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knightjane · 3 years ago

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A while ago I got asked to write a modern au where Obi-Wan and Anakin get in a fight about how to best care for the twins. (All fluff!) This is what I came up with. (It's based off the episode of full house 'yours, mine, and ours.')

Obi-Wan sat on the couch eating strawberries with a bored look on his face. With a sigh he slumped further down the couch, his eyes once again landing on the door, waiting for the moment Anakin and Luke got back from their trip to the store.

Finally after another few minutes the door to the house opened and Obi-Wan stood up, smiling when he saw Anakin walk in with a bright smile on his face. "I'm hoooome!" Anakin yelled obnoxiously and Obi-Wan couldn't help but feel slight relief. He was happy he wouldn't have to sit alone anymore. Of course he enjoyed his breaks but at the moment he had been missing Anakin dearly.

The wind blew harshly behind Anakin, filling the living room with cold air and snow before being quickly shut. In Anakin's right hand he carried a one year old Luke who lay in his plastic portable car seat.

Practically skipping over to Obi-Wan, Anakin sat the baby on the small coffee table in front of the couch before giving Obi-Wan a little hug which he returned the best he could. When they parted Obi-Wan's eyes immediately fell to Luke. His smile sunk as soon as he saw exactly what Luke was wearing, or in other words, what he wasn't wearing. Obi-Wan turned his eyes back up to Anakin who seemed to think there was nothing wrong as he still hadn't seemed to remove the huge smile that was covering his face.

"Anakin...Luke isn't wearing a hat." Concern was evident in Obi-Wan's voice as his eyes narrowed on Anakin. Thank goodness Anakin had remembered a coat this time but Luke's ears just had to be freezing, Obi-wan thought to himself.

The other man looked down at Luke for just a moment. "We were only outside for a minute," Anakin said, still very obviously not seeing the problem as he carelessly set the bags on the table, revealing he hadn't just gotten the baby food Obi-Wan had asked but chips too.

With a sigh Obi-Wan turned away from Luke and the bags to look up at Anakin. He raised an eyebrow, hoping he wouldn't have to elaborate further on why bringing a baby out in the cold without a hat was a bad idea. Anakin shrugged. "What?"

"Anakin, Luke could have gotten frost bite. Look at how red his cheeks are." Both Anakin and Obi-Wan look down at Luke.

Anakin chuckled. "Little tomato." Obi-Wan crossed his arms in a frustrated manner. Anakin sighed. "Obi, he always looks like a tomato. It's his natural tone." Anakin gently pinched Luke's cheek, making the little boy giggle. Obi-Wan couldn't help but smile only slightly at Luke's happiness but the smile faded quickly as he remembered he had to be stern.

"Anakin! Next time you bring him outside you need to put a hat on him!" Obi-Wan reached down to touch Luke's head. "Anakin, he's freezing," he scolded.

Anakin huffed. "He's fine." Obi-Wan raised an eyebrow, making Anakin whine. "It was two minutes. I shielded him from the snow. He only went to the car and back Obi-Wan." Anakin paused for a moment before adding. "Look, not even Padme is this over protective of the kids."

Obi-Wan hummed, a determined look forming in his eyes. "Oh really?"

Anakin nodded. "Oh yeah. She would think it's fine!"

Obi-Wan huffed definitely. "Okay, then let's talk to her."

Anakin froze. "Talk to her?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "If you are so confident bringing Luke out into the snow without a hat is fine, then let's call her and ask."

Anakin pouted. "Obi!" Obi-Wan doesn't relent. Eventually Anakin sighed and pulled out his phone. "You're really going to make me call her about this?"

Obi-Wan nodded. "I'm trying to prove a point."

Anakin sighed and quickly called Padme, putting the phone on speaker. Padme picked up the phone almost immediately. "What did you do?"

Anakin chocked. "Nothing!"

Obi-Wan hummed. "Anakin..." he warned.

"Why do you always think I did something wrong?" Anakin whined into the phone.

