#i feel like the british royal family could do this so easily but they insist on doing things like a coronation that costs millions of pound

[pseudophan]

honestly they were disrespectful to themselves. they let it get completely out of hand for a MONTH. the palace did this to themselves

yeah... look nobody will get me to agree with people being like 'conspiracy theorists have gone too far' 'you've all been disrespectful towards catherine' 'there was never a reason for any of this' 'you should be ashamed for what you said' etc etc etc. because like... first of all, again, i hold zero respect for these people. why the fuck should i. but even if i did... it's their own fucking fault???? the fuck?????? lmao?????????? literally only a handful of people gave a fuck until that doctored photo. and then they just kept making it worse. and i'm sorry but i actually don't think they're entitled to their privacy when their entire job is pr and they're blatantly lying in all their pr shit like ? what else are you good for lol. but then that also makes me angry because as much as i don't like kate for several reasons i'm still a bit genuinely offended at her behalf for how they've handled all this shit.. like making her take the blame for the photoshop (i hope for her sake it was her own idea, because otherwise........), having her appear alone in the video announcing her cancer (why tf isn't william there when she's talking about how he's by her side lmao), the general just lack of giving a fuck about anything whilst the world went wild theorising about her.... i can't tell whether she's taking the fall to cover for something else or if they're just all absolute assholes ?? again like. i don't like kate middleton. for many reasons. but i like william and charles a whole lot less and it's infuriating that they're making me feel like she's been wronged lmao

[renatedagmarmilada]

off sounds over from a lab.

“can you pass Francene’s M.A.” Francene (Powers) is a worker at the lab St Barths Human Research who has adapted and copied huge numbers of my poems, even copying some of my diary straight for the ‘Cosmopolitan’ Magazine. “She needs somehow to get to a higher level than you!” (me- Francine formerly didn’t have a school GCSE but is on the genius-maker machine of the lab..latest technology, brilliant stuff with evil usage by cheats.) ...and why not, they asked to have my M.A. failed and it was..though I have copies of the papers. Over the t.v. which they use constantly for their conversations(? – guilt?), they let me know it was actually a second….then my seventy percent Institute of Linguists was failed, “she needs no more education” though I am a mother tongue speaker. I was slow that time and didn’t keep a copy. Remember, always keep a copy of everything. I met one student when I was at University who complained that all Africans were down marked. I wouldn’t believe her then, I do now but with sadness as we had always placed education just below God and the British not much below that. “The Royals are all given automatic firsts,” put forward the lab, and one famous lady stormed to the University when it looked as though her son was going to get a fail and warned them, “don’t you dare.” and they didn’t..so the lab said…Though we come from large families, all, even back to my grandfather’s nineteen siblings, were all educated and most privately, our respect for education is was always so great. Pam’s daughter (of the Pensions Ministry) who was given my notes from off the lab machine was also granted an automatic first – for copying? She wrote identical work from my notes for which my University gave me a second..(I didn’t mind, my guy was a Cambridge man and very, very fussy to detail, word count and presentation)... all a bit of irony, as I had written them from a german language book, being tri-lingual and translating easily in my head. Poor girl had only to go to the Goethe Insitute of which she should have been a member if she was studying German at a reasonable University, and would have found an english copy there! Anyway the lab insisted she be given a first. Poor girl was then given a job in a Bank but didn’t have enough German to converse with the germans properly. You see it never pays to copy.  I tell all my students that. I must start telling them of these unfortunates who feel it necessary to cheat. God created a niche for us all, and cheating from others is always a stupid business, it catches up with you when you can’t do the work. At my orphanage I learnt from the nuns : several people always know, God, you and those whom you’ve cheated so others always find out. ‘Pensions Pauline’ has been used by the lab to cheat both my old mother out of loads of money, a refugee who lost everything, even our photographs and my baby clothes, a pensioner, they taxed her pension as a millionaire…as well as using her for experiment and myself and sons, too long a tale to go into, whom the lab had used as small boys and want to make sure they are not sued for it. She is still being used even at ninety. I find it slightly amusing, as we in Europe have been hammered for the things which went on in our education systems, and now I find that the Brits are worse, not better. “Keep this from the Minister.”.the bossess has said. I doubt the Health Ministry knows half of what goes on at that lab, a whiff of the bossess’s rear and that’s it, the men are lost..Civil Servants Dennis, Arthur and Arnold all…and Ministers alike… we all know men think with their penis.”She breezes into our office like fresh air, after our stale, staid old wives,” they admitted.  I was a stale,staid, old, faithful wife, so I am not sympathic with such snakes in the grass as this bosses. She destroys the name of all women who are trying to work in a man’s world and don’t want to sleep with every male who comes along, with her underhand actions and she could keep it out of the offices! The lab play with all the Ministries as part of their tactics.  A Junior Minister took all my family stories from of the lab machine, (they had processed us illegally and had us tagged?? I had headaches!) because, poor soul, he said they were better than his and then wrote them as his own to be published. I presume he didn’t write the lies the lab St Barths Human Research put about..”We laid down blacking lies about her evrywhere where we intervened remote and messed about.” But no, he would have been told and mostly people see me and realise. We were the naive ones, not most other people, having been protected by our service to those on High, who treated us so well. “we thought we could disable, cripple, discredit and destroy her work first before we release her at about seventy from when she was incarcerated at forty. I have all her letters here to the House of Lords, who will never see them and have deselected all emails for weeks now. We purge every so often totally, the rest of the time we allow small bits through.’’ (they put their own role plays answering for my friends on the tv but blocking real contacts, and try to give me ‘friends’ they choose. None works, nor do their ‘bondings.’That is what the tax payer pays for, idiots sadists to mess loyal citizens about. Thank goodness for sites like this one.) The lies are still biting, but I can only pray and hope God hears them to weigh the scales of judgement one day..but such rubbish makes up a ’’phase out’’ as they call it nowadays, the Austrian Lab called it a destruction programme too rightly. I was a bit miffed about the young Junior Health Minister though, as my family, the Feketes are without a shadow of a doubt descended from Mongolia’s waves in 1316 in central Royal Hungary, a far cry from the merchants of Israel of his ancestors and our other side, the Bertodis came from (Turin in )Italy with the Royal Entourage when the Queen of Genoa, Elizabeth married King Phillip of Hungary. However, I do feel sorry for him. I could have thought of fantastic stories for him had he let me know, incorporating his own peoples. I am a great one for culture! One Research person who is not white commented, ‘she’s still tribal.’ It must be awful to have so little pride in your ancestors..I love mine, the good, the bad and the evil… including that womanising grandfather of mine…so brave as a tiny, fat, round lion who shaved his hair to a Kojak from twenty seven years old because it had gone white and he didn’t want the ladies to know, as indeed was my temperamental, neurotic, clever mother, of such bravery she frightens even me, far more than the crooked rogue lab does, even at ninety years old. Well, Chagal adapted traditional Ukrainian cultural paintings but backed by western jewish money, he became famous and Mrs Miller of the lab, who had filled in all the forms, illegally I might add, in our names, wife of the axeman of the lab (a real swine, I know on my own skin) wrote our stories to the Women’s World, but by implication made them jewish, using a well-known jewish name as writer. Personally, I’d be ashamed and give them their quarter when ever I can but shame is not something which is part of an eye for an eye, I suppose. Her answer, we take any opportunity, regardless of shame. Sad! I won’t tell you of the ‘defilement programme’ they used all day by microsound during lectures…yet, another ‘cowboy’s weird theories’ tested. Biggest laugh of all..the lab Pakis been given my work to copy are now seriously sending it off for printing as their own cultural life and work!! European Jews and Europeans, ok dimwits and lovers of the lab bossess, but flippin-hell, Pakistanis!! I taught in Pakistan years ago, at the British Council and honestly, there is so much to write about there, it is totally not necessary at all. quote? The lab have made it easier for the Pakis over here and destroyed you loyal citizens we asked to work here after the war, who rebuilt our heavy industry. I don’t know how, but God will turn that one back at yous, believe me. A friend stabbed in the back is always avenged, somehow and anyway, one enemy is one enemy too many, even silent, socialised people like we. Hitler thought we were weak too, but felt our claws in more corners than he knew.

THE ARTIFICIAL MAKING OF GENIUS!

’’DO I HAVE PERMISSION TO MAKE BRILLIANT? THE SECOND FROM SCUNTHORPE ANOTHER OF HER CLASSMATES TO PUT ONTO THE LAB MACHINE WITHOUT THEIR KNOWLEDGE SO WE CAN THEN WRITE IN OTHERS HANDS ‘THERE WAS ANOTHER GIRL IN THE CLASS’

ANYTHING TO OUTWRITE OUR VICTIM FAY THE LAB AXE MAN’S DAUGHTER OF REDBRIDGE IS ALREADY BEING MADE BRILLIANT NOW STEPHANIE BOSSWELL VALERIE LOCKWOOD WENDY STAFF..WHICH SHOULD WE .. WE ALREADY USE THEM SIEVE THEM FIND ALL ABOUT THEM HAVE THEM ON THE LAB MACHINE.. THESE SCUNTHORPE GIRLS FORMERLY FROM DONCASTER ROAD CHURCH SCHOOL SCHOOL MATES OF OUR VICTIM AND HER FAMILY.’‘

But who cares, only YOUS at the lab. History will tell all. No it will not, the deeds of the last two decades have been totally covered and will never come to light.

Once upon a time you needed to be against the State, be a criminal, have a loose tongue, now it is called death therapy and pain therapy. So many deaths, lecturers, students and the rest. A system which is only about killing and making brilliant what is not, is a very bad start to a new world….

’’we destroy anyone we don’t like.’’ a Human Research person. IF ONLY I HAD SPOKEN LONG AGO!

FROM  the Automatic Answerer. Human Research St Barths. London.

The point being that such power should be policed and used more carefully under proper scientific conditions. Talk about bad science! The Americans have discovered some wonderful human-based technology here and readily admit they should have been more careful to whom they passed it on to, but can’t really be blamed as cunning, devious lying is the hallmark of this particular group. History has shown us that great power such as given this lab can be used to great good or to evil when used merely for personal stepping stones of greed and selfishness as this incompetent, corrupt rogue lab. These insane maniacs will ofcourse get golden handshakes from the same taxpayers’ money whom they have crucified on their altar of personal greed and useless power with a host of excuses such as, “by the end of the century it will be in use.” They said that in the ninetees too and the government is perfectly aware that the lab is ill educated to use this stuff properly. Their secret messing about with severely handicapped people is hardly the same as killing off talented, useful, working lecturer/ artists with ‘over-use’ (that’s what they blithely term as manslaughter) and all the rest of their horrid deeds in Universities and out.. the mad boss (a woman) of this system and most of their inadequately educated workers (some from Pakistan, unable to speak proper english half illiterate) actually believe stress is due to sexual frustration and treat it in a horrible manner (a G.P. just puts patients on a course of pills) They call them hot women and if mentally handicapped, at times use them when they have ‘heated’ them (I had thought that had gone out with Freud, who was a despicable character, no wonder the Chinese banned him for so long) I had read a couple of Freud’s books, so am aware, and can still remember whole passages he wrote so know what I am talking about. -you know, our east european women were suffering from stress from post war Europe and quite enough rape for years after coming here- it is merely that every nerve in the body reacts in stress and horror, as indeed with soldiers, their adrenalin makes them do uncharasteristic things..I as a teacher and artist should not have to tell a science person such simple biology – they even treated my dear lady with this rubbish, and yes, they have already said, once they find the youth elixir, they have promised the Royals it first, for which we and others in the population are being tortured with medical complaints remote… and Princess Anne is a woman who wants to win! Now what could be the meaning behind that quote? She wants a winning situation artificially, in her position…

[atlaculture]

You keep bringing up examples of Protestants vs Catholics--- which I get--- but it’s not comparable to the Fire Nation vs Air Nomads debate. The Catholic Church has always been an institution/presence in most European countries, given that it’s older than Protestantism. Royalty converting to Catholicism and trying to promote it in the nation they rule over is often an appeal to a "lost" tradition, in many cases. That's not to diminish anti-Catholicism--- it has resulted in many bloody atrocities and intersects with racial and ethnic prejudice--- I'm simply saying Catholics are quite a large and established group in Europe so there's a political incentive to siding with them.

It's not comparable to a Zeisan embracing the Air Nomad way of life. The Air Nomads, as far as I know, don't have deeply ingrained religious institutions in other nations. They're nomadic, easily the least populace people in the Avatarverse, and generally detached from the concerns of other nations due to their belief system and lifestyle. They're way more foreign to the Fire Nation than Catholicism is to Protestant nations. To use a European comparison, i t would be like a British king converting to Judaism and trying to promote that as the UK's state religion. As far as I know, there's no precedence for that.

The reason I would prefer Zeisan rebelling by becoming a Fire Sage is because they're an already established institution within the Fire Nation. They presumably have some following and sway in the culture. Her becoming a Fire Sage would be more comparable to a Protestant princess converting to Catholicism. Or it could also be seen as a metaphor for the Secularism vs Religion debate that many heads of state have to deal with.

The Fire Nation family/court tolerating her being a pseudo-Air Nomad who still insists on being an ambitious Fire Nation princess is just too weird for my taste. Frankly, it all just seems very modern to me. Like the Sunday School kid who gets into New Age Spiritualism that sort of resembles Buddhism but doesn't actually bother to join a real sect or attend a local temple. Sure, mom and dad aren't too happy, but they're not going to kick junior out of the house over a little teenage rebellion. It all feels way too mundane for the cutthroat world of the Fire Nation royal family.

Anyways, I'm probably not going to respond any further to this thread. We all have our own opinion on the matter and no one's changing anyone's mind here. At the end of the day, this blog is always going to focus on the show that started the whole franchise.

Like what I’m doing? Tips always appreciated, never expected. ^_^

my initial reaction to this new princess zeisan character was just to say her design was weird but honestly the problems with her design don't bode well for her writing. like already the premise of "fire nation royalty joins the air nomads" is kinda weird bc someone from a nation's royal family is probably one of the people LEAST able to break free from the propaganda. like it only happened to iroh and zuko because of major life-changing events (losing lu ten & being banished) and you wouldn't include their transformations in a short description of their characters bc iroh's is slowly revealed and zuko's happens over the course of the story. and her design is just an air nomad necklace and sash on top of a fire nation royal outfit so like...where's the transformation? and how are zuko and iroh notable for breaking free if someone barely two generations earlier was able to?

like are we supposed to believe everything was totally chill between the fire nation and the air nomads before the sozin's comet genocide? bc that's not how genocide works. how could sozin have justified sending all those soldiers to the air temples if there wasn't already a concerted anti-air nomad propaganda effort in the fire nation? not all fire nation citizens bought into it obviously (kuzon) but a member of the royal family? a member of the royal family wearing the whole fucking shoulderpads and hairpiece get-up? where's the treason haircut? the rags from living among the people for years unlearning what she was raised with? the visual reflection of her turning her back on her culture?

creating a new character that's an existing character's previously-unmentioned sibling is already hokey and fanfiction-y, having her be the air nomad convert sister of the Guy Who Committed Genocide Against The Air Nomads strains believability, and the laziness of her design means that i have little faith in her writers' ability to make anything good out of this

[brotherslayer]

I was going through the manhwa and it hit me that unlike Athy and Jennette's dresses, we never see anyone dissecting the meaning behind Claude or Anastacius's costume, even though they have much underlying symbolism to offer with all their varying colours and motifs. And these are the two most rich characters in terms of backstory and human relationships. Ur detailed dissection on Jennette's costumes are so good that I'm scarily tempted to tempt u to do this one. Will u do this one analysis🥺???

I don't know anything about the medals or the flowers on Claude's clothings since I'm don’t know flower language... But I can give my thoughts on some of his clothings.

Claude wears three types of clothings throughout the manhwa: 1. royal military uniforms 2. togas 3. victorian children clothings of the upper/middle class (play suits + sailor suits).

What is striking is that all three types of clothings he wore can be associated with freedom and oppression equally (1. military 2. ancient romans 3. royal navy).

Let's start with the first outfit he wore as a child: The sailor suit.

In 1846, the four-year-old Albert Edward, Prince of Wales was given a scaled-down version of an enlisted man’s sailor suit. It was almost certainly a carefully chosen decision calculated to make the public associate the monarchy which had declined in popularity with the most popular institution in Britain -The Royal Navy.

What do we know about the royal navy? Besides it’s role in British colonialism and the suppression of many Asian and African peoples, it helped to defeat a series of opponents for the most part countries goverened by authoritarian or dictatorial rulers (Philip II, Louis XIV, Napoleon, Kaiser Wilhelm II), in other words: tyrants.

Sailor suits which are associated with childishness and innocence stand in juxtaposition to it’s militaristic origin . It’s a reminder how young Claude was still pure and innocent, yet without being fully aware of it he was thrown into a battle for succession at such a young age, and expected to survive or die trying.

We could also dvelve into color theory a little bit: Brown is mostly associated with humility, plainness and poverty. It could be a reminder of his commoner origin. Perhaps it tells us that his mother didn’t have much money back then and Claude had to get dressed in clothes that didn’t gave away easily how often they got mended or got dirty, because his mother could only afford a few sets of clothing. This is only a speculation: perhaps the money meant for Claude was mostly used for the treatment of his mother’s sickness. (I can’t see the Emperor paying the treatment of a chronically ill lover. Unless he actually loved her).

We could also assume that Claude intentionally picked out plain brown clothing that would allow him to blend well with the environment. The flashback in chapter 73 shows us little Claude hiding behind the bushes from the palace guards. Considering his state of increased alertness, he seemed to be used to sense danger approaching and find ways to hide quickly and efficiently.

Ah before I forget too much brown can also create feelings of sadness, isolation and loneliness...alright, you get what I mean, I stop here. 

Now to Anastacius. While Claude’s attire is more lowkey about it’s violent origin: Anastacius’ is more upfront. He’s already aware of the situation he is in. He knows his little brother is more talented than him and feels threatened enough to consider the words of Caracks who tried to lure him away. Anastacius wears something resembling a mix of military uniform and a victorian play suit in blue and red.

Blue was also considered the most prestigious colour, and was granted to “royal” regiments.

I think Anastacius and Claude’s outfits were meant to show that they were at a crossroad in life. When Ana was still friendly with Claude he started out wearing play outfits and then as his relationship with Anastacius deteriorated, gradually started to wear normal suits and uniforms until he was wearing his ceremonial military uniform at the day he killed Ana.

The Obelia brother’s wearing a military uniform signifies that they are at war with someone. They are ready to spill blood. You can see it in The Lovely Princess, where when Athy meets Claude for the first time, instead of a toga he is wearing a military uniform and continues to do so almost until his death. We know that Diana was the one who introduced him to Siodonna’s fashion. With the memories of her gone, so was the peaceful presence in his life and he became a misanthrope. The memory spell had taken full affect and he was incapable to love or care for Athy in any way. Athy became his biggest torment, his enemy. Similarly our! Claude is only wearing a military uniform at official occations like Athy’s debutante ball, where he had to face the nobles which he resented so much. And even now, in the latest chapters he bothered to change his clothes with magic from a toga into a uniform when he reunited with his elder brother.

Whenever Anastacius and Claude are wearing a military uniform they are meeting someone hated (LP verse Claude met Athy, birthday baquet! Claude met the nobles (Roger), and now in chapter 109 he met his brother who had tried to kill him), they either want to demonstrate strenght (the uniform at Athy’s birthday baquet was more show) or they are ready to attack (the uniform in the recent chapters was more practical to move in).

However they are also stress on the fact that they belong to the royal family and are ought to be respected.

Ana wore almost constantly military uniforms, because he felt the need to show that he was the heir. Not only by birthright, but also in appearance. Only when he went undercover he switched his wardrobe to suits (still, in purple in the color of royality) and puffy shirts. You can see it when Anastacius entered the palace with Jennette. When Ana is fighting against Claude he is either wearing a royal blue (past) or a combination of red and black (present).

“ Black and red. In western culture, these are the two most sinister colors, as red typically conveys the meaning of blood or anger, and black is that of darkness or death. Being a very visually striking combination, they can also convey a sense of power. Together, they additionally give the impression of burning coal or wood, i.e. "fire and destruction".”

(TV Tropes: Red and Black and Evil All Over)

In his previous life he bought fire and destruction upon Obelia...like in Athy’s nightmare remember? So it’s is kind of a bad omen as well.

Anastacius uniform in black and red forms a strong contrast to Claude’s uniform, which is dyed in colors of purple and pure white. “The color purple is often associated with royalty, nobility, luxury, power, and ambition. Purple also represents meanings of wealth, extravagance, creativity, wisdom, dignity, grandeur, devotion, peace, pride, mystery, independence, and magic.”

My point is that Ana’s appearance reflect his state of mind. Being all the time at war with his brother. The paranoia to get overthrown.  The fear not to be enought. He insisted on wearing the ceremonial royal uniform, the crown and the coat, in royal colors, because he felt inferior towards Claude and it made him feel safer. If he thought his own skills as heir were lacking he sought to compensate with the way he presented himself in public (his inferiority complex might have contributed to his lavish livestyle and tendency to waste money). 

The only exception where Ana is not wearing a uniform is a scene during the time of Ana and Claude’s falling out. But he still emphasizes that he belongs to the Imperial family in another way: The brooch on his vest, has the same blue shade as the color of his eyes, which are a trademark sign that only the Imperial family possesses. In chapter 109, Claude and Athy chose to wear a similary colored brooch to show that they are the “true” heirs.

[writingpcges]

— "i have a horrible feeling I am a greedy, perverted, selfish, apathetic, cynical, depraved, morally bankrupt woman who can’t even call herself a feminist." - fleabag

MANNERISMS:

What words or phrases do they overuse?

she uses the word ‘basically’ a lot. she also definitely overuses her britishisms but that’s mainly because she’d been living there for the last few years. favouite curse word is ‘fuck’. ends too many sentences with the word ‘me’.

Are they more optimistic or pessimistic?

ellie will tell you she’s a realist, though she does tend towards optimism, particularly when it comes to the outcomes of certain events in her life. 

What bad habits do they have?

speaking before she speaks, drinking way too much coffee (and as a result has developed an unhealthy addiction to breath mints, seriously she’s always gone some on her person!), nail biting/picking (particularly when she’s nervous/bored), flirting before thinking (she’s sure your partner is great, she just didn’t consider their existence), pouting until she gets what she wants.

What makes them laugh out loud?

friends reruns, friends in general, lana sullivan. she’s also the sort to laugh at her friends embarrassments/trip ups but would also be the first to bail you out in a bind so figurers that balances things out. 

How do they display affection?

little touches (on your arm, your shoulder, your lower back), little gifts/things she’s seen that remind her of you, sending random texts/pictures throughout her day, sharing anecdotes/gossip. 

Do they make snap judgements or take time to consider?

she’s an impulsive little sun of a gun, just ask lana. she detests feeling stuck and that has driven her to make many questionable decisions and has resulted in the breaking down of some important relationships in her life. 

How do they react to praise?

she THRIVES off of it. like tinkerbell she needs applause and praise to live. 

How do they react to criticism?

she’ll tell you she can take it, and that’s not totally untrue, as an actress she has developed a fairly thick skin but she only really takes constructive criticism well. trolly comments on the internet will send her into a tailspin and often result in her seeking some outside affirmation of her awesomeness (often in the form of hookups or friendly cheerleaders). 

What is their philosophy of life?

work hard and be kind. 

When was the last time they cried?

professionally? daily, her current project requires a lot of mental gymnastics. personally? after meeting up with lana. 

