.

Notably, none of this is Locus having misgivings about the overall mission or about killing. No one can tell me that Locus’s “Like sheep to the pen” and his insisting to Wash repeatedly that he completes his missions at all costs doesn’t sound self-satisfied. Locus is against the plan to divide and use the Reds and Blues, specifically, because he thinks it’s too risky, and he ends up being pretty much right about that.

“They were underestimated,” he says tersely, which might as well be an “I told you so.” I think if it was just Felix he would just say “I told you so” outright, but given Hargrove’s prior history with the Reds and Blues I’m pretty sure this was at least partially his plan—finish off the Chorusans and tie up some of Freelancer’s loose ends in one fell swoop.

I watched all the special features, including the character journals. The Reds and Blues’ journals aren’t super illuminating but they are really entertaining. (Simmons writes BSG fanfic!) Locus’s journal is, in hindsight, really funny. But I’ll have more to say about that in a future post on Locus. For now I will just say: “Could I have been a Freelancer? Or would they have feared me?” is hilarious and Maine would have stuffed this nerd in a locker on day two.

#avian dentistry #chorus trilogy #red vs blue

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asarahworld-writes · 6 years ago

Text

The Silver Separation

What happens when the Doctor and Rose Tyler accidentally land on a planet where aliens are taken into custody? And humans are subject to societal re-integration?

Inspired by trope bingo from...long ago... by @timepetalscollective

AO3 link

Chapter One

“Run!” The Doctor felt a familiar hand slip into his and he started to run without a second thought. He glanced into Rose’s eyes as they wove through the crowded market, not knowing where exactly they were going.

“Flirting with another one of your pretty boys?” His voice was gruff, but his eyes were twinkling, and Rose had to laugh at his jealous antics. He’d never change, she thought, even after four regenerations together. The Doctor and Rose Tyler, together, like they should be.

“How many times do I promise you forever, and yet you still think that I’m flirting with the locals,” she replied cheekily, her tongue poking through her teeth in a way that always managed to arouse the Doctor’s interest. “Honestly Doctor, I’m all yours.”

“Yes, well, that’s what got us into this mess,” he said snarkily, trying to make light of the situation.

“What, is that it then? That I’m in love with an alien?” Rose said lightly.

“That too.” The Doctor pulled Rose down into an alleyway, drawing his hoodie over his head as an extra precaution.

On the main street, law enforcement officers searched for them. It wasn’t that they had done anything illegal, not really. How was he supposed to have known that nonhumans were banned entirely from the planet? It wasn’t as if there was a sign that said to stay away, and if there was, it was probably in the planet’s orbit, bypassed by the TARDIS’ landing circuitry. It wasn’t his fault that his brilliant ship could avoid all that extra travel and they had missed the glaringly obvious warnings.

“Tall, handsome stranger, pushing me up against some back-alley wall. Either I’m about to have the greatest shagging of my life, or they’re getting closer,” Rose whispered, her hands pinned against the Doctor’s chest.

“It could be both, if you could ever learn to be quiet,” the Doctor stressed the last word, straining to hear what was happening on the main street. Rose could hear the officers conferring with one another on their radios, and she looked at the Doctor, silently asking about his plan. He laid a finger across her lips and Rose, ever the minx, kissed it. “Rose,” he growled.

Her playful smile grew into a feral smirk. “Yes Doctor?”

“Shh,” he said lowly. Rose pouted playfully, silently stroking his thumb with her free hand, knowing that now was not the time for distractions.

“Doctor!” Rose cried as she was ripped from his side. She tried to elbow her captors, kicking fruitlessly as she was roughly pulled away. “Doctor!”

“Rose!” Her name burst from his lips. “Rose! Let go,” he snapped at the alien pinning him against the wall. “Where are you taking her?” His eyes flickered dangerously from the alien to Rose and back again, standing so still that he felt the alien tremble.

“She is human,” the guard said neutrally, shackling the Doctor’s hands behind his back.

“Where are you taking her?” The Doctor attempted to calm the brewing Oncoming Storm. The sonic was in his breast pocket, unreachable for now.

“It is none of your concern,” the guard snapped. “You are not human and will be taken for processing.”

“And what of Rose?” The Doctor asked darkly.

“The human female will be taken back to our people. She will not be punished, but rather re-integrated into civilized society,” the guard said distastefully.

“Oh, is that what you call this? Civilized?” The Doctor said scathingly. The guard did not dignify him with a response.

The Doctor was taken to a facility on the outskirts of the town. The walls must have stood proud at one moment in history, but now they crumbed, though a shiny silver gate loomed ominously behind them. He did not have long to take in his surroundings – the guard impatiently prodded his back with every wayward glance.

The Doctor’s mind (and hearts) raced. He needed a plan. He needed to find Rose. He needed to escape this facility. He needed to get out of the cell where the guard had left him.

The cell’s door would be simple to unlock with a pulse from the sonic screwdriver. He could then activate the invisibility watch, and while this would allow him to leave unnoticed, his disappearance would probably set the guards on high alert. Which meant that he would need to find Rose quickly and leave for the TARDIS as soon as possible. The Doctor momentarily wondered why his plans never failed to come together simply but always became complicated the moment one was set in action.