Padme hummed. "Sorry Ani. Is Obi-Wan being mean to you again?" Anakin looked up at Obi-Wan who was once again raising an eyebrow at him. Anakin chuckled nervously.

"N-No," he said in a small voice. "I umm, well you see...the thing is-"

Obi-Wan interjected. "He brought Luke out into the cold without a hat."

Anakin gasped. "For two minutes!"

Padme sighed. "Sorry Anakin. But Luke should have been in a hat." Anakin whined and Obi-Wan smirked only just big enough for Anakin to notice. "Why wasn't he in a hat again?" Padme questioned with the slightest bit of exasperation.

"I brought him to the store with me and then back to the house. He was only outside for a short time. His baby ears could handle it." Anakin turned to Luke. "Luke, back me up here."

Anakin held the phone up to Luke's mouth. "Da," Luke mumbled.

Anakin looked oddly proud of him and patted him on the head. "Good boy." He spoke back into the phone. "See, fine."

Padme sighed into the phone. "Just..." A pause."Those twins better be alive when I pick them up tomorrow. Work this out among yourselves."

"Yes Padme," Anakin and Obi-Wan both respond in unison.

"Good," Padme said before hanging up, already seeming to be done with both of them.

After the call ended Anakin pouted and turned away from Obi-Wan. He eventually looked at Luke and started taking him out of his seat while mumbling. "Everyone is always so mean to me." He set Luke on the carpet and handed him a small toy that was laying on the coffee table. Luke hit the toy against the ground excitedly and squealed.

"I am not mean to you. I just...I worry Anakin." Anakin was about to respond when Leia let out a cry from her crib in the other room. Anakin bolted from his place on the carpet and ran to help Leia. Obi-Wan quickly followed, leaving Luke alone with his toy.

When Obi-Wan entered the room Anakin had already started bouncing Leia on his hip. As he bounced Leia he looked down at Obi-Wan with that classic pout he always seemed to wear when Obi-Wan scolded him. "You know, if you were the only one in charge of raising Luke he'd grow up to be pampered. He can handle a minute in the cold. I was protecting him."

Obi-Wan huffed. "And if you raised Leia she wouldn't be pampered either?"

Anakin looked away, trying not to seem embarrassed. "Well....not as soft as yours."

"Anakin, you try to give them a present everyday, they would be spoiled," Obi-Wan retorted, thoughts of all the unnecessary gifts Anakin had already bought filling his head.

Anakin snorted. "They would have all the materials they needed."

Obi-Wan briefly bit his bottom lip, not wanting to laugh. "You mean children need a five pound water gun incase they, and I quote, 'need to soak a bitch.' Anakin they can't even walk yet."

Anakin let's out a loud, unashamed laugh. "I don't even remember saying that."

Obi-Wan sighed. "Well you did."

"I swear sometimes I am so funny! I truly crack mys-" Anakin stopped when he saw Obi-Wan glaring at him again.

"Anakin, you must admit. Sometimes you pamper the twins as much as I do," Obi-Wan said, his tone lightening to a more playful one.

Anakin sighed. "Sometimes! Only sometimes!"

Obi-Wan hummed. "Then I assume you didn't buy the twins any toy when you went to the store less than an hour ago."

Anakin shoved a hand in his pocket, still holding Leia on his hip with his other arm. "I...how dare you accuse me of such things!"

Obi-Wan looked down at Anakin's pocket then back up. "What's in your pocket?" Anakin opened his mouth to interject but Obi-Wan stopped him. "Show me."

Anakin whined and pulled out a weird looking stuffed duck about the size of his fist.

"And what is that?" Obi-Wan asked while trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

Anakin looked down. "A stuffed duck...for Luke. He was....he just kept trying to grab it. Plus....I already named it so no returns."

Obi-Wan rolled his eyes fondly. "Oh Anakin....just tell me the name."

Anakin was silent for a moment. "Mr. Quaker," he mumbled.

Obi-Wan rubbed a hand over his face. "What did I get into?" He asked himself.

Anakin put the duck back in his pocket and giggled. "Aww, what do you mean? You love me. And you love the fact I'm willing to spoil the twins every chance I get." Anakin inched closer and Obi-Wan who sighed, smiling just slightly.