If they could change one thing about themselves, what would it be?

apart from forever appearing ageless?? physically she wouldn’t mind being a little taller, but she thinks her face is nice and her ass is good so she happy with her appearance. there are a lot of internal things she’d change about herself but mainly she’d like to be braver and a little more vulnerable about the things that matter with the people she loves. 

What is their obsession?

herself?? sex?? skin care??

What are their pet peeves? 

she does get annoyed easily and pinning down what will set her off from one day to the next isn’t an exact science but some things that never fail are slow walkers, people who talk on their phone in public, traffic (she probs shouldn’t drive bc the road rage is real), and people who insist on continuing conversations when she’s clearly checked out. 

FRIENDS&FAMILY:

Is their family big or small? Who does it consist of?

pretty small, just her dad, step mum and gran left. 

What is their perception of family?

family used to be everything but after her mum passed ellie hasn’t been super connected to her family, with the exception of her gran who is her favouite person in the whole world. 

Do they have siblings? Older or younger?

she’s an only child, i’m sure this surprises no one. 

Describe their best friend.

the real yin to her yang and the one person she will never put the moves on because it would totally ruin their vibe. also it would be weird because they are basically sisters at this point. if ellie is ever able to sit still long enough to sit and think things through things it is down to this person. big mom friend vibes. 10/10 angel on earth. 

Do they have any pets?

oh god no, she shouldn’t be trusted to care for a living creature. 

PAST&FUTURE:

What was your character like as a teen?

not unlike herself now, which speaks to her emotional maturity but much more moody and reckless, very little regard for the consequences of her actions, and pretty listless/unmotivated. she’s since learned to reel some of that in as she’s focussed on her career. 

Did they grow up rich or poor?

middle class, they were comfortable, but they didn’t go on holiday every school break or anything. 

Did they grow up nurtured or neglected?

nurtured, but when she lost her mum she an her dad started to neglect each other. 

What is their greatest achievement?

winning a bafta. 

What was their first kiss like?

awkward and the result of a game of spin the bottle gone wrong -- she’d really wanted to kiss matt jones but instead the bottle had landed on rory tyler. 

What is the worst thing they did to someone they loved?

LEFT THEM AT THE ALTAR?! 

What are their ambitions?

she’d really like to have a career that lasts past her 35th birthday

What advice would they give their younger self?

hang in there, be kinder to mum, go easier on dad, don’t forget to keep your promises. 

What smells remind them of their childhood?

cinnamon sugar and french toast, mum would make it every sunday. 

What was their childhood ambition?

to be an actress and a unicorn doctor, so she’s definitely lived up to some of her childhood ambitions!

What does their five-year plan look like?

become a house hold name, successfully bake banana bread, take a dance class, learn to play piano, take someone she loves to an awards show. 

LOVE:

Do they believe in love at first sight?

no, not even a little which is funny because she is definitely the sort to fall quickly. 

Are they in a relationship? Are they in love?

no, but she is still in love with her ex so that’s fun. particularly for someone whose default is to seek vey surface level/fun ‘relationships’.

How do they behave in a relationship?

depends on the relationship and the person, honestly. ellie hasn’t been in many serious relationships because she typically bolts at the first sign of feeeelings as she tends to lean towards her need for freedom rather than commitment but on the rare occasion her heart has fallen before her brain was able to catch on she’s been quite happy to hermit with her partner. she becomes so smitten the idea of wanting someone else escapes her completely. 

When did your character last have sex?

probably last night. or this morning. she’s a ho and she doesn’t like to be alone. that’s when things like thinking happen and that’s no good! 

Has your character ever been in love?

yes, twice. and both instances left her gutted. 

Have they ever had their heart broken?

she has, but in the end it’s usually by herself as she has the tendency to leave before she gets left. 

Are they crushing on anyone now? Tag them!

lana (and also probs sabrina lbh): @lauralaword​ , sean: @gapsofsvnlight​ , quinn: @sonderbound​ , and probs pyper: @chvrryglcss​ bc she seems emotionally unavailable and ellie likes a challenge, plus she a babe. guys i said she’s a ho. 

WORK&LIFE:

What is their current job?

actress, she’s also an aspiring screen writer/playwright and director, but that’s mainly born of fear of what she’ll do when the industry decides she’s too old to play a lead

What do they think about their current job?

loves it, a +, everything she’d hoped it be even if the hours are maybe a bit longer than she’d like and she doesn’t always love feeling like she has to hide parts of herself from rabid fans/news sources, but she likes her privacy. 

What are some of their past jobs?

bag girl, ride attendant, bartender (at uni), nanny, waitress, and snow white for a tick!

What are their hobbies?

she likes to read and netflix, but her main hobby is bugging her mates until they entertain her. 

Educational background?

went to the royal academy of dramatic art in london where she studied acting. 

Do they have a natural talent for something?

photography, the written word, charming her way into your pants. 

Do they play a sport? Are they any good?

no, she does not sport well nor does she understand any of the rules. her disdain for football is just another point of contention between her and her father. 

MISC:

What is in their fridge?

a half drank bottle of vodka, seltzer, diet coke, some probiotics she never takes and a variety of take out containers. she does not cook. 

What is on their bedside table?

cellphone charger, a book she’s been trying to finish for ages, and a sound machine. 

What kinda car do they drive, and is their car messy or clean?

honestly she couldn’t tell you the make or model unless she read the manual butt it gets her to auditions and that’s all that matters. it’s basically always got at least three changes of clothes and a takeaway coffee cup and/or wrapper somewhere so if you think that’s messy...  

Do they carry a purse? What is in their purse or wallet?

usually, but if she’s out at retrograde she’ll pair her essentials down to things that can fit in her pocket -- basically that means a lip (red if she’s feeling feisty or insecure), her debit card, her cell and some mints. her purse has at any given time four different lips, a chapstick, some gloss, three packs of gum, mints, a pack of emergency smokes (for when things get intense and she needs to break her clean streak), her wallet, a compact, an umbrella, and so many receipts! 

What is in their pockets?

if she has her purse they’re likely empty, if she doesn’t all the things. also sometimes her hands when she doesn’t know what to do with them. 

What is their most treasured possession? 

her mums wedding band, she wears it basically all the time on her index finger. 

[spartanguard]

sick of love (2/3)

Summary: If Emma’s not careful, she just might bump into her soulmate. Physically. And while she might like the idea of what comes with that—an almost psychic connection whenever they make skin contact—she’d rather not deal with the awful withdrawal sickness that can come when they inevitably leave her; she’s got a son, so she doesn’t have time for that. So she keeps herself covered and thinks she’ll be okay. Until she meets Killian, who does the same thing. Will their barriers protect them, or just hurt them more?

CS Soulmates AU | Rated M | 8.3k | part 1 | part 2 | part 3 | AO3

A/N: Onto chapter two!! As stated before, this story was inspired by this tumblr post. Thank you again to the organizers of @cssns for putting on this awesome event and to @sherlockianwhovian for making that AMAZING art up there! I’m planning to post the last chapter a week from now but that depends on how much writing gets done while I’m teaching at band camp...so if not then, then shortly thereafter. Happy reading! 

Wrong.

See, Emma had told herself that under the assumption that she’d only be seeing Killian once a week, in the controlled setting of Snow and Dave’s house, with them and Henry as buffers. That they’d be able to keep it completely chill and casual—sharing conversation over beer, maybe someday discussing their apparent shared aversion to soulmates, and who knows, getting drunk and having a makeout they don’t remember the next day. You know, keeping things safe.

Okay, maybe that last one was just something that had happened in her dreams—ones that were usually populated by whichever Marvel character was the focus of Henry’s obsession at the time, because damn did the women in their casting department know what they were doing. However, in the days following that first encounter, Killian’s face had replaced that of Thor in her fantasies, without conscious thought.

She was sure a therapist could have a field day with her, and would probably say that by fantasizing, she was keeping things in a risk-free environment where she had control. Which she was vaguely aware of. But honestly? It was a little annoying how easily he slipped in there, because the things she imagined and dreamed them doing...if she didn’t blush the next time she saw him, it’d be a miracle.

But she had until Friday to get that under control, and it was only Wednesday. That was totally doable. (Just like him...oh god, she needed to stop.)

Fate had other ideas in mind, though; it always does. Because of course, the skip got a little too aggressive while she was trying to take her down. How was Emma supposed to know the other woman carried a can of Monster in her purse? Or that it made an excellent blunt object? Despite getting whacked in the head, Emma still managed to bring her in. But the arresting officer took one look at the growing bruise on her forehead, and the blood she didn’t even realize was pouring out of it, before sending her to the ER for stitches and to check for a concussion.

Emma grumbled the whole time they drove her over, but knew it was better to be safe than sorry; she’d do the same if it was Henry in her place. And while she’d normally be worried about going to any place that involved a lot of contact, at least they had to wear gloves there.

After dealing with the typical harried nurse asking the requisite questions—any allergies, what medications was she on, was there a chance she could be pregnant (ha!), could she have lovesickness (double ha!)—she expected to see the worn-out woman again, who would inevitably fix her up, lecture her about living dangerously and/or her unseasonable attire, and then send her on her way. She was not expecting the curtain to pull back and reveal Killian, reading at her chart, wearing scrubs and a white coat.

“I see you need stitches, Miss Swan...Emma?” He looked up at her, surprised when he saw it was her—which also made her realize they’d never exchanged last names. 

“Hey, Dr.…” she had to squint to read the embroidery on his coat. “Jones.”

“Bloody hell, lass; what did you do?”

Like their first meeting, he jumped into action, tossing aside the clipboard and immediately inspecting her injury. She hated the deja vu this was giving her.

Even if this gave her a better look at the light freckles and the way his ears came to an almost elfin point. 

Whatever.

“Just a hazard of the job,” she said, hoping to downplay it; this certainly wasn’t the first time a skip had sent her here, and wouldn’t be the last.

“Hardly seems like a safe line of work,” he tutted, gently poking the mess on her head with his rubber-gloved hand. He hit a particularly sensitive spot, drawing a wince. “Sorry,” he said softly. “Yeah, you’re definitely going to need a few stitches. I’ll be right back.”

He returned shortly with the necessary materials and got to work. “I’ll have to numb this, but that should be the most painful part, aside from getting smacked in the face with...what hit you?”

“An energy drink.”

“Huh; that’s a new one.”

“Really? I figured they see everything in these kinds of places.”

“Oh, we do; but people are endlessly creative.”

She giggled, but it quickly went away when the numbing injection came, turning into a hiss. “Did you distract me on purpose?”

“Aye. Figured it was better than surprising you like last time.”

Her hand throbbed at the memory; it was mostly healed but she was still keeping it wrapped up. “I guess this tells me why you knew what to do right away.”

“Yeah,” he said, but she could tell he was focusing on the task at hand, and could feel the gentle tugging of the needle and sutures as he started to work—though that was all she could feel, thankfully. “And I can see why you were such a good patient; I get the impression you’re used to it,” he tossed back, smirking a bit.

“Hey, I’m not THAT clumsy; only when it comes to beverage containers, apparently.”

“I’ll be sure to keep my flask away from you, then.”

“A flask? What are you, a sailor?”

“Former Navy, yes.” 

Okay, she had to stop making these sweeping generalizations about him if they were all going to be proven true. “Wow; cool.”

“For the most part, yeah; some places were rather hot, though.”

She wanted to laugh but not if it meant moving while she was pretty sure a needle was in her skin, so settled for the stillest chuckle she could manage. “Did they teach you dad jokes in the Navy?”

“No, mostly just medicine.”

“This is the British Navy, right?”

“The Royal Navy of Her Majesty’s Armed Forces, yes.”

“Then how’d you end up over here?”

There was another, rougher tug on her laceration, but then Killian pulled away. “You’re all stitched up,” he said, but then he swallowed. “The Navy doesn’t have a ton of use for one-handed doctors, unfortunately, but they will give you a decent pension with your honorable discharge.”

“Well, that’s awfully ableist of them.”

“You won’t hear me disagreeing,” he concurred as he took off his gloves and cleaned up; she noticed that his false hand did have some articulation, but not a ton. “So, there wasn’t much left for me there after that happened, and I figured there must be some reason the colonists rebelled. So, here we are.”

She could tell he was mostly telling the truth, but definitely leaving parts out. “That’s a pretty flimsy reason to pack up and move across the ocean. What did your family say?”

He shrugged as he wrapped up the last of the suturing kit. “No one left to talk me out of it.”

A pit formed in her stomach and she realized they had a bit more in common. “Yeah, I know how that goes.”

He cocked his head as he returned from disposing the soiled instruments. “What about David and Snow? And your son?”

“Oh, they’re amazing; but I grew up in the foster system. I didn't end up with the Nolans until I was 15.”

“Ahh, you’re another lost one.”

The casual way he said it took her aback briefly. “I guess that’s one way of putting it. Are...are you?”

He pulled his little flashlight thing out of his coat pocket (she had no idea what it was really called) and fiddled with it a bit. “My mum died when I was young; dad left a few years later. So it was just me and my brother, but I entered the system when he joined the Navy. Then followed him in a few years later.” 

His somber tone, paired with the previous revelation about no more family, was enough to let her know that wasn’t quite all of it. “Can I ask what happened to him?” 

“After I check you for a concussion.” 

“Ugh, do I have to?”

“Yes,” he commanded.

She rolled her eyes, but let him perform the exam; better safe than sorry, right? “You’re clear there,” he told her, after a few simple tests that included pointing that damn flashlight in her eyes. And in a quieter voice, continued, “IED in Iraq. Head injury. I tried, but...I couldn’t save him.”

Well, that explained why he was so insistent on the concussion exam. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It is what it is,” he said, in a tone that suggested he was convincing himself of that as much as her, as he pocketed his flashlight and grabbed her chart again. “At least I can still help save other people.”

“Wish you’d been there when Neal came in,” she blurted, thinking out loud. Then mortification washed over her as she realized what she said. She never talked about what happened to Neal—only with Henry, and only when he asked.

“Guess it’s my turn to extend the condolences, then,” he said softly. 

She let go of the breath she’d been holding; most people were quick with empty platitudes, so it was almost refreshing to hear something sincere. And there it was again—that same intense, understanding look in his eyes from the other day; it felt like he was reading her like a book, and it was more than a little unsettling—but not in a way that scared her, oddly enough. Still, it was overwhelming enough for her to avert her gaze. “Don’t we make a pair, huh?” she scoffed. 

“I wouldn’t let Snow hear you say that if I were you,” he jibed. She could hear the laughter in his voice but didn’t dare look up just yet.

“She’s probably already got the wedding invitations on order.”

He laughed for real this time, a deep, hearty chuckle. “Hope they aren’t nonrefundable.”

“Same.”

He excused himself to go write up her prescriptions—an antibiotic and some extra-strength headache medicine—and returned a few minutes later with an easy smile on his face. He went back into doctor mode as he gave her care instructions for the next few days and weeks, and then asked, “Any questions?”

“Yeah, but it’s not related to any of that.”

He tilted his head in question. “What is it?”

“How exactly do you manage to do all this and...not touch anyone?” She’d been wondering it ever since he came into the room the first time. “It seems like a job like this would put you at higher risk of skin contact.”

He nodded. “Yeah, it does, to some extent,” he explained. “But when you’re already down a hand, that cuts the odds in half. And I just double up on gloves the rest of the time.”

She I thought his glove looked kind of thick. “Gotcha. Thanks for telling me; I was just curious, is all.” A slightly awkward silence settled over them; she felt like she needed to divulge something, after everything he had, but after dropping a Neal reference, she was kind of spent in the emotional backstory department. “So...no one has tried to claw at that pretty face of yours?”

He smiled at that, arching an eyebrow in apparent amusement. “No, thankfully; I’ve gotten fairly good at evasive maneuvers, ever since my brother gave me this,” he said, pointing to a faded scar on his cheek.

“Yeah, that was something I figured out pretty quick, too. But I guess my training never covered giant soda cans.”

“Well, that’s something to work on, then. Just not until this heals, okay?”

“Aye-aye, Captain,” she said with a salute

“Please, I was only a Lieutenant.”

“Eh, Captain suits you better. And thank you for this again.”

“Again, it was my pleasure, Swan.”

She casually hopped off the exam table, but apparently, her head wasn’t as ready for that as the rest of her body, and the room began to spin as soon as she was on her feet. She could feel herself swaying, but before her knees had a chance to buckle under her, a firm grip and strong arms stabilized her.

“Woah—easy there,” he cautioned. “You may not have a concussion, but that’s still a nasty bump.”

She took a deep breath as the vertigo dissipated, but the next one caught in her throat when she realized that he was the one holding her—and that she kind of liked it. Her eyes were immediately drawn to his hand and prosthesis, the way they were curled around her arms and holding her in place, but were still gentle.

He must have taken her staring for shock, because he quickly let go and stepped out of her space. “You okay now?”

“Y-yeah,” she said, shaking her head to clear the momentary fog—and to try to get rid of the sense of loss she felt as soon as he’d moved away. “I guess I better get going with these,” she said lamely, nodding toward the prescription slips she’d shoved in her pocket.

“Yeah; the pharmacy closes soon.” His voice was a bit rougher than it’d been a minute ago, and that faraway look was back in his eyes. “See you Friday?”

“Yeah, see you then,” she said, then left as quick as she could.

Shit. How was she going to be able to keep things casual if he continued to have that kind of effect on her?

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

When Friday rolled around, she almost wanted to feign sickness to get out of going. His steady hand had also found its way into her dreams, as well as what was surely a strong, warm embrace. There was no way she could face him now.

But she knew Henry would see through any excuse she tried to throw at him—he had inherited her built-in lie detector to some extent—so she just swallowed her pride, grabbed her usual bottle of wine, and they headed off. 

“Whose car is that?” Henry asked as soon as they pulled up.

“Killian’s,” she answered grumpily.

“Is he why you didn’t want to come? Is he a dick?”

“Hey, language!” she scolded. “And he’s not; he’s...I dunno, the opposite, or something. You’ll see.”

Her brother had finally bowed to the summer heat and turned on his air conditioning, so everyone was seated around the living room when they got inside: Dave and Snow on their respective recliners (Emma joked they were their Carl and Ellie chairs), and Killian on one end of the sofa, leaving the rest of it open for her and Henry.

David and Snow got up and exchanged the requisite hugs, complete with Snow fussing over Emma’s stitches, but Killian hung back, understandably. Seeing him back in his leather jacket and dark wash jeans again was almost a jolt from how soft he’d looked in his scrubs, but she knew why he’d default back to his armor; heck, she’d even put on some more tonight, opting for a long-sleeve crewneck instead of the v-necked t-shirts she’d been wearing. 

He gave her a simple “Swan” as a greeting, and she nodded back, before introducing Henry to him. “A pleasure to meet you, lad,” he said, offering his gloved hand. Henry studied it a minute, then cast a curious glance at Emma before taking it. Knowing Henry, he was already putting two and two together; with any luck, she’d be able to keep him out of Snow’s plotting, at least.

Emma left to the kitchen to pour wine for her and Snow, but when she got back, Henry was giving Killian the full 21 questions: where was he from, what did he do, all that jazz.

“How did you lose your hand?”

“Henry David,” she said in warning—he knew better than to ask stuff like that—but Killian didn’t seem fazed. 

He leaned toward Henry conspiratorially. “Well, don’t tell anyone else, but...a crocodile took it!” His voice was full of childish humor and even his eyes sparkled with it. Henry gasped and then laughed, aware it was a joke but no less entertained.

“So does that make you Captain Hook?” he asked.

“Perhaps; my ship is named the Jolly Roger.”

As soon as that came up, Henry’s attention was completely taken by the fact that there was a potential pirate sitting next to him and all thoughts of more personal questions went out the door, thankfully. And bless Killian, he answered all of Henry’s questions seriously (excluding the first one) and didn’t seem put off the boy’s endless curiosity like a lot of adults were; this was a kid who had to transfer classes in first grade because his old-fashioned teacher couldn’t tolerate all his questions. But Killian handled it with ease.

The only thing that could take Henry off the thought of high seas adventure was food, and he made a mad dash to the table once dinner was ready. “Thanks for that,” Emma told Killian after they were left in Henry’s dust. “I know he can be a bit much.”

“Nonsense; he’s a brilliant lad,” Killian waved off. “You should be proud.”

“Oh, I am.”

It didn’t go without notice that Killian had provided the beer for this meal. She stuck to her wine while they ate, but afterwards, as she watched David and Henry throw around a football in the front yard from the double rocker on the porch, she gave his a try. And yeah, it was significantly better.

“I was right, wasn’t I?” Killian was standing by the door, leaning against the brick siding and sipping from his own bottle. One long leg was crossed over the other, highlighting just how well those skinny jeans fit him. Something about it was insanely hot, both literally and figuratively. 

And it only got worse when he pushed off the wall with his hips and sauntered forward. “Much better than David’s alcohol-flavoured water, no?”

“Oh, for sure,” she agreed. “Definitely what you need on a day like today.” Granted, she probably shouldn’t be drinking booze at all with how much she was sweating, but she’d long since learned how to make sure she didn’t dehydrate in the summer—and, given the fact that he wasn’t keeling over, either, so had Killian.

“Is this seat taken?” he inquired, nodding at the empty half of the rocker.

“Go ahead.”

For a few minutes, they just sat there in companionable silence, watching the continued passes in the yard, until Killian finally said, “They know that’s not real football, right?”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re gonna show up next week with a soccer ball, aren’t you?”

“What makes you think I don’t already have one in my car?”

“Why am I not surprised?” she chuckled. “But that’s another thing you’d have to fight David over.”

“I figured as much,” Killian sighed. “He’s as stubborn as my brother.”

“Must be a big brother thing, then.”

“Aye, probably.” He took a long pull on his beer. “David’s great with Henry, it seems.”

“Yeah,” she smiled. “He was kind of born to be an uncle; he’s been there since day one. I can only imagine how great a dad he’ll be someday.”

“If you don’t mind my asking—where is Henry’s father?”

It wasn’t an uncommon question; more than one snoop-nosed PTA mom had asked that and sneered. Killian was the first to ask it in a non-judging way. “He’s gone. Neal—the guy I mentioned the other day; that's him.”

He nodded, understanding. “I probably should have guessed from your tone. What happened?”

She swallowed; it had been so long since that night.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he was quick to assure her.

“No, it’s fine. He...well, we were something of teenage delinquents,” she started to explain. “We ran away, kind of shoplifted our down the East Coast. He was older and dreamy, especially to a 16-year-old girl who’d never had much. I thought he was the one, you know? Everything just seemed...better with him.” She hadn’t known exactly what being soulmates entailed, but for a touch-starved orphan growing up in the foster system—moreso, in a society that placed so much emphasis on physical contact—once she had finally discovered that bliss, she’d given herself over to it fully. The first time he held her hand, she swore there were sparks. When she saw the love in his eyes, it filled her with a warmth that she’d never known before, deep in her soul. He filled her dreams so often, she thought they had to be shared. And making love? To be fair, he was her first, but—damn.

“Aye, I know that,” he added, and that distant look was back in his eyes.

“So, yeah, we’re in love and making plans and just need a bit of extra cash to get us to Florida, where we planned on settling down.” She snorted. “Settling down at 16; god, I was dumb. Anyways, he tried to sell some watches to make up what we needed for a plane ticket, but the deal went sour and...he got shot.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, softly. She could still clearly remember what went down in that ambulance, as they tried to revive him and couldn’t, then her being the only one available to identify the body. “And the rest, I guess, is history.”

Killian chewed on his bottom lip a bit; there was still something on his mind. “Was...was he your soulmate?”

She swallowed again; this was the really personal part. “I don’t know.” The only people she’d admitted that to were close family, and even they remained a bit skeptical—how could she not know? “I thought I was getting lovesickness a few weeks later, but then I found out I was pregnant, so I’ve never really been sure if it was or not.”