It had been roughly forty-five minutes since they had been forcibly separated. Rose was currently being examined by the facility’s chief physician.

“You have been contaminated,” the man said clinically. “Computer begin Decontamination Sequence Alpha Two.”

“What’s that mean? Contaminated by what? What’s this decontamination thing?” Rose struggled against her restraints.

REPORT. EXTERNAL RESIDUE ON PATIENT’S LIPS, HANDS. NO INTERNAL RESIDUE DETECTED. The computer’s mechanical voice was tinny as it read out her vital signs.

Rose frowned as she worked out why they were scanning her. Her face flushed as the meaning of the computer’s report became apparent. “What’s it matter to you if I’m… if I’m dancing with someone?” She demanded. The computer did not reply.

“Infection,” the physician said brusquely.

“Where’s the Doctor?” Rose’s eyes narrowed. The people of this planet clearly did not take kindly to alien visitors, even those of their own species, and she worried for the Doctor’s safety, despite his greater experience.

“The alien is in confinement.”

“Well that’s a rubbish answer,” Rose’s Cockney accent grew thicker, laced with anger. The physician unlocked her restraints and pressed a button on the wall.

“Two two A,” he said into the comm, and the door to the corridor opened. “There are security personnel randomly positioned in the corridors, who shall assist you if you should leave your quarters.”

“Where. Is. The. Doctor?” Rose asked again, her hands balled by her sides.

“I shall be your doctor. Is there a problem? Come back to the examination room and I can help you.” The physician’s tone had softened, no doubt in some attempt to placate her.

“No, thanks.” Rose seethed. She would find him, regardless of the policies on a wayward planet. They would always find each other.

“Please proceed to room twelve-R. End of the corridor, last door on the right,” he said cordially. Rose did not reply but went to the room.

She looked around the flat – six doors down either wall. It crossed her mind that some of the other ‘residents’ must be in a similar situation to her own.

The Doctor had once said that the domestic approach was what he liked about her, Rose remembered fondly. She decided to get to know her temporary neighbours, reasoning that the people on this floor must all be human. She opened the door to ‘her’ room, slipping inside and watching until the guard had left. As soon as the corridor was clear, Rose stepped back out and knocked confidently on the door opposite.

“Hello?” A short man, with a Parisian accent (city, Rose thought dimly, not planet) stood in the doorframe. “Can I help you?” He sounded bemused.

“Hi, I’m Rose,” she said, plastering a smile on her face, “they’ve put me in just across the corridor. What’s your name?”

“I am Raoul,” the man replied.

“S nice to meet you Raoul.” Rose plunged straight into a tirade of questions. “Do you know where we are? Why are the police (are they legal? Are they police? Military?) segragatin’ people by species? How long ‘ave you been here?”

Raoul blinked owlishly. “No, technically, it’s sort of complicated, I don’t really know, around three and a half years,” he said slowly.

“Blimey, wasn’t really expectin’ an answer to every one of those,” Rose murmured. Raoul shrugged. “S just that most times, people tend to look at me like ‘m crazy,” she chuckled.

“Spending three and a half years in relatively solitary confinement does tend to leave one’s social skills somewhat vulgar.” Raoul smiled politely.

“What do you know about this place? I… came here with someone, but ‘e was taken somewhere else.” Rose began, rather cautiously.

“He’s not human,” Raoul surmised. Rose looked up. “Your partner. It is clear in your eyes. I have not seen my Ramón since coming to this wretched place.”

“M so sorry.” Rose thought of the Doctor – the way his smile would light up his face, how soft his hair felt between her fingers, the warmth of his double heartbeat at night. She refused to believe that they would be separated forever. Never ever.

“It is not your doing, Rose.”

“Nope.” Rose was thinking. She heard footsteps patter down the corridor. Eyes widening with fright and suspicion, Rose made to dash back to her cell, but Raoul held her sleeve.

“The guards only care about keeping us separated from our lov-, from any aliens. Mingling amongst ourselves is permitted, even encouraged,” he said bitterly. Nevertheless, Rose remained tensed until Raoul had released her.

“I don’t really care about what’s permitted,” she tried to refrain from seething at her only ally in this prison. “I need to find the Doctor.”

“As I must find Ramón,” Raoul said gently.

Rose’s demeanour softened at the reminder that Raoul was in the same situation, that he had been here much, much longer.

“What do you know about this place?” For the next few hours, Raoul told Rose all that he had observed about the prison. The facility was mainly an alien prison, though it also imprisoned any humans who had been arrested for fraternization. The guards shifted approximately every five and a half hours, with a longer changeover during human prisoner mealtimes.

Breaking out seemed hopeless. Even if they managed to somehow get off this apartment floor, neither Rose nor Raoul knew what lay outside the building, nor where in the facility the aliens were kept.

“Rose,” Raoul was shaking her shoulder. Blinking blearily, Rose was groggily coming to the realization that she had fallen asleep in Raoul’s room.

“M sorry,” she yawned. Apparently, she had been nodding off for the latter part of their conversation. Rose muttered a goodbye – more sleep sounded very appealing to her weary body – and she trudged back to the room that the guard had left her in.

#ficandchips #twelve x rose #timepetalscollective #The Silver Separation #two years later here we are!!! i'm so excited

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