"It is slightly endearing," Obi-Wan relented.

Anakin smirked. "See, I told you. You adore me."

Obi-Wan giggled. "Yes fine, I adore you." Anakin was about to say something more when a loud cry from the other room startled them both.

Anakin and Obi-Wan both stare at each other before Anakin pushed Leia into Obi-Wan's arms and rushed out of the room. Panicked as well, Obi-Wan carefully set down Leia, rubbing her cheek affectionately before he left.

Obi-Wan walked to the living room and gasped when he saw Luke. Luke's face had swollen slightly. A smashed strawberry lay in front of the baby, indicating he had eaten it or at least tried. Anakin picked Luke up and Obi-Wan walked closer to pick up the smashed strawberry. "I never put them away." He whispered to himself, shame instantly filling him.

Anakin looked at Luke. "He's never had strawberries before, I think he's allergic. Obi-Wan what do we do?"

Obi-Wan panicked as he looked at Luke. "I'll call a doctor." He ran off while Anakin comforted Luke. Obi-Wan didn't know how he could be so irresponsible. He was an idiot. This was worse than bringing the baby out in the cold without a hat for two minutes. He should have known those strawberries were low enough for Luke to grab them. Here he was lecturing Anakin when he was the one that needed to be punished.

About five minutes later Obi-Wan rushed back in on the phone. On the other end the doctor asked questions about Luke, Obi-Wan giving him as many details as he could. Obi-Wan then ran to the kitchen and ran back in less than a minute holding an ice pack wrapped in a towel, he pressed it gently to Luke's head.

After about two more minutes Obi-Wan hung up. Anakin looked nervously at him. "So? What do we do?"

Obi-Wan took a deep breath. "We got lucky, the allergic reaction wasn't that serious. All Luke needs is time and ice." Obi-Wan and Anakin both study Luke, relieved when they see the swelling had started to go down just slightly. Obi-Wan looked guiltily at Anakin. "I'm sorry for being such a hypocrite. Here I was lecturing you about bringing Luke out into the cold when I was irresponsible enough to leave strawberries low enough to the ground that Luke could eat them."

A soft expression came over Anakin's features as he stared at Obi-Wan. "It's okay Obi-Wan. We all make mistakes." Anakin smirked slightly. "Plus, we're even now."

Obi-Wan groaned. "Yes, even."

Anakin chuckled. "I will be telling Padme about this though."

Obi-Wan nodded, his cheeks turning a little red with embarrassment. "Yeah....I know."

Anakin leaned down and kissed Obi-Wan's forehead. Obi-Wan looked up at him with a tiny smile and Anakin returned it with a gentle one. "I love you Obi-Wan."

Obi-Wan looked at him with a fond yet knowing smile. "I know."

Request by @kcat92 Thank you so much! I loved writing it! 🥰

#could be platonic or romantic #obi wan and anakin #anakin x obi wan #obi wan x anakin #obikin #obi-wan kenobi #anakin skywalker #luke skywalker #leia skywalker #padme amidala #star wars

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daydream-believin · 4 years ago

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What About the Smaller Picture (3)

Summary: Merlin knows best. And what he feels is best for you and Douxie right now is to sit around and wait for him to come back from New Jersey, Merlin-knows-when. (3) You’ve adjusted to Arcadian life pretty well. (1) or (4)

Warnings: Swearing, sleep problems?

Word count: 2474

A/n: sorry this wasnt out sooner I’ve had a week

The curtains were blue. They had a little pattern of navy and white flowers and curvy lines like pottery painted with indigo. You had moved one of Doux’s bookshelves to be the second wall to allow the curtain rod to even be in place. This layout effectively created a nook of sorts around your little bed. To be frank the curtains weren’t absolutely necessary. The space kinda gave you university dorm vibes with the two twin beds across from each other. But there was no way you were letting this guy you barely knew watch you sleep. Even if you were good friends, you wouldn’t let him watch you sleep. That kind of vulnerability was special, reserved for only those closest to you.