Killian’s eyes grew wide for a moment and he studied her solemnly. “So that’s why you cover up? In case he wasn’t?”

“Yeah,” she breathed. It was a little unnerving that he’d figured it out so easily.

“I...uh,” he stammered, nervously scratching at a spot behind his ear. “Um, same.”

“Same?”

“Yeah.”

She hadn’t expected that; she’d never met anyone else who shared her uncertainty. While covering up wasn’t an odd thing, it was usually only done by people who truly hated the idea of the system altogether—not those who had been potentially burned by it.

He took her silence as an invitation to continue. “Her name was Milah; she lived near the base. We met in a pub and it was...a whirlwind, honestly, but she was incredible. And it was like you said: everything felt amazing; I had no reason to believe we weren’t soulmates, save for one minor problem.”

“What was that?”

“She was married.”

“Fuck. Was he hers?”

He shook his head. “I don’t think so, but I never got a chance to find out for sure. Once he learned she was cheating on him with me, he messed with her car. I’m still not entirely sure what happened, but we were in it and she lost control; hit a tree. She died on impact; I...well, this.” He held up his prosthetic.

“Oh my god, Killian—I’m so sorry.”

He gave her a sad smile. “The Navy took care of me as best they could, but I was still out of it for a long time as I healed, and dealt with infection and whatnot. I think it was three months or so? So I have no idea if I had lovesickness or not in there. And I...I wasn’t sure I wanted one if it wasn’t her. Thus...” He nodded down towards his attire.

“Yeah.” She definitely understood. 

It took a bit for the weight of the conversation to settle on them; they were quiet for a few minutes, until Emma got fidgety, as if she needed to move to make her thoughts come to a rest. Seriously—what were the odds she’d literally stumble into someone who actually got her? It was simultaneously exciting and terrifying.

She shifted in her seat to relieve some of the tension building within, and that’s when she realized just how close they were sitting—she’d barely moved when her thigh brushed against his, heat radiating from it that likely had as much to do with the ambient temperature as her own heightened awareness. As casually as she could muster, she pulled it back, but couldn’t tell if he noticed or not.

“Who knew we’d be trading tragic backstories after only a week?” he finally commented, giving her a gentle smile.

She smiled back. “I’d repeat what I said the other day, but Snow is in earshot. So...cheers?” This time, she was the one to offer up her bottle.

“Cheers,” he echoed, clinking the lip of his against the neck of hers, which gave her some other thoughts she didn’t really want to entertain long at the present moment.

They were both taking long pulls from their drinks when Snow herself came out, almost as if she was summoned. “Don’t you two look cozy?” she commented, unable to hide the twinkle in her eye at the thought. 

“Ew, no, it’s too hot to think about that,” Emma threw back. Between the humid air and whatever had just passed between her and Killian, she was almost thinking about taking off her jacket. Almost.

“Well, how about coming back into the AC for some pie?”

“Sounds perfect, milady,” Killian answered for both of them; Emma usually hated that but couldn’t really find it in her to complain.

Snow shouted at the other guys and headed back in; David and Henry immediately followed, pounding up the stairs to the porch and hardly giving a passing glance to its current residents.

“Shall we?” Killian asked as the screen door banged shut, a sound that was quickly followed by Snow yelling at Dave.

“Yeah; if we dawdle, Snow will get ideas.”

“I’m under the impression that anything will.”

“Also true.”

He chuckled as he stood. The motion made the chair start rocking under Emma, making her jolt—they’d kept it still while they were sitting on it.

Wordlessly, he held out his false hand to her, and just as unconsciously, she took it and stood. She didn’t even think about it until she was back on her feet, and then found herself staring at their joined hands. Even though his was fake, even though hers was gloved, she swore she felt heat.

Her eyes darted up to look at him, to see his reaction—and he too was staring at their joined hands with a bit of awe. Did he mean to do that, and expect her not to take it? Or was it as instinctive as her move was?

Either way, she quickly pulled her hand back and stuck it in her jeans pocket. “Uh, thanks,” she blurted, then turned to head in the house; his heavy footfalls followed her, as did a sense of deja vu.

The rest of the evening went without incident—unless Henry losing his mind to the sound of Killian’s ringtone (the theme to Pirates of the Caribbean) counted—until Killian got called into work and Emma decided they should head out, too (but not before he insisted on checking on her stitches).

She’d honestly never met anyone that threw her so off balance as Killian. It was so nice to finally have a friend that understood her, so maybe it was just that novelty that was throwing her for a loop. But she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something else going on, and she wasn’t sure it was welcome.

Oh, well. Once a week—she only had to see him once a week, barring any more emergency room trips. She could do this. They could do this.

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

And they did, for a while. The next few weeks, she only saw him at the Nolans, with his charming self and his good beer and his soccer ball, which Henry unsurprisingly took to quickly—her son had the incredible knack to learn anything with ease. Other than a jab at her usual doctor for not taking more care in the way he removed Emma’s stitches, they managed to avoid any other close calls, physically or emotionally—and he seemed just as keen to stay away from those as Emma.

They fell into a pretty casual friendship, and when they weren’t inadvertently baring their souls to one another, she genuinely enjoyed his company, as well as the buffer it gave her against Snow’s constant fairy tale romance ideals. They’d chat about music, movies, books, sports, and he was great with Henry, too—actually, he was almost better with him than she was when it came to what might be classified as Henry’s nerdier interests, like comics and role-playing games. She was dangerously close to being roped into a game of Dungeons and Dragons, with Henry as the DM and Killian as a rogue (or so she was told—she didn’t quite know what that meant).

(Although the idea of Killian as a pirate on an adventure? That was definitely an image that stuck with her, and had been ever since his Captain Hook reference...she kept that private, however.)

Everything was easy until the day she got on the train much earlier than usual, exhausted after an all-night stakeout (that thankfully landed in a nab) and desperate for a seat—and the only one open was right next to a weary-looking Killian.

“Is this seat taken?” she asked, standing in front of him.

His eyes darted up warily, but his face broke into a grin when he realized it was her. “Of course, Swan; have at it. I didn’t know you rode this train.”

“Almost every day,” she said as she plopped down. “Just usually not so early.”

“You got the bail jumper that quick?”

“Eh,” she shrugged. “More like it took way too long. Overnight job.”

“Same; you must be beat. At least this one didn’t go for the face.”

She snorted. “Thank god. I almost considered starting to wear a ski mask, but it probably wouldn’t look good if I started dressing like the criminals I’m supposed to be catching.”

He laughed. “Maybe you can in the winter.”

“Maybe. God, I can’t wait for it to get cold again so I can wear scarves without anyone looking at me weird.”

“Right?”

They traded stories about adventures and misadventures they’d had with the way they covered up; his mostly had to do with patients tearing his clothes, although there was one story about a woman who tried to get admitted to the lovesick wing after claiming he’d kissed her when, in all reality, he’d treated her for the flu a week prior and she was just still sick—not an altogether uncommon phenomenon.

“I had a guy try to do that to me once, too,” she told him. “It was several years ago when I wasn’t wearing gloves yet and made the mistake of shaking hands with a furniture salesman; when I went to pick up the stuff a couple weeks later, he was clearly ill and tried to convince me we were meant to be.”

“And you felt completely fine?”

“Obviously.”

“Some people are just that desperate.”

“It’s ridiculous!”

She’d been so caught up in the conversation that she hardly noticed they were at her stop. Nor did the train conductor, apparently, because the brake came on hard. Emma had to grip the pole next to her to avoid being completely thrown into Killian’s side, but was able to lean away enough that only her hip bumped into his. His scrubs must have been terribly thin, because she could feel the heat coming off his body even more than the day they’d been on Snow and Dave’s porch.

“Well, this is me,” she said as she stood. “It was nice seeing you!”

“Wait,” he called, then stood up with her. “This might seem a bit forward, but I was wondering...could I take you and Henry out to dinner sometime?”

She was a bit stunned at the request; she hadn’t been asked out in...well, not since creepy Walsh tried to tell her they were soulmates. But she knew Killian wasn’t looking at it that way. She also knew she had to answer before the train rolled off with her still on it.

“Uh, yeah, sure—we’d love to; when’s good for you?”

“Tonight, tomorrow?”

“I really don’t feel like cooking tonight.”

“Tonight it is. You know where the Regina Pizzeria is on Cambridge?”

“Of course.”

“6:30?”

“Sounds perfect. See you then!”

She managed to get off the train right as the doors were closing, but glanced back and saw him smiling at her as the train pulled away; she couldn’t help but return it, especially with the way his hair was adorably hanging in his face. He really was cute.

And friends can be cute. Platonically cute. Yes. That’s a thing she’d been reminding herself a lot over the past few weeks.

She immediately passed out when she got home, only waking up to the sound of Henry arriving back from his sleepover at the Nolans. He obviously loved the idea of going out for pizza and seeing Killian, but apparently had some concerns.

“Are you sure he meant both of us? I don’t want to be the third wheel.”

“What the—what?” Where would he get that idea? “Yes, he specifically said your name; and you’re my kid; you’re not a third wheel.” 

“Yeah, but I don’t want to cockblock Killian.” 

She was stunned. The only admonishment she could come up with was, “Henry David.” 

“What? He totally likes you and you totally like him. I may be a kid but I still have eyes; you’re both so obvious.”

That definitely left an impact on her. Henry knew everything—what happened in the past and why she wrapped up; she assumed he’d figured out that Killian was the same. That that was exactly why they got along: there was no pretense, no double entendre—just two people being friends. (Really good friends, it was turning out to be.) 

Was she sending mixed signals? Was Killian sending some that she wasn’t picking up on? Was she so far out of the game that she didn’t even know what the signals looked like anymore?

This was not the kind of thing she needed on her mind when she was supposed to be having a casual dinner with a casual friend.

“Stop overthinking it, Mom,” Henry called from his room, where he’d retreated. “Just be normal.”

Easier said than done. She walked into the pizza place ready to be a bit more reserved, but then he smiled when he saw them and any resolve she had was left at the door.

And any lingering traces of it disappeared when Henry, in his excitement over something that happened in his last game of D&D, knocked over her water glass—and Killian was the one to rush forward with napkins. For her lap. He set a few on her thigh before realizing what he’d done—and where his hand was—before backing away.

Part of her wanted to tell Henry, “See? He’s not interested.” But that would involve telling him where hands on thighs usually ended up and she wasn’t ready for that conversation anytime soon.

But from then on, Killian was a constant presence. It wasn’t really done by conscious effort; it just kind of...happened. 

Like their weekly tradition with the Nolans, pizza night with Killian became a thing, too, especially with the discovery that he didn’t live all that far away from them—his apartment was just a handful of blocks from theirs. They didn’t stick to just pizza—Chinese and Mediterranean found their way into the rotation regularly, among others—and the day varied depending on work schedules, but they ended up sharing meals at least a couple times a week. 

Every few days, she and Killian would find themselves on the same train, and their 20-minute chats covered everything. He shared stories of growing up in England with Liam; she talked about the revolving foster home doors of her upbringing. He described the oppressive heat and constant fear during his deployment in the Middle East, but the incredible sense of camaraderie with his crew mates; she relayed how scared she was staring at the positive pregnancy test at 17, and even more so during delivery, but the immediate relief and joy at holding Henry for the first time. They discussed their jobs, too—how watching his mother die of illness first pushed him into medicine and the challenges of being a one-handed ER doc, and how she kind of fell into bail bonds when she helped catch the guy who shot Neal after he skipped bail; how now, it helped her bring other people to justice. 

And they traded the tales of their lost loves, which were almost eerily similar in their whirlwind nature and tragic end—not to mention the scars left on their hearts. 

“Do you ever wonder if you made the right choice, though?” Killian asked her one day; he’d just treated a couple brought in after an accident and it was obvious it had hit close to home. “Like...do you ever doubt yourself? With all this?”

It wasn’t hard for her to answer. “Yeah, I do.” The more time passed, the more she wondered if she’d been right in her initial assessment—if there really had been evidence that Neal was her soulmate, or if she’d been off base. “But what’s worse—knowing you had a soulmate and losing them, or never finding them at all?”

Killian nodded. “Too true, lass—too true.” He furrowed his brow in thought, though, as if working up the courage for his next statement. “But what if they were still out there?”

Her heart skipped a beat; was he talking about himself? God, she hoped not (...or did she?). Regardless, it was definitely something she’d thought about, too. “If they are, I’m still not sure. I’ve had enough of being passed over and pushed around for one lifetime; I want to be chosen by someone, not just fated to be with them. So at least I know I had that—for a little bit, anyway.”

He studied her, seeming to soak in her words. “I can’t say I’ve ever thought of it that way, but...you’re right.”

She never would’ve thought some of the most intimate conversations of her life would take place on a public train, but the way Killian gave her his undivided attention, with understanding in those bright blue eyes, somehow made it feel like they were the only people in the car. 

And he was always so...close. Physically. It was almost as if in their dance around each other trying to avoid touch, they only ended up waltzing closer. There was the time she nearly slipped in Snow’s kitchen after Henry spilled water (again) and he grabbed her by the arm to keep her upright. Or the night he nearly stepped into traffic as they were leaving their favorite sushi place and she had to tug him back by the bicep. Not to mention when they nearly hugged in farewell as they left the Nolans’ one night—especially after Henry had given him a fierce one. It had just felt natural to do the same, but they caught themselves at the same moment. Awkwardly, she offered up her elbow instead, which he gamely bumped with his own, but it was a near miss on both their parts. 

(Emma was still pretending she hadn’t heard Henry mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like “oh my god, just kiss already.”)

He was the one to give her a boost when a slip kept evading her. “I’ve yet to see you fail, Swan,” he assured her, and she couldn’t help but believe it. 

She returned the favor when he was upset over losing a young patient. “Trust me—you’ve got more than one mark in the hero column.”

His laugh became one of her favorite sounds. His smile never failed to brighten her days. And she’d never seen someone so good with Henry other than her brother. 

Without anyone really noticing, they’d become part of each other’s lives seamlessly—a fact that finally hit her when he was the first person she texted when she finally caught the elusive skip, not David or Snow like she used to. 

Emma knew that should freak her out in some way. What would happen if Killian got a job out of town? Or if he actually did like her-like her, but didn’t want to deal with her emotional walls and/or possible rejection? (She had no idea how’d she’d respond to that.) Because by late summer, he’d become such a constant that she was having a hard time remembering what life was like before he was in it.

That was a lie; she knew exactly how it’d been: lonely. She knew she didn’t “need a man” or whatever, or even romance, but she couldn’t deny that she’d been severely lacking in the kind of companionship he provided—someone outside her family she could be close to. 

On one of the last Saturdays of the summer, she and Henry were taking Killian on their own version of the Freedom Trail—all the parts they found coolest, at least. They started at Boston Common and had worked their way over to Faneuil Hall, giving Killian plenty of time and opportunity to curse out the statue of Sam Adams for “irresponsibly condemning this city to a lifetime of inadequate, tasteless ale”, before showing him the marketplace. Emma’s heart did a strange stutter when she saw his eyes grow wide at the spectacle ahead of him—it was too adorable. 

And then Henry was shouting something about one of street performers and grabbing Killian’s prosthesis to drag him off to see them. And then Killian, in turn, took hold of her hand at the last second, nearly yanking her arm from her socket as she got pulled away.

She didn’t yelp or cry out, though—she laughed; screamed, even, in surprise and joy as she was dragged along by two of her favorite boys. Killian glanced over his shoulder, as if to make sure she was still there, and gave one of the biggest grins she’d ever seen.

The three of them nearly crashed together when Henry came to a sudden stop; she instinctively grabbed Killian’s bicep to brace herself from smacking into him. It took a minute for them to catch their breath, and at the end of it, she realized she was still gripping Killian’s hand in hers. Her palm was sweating in its leather confine, but she couldn’t take her eyes off of the way their fingers had so easily intertwined.

Killian must have taken the way she was staring as something other than awe, because as soon as he noticed, he let go and stepped away. He scratched behind his ear—what she’d come to identify as a nervous tick—as he turned his attention on the busker, so she too tried to play it cool.

That was the most physical contact she’d had with someone outside of her family in literal years—that she actually wanted, at least. And she was pretty positive the same went for him.

Despite the heat, she shivered. Was she really considering something that was vaguely romantic? She firmly believed in platonic relationships—in particular, the platonic-ness of theirs—but it wasn’t hard for her to imagine more, especially if her dreams were any indication (they almost exclusively featured him nowadays, and in far less fanatastical settings than they once had). So deep down, she knew there was a (very small) part of her that wanted it.

She attempted to ignore it; it was, after all, just another in their long line of weird clashes that sent sparks through her body, another of which happened later that day when they were eating at Regina Pizzeria (again) and their fingers brushed when she handed him a plate.

And whatever that weirdness was, it didn’t affect their friendship, or his with Henry. As they sat there at their table, enjoying the meal and listening (and laughing) to Henry’s stories about school, the only thing she could really feel was happy. And, she had to admit, happier than she’d been in a long time.

Outsiders would probably make some inferences on their familial appearance, and maybe there was a slight chance it could be like that some day, once she had more time to warm up to the idea; but what they had was perfect, and didn’t need to change.

*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*――*☆*

As has been stated in the past, however, the universe is a dick.

It was the Sunday before Labor Day, but the standard work week doesn’t mean much for people working in emergency medicine and bail bonds. At least Emma had wrapped up early for the day—nabbed her mark as he was leaving mass, ironically—and hopped on the crowded train, filled with people heading home from church.

“Swan! Over here,” came the familiar shout from the middle of the car; Killian was standing at one of the poles in the middle, his right arm holding it tight and with just enough space next to him for her to slip in. Her left hand came to rest on the pole just below his, and the train shuddered off a moment later; she had to bend her knees to keep from falling into him.

“Well, did you get your man?”

“Yup. And his priest saw the whole thing.”

“Ooh,” Killian winced. “Hope he’d already gone to confession.”

He caught her up on the craziness of his last shift, as had become habit at this point, before moving to his usual simple request for “So, dinner?”

She was ready to say yes, until she remembered. “Oh, sorry—Henry has a sleepover tonight. Last one before school starts.”

“Ahh,” Killian nodded understanding. “Well,” he started, and then his nervous tick came out again, as he scratched behind his ear with his prosthesis and stared at the floor. “My invitation still stands, if you’d like.”

She swallowed. She hadn’t been alone with Killian...well, not since the first day they met, when he cleaned her hand in the Nolans’ half bath. There’d always been someone else there as a buffer.

Not all that long ago, she would have been terrified at the idea. But now...she was kind of excited by it. Or maybe “intrigued” was the better word. She certainly didn’t hate it.

Her walls wouldn’t let her be so obvious, though. “Are you asking me out on a date or something?” she teased, smirking; she also had a bit of extra endorphins running through her system after that morning’s takedown.

“Do you want it to be one?” he tossed back, except he was serious.

She chewed on her bottom lip for a bit; despite all their conversations—despite the fact that he knew basically everything about her—this was the most exposed she’d ever felt with him. “Would it be okay if I did?” she said quietly, only loud enough for him to hear.

A slow smile took over his face, starting in the corners of his eyes and lighting up his whole face. Those butterflies in her stomach began to flutter again at the sight of it, and she could feel her face involuntarily mirroring it—until she was rudely jolted.

Looking back on the moment, everything seemed to happen in slow motion. The train slammed on the brakes, which was nothing new, but the car wasn’t usually packed like a sardine. The man behind Emma hadn’t been holding onto anything, so he was sent reeling forward, crashing into her back and pushing her toward Killian, who instinctively put his free arm out to catch her.

She didn’t have time to grab his arm, though, before her chest was colliding with his. Logically, she knew she should be feeling a shock at the collision and no doubt have her wind knocked from her, but all she could feel—emotionally, at least—was a completely foreign rush of worry and, stranger still, love.

Fuck, she thought.

«Bloody hell,» was the echo within her mind—but that wasn’t her voice. It was Killian’s.

In her brain.

She opened her eyes, not realizing she’d been squinting them shut, only to realize her cheek was pressed up against Killian’s and he still had his arm wrapped around her, holding her close.

Holding her.

Against his skin.

Oh, no.

The train came to a stop just as she jumped away from him; people would probably say it looked like she’d been burned, and she supposed in a way she had been. This couldn’t be happening.

“Emma?” he breathed, eyes wide and incredulous.

“I—I—” she stammered. “I...can’t.”

Not wasting another moment, she turned and ran—off the train, out of the station, halfway home. He’d shouted her name as she was leaving but she didn’t stop. Her phone buzzed several times but she ignored it. She didn’t stop even to breathe until she was in her apartment, with the door locked behind her.

She’d just imagined it, right? He must have said it out loud. She only felt those things because he was hugging her. That was why he was surprised; it had to be.

There was no way that Killian Jones was her soulmate.

Right?

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

thanks for reading! Hope to see you for the last chapter!

tagging some peeps: @kat2609 @thesschesthair @optomisticgirl @xpumpkindumplingx @shipsxahoy @amortentia-on-the-rocks @mryddinwilt@cocohook38 @annytecture @wingedlioness @word-bug @fergus80@pirateherokillian@bleebug @its-imperator-furiosa @killianmesmalls @effulgentcolors @laschatzi @ive-always-been-a-pirate @stubble-sandwich @killian-whump @lenfaz @phiralovesloki @distant-rose @athenascarlet @kmomof4 @ilovemesomekillianjones @whimsicallyenchantedrose@snowbellewells @idristardis @scientificapricot @let-it-raines @shireness-says @courtorderedcake @its-okay-killian @captainsjedi @a-faekindagirl

[ruminativerabbi]

Israelis and Emiratis

This week’s surprise announcement that the United Arab Emirates and Israel have decided to establish full diplomatic relations, including the cultural and commercial ties that such relations traditionally bring in their wake, caught me completely off guard—and everybody else in the world too apparently except for the players directly involved. Who saw that coming? And yet, now that I’ve had time to think about it a bit, I see this not only as something that was probably inevitable, at least eventually, but as a move that has the potential to alter the political reality in the Middle East in a way that could possibly actually lead to a peaceful resolution of one of the most traditionally intractable face-offs on the planet, the Israeli-Palestinian dispute.

It’s hard even to know where to start in assessing the potential impact of the agreement, but probably most important of all is that it makes it crystal clear that the Sunni Arab world is not going to refuse to make common cause with the one country in the region, Israel, that can and does stand up to Iran in its relentless effort to extend its malign, imperialist influence into Iraq, Lebanon, and Yemen merely because the Palestinians don’t wish them to. The Gulf States feel vulnerable because that’s precisely what they are—and the UAE decision to recognize Israel is simply their way to make themselves feel less vulnerable and more in control of their own destiny. Nor is it at all likely that this is the sole deal of its kind in the offing: most of the experts I’ve read this last week seem to agree that it is now only a matter of time before Oman, Bahrein, Kuwait, and even Saudi Arabia follow suit and establish formal relationship with Israel. (Morocco and Sudan won’t be far behind.) It’s hard to imagine a more dramatic shift than the one constituted by this week’s agreement. It really is a whole new world out there.

The message the UAE-Israel deal sends out directly to the Palestinians is key. For decades, the Palestinian leadership has presumed the right to turn down whatever is offered to them—and there have been so many offers over the years that it’s hard even for experts to keep them all straight—not because of any specific detail included or not included, but merely because entering into a peace arrangement with Israel would obviously require the Palestinians to agree to live in peace with their neighbors, something they have never been able to bring themselves to do.