Speaking of closeness, Douxie had been very adamant about you not calling him by his full name anymore. Made him feel like you were reprimanding him, he said. You could relate to the feeling, and so you were now being careful to replace all ‘Hisirdoux’s with ‘Douxie’s in your head. Or at least a ‘Doux’. Not ‘Babe’. Who told you that. You definitely never referred to him as Babe in your mind. Nope. That Is Not Something Friends Do.

“And,” Douxie rubbed the back of his neck, “Normally when people call me Hisirdoux nowadays it’s because they want to kill me. Only strangers and enemies call me that. Or Zoe when she’s pissed. So yeah, just Douxie is fine.”

“Just Douxie?”

He chuckled, “Yeah.” You looked up at him with a smile.

“Douxie.” He flushed, nodding. “Well, Douxie, what do you want for dinner tonight.”

That little nook you’d built hadn’t stopped Douxie from trying to talk to you all night, however. You’d think the curtains would be a clear message of don’t talk to me I want to be left alone but Doux hadn’t really taken that hint. You tried your best to brush him off the first few nights, even pretending to fall asleep. It didn’t stop him. By the fourth night you spent in Arcadia, you gave in. You had trouble sleeping anyways, as it was apparent so did your roommate, so might as well indulge him. It’s not like ignoring him did any good. Instead of staring at a blue-light screen that messed with your circadian rhythm, you talked about nonsense with Doux. And it was good nonsense. He was way too funny. Or maybe it’s that thing where if you’re into someone then everything they say is hilarious. You’ll never know. But it was nice, either way.

The funny thing was that not only did you actually start to like this, but now it was becoming hard to sleep without it. He helped. Your whole life you stayed up late, and then tossed and turned all night anyways. Now your bedtime routine was talk to Douxie for a few hours, slowly falling asleep, and then you’d sleep the whole night through like a baby. No more restlessness. No more waking up over and over again. Even if you did, you could just listen to him snore for a bit and fall right back to sleep. You guessed it was the feeling of safety he provided. Like someone was watching over you, even when you were at your most vulnerable. You’d never really had that luxury before.

You had started noticing the trouble coming back when he would stay out late sometimes. And Douxie was gone one night and you suddenly couldn’t sleep at all. This was bad. A problem, if you will. But no matter. There were more pressing things to worry about.

Like the fact that all week, Douxie had been hinting that he had something you two were going to do soon. He would not tell you what it was. In fact he was taking quite a bit of joy in dangling this “surprise” in front of your face but not telling you anything about it. It was driving you a little crazy. You hoped what he had planned was nothing too wild, though. It’s not that you weren’t down, you were just tired. But you could use a little shaking up. This bookshop existence was boring. You weren’t boring. You had enough crazy stories to last an immortal lifetime from growing up in New Jersey. Not just modern-day Urban New Jersey. Early colonial Quaker-dominated New Jersey was wild too. Especially as one of those infamous New England witches. Maybe Douxie was taking you on some magic errand. That would be great, you were dying to do something actually in your job description ever since you got here. Not that working in the bookshop wasn’t nice, it just wasn’t magic. You were craving magic.

But alas, as the sun was setting and the last patrons left the store, life moved on as mundanely usual. You flipped over the sign, scratched a sunbeam bathing Archie behind the ears, and started the process of re-shelving all the damn books that customers left strown about. The sunset turned the bookshop pink. There were fewer cars rushing by. Now that there were no customers, it was very peaceful. Just you, Archie’s snoring, and the soft lute music playing. The music was lute covers of popular songs, and at this point you were pretty sure it was Douxie himself who recorded this shit.

Speaking of Douxie, you hadn’t seen him all day. It had made working the bookshop extra extra boring. Like if he wanted you to be free labor, he could at least give you the decency of his lovely presence. But no, it was just you, all day long. All by your lonesome, with nary a cute theater-kid adjacent wizard to keep you entertained with his company. It was a travesty really. But anyways, where was he. Better not be having fun without you.