I have returned to this theme many times in this space. Well over 100 nations have already recognized the non-existent nation of Palestine, so it’s not like the Palestinians have to worry if their state will be internationally recognized. Indeed, the Palestinians could easily proclaim their independence tomorrow, like the Israelis did in 1948, and then get on with the business of nation-building. Yes, they’d have to work through various issues with the Israelis, including some thorny ones regarding a future Jewish presence in the new Palestinian state, but once all that was successfully done the Palestinians would still have to bring themselves to live in peace with the Israelis next door. And that is what they appear unwilling or unable to bring themselves to do.

The UAE-Israel speaks directly to that set of issues.

First, it makes it clear that the Palestinians do not have a veto over other nations’ decisions to act in their own best interests. They had an inkling of that sentiment in 1979 when Sadat came to Jerusalem and Egypt established diplomatic relations with Israel, and then again in 1994 when Jordan followed suit. But 1994 was quite some time ago and things have changed considerably in the Near East since then. The Palestinians are eager to describe the UAE decision as a stab in their collective back. But a more realistic appraisal would be that the decision simply constitutes an instance of a nation declining to pass up a chance to prosper through a judicious alliance merely because of a different people’s intransigency.

Second, it makes it clear that the threat posed by the Iranians to the neighboring states of the Middle East is serious and real…and not only in Western eyes but in the eyes of the players on the ground in the region. In other words, this week’s agreement signals that the nations who see themselves as future victims of Iranian expansionism are not going to sacrifice their nations on the altar of somebody else’s national aspirations…and particularly not when those aspirations could be brought to fruition easily and effectively in a matter of days or weeks if there were any real desire to live in peace and to prosper not as a nation of perennial victims, but as a free, independent, autonomous player in the forum of nations.

Third, the Palestinians have always acted as though time were on their side, as though all they had to do was wait long enough and Israel would just go away and their problems would be solved. The UAE deal signals that the opposite is actually the case, that time is specifically not on their side, and that the time has clearly come to act if they want to resolve their conflict with Israel effectively and fairly. The Palestinian story is a tragic one that began with their leaders’ failure to seize the moment in 1948 and establish the “other” state that the Partition Plan for British Palestine was supposed to create. That was already seventy-two years ago, however, and yet they remain mired in tactical decisions that failed them in the 1940s and are still failing them. Clearly, at least some of the Arab world is tired of waiting for the Palestinians to act in their own best interests.

And, finally, the UAE-Israel agreement makes it clear that the oft-insisted-upon fantasy that Israeli cannot live in peace with any Arab nation until it caves into the demands of the Palestinians, no matter how radical or unimaginable, is simply not true. It probably wasn’t ever really true. But now it’s clearer than ever that the moment for the Palestinians to move forward as an independent state is upon them…if they have the courage to seize the day and make the requisite compromises any deal will inevitably entail.

What the Palestinians have to learn, the Europeans also need to take to heart. The endless EU-based rhetoric based on the assumption that the key to Israeli-Arab relations is resolving the Palestinian conflict needs to be set aside and replaced with words reflective of a new reality. If the member states of the EU want to contribute to peace in the Middle East, in fact, they need to press the Palestinians to realize that their problems are being dwarfed in the region by the hegemonic aggression of the world’s two largest non-Arab Muslim states, Iran and Turkey. And that the smaller states in the region see that aggression not only as irritating or destabilizing, but as an existential threat. Since peoples who are facing existential threats generally do what it take to address those threats regardless of what bystanders think appropriate or reasonable, the time has clearly come to press the Palestinians to negotiate a just peace and then to move ahead from there into the future.

Suddenly, all sorts of dreams I’ve had for years are becoming slightly more possible. Could Lebanon ever live in peace with Israel? Not with the Iranian-backed Hezbollah pulling the strings, but what if Lebanon suddenly found the wherewithal to become free of foreign influence? What then? Would a seriously isolated Iran be willing to renegotiate the so-called Iran Deal of 2015 and agree actually to turn away from the possibility of becoming a nuclear power? Could the people of Syria ever seize the real reigns of power in their country, get rid of the Iranians camped out on their territory, and establish the kind of close ties with Jordan, Lebanon, and Israel that should have long ago made that specific part of the Near East into the economic powerhouse it could and should be? The irony, of course, is that these developments—pie-in-the-sky though they may sound now—these developments would only bring prosperity and autonomy to the Palestinians too, who would then be part of a thriving economic region.

In the meantime, exciting things are happening. The Israeli and UAE foreign ministers have had their first phone call and are apparently going to meet in person soon. Embassies are going to be opened, ambassadors appointed. Omer Adam, the Israeli singer, was invited personally by the royal family of the UAE to perform in Abu Dhabi. Israeli President Reuven Rivlin formally invited the Emirati crown prince, Mohammed bin Zayed Al Nahyan, to visit Israel. It is expected that it is only a matter of time, possibly only weeks, before direct flights begin between Tel Aviv and Abu Dhabi.

Americans should be proud of the role our government played in this enormous break-through. But the lion’s share of the credit goes to the Emiratis themselves who found the courage to act in their own best interests. That their move could conceivably lead the Palestinians to abandon their traditional intransigency and negotiate a just and real peace deal with Israel—that really would be the icing on the cake. Whether that will happen, none can say. But it was a pretty good week for the Middle East, and particularly for Israel and for the UAE, and for that we should all be grateful.

[hamilton-one-shots]

Uh, so this is something I heard in class. We’re learning about the French revolution and this is a conversation I heard that goes as follows:

Teacher: They were so in debt that many people were starving and on the streets while the royal family and nobles were partying like there wasn’t a financial crisis

Boy: What? That’s so stupid!

Girl: Of course it’s stupid, (boy’s name), that’s why there was a revolution!

I was wondering if you would be okay with making a fic on this since I actually imagined the Hamsquad going through this. You can take the liberties you want and can paraphrase as well! I’m just eager to see what you come up with!! I love your work, by the way!!! ❤❤❤

(Idea submitted by: @probablyhipster)

I’m glad you like my work! I’m sorry I took so long working on it, but I hope you enjoy the end result!

(Edited by: @daflangstlairde-writes)

Lafayette sighed as he stared out of the window, blocking out the noise around him. He’d been invited to another party and, to be frank, it wasn’t like him to decline the invitation. His sweet wife, Adrienne, was having the time of her life, but the Marquis couldn’t get himself to do the same.

Ever since he’d come home from America, everywhere he’d look, there were people starving, dying in the streets, and it was constantly on his mind. He had tried so hard to bring it up, to get others to share their wealth, but it never worked. There was no way he could enjoy himself knowing that all of those people were out there, suffering, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“My love? Aren’t you going to join me in a dance?” Adrienne teased, knowing how poorly her husband faired on the dance floor.

Lafayette shook his head and stood up. “No. I’m in no mood to dance... Ever since I’ve come home, I’ve seen nothing but despair in the streets. You know how deeply it has been plaguing my thoughts.. I must have mentioned it at least a thousand times to hundreds of people, but nothing changes. Nobody cares like we do. Nobody here will give even a fraction of their wealth to help their whole country of people.”

Adrienne frowned at her husband’s despair and put a hand on his shoulder. “Then why don’t you do something about it? You fought in America. You did what people said you couldn’t.” He did what people said he wasn’t allowed to. “With that same behavior, surely you, of all people, could start something.”

He nodded and smiled. His wife was right. He was the one who took her gown just to go to America. He was the right hand man of General George Washington, the greatest soldier of all time. Besides, surely, the people were angry enough to want to start a war. “I think I will attempt to.. I can help them rise up and take what they deserve..” Unfortunately, there was one downside to having helped his friends across the sea. “But don’t you think I’m in enough trouble after helping the Americans?.. I fear that if they catch me now, they could throw me in jail before I can do anything.” Jail was inevitable. It was the timing that mattered.

She tutted. “Forget about that. You can do what you want and I will help you.” Even if that meant helping him escape prison and Lafayette was well aware of that.

He smiled and kissed the back of his wife’s hand. “We’ll gather friends and start as soon as the morning arises. For now, I need some fresh air. I’m afraid that my attempts to drown my sorrows in wine were successful.”

Adrienne nodded, and anyone who knew the uncontrollable couple would fear the almost crazed look in their eyes, even as drunk as they were. It was the spark of the revolution.

John Laurens wished he wasn’t as squeamish as he was or as afraid of every small creak in the dark, but he simply wasn’t used to this lifestyle. Still, he refused to complain. He had willingly left his life as British nobility to be with his lover and he wouldn’t have it any other way. At the moment, he was alone, his Alexander out selling his body to some stranger who could help pay for their next meal, but for John, the situation couldn’t have been more perfect. That was to say that his Alexander wouldn’t know that John was going to attempt the same. He dressed himself in one of Alexander’s gowns and snuck through alleyways and shadows to where he knew there was a banquet. There was some sort of function there every night, from what he remembered.

John posted himself at a tree, waiting to see some drunk, rich man stumble out. And, he saw one before long. The man wasn’t exactly stumbling, but he did look rich. So, John decided to try his luck and approached him, hoping he didn’t look as nervous as he felt.

“Are you lost?” the other asked, eyeing him up and down with an almost displeased expression.

John tightened his fists at his side, gripping the fabric of the gown tightly. “I... I’m sorry.. Excuse me.” He began to turn to leave, but was stopped by a hand grabbing his elbow.

“Wait. Wait... Are you alright? Do you need help?”

John shook his head, dropping his gaze. “I was just hoping to exchange my time for some money..”

The other man released his arm with a soft smile, grabbing his purse from his coat. “I don’t need your body, but I will give you the money you need.”

John’s eyes went wide. Was this some kind of test? Surely, a man of his standing wouldn’t just give away his money.

But he did. The stranger handed John more money than he’d seen in his entire time in France, the sight making John drool. He took John’s hand and placed the money into his palm, curling it into a fist.

“You need this more than I do. I have more than enough.” He raised John’s face to get a proper look at his face, smiling softly. “You are a beautiful man. You shouldn’t have to live this life.. Do you need help?”

“I..” John hesitated before opening his mouth to speak once more. “My lover and I... I left a life of nobility for him.. I don’t want to be ungrateful, but it’s been hard..” He began tearing up. “He sells his body, but doesn’t let me do the same, not wanting me to get hurt.. I just wanted to help him..”

The stranger nodded and held his hand reassuringly. “You and your lover can stay with me and my wife. I know she will accept the arrangement. Meet me here tomorrow night when the moon is at its highest, bring your love.”

“I.. I can’t... He’s too proud of a man to accept a handout and I have no intention of leaving him.”

The stranger sighed, disappointed by the rejection, but nodded in understanding. “I understand. Well, if I ever see you again, don’t be afraid to ask for money. I have more than enough to help you and others.” He took more money from his purse and put it in John’s empty hand. “That’s to help anybody else who know who needs it. I know it’s not much, but-”

“No.. No, it’s more than enough... Thank you..” John insisted through his tears.

“A lovely boy like you shouldn’t cry... Here.” The stranger wiped away John’s tears with his handkerchief. “And keep this. If I see your love with it, I’ll know to give him whatever money I have on me.”

John nodded and put the money into the handkerchief for safe keeping. “I can’t thank you enough..”

“You shouldn’t have to. There will be a fight for your right to live, to more than survive. I know it. What is your name?”

What was the point in hiding it? It was a name that meant nothing anymore. “John.. John Laurens. And who are you?”

He gave a friendly smile. “Marquis De Lafayette, at your service.”

And, with how friendly the Marquis had been, John wasn’t intimidated by such a title. “I hope to see you again, Marquis.”

Lafayette nodded and waved as the other left before going back inside.

John ran back to his and his lover’s hiding spot and got back into his own clothing, then waited for Alexander to return. He could hardly wait through the excitement brought by the large sum of money in his pocket.

The second Alexander came into view, John pulled him into a tight hug, kissing his love and ignoring the sour taste on his lips.

“John, what are you doing?” Alexander asked, chuckling as he pulled away. “My love, someone as sweet as you shouldn’t taste the rancid taste that the night has left me. At least let me clean myself off for you..”

John smiled and took a step back. “I’m sorry... But I.. I took one of your gowns to meet someone. But!” he exclaimed, stopping his lover before he could cut him off. “He didn’t ask for my body. He gave me money, a lot of money, and offered us a place to stay. I rejected, but... I took the money.” He got the handkerchief and showed what laid inside to his Alexander, feeling his heart swell at his lover’s expression.

“John.. This is... This is a lot of money..”

John nodded rapidly. “We have to save it... But I can help you. I can go out and do the same as you, I can take it!”

“No!” Alexander argued, eyes wide with worry. “John. No.. You’re beautiful... Too beautiful. Do you know what those men would do to you?..” he asked, his voice growing soft. It made him almost regret making the job seem easy. Allow John to see just how exhausted he was and Alexander knew the other would demand that he’d be allowed to join, something that Alexander couldn’t deny, yet something that he couldn’t allow. Keep John away from the dangers of the job and John just pokes around on his own.

“They will pay me,” John said matter-of-factly.

“They would destroy you!” Alexander argued, raising his voice just a bit. The only choice John left him was a compromise. Make sure John knew that he could easily die out there without showing the odds of himself meeting the same fate. The last thing Alexander wanted was to be forceful and scare John, but his own world was a terrifying one. And it was no lie for him to say that, for someone like John, it would be much worse. “I am considered only lovely and... And they like lovely. They don’t care too much for it, but when it’s at their disposal, nobody can refuse.”

Alexander raised a hand and gently cupped John’s cheek. “But you... John, you’re beautiful.. You’re so rare.. You’re such a commodity that it would excite anyone who gets their hands on you.” He paused and took a deep breath. “They see something so rare and one of two things happens; either they’ll demand that they keep you or they get so angry they can’t that they break you... I’ve seen it happen before.” He paused, hardly able to stomach the idea. “And... And I can’t lose you. You’re all I have, John...” He raised his other hand to John’s cheek, the other holding both in place.

“I understand.. I’m sorry...” John smiled apologetically. The last thing he wanted was for Alexander to go out at night more scared than he already had to be. Alexander needed to worry about himself first.

Alexander sighed and pulled him into a hug. “Anything else you ask of me, I’ll bring it to you. Anything else you want to do, you can do.. But I will not let them break you in the name of my comfort..”

John returned the hug and placed a quick kiss on Alexander’s forehead. “I understand.. I’ll find another way. I can sew clothing for a small fee, I know many people must need help with such a thing.” It wouldn’t earn him as much, but it would still be something.

Alexander nodded. “Whatever pleases you, my love..”

Still, they kept Lafayette’s money in case of emergencies. And John had a newfound hope. He trusted what Lafayette had said.

Someday, things will be different. Someday, he won’t have to struggle to get by while nobles just ate and danced their days away.

And when that day does come, he’d join the fight for it. And even if he does not live to see the glory of their win, those of tomorrow will.

(Also, I’m sorry that this is being uploaded late. I’ll post the next one shot 12 hours early to make up for it.)

[the-stick-scribblers]

Salt and Smoke

Outside the cabin, blue sky presided over a vast gray ocean, or at least the sky wanted to think so.  Apollo dragged sun over the waves, where it caught and glistened and fooled the eyes of less experienced men.  Salt off the sea made up as much of the air as the air did, and under the hot summer sun, the ship’s deck would feel warm to the touch.

But Ronan Lynch didn’t see these things.

Inside the cabin, Ronan stood in front of the captain’s desk, awaiting his usual warning before being unleashed.  On the deck at the same time, the crew received a similar warning from their quartermaster, the much-loved Noah Czerny, but for some reason, Captain Gansey always insisted he give Ronan a private lecture.

“You know the men will do what they see you doing,” Gansey said, leaning forward over his desk, shirt sleeves pushed up to his elbows.  His hair, mussed yet somehow miraculously without grease, shifted slightly when the ship rocked.  They were headed for home, for Nassau, and Gansey had set as fast a pace as the Glendower could manage.  The men were all anxious for land and the pleasures it offered.

“They’ll do what Czerny tells them,” Ronan said.  He kept his arms crossed over his chest.  He wanted to lean against something.

Gansey rolled his eyes.  “Only if it suits them, and you know it.  Only if they don’t see you doing something they like better.”

Ronan grinned.  The crew largely regarded him as Gansey’s dog, he knew.  His loyalty went unquestioned, and this did not make for a good quartermaster.  The men didn’t trust him to look out for their best interests if the captain ever led them astray, and so they had voted in favor of the meeker, but more pleasant, Czerny instead.  However, the crew, almost down to a man, revered Ronan.  Some even more than the captain.  Many, perhaps.  Ronan knew this, and while he had no mind to take advantage, it did make him laugh.

“I’ll behave,” he said.

“Please.”  Gansey pushed himself back from the desk and rolled down his sleeves.  His work was done, now that he had exacted this promise.

“I always do,” Ronan said, just to see the stricken look on Gansey’s face right before he turned to exit the cabin and return to the deck.

The men had scattered, scrambling to make preparations to anchor in the harbor.  Ronan made it to the rail just as someone shouted overhead that land had been sighted.  All around him, the crew gave out a raucous cheer.  They had been at sea for many weeks now, chasing a particular prize, which they had finally succeeded in capturing after several failed attempts.  Fortunately for Gansey, and all of them, there had been no shortage of merchant vessels between the Glendower and Gansey’s true goal, and so they were returning to Nassau with significant heft to their pockets.

Gansey counted on Ronan for these victories.  He had his mind, and his eye, set on larger sights.  So while Gansey planned and plotted, Ronan pillaged and plundered.  The crew saw the value in Gansey’s wits and trusted him to lead them to larger payouts in the long haul, and they knew Ronan would steer them right in the short term.  It was a beneficial arrangement for all involved: Gansey got a ship and a crew to help him find his treasures, Ronan got to fight, and the men got paid.

Now they would return with their gold and their goods, which would, for the most part, quickly be spent.  And when they sank all their hard-won money back into Nassau’s bustling economy, they would sail out again.  Normally Ronan waited not-so-patiently in town until the sea and her spoils called the men back, but today even he felt some measure of anticipation to step onto that familiar beach.

“You heard he’s back too?”

Ronan turned and had to squint against the sun to see Noah’s face.  The quartermaster had appeared by his side to lean against the rail, looking out over the water toward home.  That was how everyone saw Nassau: home.  Not Ronan.  The Glendower was Ronan’s home.  Gansey was home.  The rolling waves beneath his feet and the crack of bone beneath his fist.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

Noah did not believe him.  Noah knew him too well.  And despite himself, Ronan didn’t mind much.  It was hard, even for him, to resist Noah’s pull.  He hadn’t been surprised when the men chose him for quartermaster.  In fact, while he would never admit it out loud to anyone, he’d been pleased with the choice.

“Whatever you say,” Noah said.  “But I heard he’s back.  And if I heard it, then you heard it.  Just don’t,” he stopped.

Ronan glared at him; it didn’t matter if Noah knew it to be all bark.

“Don’t look for trouble, all right?” Noah finished, and then he disappeared again.

Ronan looked back out over the water, in the direction of the harbor, though it hadn’t yet come into sight.  He wouldn’t look for trouble, he thought, wondering how many warnings his friends thought he needed.  But he wouldn’t say no to it if it found him on its own.

#

“Richard Campbell Gansey III.”

Ronan turned away in mock disgust -- mock, because he didn’t really care much, disgust because he didn’t need to see the soppy grin on Gansey’s face.

“That’s Captain Gansey, Jane,” Gansey said.

“That’s Blue, Captain,” Blue Sargent said.  “Besides, you’re not my captain.”  She shot an exaggerated wink over the bar and Gansey’s cheeks flared pink.

“Jesus, Gansey, don’t let the men see you like that,” Ronan said.

While it certainly would have been less than ideal for the crew to see their captain blushing like a schoolgirl, and they were all well within proximity to see it since his face burned brighter than a beacon, there was no real danger.  They were all equally distracted by the many other denizens of Fox’s Way, Nassau’s most popular brothel and tavern.

Blue bit her own grin into a smirk (it was bad for business to play favorites) and turned to Ronan.  “What can I get for you, snake?”

“What do you think, maggot?”

Gansey had long since stopped telling Ronan not to talk to Blue this way.  It seemed he’d finally figured out it was all in good fun.

Blue poured him some rum and put it down in front of him.  He tossed a few extra coins onto the bar for her, which she swept out of sight with a flick of her fingers and a subtler, more platonic wink of her eye.

“And you, Captain?” she said.  She reached across the bar and brushed a piece of Gansey’s hair away from his face.

This was Blue’s favorite game, to torment the customers, Gansey especially.  As daughter of the owner, Blue did not work as the other girls of the house worked.  She supervised, managed conflicts, and tended the bar.  But as for the other pleasures of Fox’s Way, Blue Sargent was strictly off limits.

Gansey cleared his throat.  “I’m afraid we’ve got other business today,” he said.  He tilted his chin to give Blue a significant look.  Ronan downed his rum and rolled his eyes, purely for Blue’s benefit.  She caught it and laughed at Gansey’s expense, though with the same fondness and warmth below the surface that Ronan had for him as well.

They hadn’t always gotten along so easily, Blue and Ronan, but over time they’d thawed toward each other, and when they’d spent enough time in each other’s company to know that neither posed a threat to the other in terms of Gansey’s affection, they’d become friends.  Not that either of them would ever say so.  But that was the best kind, as far as Ronan was concerned.

Blue glanced around to make sure no one was waiting for her attention and then led Gansey and Ronan to a private room not currently in use.

“You didn’t really find it?” she said once they were alone.

An ornate bed sat at one end of the room, which otherwise didn’t have much to offer.  Shutters over the windows blocked most of the light.  The air smelled like sweat and sex.

“We did,” Gansey said, too proud to sound brittle.

The chart had been hard won.  After weeks of searching for the correct ship, they had finally found her and taken her, only to discover that the chart had been moved the week before.  They’d lost a lot of men that day, and come closer to defeat than Ronan liked to remember.  There was no love lost between any pirate and the British Royal Navy, but Ronan had particular reason to avoid and detest it, and anyone who sailed under its colors.

“Let me see,” Blue said.

“It’s on the ship.”  Gansey didn’t look at Blue when he said this.  Ronan knew he didn’t like keeping things from her, but any prize won, even under Gansey’s leadership, didn’t belong to one man.  It belonged to the crew, and therefore no one, not even Gansey, could take it anywhere without the crew’s consent.

“I understand,” Blue said, her voice cold, though Ronan suspected this came less from anger with Gansey’s answer than something else.  She had once drunkenly confessed to Ronan that she wished she too could board a ship and sail beneath the black, that it would suit her better than staying on this bit of sand to tend the family business.

“I just wanted to tell you,” Gansey said.  “We’re close now.”

Blue nodded.  Gansey took a step toward her, put his hand on the back of her neck, and kissed her forehead.  Ronan turned away to give them a moment’s privacy.  Then Gansey pulled back.  “The men have money to spend,” he said, “but we’ll be off as soon as they’ve sated themselves. We don’t have much window of opportunity.  We need to take it now.  If I’m not able to say goodbye before we go, I’ll send word.”

Blue, accustomed to this by now, accepted Gansey’s words.  But in the dark and away from other eyes, sorrow shone in the lines and hollows of her face, already too worn for her age.

Gansey slipped from the room but Ronan hovered.  Before Blue could leave, he put his hand on her arm.

“Where?” he said and handed her another coin.

Blue took it, more reluctantly than before.  “In his tent on the beach,” she said.  She looked like she wanted to issue a warning of her own, her lip held firm between her teeth, but she didn’t.

“Thank you,” Ronan said and followed after Gansey.

#

Ronan stayed away from the beach until the sun had set completely and the sky overhead was black as the back of his eyes.  He stayed away until the pull was as strong as the tide and he could no longer resist no matter how hard he tried.

He didn’t make any effort to hide his presence on the beach.  Men from a dozen crews or more milled about around fires, in tents, fucking the girls from Fox’s in the open night air.  Even someone as recognizable as himself, as well known as himself, could get lost in the crowd down here.  Still, before he dipped into the tent he sought, he made sure no one was around to see it.

Inside, the air felt close but not stale.  The Dreamer must not have arrived long ago.  Ronan didn’t take the time to ask.

Kavinsky lounged on his pallet at the center of the small tent, one leg crooked.  He looked up as soon as Ronan stepped inside, but before he had a chance to speak, Ronan threw himself to the ground in front of him and tore at the strings of Kavinsky’s trousers.  He could already feel his mouth flooding, and he knew, could hear, that he was breathing hard.  Above him, Kavinsky laughed, but Ronan ignored it.  He gripped Kavinsky’s wrist, guided his hand to the back of Ronan’s head, and then he let himself take what he had come for.

#

Adam knew, from the creaking around him and the faint queasiness in his stomach, that he was still onboard the ship.  He saw nothing but the black of the inside of his blindfold.  He heard nothing but the gentle shifting of wood and the lap of waves beyond.  He felt nothing but the bit of cloth between his teeth and the chains around his wrists.

He knew, from patches of conversation he had caught here and there and from that same unease in his gut, that they must have reached Nassau at last, and that the ship stood at anchor in the harbor.

He knew he could try, again, to scream, but he had long since given up hope that he might find any empathy among thieves.

So Adam waited.  In the dark of the belly of the beast, he waited for his chance to escape it.

[sheikah]

No one has to like Daenerys, (I do for the record), but how in the world can someone say with a straight face that she is a fascist??? Way to throw around a term with zero understanding. Also, why is she being bashed for wanting the kingdoms, yet other characters are being praised or encouraged to break off and form their own kingdoms?

I think that a lot of people have a kind of warped understanding of what the Seven Kingdoms really mean, and see the entire Targaryen dynasty as some sort of negative allegory for the worst aspects of an absolute monarchy. But that simply isn’t the case. 

Aegon I’s conquest was, indeed, a violent one. And the following Dornish wars and wars with the Iron Islands were bloody. Despite that, Aegon himself was not in his time widely viewed as some sort of bloody tyrant or dictator, and there was some reasoning to his goal of uniting Westeros that goes beyond a simple, selfish desire for power. 

Aegon was actually approached first by the Storm King Argilac Durrandon. He proposed an alliance based on a marriage between Aegon and Durrandon’s daughter, Argella. A huge piece of land from around the Trident to Blackwater Rush would be given to Aegon as Argella’s dowry. Argilac was not actually the lord of this land in the first place, but he made the offer in the interest of creating a manned border between his own lands and Harren Hoare’s–essentially trying to buy a shield in the form of the Targaryens. 

However, Aegon was faithful to his two sister-wives, Rhaenys and Visenya, and responded that he had no desire for a third wife. Instead, he offered his friend, Orys Baratheon, as an alternative for the alliance. But it was rumored that Orys was Aegon’s bastard half-brother, so Argilac was angry and took the offer as a personal slight. He responded by chopping off the hands of Aegon’s envoy and delivering them to Dragonstone. How barbaric!

The painted table at Dragonstone did not yet include strict borders between the Seven Kingdoms but Aegon knew that they were un-united and–based on encounters like this one with Argilac–ungoverned. He called together his council, and after many days of deliberation they settled on the conquest of Westeros. 

So Aegon was born on Dragonstone and only came to the decision to conquer the rest of Westeros after provocation and discussion. 

His actual reign, as stated above, had its problems; but there were also many years of peace. He established his capitol at King’s Landing, and at that time it was so peaceful that for awhile there were not even walls around it. He wasn’t worried about being attacked. 

Every year as king, Aegon made a progress around Westeros observing his country and making sure that everything was proceeding peacefully and efficiently. For him to personally oversee his kingdom this way is, as you probably know, a much more engaged and accountable ruling style than we’ve seen from kings like Robert Baratheon. 

Aegon was also careful to respect the Faith of the Seven and was crowned by a septon. 

All in all, I think there is a very exaggerated view of Aegon’s conquest and subsequent rule in the fandom that contributes to a lot of anti-Dany discourse. But, again, in reality his conquest and rule were not so bad.

I personally think it is meant to parallel the real-world Norman conquest that solidified the union of the warring Anglo Saxon, Celtic, and Viking people in Britain in the 10th century. Sometime in the early 900s AD, Alfred the Great established an infrastructure and influence throughout the warring kingdoms that lead to unification under his grandson, Eadred in 955 AD. So when William the Conqueror landed in 1066 the groundwork was already in place for him to rule, and while conquest in still conquest, this unification (even under a monarch instead of a democracy) was still a good thing in the interest of peace and shared resources. Because after the fall of the Roman Empire there, there was a lack of order and a series of violent conflicts that ended with unification.

So, similarly, Aegon’s Conquest can be viewed positively for its unification of the warring and sometimes lawless state of Westeros prior to his reign. 

After Aegon’s death, of course, not all ensuing rulers were good. In particular Maegor the Cruel comes to mind as a failure. But there were also good kings, most notably Jaehaerys I, also called “the Wise” and well-loved by his people. Taken from AWOIAF Wiki: 

“Jaehaerys was the longest-ruling Targaryen monarch, having ruled for fifty-five years. Because of this, he is referred to as the ‘Old King.’ His reign is remembered as the most prosperous period in the history of the Targaryen monarchy. His reign brought peace, stability, and justice to the Seven Kingdoms. Jaehaerys is possibly the best king that Westeros ever saw, and is regarded as such by many historians and laymen.”

So I don’t think that there is much basis for these arguments in the fandom for the independence of various kingdoms, or that the Targaryens were universally horrible or exploitative tyrants. On the contrary, having a unified kingdom has been a good thing when done right. 

So, how can it be done right?

Well, I think that Dany represents that in her eagerness to “Break the Wheel,” and her willingness to allow individual kingdoms conditional independence. 

We know that Dany was willing to let Yara Greyjoy rule the Iron Islands as its queen, and that Dany told Tyrion that other kingdoms could have their independence, too, so long as they “asked” like Yara did. The implication is that so long as these kingdoms agree to abide by Dany’s laws (no more “raping and reaving,” no slavery, etc) and to be her ally in any potential conflicts, they can be independent for all intents and purposes. But there is still a loose union happening, which is good. This allows the kingdoms autonomy while still sharing resources and protection with one another. 

If the North were to break away from the Seven Kingdoms as an independent kingdom, yes–they would be alright for awhile. They have the most land and the most people of any of the individual kingdoms. But in Winter, I have to wonder how well they could get along with no alliances. We know that The Reach produces most of the food. Presumably there are Winter crops to sustain the North, but is that really enough for the Northern population? Or, considering that the Northern population took a hit in the War of the Five Kings, is there enough manpower to farm enough crops to feed the entire kingdom through a whole Winter? And what about issues like the White Walkers? The Northerners absolutely cannot face that threat without the help of others. So I think it’s clear that independence is not all it’s cracked up to be by some arguments I’ve seen here. 

So, back to Dany. I do think that there have been points in Dany’s arc where her motives could be viewed as questionable to the audience (speaking mostly about show!Dany here). But we can see that has all been resolved now. Dany was tempted by extreme violence and the possibility of attacking and taking King’s Landing by force. We were told more than once in season 7 that Dany could have easily succeeded in doing this. Instead, she chose a better way. Additionally, while Dany started the season adamant on obtaining fealty from Jon with the assurance of keeping the North under her rule in the future, she ended the season with only the will to “save” the Northerners, only the will to fight alongside Jon as an ally, not to dominate the North or strip Jon of his power. 

She explicitly stated in her small council meeting back at Dragonstone in 7.07 that she was not going to conquer the North, she was going to save it. I think this is setting things up for Dany to allow Sansa to rule the North as Queen in the North, just like Yara wanted to do with the Iron Islands, down the line. 

So this places Dany as a happy medium between the disorganized chaos of several independent nations vying for power over one another, and the stricter rule of Aegon I. 

Again, we can turn to historical precedence to confirm this. Dany sails to Westeros from Essos, an exiled royal seeking to take back the throne she feels is her birthright. In the process of doing so, she has helped to halt hostilities between two long-warring families: the Starks and the Lannisters. 

We know that the Starks and the Lannisters represent the Yorks and the Lancasters from the Wars of the Roses in British history and that those wars were ended when Henry Tudor (a royal with a claim to the English throne) traveled to England and married Elizabeth of York, establishing the Tudor dynasty.

So Dany can be seen as a representation of Henry who will marry a Stark/York (Jon), unifying warring houses (the Targaryens, Starks, and Lannisters) and establishing a lasting dynasty. 

The Tudor dynasty was by no means perfect and peaceful. But under Henry Tudor’s son, Henry VIII, the Laws in Wales Act was passed in 1535 that began the process of establishing what is now the United Kingdom. 

For all these reasons, we can conclude that Dany is not a fascist but actually a unifying ruler who will represent a positive shift for Westeros. She has Essos under her power as well, where she abolished slavery and established a tenuous peace. If she is able to rally the whole of Westeros under her banners, there will be something close to world peace on Planetos. Additionally, we know that she will allow autonomous rulers in individual kingdoms, and respect kingdom borders, so long as they abide by her reasonable rules. In doing this, she will be creating a sort of United Kingdom of her own. And all of that will be made possible with a Stark alliance, thereby bolstering the political value of Jonerys as a ship, too.

Anyway, the antis have been saying this sort of stuff about Dany for years now, always insisting that with the next book or season, she’s going to become some evil tyrant and commit some genocide. But she never does, and she never will. We’ve got precedent and context to prove that. (And all of this without even scratching the surface of Dany’s character/behavior and interest in equality and personal freedom.)

[newstfionline]

For Meghan Markle’s American Family, a Relentless U.K. Glare

By Sarah Lyall, NY Times, May 15, 2018

It is notoriously hard to escape your background in Britain, no matter how successful you are or how much your life has diverged from that of your relatives. And so the British tabloids have for some months been treating the family of Meghan Markle, the American actress who is to marry Prince Harry on Saturday, like the stars of some sort of reality show: The Real Dysfunctional Families of America.

Other people’s family squabbles can be diverting to read about, if you like that sort of thing, until they are not. On Monday, a relentless campaign of unflattering attention on Ms. Markle’s father, a 73-year-old former Hollywood lighting director living quietly by himself in Mexico, turned into something sad and ugly, leading to reports that he was too embarrassed to attend his daughter’s wedding.

“Meghan Agony as Dad Pulls Out of Wedding,” The Daily Mail blared on Tuesday morning. (By afternoon, the reports had shifted: Her father wanted to attend, if he felt up to it after recent heart trouble.)

Every family has its unsavory secrets and internecine squabbles, of course, and Ms. Markle is particularly vulnerable because she is American and of mixed race, and because her family--including divorced parents, estranged siblings, self-promoting loose cannons and people who, if you look far enough, have been on the wrong side of the law--so easily lends itself to shallow stereotypes about class and race in the United States.

Her parents divorced when she was young, and she is said to have been estranged from her father, Thomas Markle. But the two had reconciled, and, until this most recent development, he had planned to walk his daughter down the aisle.

Mr. Markle, reclusive and unskilled in the ways of the media, has been a favorite punching bag of the British tabloids, which have a knack for generating controversies and stirring up class-based discord--and then claiming to be shocked, shocked that the controversies have taken place. This week, The Mail on Sunday printed an article saying that Mr. Markle had conspired with a photographer in Rosarito, Mexico, where he lives, to pose for photographs that were then falsely peddled to news outlets as having been taken without his permission.

“The revelation that Mr. Markle has been cooperating with a paparazzo behind the backs of his daughter, Prince Harry and Kensington Palace officials will cause huge embarrassment to the royal family in the run-up to the wedding,” the paper wrote, after having caused the embarrassment with its revelation in the first place. (It did not know, it admitted far down in the piece, whether Mr. Markle had in fact been paid for the photographs.)

That led to more trouble when Queen Elizabeth II, Harry’s grandmother, was said (without attribution) to be furious, and when Mr. Markle’s daughter Samantha Markle, among a contingent of Markle relatives who have not been invited to the wedding--yet have been vocal in their opinions about it--went on Twitter, and on British television, to stick up for her father.

“The bad press over my father doing staged photos is my fault,” Samantha Markle said. “The media was unfairly making him look bad, so I suggested he do positive photos for his benefit and the benefit of the royal family. We had no idea he would be taken advantage of. It was not for money.”

Reports that Mr. Markle would not attend the wedding came Monday night from the American celebrity news website TMZ. Kensington Palace, while neither confirming nor denying the report, soon released a statement that asked “for understanding and respect to be extended to Mr. Markle in this difficult situation.”

Even before the publication of The Mail on Sunday article, Kensington Palace had already tried to crack down on media coverage of Ms. Markle’s parents, sending a confidential letter to British editors imploring the tabloids to stop harassing them. Ms. Markle’s mother, Doria Ragland, has remained silent but has also been hounded by paparrazi, even on her way to and from work.

Ms. Ragland is already set to accompany her daughter to the wedding site--a break with tradition--but, if Mr. Markle does not come, she could wind up walking her down the aisle, too.

Having lured the family into their trap, the tabloids are now adding to the abuse. Writing Tuesday in Mail Online, Piers Morgan, the television presenter, accused Ms. Markle’s family of having “already behaved like the worst kind of vile, dysfunctional, money-grabbing misfits in the run-up to her marriage.”

It has to be said that others in Ms. Markle’s family--particularly ancillary members who have not been invited to the wedding--have not helped. Ms. Markle is estranged from her two half siblings, products of her father’s first marriage; they are the ones currently making the most mischief, egged on with promises of fame and with monetary compensation from the tabloids.

Samantha Markle, the half sister who on Monday rose to her father’s defense, announced last fall that she was writing a book--pure fiction, she insisted--called “The Diary of the Princess of Pushy’s Sister.”

More recently, Thomas Markle Jr., Samantha’s brother and Meghan’s half brother, called Meghan a “jaded, shallow, conceited woman.” He also warned Harry, in an open letter he provided to the news media, that the marriage would be “the biggest mistake in royal wedding history,” which is saying a lot when you consider that the royal family has been around for 1,000 years and that its history includes, to name a random example, the murderous matrimonial behavior of Henry VIII.

Then there is Tracy Dooley, the ex-wife of the half brother (which makes her Meghan’s former sister-in-law). Ms. Dooley says she does not feel hurt that neither she nor her sons, Tyler and Thomas III, were invited--especially since she separated from her ex-husband in 1992 and last spoke to Meghan about 20 years ago.

Ms. Dooley would like to make it clear that she has no intention of exploiting, exaggerating, inflating, monetizing, misrepresenting or in any way abusing her connection.

But she and Tyler have come to London for the wedding week to make a scheduled appearance as Meghan experts on “Good Morning Britain,” a live daily program, and possibly on other shows, part of an army of guests recruited for their close (or not) connections during a week of all-royal-all-the-time coverage. She says she especially wants to provide a corrective to the public unpleasantness being disseminated by bitter Markle relatives.

In Grants Pass, Ms. Dooley is a businesswoman who says she has bought and sold florist shops and is now promoting a new business, in partnership with Tyler, called Royally Grown. The idea is to sell hemp-based clothing and makeup as well as “Markle Sparkle,” a new line of marijuana that Tyler Dooley said “literally smells just what you picture a blueberry would smell like.” (Marijuana is legal in Oregon.)

Tyler Dooley, who has been in the marijuana business for several years, said in an interview that the “royally” in the company’s title was just a coincidence--he thought of it well before Meghan’s engagement, he said--and that the name Markle Sparkle was derived from his own elementary-school nickname. In any case, the new strain is to be introduced next month at the regional High Times Cannabis Cup, a trade show and superior-weed competition.

He said he thought Meghan, with her open and fun-loving nature, would approve. And he said that his grandfather, a private and somewhat isolated person, was being treated unfairly by other members of the family, and by the news media. The Dooleys’ presence as commentators during the wedding would help combat that, he said in an interview.

[nico-nightingale]

Summary: Following an accident that involved her beloved younger sister, the crown princess of Arendelle grew to believe she was born cursed. At her eleventh birthday, however, she receives the visit of a man in strange robes, who invites her to study at the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This story follows Elsa's life in Hogwarts as she discovers that magic is no curse and starts learning how to love herself.

Rating: T (ages 13 and up)

Also found on: FF.net, AO3, Wattpad

Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. Frozen belongs to Disney. The cover photo belongs to Nico Benedickt and the font belongs to Naharstd.

<< first • < previous // next > last >>

Chapter II: Fake It Until You Make It

It hadn't taken too long before Elsa felt the hope fading away. As she approached the Hufflepuff table, panic rose again in her belly at the realization that people sat way too close to each other and there was no way around it since the number of chairs seemed to be close to the number of students. Someone might end up touching her, which wasn't something she had been prepared to see happening.

Even if her ice powers weren't dark, they could still hurt people. In the past three years, the girl had been touched only by her parents. Since her magic had been growing more and more out of control, she had started considering it dangerous to be even in the same room as other people. Despite her concerns, both her mother and her father had still been able to soothe her into a hug sometimes, but Elsa never allowed herself in situations in which accidental touching could happen.

This time, however, there was no escape from the fact that she had to sit right beside the other Hufflepuff students. So, clenching her hands in front of her chest, the girl resumed her walk and offered the others the tense smile she usually reserved for her parents' political acquaintances that had insisted on meeting her in the past. To Elsa's immense relief, they turned their attention back to the hat as soon as the next student got sorted.

Elsa herself directed her eyes toward the hat, but she wasn't paying attention. What would she do if people wanted to shake hands with her? So far, her gloves had been a rather safe barrier to her magic, but what would happen if she completely lost control? What if she hurt someone? Would they be able to fix it as easily as Dumbledore had guaranteed they would, back when he first came to visit her in Arendelle? Would the teachers and other students judge her for her lack of control?

Trying not to succumb to panic, Elsa did her best to act natural, clapping whenever someone was sorted to Hufflepuff. It all seemed to last an eternity and the girl couldn't help but hope the feast would be over as soon as possible. Dumbledore had warned her that she would be sharing a dormitory with the other girls in her house and year. Each bed was surrounded by a curtain, however, to give the students some privacy; so, the princess was hopeful that she would be able to put some space between herself and the others once she arrived there.

Finally, Lars Westley was sorted into Ravenclaw and Professor McGonagall took the hat away, putting an end to the ceremony. At that, as if following a script, the Headmaster raised from his seat, his gaze wandering through the hall and arms wide open as if he wished to embrace each and every one of his students. His warm eyes met Elsa's for a moment, making the girl feel a little calmer—Dumbledore seemed to have an aura around him that would always make the girl feel safe.

"Welcome to one more year at Hogwarts. Before you dig into this excellent banquet, I'd like to say a few words. First, meet your new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher: Professor Scamander." A red-haired man in his late early fifties rose from his seat, bending his head and raising one hand in response to the welcome applause he received from the students and the staff.

Watching the new professor, she realized he was rather nervous, his face slightly reddened by the attention. Er han sjenert? Hearing her classmates talking about his reaction, she realized she hadn't been the only one to notice how shy the man was. "It's rather cute, isn't it?" A blonde girl sitting across the table told the brunette beside her.

Dumbledore only restarted speaking when the claps died and the professor was once again sitting, "also, I should warn you that three more items have been added to the banned list— you will find it hanging beside the door of Mr. Filch's office— and that the Dark Forest is off-limits to all of the students." He made a small pause to allow the students to process the information. "Now— shall we dig in?"

Elsa turned to look at the dishes in front of her and was astonished to realize they were now full of all sorts of food. She was relieved to realize that some of it were rather familiar; the girl hadn't been worried about the British eating habits until she had come across the snacks they sold on the train. That had seemed to be a minor concern in comparison to the language barrier and her ability to accidentally freeze things.

Being the crown princess, Elsa had eaten some foreign food before with the children of dignitaries or rulers of other countries. Learning how to please and entertain guests on such occasions, sometimes even going as far as pretending to like a dish, had been one of the first lessons in a princess' curriculum.

The notion that she would have to eat that every day and night while at school hadn't crossed her mind, however, until she was on her way to Hogwarts. The shock of learning about the candies and snacks, so different from what she usually ate at home, came with one more wave of anxiety that she had only been able to put aside as she saw the castle for the first time.

It was, therefore, with a heavy sigh of relief that she reached out to help herself with peas, carrots, mashed potatoes, and a type of roasted meat that seemed to be beef. It was a slow process, considering that she had to be careful not to touch the people beside her and that she had been trained to avoid messes at all costs.

Although she managed to serve herself without issues, people noticed her slowness as they waited for her to finish. Despite her upbringing, the girl had never felt comfortable being the center of attention and flushed furiously when she realized that there were other children watching her.

"Do you have a contagious skin disease or something?" The blonde girl in front of her asked with intense curiosity. The blunt question had been made in such an innocent manner, however, that Elsa wondered if she had understood it correctly or if there was a hidden meaning in the words that, being not British herself, she couldn't grasp. "I mean— it is kind of hot to be wearing gloves, isn't it?"

Oh. The gloves. Of course. No Norwegian would wear gloves in England during the summer— her father had told her that in an attempt to convince her not to wear them at all. After Dumbledore's reassurance that they could take care of repercussions if Elsa lost control over her powers, the King had been trying to talk her into putting them aside while she was at Hogwarts. At that time, the girl hadn't thought much of his comment as she usually felt no cold nor heat. She hadn't realized, though, that people would find it strange.

"No, it are— is a family tradition." It was easier, she realized, to lie in her broken version of the English language than it would have been in Norwegian. Elsa had no clue why, but, although there was a hint of curiosity in her mind, she was too focused on trying to interact with the other children without making a mess of herself to pay attention to her mind's curious behavior.

"That is mean, though," a voice coming from Elsa's left stated, making her flinch in concern. Had she offended her classmates? Was it because she hadn't greeted and introduced herself first? How could have she forgotten that? What would her parents have said if they had seen her at that moment? They would be angry, for sure; as they had been when, a few months before the accident that had changed their lives, Anna had pointed out that the Danish ambassador had "fake hair".

Elsa's thoughts were interrupted, however, at the sight of the blonde girl's cheek reddening. "I'm sorry. I was curious, that's all." As the princess was too shocked to reply, the other seemed to take the silence as a sign of disapproval and grow even more uncomfortable. "My mum— well, she's always saying I should think before saying things. I am Arcadia, by the way, Adie for short."

"'Must be a mum thing, 'cause mine also says this sort of stuff all the time to me," the person sitting beside Elsa— much to her surprise, a pink-haired girl—replied with a groan and the blonde, Adie, seemed to relax a little at the sound. "I'm Tonks. You're Elsa, right?" Without a warning, she took Elsa's hand to shake it. Before the princess could feel fright, though, it was over as the other was already retreating.

"Ja—" the princess was too astonished by the variety of emotions and situations that had been passing in the past few seconds to even consider replying to the other two in English. Her hands were visibly shaking, but Elsa was too astonished for a moment to try and make them stop. No stranger had ever touched or talked to her so unceremoniously; even Dumbledore had treated her with a level of deference—not as much as the tutors her parents had hired before, but much more than the other Hufflepuff girls were showing.

It had been agreed that, while it wasn't properly a secret, her royal background shouldn't be common knowledge among the other students. Dumbledore had told the King and Queen of Arendelle that the people in the wizarding world didn't always comprehend the non-magical government. Even those who did understand it, however, wouldn't answer to it since Wizards and Witches had their own sort of government.