You like to think your thoughts summoned him. He came in through the back door, panting, disheveled. Singed? He frantically looked out the door’s window into the alleyway from which he had just came from, looking for something. Whatever it was, he must have seen it, since he looked panic-stricken. In a painfully obvious attempt to swallow the fear, he turned to you, trying his best to sound nonchalant.

“SO. You know that thing? The surprise? Well. It is here a little sooner than I expected it to bE—” A loud crashing noise came from the alleyway. “Oh, fuzzbuckets.”

You dropped the book in your hand. “WHAT DID YOU DO.”

There was another very loud crash, this time closer. Douxie glanced back for less than a moment before rushing over to you, taking you hand.

“I’ll just have to tell you on the way love, come on!”

You two fled out the front door of the shop like your tails were on fire. Speaking of tails on fire, once you rounded the shop to the alleyway, you found out just what Douxie had been running from that was making such loud noises. Hellheetis. Five large hellheetis. Blazing bright in the Arcadian dusk. How the neighbors haven’t already called the cops or the fire department was a mystery. The large lion-like creatures growled, stalking down the alley. It was only a matter of seconds before they smelled and or spotted you and went back into the chase. You had to make a plan and fast. Distracting you from your thoughts, Douxie nervously laughed beside you.

“hehe, uh, could you believe there was only one of these at the start?”

You slowly turned to the wizard, “Did you,, hit them, Hisirdoux?” You could call him that now because you were in fact pissed off at the moment.

“Only twice.”

“Only twice… Okay”

“I may not be the best at monster identification. Or remembering which tactic to use for which.”

“I can see that.” You tried to keep your voice as calm as you could, which got a little easier to do as the hellheetis turned down a different alleyway, putting some more distance between them and you. They were still searching though, that was apparent. Thankfully the stench of the alley trash was keeping you covered.

“Believe me, Archie gets onto me about this all the time.”

“It’s okay… just. I think I have a plan. But one of us has to be bait. And it’s going to be you.”

“That’s fair.”

You sprinted up the stairs of the bookstore and up through the ceiling hatch onto the rooftop. You first instinct was to get them to the center of the square, where you could use the fountain as a water source. The alley they had started going down opened up to the square anyhow. It would have been a straight shot. But dear Mr. Casperan made a fuss about that being too out in the open or whatever.

Next solution. The bookstore’s rooftop had a facet, Douxie told you. You’d like to imagine it was put there so some nice old lady could have had a sweet rooftop garden without too much hassle. Maybe you should start a sweet rooftop garden. You and Douxie could have a little oasis in the city up here. You could grow veggies and flowers for your table. Maybe make a cute little picnic area. Stargaze at night. The facet. You quickly found it and made work of turning it on. Or at least you tried your best. You could hear roaring, getting louder, getting closer. The scary growls and roars were punctuated by Douxie’s frantic footsteps, grunts, and gasps. Please don’t get eaten, Douxie.

The facet was so rusty, it took all of your strength to get it to budge. And then nothing came out really, the hose attached to it lifeless without so much as a trickle. You tried to unscrew it from the facet to see if there was a problem and the metal part of the hose disintegrated in your hand. Okay. No water was in fact coming out of that facet.

Imaginary sirens rang in your ears. You had to get water, fast, or your partner was gonna be kit & kadouxle. Hellheeti chow. Growl mix. Douxies. Fiery feast. The big cats were gonna eat him okay. After managing to get the facet turned as fast as you could, fueled on pure adrenaline, and still getting little to no water, you made a judgement call of fuck that. Magic time. To be completely frank here that should have been what you had done in the fucking first place, but hey, fear dulls the mind.

Gathering up as much water as you could, like, metaphorically feel in the pipe, you pulled that shit out with all your might. Aaaannddd because of this you may have not actually remembered that you would need to catch said water in order to, you know, use it. Instead of a nice bubble to be used at your discretion, a magic roof-water tidal wave washed over you and over the side of the building into the alley below. Thank your lucky fucking stars that Douxie just so happened to have gotten the fire felines to the right spot in time. The uncontrollable rain rushed down, dissipating the hellheetis, soaking Douxie darling, and flooding not only your alley but all the alleys connected to it. Holy shit, stop it! STOP IT! It took a second, but you did finally get the river to stop pouring out of your rooftop. Fingers crossed there were no basement windows open and all your neighbors had flood insurance. And that no one saw. Can’t be connected to you if no one saw right. Shhhhhh.