A few weeks after Dumbledore's visit, the monarchs of Arendelle received the visit of both the Arendellian Ministers for Magic Tharald Lund and his British counterpart Millicent Bagnold. Elsa never learned exactly what they had been discussing with the King and the Queen before she was called to meet them since all of the adults ceased to talk when she walked into the throne room and her parents had told her she was too young to fully understand the conversation.

Elsa was intelligent and had enough political instruction, however, to figure that there had been a firm understanding between all the parts that it would be better if the crown princess had her magical education far from Arendelle. It didn't take long before she realized that the heir to the Arendellian throne studying magic in a Scandinavian country could cause some political conflicts in both the wizarding and the non-magical world.

It was no wonder, then, that Tonks and Adie had been treating Elsa in such an informal manner. There was no way they would know they had been speaking to the future Queen of Arendelle—if they did allow her to inherit the crown, in the first place. If the insistence of Minister Lund for her to study at a foreign magic school was any indication of the political nightmare that she had become, Elsa was certain that she would be encouraged to abdicate.

"You're not from here, are you?" Adie asked again, sending an apologetic glance to the other two girls that expressed the internal conflict between her curiosity and her desire to respect people's boundaries. It was a rather familiar gesture to Elsa, who had seen it whenever Anna woke her up in the middle of the night to invite her to play or talk. The warmth that followed this realization made the girl come to the conclusion that she actually liked Adie.

"I am from Arendelle. It is North from Norway." Even as she spoke the words, the girl already knew the phrasing wasn't quite right. Her knowledge in foreign languages was above average in comparison to people of her own age, but there was a long way to go, however, before she could be considered fluent in them. Optimistic, the King had told her she spoke as well as any native in no time and, while the girl had trouble believing him, she hoped he was right. As they were, her English pronunciation and wording would attract too much attention, which was the last thing Elsa wanted.

She also didn't want to make friends. Between her ice magic and status as royalty, there was much that Elsa felt compelled to hide from her peers. The closer they were to her, the harder it would be to keep this information to herself and the more likely she would hurt them—and herself. Although she liked the way Adie reminded her of Anna, even though Tonks had been nice enough to come to rescue her, becoming friends with them could make her life even more difficult than it already was.

How was she sorted into Hufflepuff, anyway, when all she had done in the past three years was lying to the person she loved the most? What had gone through the hat's mind to place her in the house that valued honesty and fair play, when her intentions from even before she had first set foot in the castle had been to hide who she was? Was it because the hat had thought she belonged to nowhere at all and Hufflepuff was the one to accept people who didn't fit in the houses? That would make sense.

In terror, Elsa realized her gloves had started feeling small due to the thick layer of ice between her fingers and the fabric. Between Tonks' touch, Adie's questions, and the knowledge of her self-imposed isolation—as well as the trouble it could cause to her—, the princess was the closest she had been to losing control ever since the few days after the accident with Anna. She had never liked being under the spotlight, but it was even worst when she was far away from everything and everyone she knew.

"Elsa? Are you okay?" The princess looked up to face a growing frown on Tonks' face. By her expression, it was clear that she had been far too distracted to notice the other girls' previous words to her. Adie, the princess noticed with the corner of her eyes, was watching her carefully.

Clenching her hands, Elsa tried to control the flow of emotions rushing through her body and the magic flooding from the tip of her fingers. Conceal, don't feel, her father's words were grounding and calming even when she spoke them inside her own mind. To other people, the mantra might have sounded cold-hearted and unhelpful, but, to the princess, it meant pretending everything was fine until it was, faking control and self-restraint to the point it came naturally to her.

"I am sorry. What said you?" Elsa tried not to worry if Tonks or Adie would end up asking her what she had been thinking about. Overthinking would always work against her; it only served for her to suffer twice. Conceal, don't feel. Hide your fears under a mask of confidence, don't panic. Fake it until you make it.

Much to her relief, Tonks made no comment about her distraction. "Not much, actually. I was saying that I haven't heard about it," the pink-haired shrugged and offered Elsa a kind smile before turning to Adie. "What about you, Adie? Where are you from?" The princess sighed, feeling her body relax when the other blonde started telling them about her childhood in Cornwall.

Elsa was smart enough to know that Tonks had diverged the focus of the conversation from her to Adie on purpose. The pink-haired girl had noticed she was uncomfortable with the attention and had distracted the other girl with a topic that would keep her from inquiring further on the princess' background and mannerisms. It was a very insightful approach from an eleven-year-old, one that adult politicians and ambassadors had often failed to master.

Paying half-attention to the conversation around her, Elsa tried to eat some of the food on her plate. Adie's parents, she found out soon enough, were both magical, although her mother was a muggle-born; the girl had two younger siblings: a brother and a sister. Tonks, on the other hand, had been raised as an only child in Somerset by her magical parents.

Every time Adie turned to Elsa and opened her mouth to inquire about something, Tonks intervened before the question was made. After a few minutes of tension, the princess finally started relaxing and the food became more and more delicious. The conversation around her was friendly, the first-years getting to know each other or asking questions to older students. Elsa was beginning to understand how one's house became their family when they were at school.

It was funny how different these people were. While the school tried to assemble them and label them, it took only a couple of hours for Elsa to realize they couldn't be more distinct and start questioning the whole notion of sorting students into a house. As informative as the book was, "Hogwarts, a History" had failed to point out the problems that this system could cause. People, the princess concluded, were too complex to fit labels.

Despite her deep thoughts and criticism, however, Elsa did appreciate what she was eating. The flavors were rather unfamiliar, but the contrast to what she usually had at home hadn't been unwelcome. The princess wasn't picky, but foreign dishes were sometimes unpalatable; so, the knowledge that the food in Hogwarts was actually tasty was a relief. One less thing to worry about.

Finally, the girl set her fork back on her plate, wondering when they would be allowed to the dormitories. Her belly full and her mind as relaxed as it could be when she was surrounded by hundreds of people, Elsa was starting to feel drowsy. It had been a long and difficult day, but things didn't turn out as bad as she had first thought they would. After all, she hadn't cursed anybody.

In a few weeks, her parents' Council would find a way to remove her from Hogwarts and Elsa would be back to where she belonged. All she had to do until then was to keep her head low: stay away from trouble, draw no attention to herself, make no friends, keep control over her magic. Be patient, calm, and sober. Smart. Conceal, don't feel.

[thenonconformistcurmudgeon]

The Smoking Jacket

Except for his hair beginning to thin, Niven was a fairly nondescript 34-year old. He worked as a bank teller in a staid New England town. Although he worked at the bank for a number of years, he did not seek nor was offered a promotion. He ate bland food which fit with his personality.  He wore uninspiring clothes which matched his characterless life.  Others paid little attention to him and he likewise to them. 

Town was particularly quiet one afternoon when he strolled through after work planning to go from the bank to his home a few blocks away.  He noticed a new store, a pop up shop which he heard existed but never actually knew of.  There was a hand-made sign, Tabitha’s Vintage Wear.  He hesitated, first thinking that it was Tuesday which was liverwurst day but decided the liverwurst could wait a few more minutes and he entered the boutique. 

A clerk with a paper label affixed crookedly to his chest which said Steven greeted him and welcomed him to look around.  Niven was about to leave when something in the back of the store caught his eye and he felt compelled to get a better look.  As he got closer, he stared at the garment for a long time.  It was a beautiful burgundy smoking jacket, mid-thigh length, with toggle fastenings.  The clerk noticed Niven’s seeming paralysis while staring at the eye popping tunic and suggested he go ahead and try it on.   

With that little bit of encouragement, Niven flung it off the hanger and onto his bodice.  With the jacket on and fully toggled, he felt a transformation come over him.  Abruptly, he felt sophisticated, debonair, worldly, and full of wit, charm, and daring-do. He heard previously that clothes made the man but this powerful change was almost overwhelming.  Almost, that is.  He enjoyed the surge of adrenaline he felt while wearing the jacket.  He went up to the counter to pay for it and the clerk wanted to know if he would like it packed up properly but Niven desired to wear it right  out of the store, fearing at first that if he took it off, his sense of strength would disappear like Samson’s hair.  The clerk said, “I thought you would like the jacket, wear it well”.   

Niven slept in the jacket that night and had sweet dreams of being the bon-vivant, travelling the world in hot air balloon, luxury liners, and being attended to in the first class train compartment.  Fellow passengers were refined.  When he awoke, he noticed his thinning hair was a little thicker and he also had a pencil thin moustache.  He felt invigorated by his new look.   

However, when he left the house and went about his day in his smoking jacket, he was struck with derision from all sides.  People laughed and sniggered in that provincial town.  Some weeks later, he was at a Red Sox game, and was hounded by other fans, calling at him, “Hey Mr. Fancypants, put this in your pipe and smoke it” while making a lewd gesture near their crotch.  He started to notice that families would cross the street when they saw him coming. Customers at the bank would avoid his line.  The bank manager started to notice and Niven was subsequently fired. 

By this time, Niven had accumulated a large wardrobe of smoking jackets and would not give them up for any job or town because they made him feel sublime. His desire for trendy restaurants and haute cuisine began to develop.  He thought about where he could move which would satisfy his new tastes and most of all be accepted.   

Niven packed up and moved to the Gowanus section of Brooklyn, living in a shoe box sized apartment near the Royal Palms Shuffleboard Club.  He went into the club one day and felt immediate acceptance. The young hipsters wanted to know all about him, his jackets and where they could buy them as well.  His romantic life improved dramatically and his lovemaking partners did not mind that he wore his jacket and insisted that they wear a smoking jacket as well. The velvet and silk jackets became an aphrodisiac for him and although he didn’t know it because he never tried, he would not have been able to perform in bed without the jackets.   

Niven opened a chic non-smoking, smoking jacket club right next to the Royal Palms.  It was decked out in leather chairs, tables next to the chairs to put your brandy snifters and cognac glasses down on, many globes, maps of the world, heavy insulated curtains so you would not hear the rumblings of the street. Bathroom attendants turned the water on and off and handed customers a proper cloth towel. 

The atmosphere was stuffy but on purpose.  Both men and women were club members but wearing a smoking jacket as well as a smoking cap was necessary while in the club.  There was no smoking allowed but having an unlit cigar, pipe, or one of those long cigarette holders was encouraged.  The women’s jackets were more tailored and form fitting and tended to be of lighter silk than the heavy velvet men’s. 

Conversation tended to be about travel, the latest non-fiction books, the best organic teas from Southeast Asia, cricket, croquet, the international dateline, and lawn parties. Frequently these Brooklynites couldn’t help themselves but talk in a British accent and saying to each other when in a bit of a row, “here now, old chap”.  Meals were served which were heavy on steaks and chops and the club had to purchase some lawn in a remote part of Queens so that the cows could be raised locally, responsibly and organically.   

Despite the stuffy atmosphere, the attractive and fit waiters and waitresses were attired in only a smoking jacket.  They sufficiently covered the necessary parts. There were strict rules that the patrons were not allowed to touch the servers, the cloth of the jacket of their servers, nor other patron’s jackets.  The stuffiness mixed with the sexual tension had the potential for trouble but Niven thought of everything and allowed patrons to go into a solitary sound proof booth that was filled with a bevy of smoking jackets that patrons could luxuriate with.  Various state and city authorities frequently inspected the premises but no violations of any codes, rules or law was ever found. The inspectors tended to linger in that booth and often insisted on a private inspection.   

After a few months, Niven reached the apogee of his professional and social success. Unexpectedly, a fellow showed up in a Zoot Suit doing the jitterbug at the Royal Palms and the smoking jacket and its club were no longer trendy, chic or in style.  Seemingly overnight, few wanted to be seen wearing one now. Niven saw his world come crashing down and the club was foreclosed on.  

By this time, Niven amassed a huge collection of smoking jackets and he could never be far from one. He changed the frosted glass on his shower to clear glass so that he could always keep an eye on a smoking jacket while bathing. Although he still liked the power and sophistication he felt when wearing the jacket, he also began to realize he was addicted to those sensations from wearing, looking at, touching and smelling the smoking jacket and decided to go for professional help.  In NY, that meant a psychologist fee of 395 dollars for a 45 minute hour and no insurance accepted.   

The psychologist suggested a slow systematic desensitization of his attachment to and the emotions connected to the jacket.  They set up a hierarchy of easily tolerable to harder to be able to tolerate steps. On the easy side was not wearing a jacket and having one 25 feet away, then things like not wearing or looking at one for twenty seconds or wearing rubber gloves while touching a jacket. Going to bed without a jacket on for a half hour was a middle step, while not having a partner wear one during carnal activity would be slightly higher on the list. 

Niven knew he could never tolerate the slow process and it would be torture.  He knew he had to go cold turkey and gave all the jackets to a homeless shelter. The homeless folks never looked so good and stopped begging for cigarettes and took up pipe smoking.  Smoking jacket withdrawal was not so easy on Niven though.  He had the shakes, cold sweats, hot sweats, achiness, nausea, diarrhea and constipation, and worst of all recurrent nightmares of having to give a speech in front of a large crowd in an ordinary suit. 

Niven made it through successfully and started a Smoking Jacket Anonymous Association.  First step was to admit you were powerless over the jacket and give up all your jackets to be burned.  The meetings had a hard time finding space as even local churches would not offer a room to this ragtag bunch and the fear of fire was always present. There was usually a poor showing, maybe a handful of desperate folks, and the meetings did not generate much interest. Sadly, smoking jacket addiction did carry much stigma and the members were seen as freaks and outcasts, especially since the homeless population was now wearing them proudly.  

One day, a previously unknown woman showed up to the group and slipped in sideways like a cat.  She said her name was Julie and was only on her second day of being jacketless.  Julie said she was originally from Nevada and had worked in a cubicle.  She became addicted to smoking jacket wearing after her British boyfriend dumped her and she wanted to feel empowered.  It also seemed to confuse and frighten another state employee named Bates who she was a little uncomfortable with and was glad the jacket seemed to keep him at a distance.  Niven worked tirelessly to aid Julie in overcoming her addiction.  A romance was kindled and they married, and moved back together to a staid New England town. 

They lived a quiet life on a tree lined street in a weathered clapboard house with a picket fence. He returned to work as a bank teller and she found a new cubicle to be employed in.  They became pillars of the community, church goers, volunteered at various charities, and gave quiet cocktail parties. 

On the third Tuesday evening of every month, they ventured two hours away to a concrete storage compartment that faced old highway 11.  There were two locks on the storage unit, and it was set up so that Niven and Julie did not know where the other hid their key.  The unit was unheated and unlit.  In the unit, there were two well-worn lawn chairs, a timer which they immediately set for 10 minutes when they walked in and they each donned a smoking jacket that was hanging over the chair.  They sat in their chairs with the jackets on and since it was a Tuesday, ate the liverwurst sandwiches they brought with them.  After they closed up the storage compartment, they would walk to their vehicle holding hands with an enchanted sense of intimacy between them and Julie would softly say “a little bit of instant bliss.”  Niven was never sure if she was referring to the wearing of the jackets or might it be the sandwiches.  He chose not to ask as he did not want to ruin those precious moments and also feared he would be potentially crestfallen with her answer.   

[ive-always-been-a-pirate]

The Other Prince + A CS Modern Royalty AU [Chapter 5]

Modern Royalty AU: HRH Prince Killian has grown up in the shadow of the crown while enduring tragedy and the burdens of being the spare to the heir. With a desire to escape his past, he agrees to play host to the visiting general's daughter in exchange for an eventual life outside royal bounds. Moving on is never that easy though and he quickly learns that being the 'other' prince is even more difficult when you find yourself falling for the girl everyone wants your brother to marry.

Catch Up On Previous Chapters: One, Two, Three, Four Also on FF.net and AO3.

Word Count: 9,453

Okay, I'm sorry this took so long.  I got in that cycle of overthinking things and it ended up being much longer than anticipated! Future chapters won't be as long as this one, but I had lots of Killian feels in this one :) so hopefully you all enjoy it! Huge thank you to @optomisticgirl for her endless assistance and support on this story! As always, I own nothing. Happy reading!

The night had barely begun, but Killian finalized his decision with a fifth tug at his pressed sleeve - he hated this bloody suit. Truthfully, he'd never been particularly keen on being properly trimmed and tailored in general so the dismal conclusion wasn't really a wildly drawn one. Killian had spent his fair share of years finding ways around royal dress code, his preference of modern casual easily overlooked due to his charming smile and stellar sweet talking skills - or at least that's what he told himself. It was easy to see why looking so proper was important as a representative of his grandmother's monarchy, but still, that didn't mean he had to like it.

Perhaps it wasn't his current attire that was solely the source of his agitation he noted when the smooth traveling black BMW pulled up to the gates of Buckingham. He'd spent the few hours before sunset arguing with the brand new, trim-tailored, clean lined blue suit - an endeavor that earned a multitude of grumbles and a few countdown texts from his incessantly formal brother. Taking a final glance in the bathroom mirror, he smoothed the maroon and navy striped tie as he settled on what was really bothering him.

The event calling for his recently required clothes was one he'd been dreading for weeks now - a Royal Navy veterans' memorial ceremony where he'd most certainly spend the evening regaling his older brother's military heroism while squandering the need to sort out his own.

The idea that this was his fault on some level had crossed his mind once or twice since he'd returned home. He'd elected to take the route less selected by royals when he'd chosen the British Army instead of sailing the honorable seas. Breaking the tradition wasn't something he'd done by fear or a distaste for the open ocean, but rather a result of his stubborn need to move out from under his older sibling's shadow.

Of course, that was supposing that such a momentous feat was actually possible.

It wasn't that Liam's courageous dedication to the Navy was anything to balk at - his older brother had navigated the crown and their family through murky, troublesome waters several times. His victories were always discussed in bold terms, the admiration just about everyone seemed to have for the man just ahead of him in the succession line rarely something that wavered. Killian had always seen his big brother in that brilliant light, but as they grew older and Liam completed multiple seaworthy rescue missions, it became a lot more difficult to idolize rather than compare with him. The eventual king-to-be had a decent military based resume, but it didn't begin to compete with the near decade long career Killian had endured while flying through front lines of combat. There were certainly a few qualities and experiences that Killian could easily pull rank on, but it didn't really seem worth it to do so.

His brother would always have what he would never - and that plan had been put into place years before Killian was even born. Liam was the right sort of Captain through and through, a leader of the masses not just limited to the sea, but Killian - well, he had always been something a little more rogue.

"If I didn't know any better-" the familiar voice commented as it's owner approached Killian's side. "-I'd say you look mighty uncomfortable, brother. New suit not feeling as dapper as you'd hoped?"

Lifting his vexed eyes to address the man who owned those subtly chiding words and many others was probably overdue. He was, after all, almost a full hour into avoiding social obligation and the brother who so often reminded him about it. Killian knew that feigning surprise at Liam's approaching stance was futile - his only sibling was unusually adept at tracking him down.

"I'd beg to differ," Killian returned, mustering a bit of that second heir charm he reserved for bantering with his brother. "Just because I don't love wearing it doesn't mean I don't look dashing, your highness."

"Hey, don't start," Liam grumbled with a warning glare that slowly turned into knowing amusement, his hand lifting to adjust the collar of his own suit coat. "Besides, if you're looking that pretentious in this traditional get-up, it certainly means I am too, little brother."

Killian grimaced quickly, his agitated gaze narrowing as Liam's grin lit up. He couldn't help but bestow a light nudge to his brother's side and he tried not to grin too widely at the way Liam winced in dull pain. Victory swelled in the smirk Killian was holding back as he remembered their recent rugby scrimmage and recalling the way the high and mighty heir had taken hard hit to the ribs was almost enough to make him forget that they were currently matching in ways well beyond their stupid injuries.

Almost - but not quite.

The whole thing was merely another detail of these obligated events and one that he had lived to loathe since they were boys. Why two adult men needed to dress identically - everything from pressed slacks to the matching jacket with the two toned striped tie - just because they were royal was completely beyond him.

Wiggling his warm toes in his newly shined shoes, he knew it probably wasn't wise to mention to Liam that their attire wasn't totally the same. His older brother never possessed much patience for the subtle act of rebellion Killian insisted upon when it came to concealed footwear, but pulling on one of his many pairs of obnoxious socks was always a temptation not to be ignored. He'd settled on the blue ones with the little boats for this particular evening, knowing that they'd be at least somewhat relevant even if it wasn't completely proper.

"Glad you find my melancholy entertaining as always, Liam," he sighed with a defeated yet still small smirk. "But for the record, it's-"

"Younger brother - I know," Liam replied with a matching curve of his mouth, one that suggested they might be back on good terms. "It'd be a shame to spend the evening brooding in the corner though, Killian. It would probably be wise to hop to it before Cora says anything…."

Killian felt his shoulders straighten uncomfortably at the mention of the woman who'd just entered the large ballroom. The evening was tense and frustrating enough as it was without the presence of their arriving stepmother, but the deep breath he attempted to take seemed to insist that things were only about to get more difficult. Her entry into the esteemed venue commanded attention in a slightly admirable way that Killian still couldn't understand, but he couldn't help but take pride in the fact that she still didn't receive the pure adoration from the public that his mother always had. While she was respected in a specific manner, there always seemed to be an understanding hanging in the air - the quiet reminder that she wouldn't be there if the first wife of His Royal Highness Prince Brennan still was.

She was a replacement and Killian truly hoped she'd never forget that.

Killian held his ground as he watched her move toward them in a boldly red gown clad with a fake smile and jewels that were actually of her own procuring. Cora had come from her own line of distant royalty, a piece of information that Killian was grateful for ever since the first time he saw her sporting a modest diamond tiara. He had always believed his father wouldn't even consider offering her any of the beautiful jewelry that had been stored safely under lock and key since the day of his mother's funeral, but he also knew better than to not think twice about Cora's ability to manipulate. She'd used it to her advantage a few times since marrying into their family and he'd predicted it from the beginning. A tense fight with his father a few nights before the man wedded her was long standing proof of his distrust in the woman who didn't deserve to be any sort of Duchess.

"So that's it? You can just marry her without thought all while pretending that Mom….that she never even-"

"Killian, stop," he'd tried, his shoulders sagging in frustration. "That's not fair. That is not what this about and I think you know that, son."

"It doesn't make it right, not when you can just….forget-"

"I haven't, son," he told him, his voice cracking just enough. "I miss your mother and always will."

"Could have fooled me."

Killian knew he'd never forget the wide eyed reaction he'd earned from his father after uttering those four impulsive words. They'd been chosen angrily and had crossed a line never meant to be breached. He'd spend years trying to figure out how to redraw it, but the tense aftermath of that argument was proof that some things just couldn't be taken back.

Well, perhaps he'd known that for a while now.

"Killian, I just-," he'd said softly with his eyes honest and a watery blue. "It's just….easier that way. It's easier to not let the hurt consume what's left of me. She's gone, son - and I will fight the agony that encompasses that fact until I can understand just why it's any sort of fair….but I can't just….I can't spend the rest of my life being angry about it. I really wish you wouldn't either."

"I can and I will," he'd told his father with a stubborn, emotional voice. "Because she deserves to be remembered and missed every single day - and I won't let her down like….you are."

The pain rushing back alongside Killian's silent reminiscing still cut deeply and he tried to squander the shame roaming through his mind. Though they'd found their way back to a mutual understanding of loving respect, the tension invoked between Killian and his father had never fully smoothed itself out. The reminder of that was immediately brought forth as he caught the sight of the eldest prince. Their glances locked for only a moment - a quick acknowledgement of one another that seemed to somehow mean everything - and Killian felt his body relax as he watched the ailing heir apparent move into the grand ballroom.