You peered over the ledge to see if Douxie was alright down below. He looked like a cat caught in the rain himself. You probably did too. Douxie’s soaked bangs covered his eyes. Nevertheless, he was able to see you up on the ledge and gave you a thumbs up. You awkwardly returned it.

Toweling off your hair, and now in nice dry pajamas, you walked out of the bathroom to join Douxie on the couch. His own hair towel hung around his shoulders. You took a moment to enjoy how cute he looked all ready for bed, cozy in the blankets on the couch. And that semi-wet hair was looking pretty nice too. You only allowed yourself to linger on this for that moment however, as you remembered you were supposed to be mad at him right now. You crossed your arms as you approached the wizard.

“SO, dearest Hisirdoux, may I have the decency of getting to ask the question, WHY.”

“Funny story really.”

“Really?” You raised a brow

“Really.”

Douxie fidgeted with his hands. You watched this little nervous gesture intently as you sat down next to him. He took a deep breath before beginning,

“First thing. You’ve been here for some time now, and I thought it was enough time for me to start sharing my little, er, excursions with you,” Douxie’s face flushed a little, “I like monster hunting, and now that I know that I like you, I thought I’d like it more if I brought you along with me?”

Your face was flushed a little too now. “Hey, stop it, I need to be mad at you.” Yeah well the smile you wore gave up any pretense of that. Sorry.

“I didn’t know how familiar you were with monsters or how skilled at fighting you were, so I decided to go get some test monsters from Mervin the Monster Dealer, just to make sure our first time would be safe. FIRST TIME MONSTER HUNTING TOGETHER.”

You stifled a chuckle. “And you didn’t just ask me?”

“It was supposed to be a cool surprise okay.” He buried his face in his hands.

“… Hellheetis?” Safe monster your ass.

“Yes, I mean no, I- Mervin sold me the wrong thing alright. I thought I was buying those cute little fire sprite things you can easily just put out with your boot.”

This time you did not hold back that laughter. And you laughed, and Douxie laughed, and soon both of you were uncontrollably cackling until you were out of breath. Archie came in to see what the commotion was about and then promptly turned back around to go back to his spot in the window. You clutched your chest, still cracking up despite the lack of oxygen. Douxie wiped some tears from his eyes you were sure hoping were just from laughing too hard. You rubbed a hand on his back.

“So, I think I’ve had enough excitement for one day. How bout movie night?”

Douxie’s tired eyes smiled at you, “Yeah, I think that would be lovely.”

“Hey, I had a good first monster hunt, Douxie. Thank you,” You pulled your cold feet up under your legs, “But could you stop hogging the blankets!”

#douxie x reader #hisirdoux casperan x reader #douxie x y/n #tales of arcadia x reader #douxie imagine #hisirdoux casperan imagine #Douxie Casperan x reader #tales of arcadia imagine #douxie #my writing #watsp

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carewyncromwell · 4 years ago

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Next Cinderella AU part ahoy!