Perhaps it wasn't so easy to tell that his father was still endlessly fighting off the effects of his poor health. It was simple enough for Killian and a few other members of the family to see the decline, but they'd spent time with him frequently enough to note the changes each day brought. It wasn't as if the world was oblivious to the man's medical history - they hadn't exactly made it a point to hide much of what the prince's heart had been through in the past. The first heart attack had been so sudden and stressful as it struck in the aftermath of his mother's death and the one that followed had nearly ruined him. The saga continued when multiple attempts for transplants and treatments had been fraught by even more trifling circumstances, ones that still made Killian's head ache with the 'what if' tones of possibility. His father had ended up with an illness on several occasions that prevented operating and there had also been the morning one of the scheduled surgeries was halted as the passing of the beloved Duke of Edinburgh - an honorable icon of the free world but more importantly the queen's husband and the father of the ailing prince - was announced the night before. That had all been years ago and while their family had not denied much, little more was volunteered in addition to what the press concluded.

It didn't mean the questions didn't cross Killian's mind multiple times a day, much as they did with the thoughts of others he supposed. How much time was left? How long would they have to wonder in terms of years and months? Would he still be there to take the place of the Queen when the time came?

Everyone speculated things of that nature often, but the details were vague - and perhaps it was for the best. Strength and consistency were part of what had made his grandmother such a coveted, successful monarch and the last thing they needed was to ignite a concern that the man who was supposed to ascend the throne next wouldn't be well enough to carry a finely crafted legacy.

"He's been looking better lately," Liam commented as they watched their father shake several hands. "Though I doubt he'd miss this even if we insisted."

Always the optimist, Killian thought without retort to his older and much more hopeful brother. Perhaps it was good to have the encouragement of an idealist hanging in the regal air. Perhaps it wouldn't be wrong to allow them both a fraction of positivity despite what was surely a nearing end.

Killian didn't believe it, but Liam needed it - and maybe that was the least he could offer the brother who'd done so much more for him.

"Aye," Killian nodded softly. "He's always been quite the Navy man."

The quiet comment came without much thought and Liam's chuckle almost made Killian forget about the broken spirit possessed by the man they were analyzing. Their father had actually cleaned up well - his garb stitched in the blue threads of the full naval apparel and his beard neatly trimmed. The usually immaculately clean cut man's hair was a bit longer than was typical for approval, but Killian knew no one would dispute such a minor detail. His eyes were still subtly exhausted, but his calculated movements were proof that he was going to fight through the discomfort for at least this one evening. Watching the way his multiple service medals hung on the fabric covering the space just above his weak heart was definitely a sight that made both Killian and his brother nervous, but seeing him as a formal Admiral of the highest rank was unexpectedly reassuring. The pressed, pleated uniform was a huge shift from the knit sweaters and casual pants he wore regularly since his condition had worsened.

"Still is to some degree," Liam told him with a gentle nudge and a brotherly smirk. "I'm glad he felt up to attending. There's supposed to be a few men he served with here tonight I believe, especially since Admiral Nolan is returning to command soon."

Killian cocked his head sideways at his brother's words. He'd heard the name of the man just mentioned a few times over the years, but most recently he'd caught the sound of it in reference to a naval training mishap not long ago. He didn't know the extensive details - only that a storm just off the coast of Scotland one afternoon had nearly claimed the man's life along with several others. Killian had watched many fellow men face injuries and had even witnessed the sudden demise of a fallen few while on the front lines, each tragic instance just as painful as the one before. Watching a comrade meet that thin line between life and death wasn't something he'd ever gotten used to and he felt a small sweep of relief float over him when he was told that the case of a man his brother obviously held in high regard wasn't as bleak as it could have been.

He didn't know the admiral in question, but he knew those tales of tragedy and the opposite outcome made him glad to see a heroic military man escape a fate less than victory.

"Alright, I'm going to go touch base with a few people and I suggest you do the same, brother," Liam nudged him. "I'll catch up with you in an hour or so - don't wander off too far, alright?"

"Aye, aye, Captain."

A swift slap of his arm wasn't enough for Killian to regret his sarcastic quip of agreement. His smirk held steady as he watched his brother disappear into the growing crowd of honorable sailors, the charisma he possessed definitely not something they'd equally inherited. Turning toward the large clock on the wall across the room as it hit the top of the hour, Killian made a quick decision.

He had about forty minutes before anyone would truly be looking for him - and that was plenty of time to indulge in the liquid courage he was going to need to make it through the evening.

Killian had always been rather fond of this particular part of the palace, even though the entire building itself wasn't high on his list of personal sanctuaries. He'd always found some sense of peace on the central balcony of the Buckingham courtyard - well, as long as it was dark out and the majority of the palace was otherwise occupied.

The elaborate space was renowned and Killian had spent his fair share of time enjoying the prestigious view. Of course, he had done so under much more social and unified circumstances before - always alongside the close knit collection of royals while displaying pride and unwavering faith in the crown. He wondered if his love for such a location came from his memories of being there with his family still intact all those years ago - Liam pointing excitedly at the planes overhead while their father grinned and their mother laughing as she'd tried to hold onto her squirming youngest son. No matter the reason, it was easier to stand in such a noticeable place at night now. That was mostly because the elevated terrace was almost concealed in the darkness courtesy of the granite overhang and multiple columns keeping the architecture stable, creating a sense of off limits tranquility. The space below was well lit, keeping the courtyard easy to navigate, but the balcony above was dim enough to pass for a sufficient quiet place. He rested his grip on the smoothly constructed stone railing as he soaked up the irony of hiding in plain sight. It was almost certain nobody would stumble upon him here.

"Well, aren't you a predictable sight?"

Killian felt the pressed fabric of his suit bind a bit, the material stretched thickly as he turned to peer in the direction of the intruding voice. The quickly approaching dusk wasn't helpful and he squinted slightly while his posture straightened in realization of just who would know to find him out on such a specific balcony.

"Gran," he breathed with a hint of a smile, nodding as she came fully into view. "You're back."

Her returned grin was a bit goading yet adoring as ever as she moved to join him on the well known terrace, her stroll slowed and oddly casual. She was dressed with typical pomp in a cream colored gown emphasized by a series of elaborate jewels and he nearly laughed as he realized that such clothing would have been accompanied by a perfectly matching hat if it were daytime. Instead, her graying hair was topped by a pristinely jeweled sapphire tiara - merely one from her collection of so many others - and Killian recognized it instantly as her favorite.

Of course, she'd never admitted to such an opinion, but she'd wore it frequently enough over the years that he and Liam had labeled it as the trademark 'Granny's crown' from very young ages.

"You missed me I take it," she decided, gesturing around the secluded dim balcony of the grand estate. "If you being out here is any indication."

Her eyes were set in an expressive way he'd seen often but never totally been able to decipher, a mix of amusement and slight disappointment while still bearing an emotion that could only be defined as sympathy. He had fallen victim to such looks of pity many times over the course of his life and from a variety of people - citizens from all over, distant relatives, sometimes even Liam, but most often from the longtime monarch herself. It wasn't that she felt bad for him, but more that she shared an understanding of the workings regarding the emotional roller coaster he'd never bought the ticket for but still ended up riding anyway. She'd always been a perceptive observer of his hidden sadness and it was perhaps because she carried a wealth of it herself. His grandmother had dearly loved the tragically taken princess from the instant the pair were introduced and seeing the toll that loss took on the family as well as the country wasn't an easy sight to behold, even for a remarkable woman who was sixty years into her reign.

"Always," Killian answered earnestly, accepting her gentle embrace and offering his usual peck on her cheek. "Dare I believe the same?"

"That I missed you? Well, I was hardly given the opportunity to before I caught news of just what you've been up to in my absence," she replied with a firm yet curious tone. "I suppose we should discuss that."

She looked almost as uneasy as he felt, but only for a moment until she let out a receptive sigh. He'd been trying to muster an excuse or a deflection since he'd heard she was headed home via voicemail from Liam that morning. There didn't really seem to be a proper way to make himself out to be innocent in this particular situation, but he knew he had to say something.

"I guess….but, I do want you to know that I didn't….I just-" he attempted, eventually shaking his head with a frustrated breath. "-I didn't intend to bring poor attention to us, especially not while you weren't here to reprimand me instead of Liam doing so. Trust me, I would rather it was you. I know it was….wrong though….and I didn't mean for this to be what you came home to, your highness."

"Well, no need to get formal now, Killian - it's only us here," she countered with a gentle smile. "I'm just trying to gather the facts, unfortunate as they may be."

"I know, Gran, but I'm sorry-"

"My dear boy, I'm not here for your apology," she assured him. "If there's one thing I've grown to find endearing about you, it's that vivacious spirit you inherited from your mother. She was the same in a way, you know."

The comment brought a familiar smirk to his mouth as he recalled a few circumstances in which his mother had broken royal protocol in her own style - everything from refusing the regular palace schooling program for her sons to her inability to keep from hugging the abandoned orphans on her service trips to illness ravished countries. She'd never really been one to do things by the regal book and while it had infuriated many of the traditional members of their elaborate government, Killian believed that it was part of what made her so relatable and easy to love.

After all, there weren't many other princesses who secretly wore tennis shoes beneath the occasional ballgown.

"Yeah," he said with a weak smile. "She was."

"Well, we've got a bit of time before the evening commences," she decided, taking a seat on the granite bench close by and patting the empty spot at her side. "So why don't you come tell me what this whole thing was about?"

Killian hesitated a moment, scratching behind his ear anxiously as a soft breeze drifted briefly across the balcony. He'd been teetering on some form of pins and prodding needles since the morning Liam retrieved him from the police station. The possibility of having to face accountability for his impulsive actions a few nights earlier had caused him to dodge his older brother with a hope that his guilty conscience would eventually drop away. He'd settled with the knowledge that it might not and in that case, he'd be facing off with Liam in a bantering battle he'd fought a few times before. Having to explain himself to the queen though - or rather, the temper driven and very idiotic version of himself - was a little more intimidating and Killian struggled to summon the hazy, hangover inducing memory of that evening as he staggered toward the open seat.

He hadn't planned on elaborating, but this was his grandmother after all - and this woman was always one to do the unexpected.

"I don't suppose it would help if I admit that I don't exactly recall most of what happened that night."

"It definitely doesn't assist your case in a positive way," she agreed. "But I like to think I'm a fair judge when it comes to the mild transgressions of my grandson, even if they've been largely misguided in the past. So what happened? As much as I typically trust your brother, I'd be a downright fool to believe that happened at an afternoon rugby match."

Her sight gestured toward the slowly healing cut on his lower lip and Killian tested the tender wound with a slight scrape of his teeth. It didn't hurt much anymore, but the frustration he still felt regarding the whole ordeal made him wonder just what sort of scar might remain afterward.

He realized silently that it might not be the sort that would merely mar his dashing good looks.

"I guess the fight started with Will Scarlet's thoughtlessly intoxicated mouth and ended with me stepping in when I shouldn't have," Killian started, glancing out over the darkened palace grounds. "It all got out of hand quicker than I expected it to, but when the insults directed toward our lineage started getting tossed about, I guess I just….had to do something."

"Ah, defensive to a slightly reckless degree then," she smirked. "I'd ask what was said, but I'm sure it's not anything I haven't heard before. I appreciate you being protective, Killian, but would I be wrong to say that I don't think this whole thing is about last night?"

He scoffed quietly, shaking his head in a light fashion. The night was already quite lightless, but she'd still somehow picked up on the presence of some underlying cause. It didn't surprise him all that much - his grandmother was intuitive to an almost unfair degree.

"I don't know what else it could be about," he lied teasingly, lifting an eyebrow in deflection. "Just that Irish temper you know."

"It's hardly fair to blame your late grandfather's heritage for such an outlandish evening, but I can take a hint I guess," she told him in return. "So I'll just say this - we both know I appreciate you doing your royal duty of keeping things interesting around here, but I'm merely going to request that you do so when I'm in the country, dear. Observing from a distance isn't nearly as timely, even with the news circulating through social media so rapidly."

"Ah," Killian said, silently grateful for her mercy. "Does this mean you've gotten the hang of Twitter while overseas?"

"I'm afraid the feud between that bird and myself is ongoing and I'll likely end up hiring someone to sort it out for me soon enough," she sighed with a small smile. "But I'd appreciate it if you'd be willing to lighten the publicity workload for a bit. It would be nice not to have to issue a statement on anything for a little while."

Killian let out a light breath of respite as he watched her gaze soften. He knew he'd never fully understand just why the woman with an unmatched sovereignty always tended toward leniency with him, but the hint of sympathy in her expression reminded him that he didn't need to comprehend it - he needed to be thankful for it. His grandmother had every right to scold him above and beyond everyone else, but once again, she was choosing not to. The tender grace in the moment was comforting and he nodded firmly in agreement.

"That's more like it," she grinned, patting his leg. "I ought to get inside I suppose. Your father is probably about ready to send out the corgis in pursuit of me if Liam hasn't done so already. You'll be along soon I trust?"

"Aye," he promised, helping her to her feet and kissing her cheek. "Good to have you back, Gran."

"Yeah, yeah," she bantered with a wave of her hand. "We'll see if you still feel that way once I put you to work."

"Oh?"

"I'd say it's about time for something new," she replied, considering him quietly. "Stop by garden lake tomorrow morning around nine and for lord's sake, make sure you do something about that hair on your face. I'm quite sure your brother might know where to get it trimmed up - or removed entirely, if you're open to my preference."

"A trim it is then," Killian countered with a clever grin. "See you then, Gran."

A quick wink was her only reply as she moved toward the doorway. Killian decided he'd find clarification on just what that little taunt meant later before he checked the time on the shiny silver watch he'd recently acquired, noting that his little segment of solitude was likely nearing its end. He knew he'd be expected to be present for Liam's welcome speech and his grandmother's remarks, both of which would probably be underway in roughly twenty minutes or so. Reaching back into his jacket pocket, he fumbled around for the metal flask he'd stowed there earlier. Surely a quick dose of rum would make him more amenable in regards to playing spare for a few more hours.

"Ugh, damn shoes…."

He'd barely uncapped the metallic container when he realized he wasn't alone in a search for temporary solace. The not quite casual sentiment was voiced in a bit of a breathless tone from the courtyard. The soft gasp that followed made him almost sure it wasn't meant to be heard by anyone, but it had gathered his attention despite his previous determination to ignore anything but the concealed libation he was hoping to drink. Killian rocked on his heels a bit before he moved toward the railing with a careful stride, his neck craning to see what was causing the noise from the enclosed area below.

His eyes widened fast before squinting back into focus and his heart quickened, its gentle beat suddenly keeping time with the clicking of shoes that weren't his as he leaned on the engraved barricade in concentration. Killian shook his head once, checking for some sort of a daze as he reminded himself that his view wasn't the work of an alcohol addled brain. Pressing his lips together in a fine line, he stared ahead with little disappointment that his plan to hide out hadn't been foiled by the Queen alone.

No, there was someone else who was apparently looking for the same breath of fresh air he'd been in search of - and she was much more unanticipated than anyone else who could have found him stowing away outside.

Her slow moving and rather intriguing figure was unusually easy to spot despite the lack of daylight in the open space just one flight below where he was standing. Killian's free hand rested gently on the smooth stone balustrades he'd clung to many times over the course of his royal upbringing as he watched her. It should have been more difficult to see in such concealed circumstances, but his curious eyes endeavored to take in the details of the woman who was some sort of stranger to a place he knew far too well. She didn't appear lost but merely stranded in a way he immediately understood and his brow knit as he tried to figure out why he was so instantly labeling her as a kindred spirit. She didn't seem like a royal and he was somehow positive they hadn't met before.

No, he'd remember a girl like this one. The strangely hypnotic sight of her made him sure of that.

It didn't take a keen observer to realize she was completely captivating, but a man with a watchful eye is certainly what she tempted him to be. Her hair was blonde and it tumbled down her back in waves that told a story he didn't know but longed to hear while several strands framed the face he wished he had a better view of. Her dress wasn't over the top - a feat to be admired after the various fashions he'd seen at these events - and the white material clung delicately to her slender body from her shoulders down to the cobblestones and concrete. The pattern it created along her arms and around her collar was harder to decipher beneath the cover of night, but he knew it completed the simple gown elegantly. They didn't typically encourage event guests to explore the courtyard without proper security close by, but Killian was struggling to be annoyed by this particular breach of the rules.

He'd come to the balcony for a few moments of nothing before expectation pushed him back into his second place role. He'd been hoping for some of that rare silence he managed to attain once in awhile and perhaps a quick drink to soothe the demons deep in his soul, but here he was instead - a man with unknown company in the form of this girl and her sense of subtle rebellion.

It didn't take long for him to realize that he had questions - ones that might take more boldness than he'd find inside of his flask. The thought had barely prodded him when he suddenly lost his option of alcohol as the suddenly slippery container tipped off the railing and dropped to the solid ground below with a faint clang.

Dammit, he scolded himself silently as a rush of hot embarrassment filled his cheeks. So much for grace and good form.

"Son of a b-...I mean, uh," a quavering yet sweet voice started, the sound of pure curiosity meeting his ears. "Is….someone up there?"

Killian slumped slightly, his posture pulling him back out of sight a moment as conflict filled his head. He knew she was looking for him - or well, someone - with what were surely very focused eyes. He could feel the silent burn of her searching as he took a slow breath and adjusted his hold on the firm stone barrier. His palms pressed flat against the granite as his eyebrows furrowed and the reminder of who he was sunk back in, putting a pause on the nervousness his clumsy move had created.

Nervous? Why was he nervous?

Sure, he'd made a slight fool of himself even if he did remain unseen and perhaps he'd been staring a bit too long. He wasn't exactly being the gentleman he knew he could be, but Killian soon recalled one fact that shoved him back into a realm of cocky confidence.

He was a prince - one with a respected connection to the building surrounding them - and she was the one who was very much out of bounds. He didn't exactly have to be a gentleman in this case.

"I, uh….sorry, lass," he said as he straightened himself and cleared his throat quietly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She peered up at him with the most beautiful sense of bewilderment he'd ever seen, her lips quirking up into a stunned smirk that faded as fast as it had arrived and her eyes fell upon him cautiously. Killian didn't know a simple look like the one she was offering could make his pulse pound and his mind race chaotically, but as he looked down to where she was waiting, he found himself distracted by every detail she possessed.

She'd removed her shoes - well, one of them anyway - and the dark heel had been dangling from her fingers while she was walking. He wondered a moment if her uneven footwear was the cause of the annoyed exclamation that had first alerted him to her presence and he mused slightly at the idea of her being an actual Cinderella type.

He retracted the idea almost immediately however. She didn't really seem like a typical princess - or at least she definitely wasn't like the ones he'd met before.

"Oh, you….you didn't," she fibbed in a rather unconvincing fashion. "I just didn't think….anyone else would be out here."

"Oh - well, I'd dare say our state of surprise in that area is….equal," he returned, his shoulders relaxing as he slipped back into his charming routine. "With the exception of you being down there rather than up here, lass."

"Can't really blame me though," she told him with a gesture toward the platform he'd been using as a hideout. "Kind of a highlight of this place, isn't it?"

"I suppose it's somewhat of a sight to behold, though typically palace visitors aren't encouraged to be out here without staff - and almost never at night."

"Oh, I didn't….know," she stammered with a glance toward the glass covered entryway. "I guess I should have realized-"

"Oh - no, it's okay, lass," he cut in with a voice of understanding. "I….won't tell."

Killian felt his stomach flip flop the moment the reassurance left his lips. He wasn't sure where the need to keep some menial secret came from, but he couldn't deny that he liked the idea of the small connection it build between them. He knew he should prompt her to head inside - it may have even been his royal duty to do so. Yet as he watched her conflicted position, he decided that wasn't the route he was about to take.

He wanted to see just how this spontaneous encounter was about to play out, even if it meant bending the regal code just a bit.

"Something about that decision makes me think maybe you're not supposed to be out here either," she concluded with a tilt of her head, her words making him nearly drop his suave facade. "How'd you even get up there?"

He had managed his stealthy escape to the balcony by way of the knowledge he'd gathered over the years, his feet well aware of just which staircases to climb and what doors to slip through. He mulled her question over as he wondered if confessing his title and the information that came with it was wise.

Maybe not, he decided silently. As much as he wanted to know more about her, he knew putting himself on a pedestal probably wouldn't invite her to be honest. It wasn't that he planned on lying, but rather just….not offering her the whole truth. His teeth toyed with his tongue as he convinced himself that it was the fair road to take.

After all, he'd likely never see her again once they left this conversation behind.

"All about who you know I guess," he said vaguely, leaning forward a little. "So what brings you out here?"

"Oh, I….well, I just-" she tried with a soft exhale. "-I guess I'm not really fond of this sort of thing."

"The gala or your current chat with the stranger on the balcony?"

She laughed lightly, a sound that suddenly drew his mouth into an amused smile. He bit back the reaction almost instantly while hoping she hadn't noticed. The surrounding night plus his higher position had given Killian some kind of interesting upper hand and he decided it was best to hold onto it.

"Royal gatherings in general I guess," she explained. "I was just hoping to get some air before the formal stuff starts. I'm guessing you're doing the same?"

"Something like that," he chuckled as he tried to maintain his masquerade of mystery. "I'm not much for this stuff either."

"So you're not a Navy guy?"

"Can't say that I am," he divulged. "I'm afraid it does run in the family though."

"Mine too - well, at least with my dad. He kind of coerced me into attending the ceremony tonight."

Killian tilted his head a fraction, studying her slim outline in inquiry. He hadn't pondered the thought that she was there for such an rational reason. He knew it was mostly because he'd been so consumed with his own misery, but it seemed like she was very much in the same boat - pun not at all intended.

"I guess I just….have a hard time with this whole 'hanging out with royalty concept'," she continued with a sigh. "No offense to tradition, but the whole system of crowns and thrones just feels a bit archaic."

Killian felt his stance go rigid as he absorbed her slight accusation. It was quickly obvious that she didn't know who he was and he wondered what else he might tempt her to say - a chivalrous approach be damned. It wasn't fair to do what he was considering, but his curiosity was too strong to brush off.

"Aye, definitely can be it seems," he agreed with a bit of smugness. "Pretentious for sure - maybe even with a little entitlement. You've met them I take it? The Royal family?"

He waited anxiously for her answer, his wondering as to whether she'd crossed paths with his father or Cora or even Liam making him simmer with an underlying emotion he couldn't pinpoint. He couldn't explain why he cared about what she'd been up to, but his desire to hear about what she'd been immersed in while inside was tangled up in a need to know.

"Just briefly," she answered. "The older son of the heir only though. He's actually a genuinely nice guy from what I could gather - he knew my dad."

It was difficult to ignore that strange pang of something in his stomach, but Killian tried to do so as he tapped his fingers on the railing. He knew later he'd probably think more about just how this mystery girl and his brother had met, but for now, he had more inquiries to resolve.

"Ah, I'm sure he is," Killian countered with an evasive curiosity. "Didn't run into his brother though?"

"Prince….Killian or something, right? No, I didn't," she answered, her voice curling around his name in a way that fascinated him. "I'm not even sure if he even decided to attend this thing tonight."

Killian shifted on the heels of his new shoes as he mused at her conclusion. There was an impulse to react, but he fought back his instincts as he decided to prod her a little more. What she'd surely say was probably not anything he hadn't been labeled as before, but his defenses lifted while he found a response.

"Yeah, he doesn't really seem like the type for a formal affair like this," he fibbed. "What led you to that particular verdict though?"

"Well, you just hear things….and read things."

Of course she'd fallen victim to the somewhat true and false reports he'd stacked up in those several years between his gap year and Sandhurst - possibly even a few tales from his younger and very cavalier life as well. While she had every right to make the same assumptions others did, Killian found himself slightly irritated that she'd done so.

After all, she didn't know him - and they'd never even met as far as she knew.

"I suppose he's something of a wild card," he retorted evenly. "Kind of the black sheep from what one can tell. You've got to wonder what drives that rebellion of his."

"Can't say I know much about him, but I'd doubt it's rebellion as drastic as drinking on the Buckingham balcony," she teased as she leaned down to retrieve his dropped flask. "I don't think even a guy who kinda owns this place would be that bold. I'm surprised you are."

Killian smiled, trying to shove aside the slightly jabbing feel of that guilty thorn in his side. He briefly pondered the idea of calling her on her vague judgements, but she did know his name - and maybe there was a chance she would match his face to the moniker as well. He wasn't ready to risk that, but as he felt the air thicken, he summoned another idea.

Turnabout's fair play, he decided as his tongue lingered on his bottom lip.

"Maybe not," he started smoothly. "But I suppose it's only fair I get to know name of the woman who plans to turn me in?"

"It doesn't seem that fair actually," she replied, her hand still holding tight to the flask. "You haven't told me yours."

A couple of different possibilities - or rather, tiny lies - ran through his mind as tried to pick the path of least destruction. The truth wasn't an option and the ticking minutes weren't about to allot him much more time to entertain his anonymity. He couldn't leave her without an answer though.

The question of how he was supposed to go about telling this girl about his all too formal identity wasn't about to fade away, but an answer he could deem suitable wasn't within grasp. Killian pressed his lips together in consideration as frustration built a dilemma between them. How exactly do you go about casually divulging that you're one of the two princes the world knows rather well?

You don't, he thought in silent resolution - so he wasn't going to.

"I'm….nobody too important, love," he finally said, cowardice taking hold of his tone. "But you-"

His deflecting statement was suddenly cut short by the sound of distant applause, the sort that beckoned him back inside with a twinge of warning. Killian felt his nerves liven as he looked quickly at his watch only to find how late he was. Only about five minutes - but his brother was still definitely going to kill him.

"I guess that's a cue," she told him, a half smile tugging cleverly at her lips. "For me, at least."

"Aye, it seems so," he agreed as he tried to cling to a few more seconds of whatever this was. "Good luck in there - and sorry for….infringing on your escape. I suppose we can keep each other's secret, right?"

"I guess we should," she assured him as she battled with her shoe once more. "The company wasn't too bad actually though so….thanks for that."

He smirked quietly as he found he couldn't manage to disagree. He hadn't told her much of anything - not many of the actual facts, of course - but his side of the conversation wasn't full of complete dishonesty. He wasn't a man of great importance, especially in terms of this particular evening. She hadn't been wrong about him and his avoiding ways either. It hardly mattered though - this wasn't anything but two isolated ships passing on a rather dull night.

"Hey, umm," she said with a inquiry heavy on her breath. "This isn't the part where you kidnap me for ransom or something when I try to return to the palace, right? Because I don't really have much to offer in the way of royal riches."

He perked up slightly at the sound of good humored and possibly somewhat concerned question. His heart seemed quicken a bit as kept her stare trained on him. There was a cleverness to this girl he'd never planned on meeting and he let a smile slowly encompass his lips as they soaked in the last few moments of their bantering conversation.

"Wasn't planning on it," he laughed lightly. "I've got a few other things to attend to, fortunately for you."

"Okay, good….and in that case-" she replied with a small pause. "It's Emma. I'm Emma, I mean."

Blinking lazily, Killian gave the letters a second to rearrange themselves in his head. He watched the night carefully conceal the slender shape of the the girl who'd become a little less of an enigma with the breath of that single name.

"Emma," he repeated to himself with a surreal smirk.

For a night meant to be shrouded in defeated dread, it was sure shaping up to be strangely victorious.

Killian found himself immediately distracted as he moved through the grandiose doors and back into the packed ballroom. He wasn't totally sure how many attendees had been slated for the evening's festivities, but certainly hadn't prepared to see quite this many. The majority of the guests were men - both decorated sailors and other government officials alike - and the presence of heroic medals adorned with the utmost valor was staggering. It seemed that most of them had arrived alongside a companion and the mix of well dressed wives and dolled up girlfriends instantly made him wonder.

Where had she gone?

He'd been tempted to follow her inside the moment she left his sight and perhaps intercept her trek back toward the main stage, but retrieving his flask from the statue base where she'd left it was a more necessary task to undertake. He couldn't chance leaving unattended alcohol near such a popular point of the palace grounds, especially because he knew it might be traced back to him given his recent bout with the stuff. He'd ducked outside fast once more upon reaching the lower level, snatching the container and slipping it back into his jacket with haste. It was tempting to linger there in an effort to take in the same air she'd been breathing only moments earlier, but the vibration of his phone as it nearly fell out of his opposite pocket was a reminder that someone was surely irritated with his absence - and it didn't take a bloody scholar to figure out just who.

"Dammit, Killian," Liam hissed, grabbing his arm as they met to the side of the presentation platform. "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"Take it easy, Liam," he bit back, shaking off his sibling's hold. "I said I'd be here and I'm here. Right on time too so don't get your knickers in a bind."

The queen's opening words were well underway and Killian focused on her presence for a moment. She never failed to make leadership look so properly effortless, her etiquette perfect as ever as she vocalized her gratitude for the service of the Navy men and the sacrifices they made. He'd always loved watching his grandmother speak and the fact that Liam was so determined to interrupt his listening was annoying on a level only his older brother could manage.

"I am quite sure it's not me who's about to be a little frantic," Liam said in a hushed tone as he shoved a crisp note card toward him. "You've been recruited to help."

Killian narrowed his eyes in confusion before his sight fell to the thick paper he'd just been handed. The flawless speech his grandmother was delivering became a dull mumble in his ears as he processed what was scrawled in perfect penmanship his stare battled with.

No, he thought as his heartbeat faltered a bit. No, no, no.

"Hey, calm down," Liam said, clapping him on the shoulder as he sensed the multiplying waves of anxiety crashing into the room. "She just wants you to say a bit - welcome a few people is all. Then it's all me, brother."

The whole thing should be you, Killian thought with a hard swallow. He had barely been able to coax himself through the palace doors earlier and now it was being requested that he take the space behind the podium for a few simple lines.

Well, they'd be simple for anyone else - the Queen, his older brother, probably even his ill father - but the tension in his body and the numbness of his tongue told him this was not going to be any sort of easy. When it came to public speaking, 'simple' wasn't in the cards for him.

"Once again, we are elated to have each and every one of you here this evening to celebrate all you do in the service of our country," Gran said with a formal farewell tone before glancing toward the pair of them. "Before we continue celebrating our guests receiving high honors, my grandsons have a brief message they would like to share. I ask you to welcome them not only as wonderful representatives of the throne but also as fellow servicemen. I know their gratitude certainly ranks alongside my own. Without further ado, two of our royal Captains I'm delighted to have here tonight - Liam and Killian of Wales, representing the Royal Navy and the British Army respectively."

The applause in the large room was deafening enough to drown out the anxiousness flowing through Killian's veins as he followed his older brother up the few steps to where their quick speech would commence. He was loathe to look up over the seemingly endless crowd as Liam adjusted the microphone and put on his most charming smile. The heir in him was obvious as he vocalized his prepared words smoothly, his confidence never wavering as the blur of faces looked on. He'd always had a way with commanding attention while still inviting adoration.

That trait had skipped over Killian and replaced itself with the handsome but slight arrogance he was trying to muster as Liam nodded, beckoning him closer.

"We are, uh, beyond grateful to have such an esteemed audience here this evening. Each of you sacrifice and strive to….make our country a better, safer place," Killian started, hoping he wasn't mimicking his brother too obviously - it wasn't like he'd been paying attention. "We are thrilled to welcome back to service several men who've….who've risked more for our citizens and sovereign than could ever be expected."

Catching Gran's hopeful smile followed by Liam's steadying gaze nearly sent him into autopilot, his remaining speech hazy and his hands still trembling by the time his brother took over again. Liam's short biographies for the handful of honorable attendees the royal family was recognizing sounded faintly in his ears as he scanned the crowd. He was too busy trying to calm his shaken spirit to realize just what he was scouring the silent group of people for - until he found it.

Well, until he spotted her, of course - and lord, she was even more curiously captivating beneath the low lighting encircling them.

He nearly missed it - a fast flash of shock and knowing drifting over her features as their gazes fused quietly. It was a war he suddenly felt destined to lose so he could gain something even he didn't understand and his brain fought like mad to recall the name she'd left him with. It was a task of quick deduction, but not one that completely drowned out his brother's resumed introductory sentences.

"We feel especially advantageous on this particular evening to extend a hand to one of our most respected leaders of the armed forces - Admiral David Nolan, a man who had truly braved a variety of treacherous waters in order to be here with us now," Liam carried on as Killian held onto the stare of the graceful woman adorned in a pale lace dress. "We feel beyond fortunate for his presence and wish to offer a warm welcome to the supportive family he has joining him tonight-"

Killian took in the nervous sight of her as she glanced sideways, the breaking of their eye contact making his eyes follow hers. It wasn't difficult to piece it all together, even with the view of the woman he'd spent the evening fixated on. Killian's stomach sunk slowly as he watched the Admiral being recognized - pristine blue uniform, proud stance, an expression that seemed emotional as well as grateful all at once, and the accompanying grace of a dark haired woman at his side. There was another notable presence in close proximity to the honored couple - the one of the unknown girl who'd tilted his regal world slightly off its axis only a fraction of time ago.

Not possible, Killian told himself as realization slammed into him.

"-Mrs. Mary Margaret Nolan and their daughter, Emma."

Everything seemed to freeze in place as her wide eyes beamed with recognition, the moment of them placing one another much more intense than either could have planned on. Bloody hell, Killian thought as Liam's sudden elbow to his ribs pried his gaze away from hers. Of course this would happen to him. Of course he'd end up in such awkward circumstances.

The beautiful blonde from the courtyard was the Admiral's daughter - and her current embarrassed expression confirmed that she knew exactly who he was.

Tagging some lovely folks: @xpumpkindumplingx, @themmaswan, @harryandthecambridges, @spartanguard, @eala-captian, @allietumbles, @kmomof4, @laschatzi, @galadriel26, @timeless-love-story, @lifeinahole27, @kat2609, @msres, @captainswanismyendgame, @lovelycssefan, @hooksheroicheart, @captain-odonoghue, @gonzothegreat90, @cat-sophia, @rebelcxptain, @prairiepirate, @yesplskillianjones, @jennjenn615, @xhookswenchx, @heomomka, @fckyesroyals, @lenfazreads, @cherrywolf713, @lucasxdorothy, @hollyethecurious, @fairytalesandtimetravel, @lillyanjones, @pirateherokillian, @shipsxahoy, @phiralovesloki, @jscoutfinch *Just send me a message if you’d like a tag in future chapters :)

[heidi--97-blog]

Prince Harry & Meghan Markle’s love: a dilemma for her detractors...

It is actually quite disgusting seeing and reading the vile abuse levied towards Meghan Markle on the ‘mail online / daily mail’ website. You only have to read the commentary sections on articles Meghan Markle related to fully understand the level of base prejudice that resides on that site.  The scurrilous slurs, insinuations and often times potential libel, are racially motivated. The racism both the outright & subtle shines right through.  I feel it has now become a sadistic sport of sorts for this so-called National newspaper website to induce as much hysteria as possible from its commentators as the website churn out article after article and comment pieces (mainly unfavourable) on anything Meghan related on an almost daily basis.  One could be forgiven for thinking they have an agenda to fulfill and my goodness don't they just  pursue it with a vigour and vengeance.  I mean it's like: ‘how dare a woman of colour fall in love and how dare she conduct a mutual relationship with a man, who just happens to be a Prince of the realm’...  For the warped minds out there, they find the fact that this relationship is actually happening, despicable.  The constant disbelief from said quarters, the malicious rage is all too palpable - even In this twentyfirst century nevertheless.

How do these twiits justify the obsessive hate they spew you may ask?  Oh, it's the usual blather - she's ‘unsuitable’ because she's an actress oh dearie me! Well then, the late Grace Kelly was an actress, she went on to become Her Serene Highness of the Principality of Monaco, she of course, where required - partook in sexy love scene. And today still hailed & revered in all cases circles.  Lord Frederick Winsor a Royal also in line to the British throne, is married to an actress.  And in a world where a Prince of Sweden is married to a glamour model who has done full frontal nude, Ms Markle’s haters would have us all faint with the vapours for her tame romantic/sexy scenes with her onscreen love interests. No full nudes and nothing untoward.  Scenes, which by any standard, are, in this day & age, par for the course on almost all TV, theatre, Big Screen movies & Drama that are rated over (12).  But hey,  ‘it's only the mixed-race woman so let's continuously denigrate her to hell & back’.  'If we scream porn star enough times, the mud wil stick’. Really??  Yes, this is the level some have sunk to, sadly.  She's a divorcee, yes, but so is the immediate heir to the British throne, as is his current wife, formerly Camilla Parker Bowles . The current Queen of Spain was once a divorcee.  As was Princess Michael of Kent before she too married into the British Royal Family.

Ms Markle is a foreigner cum commoner her detractors insist on reminding us. Ah Ha!  So Meghan Markle is indeed an American based for sometime now in Canada. The Queen’s eldest grandson is married with children to a Canadian.  Denmark’s  immediate heir to the throne, Crown Prince Frederik is married to an Australian commoner, formerly Mary Donaldson whom he'd met in a pub in Sydney,  

Just like to add that the delightful Mette-Marit, Norway’s Crown Princess was once a commoner single parent before she too found her Prince. Plus Britain’s very own third in line to the throne, Prince William is also married to a commoner, the Duchess of Cambridge, formerly Kate Middleton.

I guess the point I am trying to make here with all those mentioned above is that people, commoners of ordinary backgrounds are now marrying into the Royal dynasties of Europe - A move never allowed before in the past.  Monarchies are moving with the modern times. Love reigns supreme, and where you are from and Class background is no longer and shouldn't ever  be an impediment to falling in love with and marrying someone who just happens to be royalty.

No, what really ought to matter is compatibility. Mutual love, passion, respect and common interests.  Both Harry & Meghan obviously have feelings for each other, they also share a background in humanitarian issues and raising awareness. Yes, Meghan Markle was long involved in charitable work long before she had even met Prince Harry. And haa made it absolutely clear that aspect of things was one of her missions in life and will remain so. Not satisfactory enough for her detractors though as they persist in branding her as an "opportunistic” villain forcing herself on a Prince.  Which is frankly absurd.

In actual fact, Ms Markle is an accomplished lady, a University Graduate with a Major in International Relations & Theatre. She is also a gifted calligrapher and financially supported herself whilst at University by doing bits of calligraphy here and there. She also spent time working at the American Embassy in Argentina, before deciding to focus on a career as an actor. Again, her detractors try to understate her achievements. It appears to just Zoom over their heads the fact that her education background is easily verifiable. And that any discrepancy in her resumé would have been exposed by the exposers in chief of the moment.  Uhmm, I meant the "investigative journalism” (sarcasm) undertaken by this particular mainstream National newspaper website that affords the vile deplorables, and stuck up Snobs everywhere the chance  to congregate and spout bile at will that feeds into their obsessive Meghan hate. 

Again, I repeat: that particular newspaper website would've been first in line to throw down the gauntlet, given their dubious  agenda.

Another baffling thing that continues to puzzle me is the moniker the Meghan detractors furnished her with.."Media Meg”... Err, hello: she is in the media by virtue of her job as an actress and her role as an humanitarian campaigner.  Both require a medium of exposure and it would be practically impossible not to have some form of media interest in her line of work, anyway.

What exactly do the detractors expect, in a line of work she's been involved with since before her relationship with Harry began ?

The paparazzi problem; Meghan Markle  gets criticised if she's papped taking a stroll to her yoga class. Or simply going about her daily business, the ordinary things people would normally do. It is not her fault the media paps have begun taking even more of a keen her interest in her comings and goings than ever.  It's a way of life celebrities in general have to live with or at least adapt to. As a matter of fact, paparazzi and press intrusion is a subject matter that blights the life of royalty just the same as celebrities when the opportunity arises. Which thankfully isn't very often but it does happen. Take for instance the Duchess of Cambridge, pictured in a state of undress at a private villa during a holiday with her husband. Illicit (some might argue illegal even) these were pap pics taken by the paparazzi and sold to magazine outlets a few years ago.  And the now infamous Sophie Rhys-Jones newspaper scoop.  Photo exhibits  of the then Sophie Rhys-Jones now Countess of Wessex. Photo shots of a clearly jovial Sophie, her bare breasts exposed in a clinch with the TV presenter Chris Tarrant. Old photos released just weeks before  her wedding  to the Queen’s youngest son, Prince Edward. Then there was that newspaper sting in which Sophie (now the Countess of Wessex after her marriage to Prince Edward) was disgracefully set up by an undercover journalist posing a rich Arabian Sheikh. She was caught on tape making disparaging remarks about political figures, and members of the royal family. Completely going against Royal Protocol.

You see we are all human with flaws. Meghan is a human being with feelings. She has dragged herself up, gotten herself a good education and works. Now she gives back to society in her own way. And yet she has to endure the pure evil bile with the unpleasant undercurrents of racism added to touch. She's of mixed-race heritage her mum is black and her dad white. It doesn't make her any less of a human being or less deserving of love wherever & however that comes by.  But to listen to the twisted creatures that dedicate an enormous amount of time and energy in pathetic attempts to ruin her reputation and bring her down, to read the sickening bile these rabid bunch of deplorables from across the Atlantic and elsewhere spew day in and day out about Ms Markle, says more about them than her. She can take heart in the fact that out in the real world the majority of people here in Britain are decent people with no time for the  base prejudice seen displayed on fringe websites.  

Ms Markle is an only child of her mother, but is constantly blighted by the poor life choices and display of envy by her half siblings. Step siblings she lost contact with since early childhood.  Children to her dad from a different marriage to her mum’s. Her parents separated when she was six years old. And yet these half siblings claim to be experts on her current life, sellIng fake tales to the press including childhood photos, when they have no first hand knowledge of her personal life and relationship and how it is panning out, other than what they read or make up themselves. One particularly nasty half/step sister spends her time on Twitter ranting poisonous rubbish about Mrghan.  Ah well, I suppose it goes with the territory with some step siblings.  After all, there are strong rumours the North Korean tyrant Kim Jong Un did away with his half brother.  And it is blatantly obvious Barack Obama’s half brother has been a pest in his side throughout his Presidency, sucking up to Donald Trump of all people and helping spread the vile birther conspiracy.  I hear the kraken’s raised its ugly head again recently.

[dulwichdiverter]

Remembering Lawrence

Lawrence White’s family and friends share their memories of the much-loved local man, who passed away in January

Photo by James Wicks

Lawrence White, owner of perfumer and lifestyle store Roullier White on Lordship Lane, was one of those people you felt lucky to know.

A familiar face and friend to many in the area, he was loved for his infectious enthusiasm, kindness, humour and generosity. True to form he championed this paper and our Peckham title from day one, and was the only person to advertise in every single issue.

Bumping into Lawrence was always great fun. We have fond memories of driving down Lordship Lane distributing our latest edition and seeing him come racing out of the shop, giving us a huge wave and a smile.

He put on a wonderful party at Roullier White for the launch of The Dulwich Diverter, going all out to make it a truly magical evening despite our tight budget, and insisting on spending his own money to add some extra special touches.

Michael Donovan, Lawrence’s husband, said: “Lawrence really was a ‘local boy’ – his family have lived in the area for well over 200 years – and he was always extremely proud of his south London roots. 

“Many local residents will know Lawrence from his store, Roullier White, however he has worked on some amazing projects that I know brought him great happiness and satisfaction, including the RAted collection at the Royal Academy of Arts and his most recent triumph, a range for the gift shop located literally at the end of the earth, the Penguin Post Office in Port Lockroy, Antarctica – which is now on the shelves should you be passing!

“Roullier White will be 18 years old this year and Lawrence was one of the first, independent retailers to breathe new life into Lordship Lane after years of neglect. The store is very much a testament to his imagination and good taste and combines contemporary design with his love of heritage and craftsmanship.

“His incredible eye, honed as a buyer for top London stores and museums, really was second to none and he could spot talent easily, giving many young creatives their very first order. He developed his own ‘Mrs White’s’ collection of natural cleaning and beauty products because he loathed unnecessary chemicals in the environment and believed that natural ingredients were far more efficacious. He even found time to curate one of the most respected independent perfumeries in the country.

“Lawrence was a passionate buyer and then retailer, entrepreneur and brand creator, published writer, designer and businessman. He was selfless with his time, support and advice for the local community and Roullier White sponsored local plays, charities, schools and publications. 

“He fought hard for what he believed in – fairness in business, British goods and services, local retail, great design and exemplary customer service, but always with humour and charm. He set up the local business association and campaigned to protect Lordship Lane and its unique collection of independent retailers.

“Judging by the many cards and letters I have received, his booming laugh and incredible kindness will be much missed in the streets and stores around the area. He was, as many have been thoughtful enough to mention, a gentleman.

“It is my intention to continue his legacy including his many plans for Roullier White. Lawrence truly loved his store and this community and it will be an honour to fulfil his wishes. I hope that our friends and neighbours will continue to support his vision with the same appreciation and enthusiasm as they always have and help his name to live on, as it truly deserves.”

Terry Ronald said: Lawrence and I became friends when we were in our early 20s but I’d known him since I was six; we both grew up in East Dulwich and attended St John’s and St Clement’s primary school, which was then on Archdale Road.

“Over the past 30-odd years, Lawrence and his husband Michael have been my closest friends – my family. It’s impossible to count the fabulous holidays, the dinners, the parties, the laughs, tears and major life events we’ve shared – his friendship has been everything to me. He held me up through tough times and helped support my family when I was very sick some years back. And of course we laughed… lots!

“Lolly’s wonderfully bizarre sense of humour was razor sharp, his manners impeccable and I can think of no kinder, more considerate person. He cared about people and he cared about what was happening in the world around him.

“Lawrence was so much part of our community; it’s hard for me to walk down Lordship Lane without thinking about him, and I don’t think that will ever change. It’s said of many people, but Lawrence really was a special man.”

Local caterer Suzanne James said: “It’s not often that a person like Lawrence comes into your life. Lawrence was one of the kindest, most time generous, helpful and supportive people I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.  

“Weekly we would bump into each other on his walk to work and we would always spend time having a little catch up with life. I would always leave smiling, thinking what a lovely man Lawrence was.”

Tim Oakley, co-owner of House of Tippler, said: “Lawrence was the most perfect neighbour I could have had when we moved into Lordship Lane. From day one he couldn’t have been more helpful and generous to us.

“Lawrence never stopped promoting the local area, supporting the independent businesses and bringing likeminded locals together. He was always coming up with new ideas and fun projects.”

“One that sticks out in my mind is when we set up a cocktail bar on top of the seven-foot-high wall between our back gardens, serving cocktails to the garden party he was throwing in the shop garden.”

Tim Sheehan, owner of Franklins, said: “When people talk about the community, Lawrence was a driving force. He lived in East Dulwich and was prepared to get his hands dirty to improve it. He always made you feel that you were also part of it and were connected to it.

“He would promote any business, not just his own; he would include us in any articles that he had written, he would always encourage us and was always keen on whatever new things we were all doing.

“I’ll miss that laugh. Lawrence would even laugh when we had all had a bad week trading. Forever optimistic, that one.”