Conical hats were actually considered very fashionable during the Middle Ages and the early Renaissance. What’s fascinating, however, is how they evolved into two very distinct and oddly opposing styles of hat: the stereotypical “Pilgrim” hat and the pointed hat that witches are generally depicted wearing! Around the turn of the 17th century, the most stylish variation of black conical hat was called the capotain, which is a cone, but with a rounded top -- the hat McGonagall wears in that top sketch is one of these types of hats (her dress is based on this design, which also features a shorter version of the capotain). The hats were originally fashionable among both men and women, but over time, one group of women that was most associated with wearing them were Quakers, a branch of Christianity that broke away from the Church of England and advocated quite liberated views for the era, such as the abolition of slavery, women’s rights, and a refusal to involve themselves in war. They also passionately believed that one didn’t have to attend church in order to be close to God and that one could practice one’s faith out in the world by living and dressing modestly and being active in charity work. (To learn more about the history of how the conical hat evolved into our modern image of “the witch hat,” check out this awesome fashion history video on the subject.) As one can expect, Quakers and Quaker women in particular were not well-taken-to by a lot of European society, especially by the religious movement on the opposite site of the political scale in Britain, the uber-conservative, Bible-purist Puritans. Many of these same Puritan-types got very involved in hunting witches both in Europe and in the Americas (the Salem Witch Trials are a perfect example). But yes...if one looks up pictures of historical clothing for Puritan men and/or “the Pilgrims” (A.K.A. the group of Americans that colonized Plymouth, who were Puritans), they very often wore a variation of the capotain! Although it’s been theorized by historians that the capotains worn by Quaker women ended up being associated with sin and therefore witchcraft, similar hats were also worn by the men who persecuted them. The hats were worn by both sides -- victim and accuser -- and yet most of us today look at the capotain and immediately think “witch” exclusively. Talk about irony.

Greensleeves is often ascribed as being commissioned by King Henry VIII for his second wife, Anne Boleyn (even Six the Musical references this)...but it actually was written in the later half of the 16th century, when Anne’s daughter Elizabeth I was Queen. So yeah, that’s sadly just an old wives tale. But it is a lovely song! The melody for Greensleeves has been remarkably long-lasting, even being rewritten as multiple Christmas songs over the centuries, including the still popular What Child is This?, which was written in 1865.

Previous part is here -- whole tag is here -- Katriona “KC” Cassiopeia belongs to @kc-needs-coffee -- and I hope you all enjoy!

x~x~x~x

Carewyn very quickly threw on her mother’s green-sleeved yellow dress and as many warm wool petticoats as she could before fetching her white horse from the palace stable. She rode up through the gate in exactly twenty-five minutes, to find Orion on his black mare waiting for her. Carewyn was ready to ask Orion if everything was all right, but almost as soon as they’d left the perimeter of the gate, Orion urged his horse into a fast gallop.

“Come, my lady,” he cried over his shoulder, “let us chase that horizon!”

Carewyn had to send her horse charging forward in its own gallop to catch up with him. They rode right through the market and then out of the capitol altogether -- they avoided the road that led toward the Cromwell estate, dashing eastward. They weaved in and out of the rolling snow-capped hills, riding beside and around each other. The freedom of riding alone was enough to bring some life back into Orion’s cheeks, and Carewyn despite herself soon found herself smiling.

When they came to a stop at the top of a hill close to the northern border, Orion looked out over the edge with a handsome, endless gleam in his eye, like that of a sailor looking out to sea. Carewyn once again prepared to ask Orion if he was all right...but once again, Orion dodged the question.

“Do you see that eagle, overhead?” asked Orion.

Carewyn looked up. She did -- it was a truly handsome golden eagle, gliding in a circle through the air over their heads.

“I’ve seen eagles just like that nearly every day, up and down the border,” said Orion. “Shall we see if we can ride fast enough to overtake it in flight? Could we take flight as birds do, without ever spreading wings?”

“Orion...”

Carewyn brought a hand gently down on his arm.

“I know there’s something wrong,” she whispered.

Orion looked at her, his expression losing most of its levity and becoming much blanker and more inscrutable again.

“I understand if you can’t tell me,” she insisted softly. Her blue eyes rested on her own hand on his arm rather than his face -- with the intense concern she felt, she didn’t dare expose them further by looking straight into his eyes. “And I truly don’t want you to feel like you have to tell me anything you don’t want to. Your secrets are your own, and I know you have a reason for them.”

Just as I have mine.

“I only...I can tell you’re running from something...maybe even the thing you’ve being running from, every time you’ve come to see me, all these weeks...and I don’t know what to do, to protect you from what you’re so afraid of. Please...tell me what I can do.”

Orion’s black eyes trailed over Carewyn’s face, rippling with many tiny flickers of emotion that were hard to properly identify -- pain? Affection? Anxiety? Evasiveness? Shame? Longing? Who knew?

At last the Prince of Florence brought a hand out to gingerly rest on top of Carewyn’s on his arm.

“Chase that eagle with me,” he said softly.

Carewyn looked up at Orion and then at the eagle overhead as it soared off toward the nearby woods. Then she gave him a small, sad smile and nodded.

“...All right.”

Dislodging herself from Orion, Carewyn steadied her grip on her horse’s reins and flicked them to make it gallop toward the woods.

“Well, come on, then!” she called over her shoulder with the strongest smile she could. “T’would be a shame if I out-rode you in a challenge you set yourself!”

Orion’s face broke out into a brighter, fond smile and he pursued her.

The two rode their horses down the hill and into the trees. Racing side by side, overtaking each other in their strides and then catching up again -- all while Orion smiled so fully and handsomely, and looked at her with such blazing midnight-black eyes -- was a joy that Carewyn had trouble putting into proper words. His expression was full of such silent, and yet unbridled joy -- free, in every sense of the word.

“You should be allowed to feel like that more often,” Orion’s words returned to her. “Free.”

You should be allowed to feel like that too, Orion, thought Carewyn. You deserve to feel this free all the time.

The two rode with speed until they’d finally lost sight of the beautiful golden eagle. Slowing their horses into a calmer trot, they then journeyed through the trees, enjoying the peaceful serenity of the chirping birds and the pools of sunlight scattered across the muddy, snow-dusted ground.

“I’ve never been out this far before,” Carewyn confessed, her almond-shaped blue eyes trailing over the interlaced branches overhead.

Orion looked at her out the side of his eye. “...This close to the border, you mean?”

“Yes.”

Carewyn caught a strange scent in the distance -- something vaguely like the fires she’d tend to back at the castle and the Cromwell estate.

“...Something’s burning...”

Orion nodded solemnly. “Bonfires. The Royaumanian and Florentine camps aren’t far from here.”

Carewyn looked at Orion, slightly startled. His gaze had wandered northward, but it was clear his mind was far from the trees his eyes were idly resting on.

“We’re near the war front?” asked Carewyn softly.

“Yes...” Orion glanced her out the side of his eye. “...Are you frightened?”

“No,” said Carewyn.

She looked through the trees in the direction Orion had been facing.

Jacob could be over there right now, she thought to herself. The idea of seeing her brother for the first time in nine years -- of hugging him again and seeing his relieved smile -- it made her feel like her heart was being squeezed.

Orion’s black eyes scanned her longing, but fearless face, before shifting back in the direction of the trees that obscured the path toward the war front.

“The scales are going to shift again, soon,” he whispered. He could feel Carewyn’s eyes on him again. “The two sides have constantly fought for dominance...lashing out ruthlessly and then retaliating, back and forth, until they’re forced to come to a stalemate, just to catch their breath. Then one lashes out again, and the precarious balance is thrown to the winds once more...”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with concern. “Orion...is something bad about to happen, out there?”

Orion closed his eyes. His father claimed he needed him, in order to lead the Florentine army in the two-pronged attack on Royaume...but it wasn’t unlikely that the King might make do and find someone else to fill that role...

“Hopefully not,” he said softly.

Carewyn reached out a hand and took hold of Orion’s wrist. Orion looked down at her hand and then up at her face -- she had trouble looking at him, but he could tell her eyes were rippling with concern. His heart felt like it was suddenly being harshly compressed, just to fit inside of his chest.

You wish to protect me from what I fear...but what I fear, I should wish to protect you from.

The King’s words returned to his mind.

“When you make mistakes, the people you cherish, that you want most desperately to protect, pay the price!”

But how could he hope to protect Carewyn from the War and the cost it would demand? How could he hope to stop it, when his own father unknowingly would be sabotaging his efforts for peace? How could he live with himself, if he had to chain himself to the War the way the King had -- to fight against the Royaumanians he’d met and broken bread with as equals?

Orion took several deep breaths before speaking again.

“...My father wishes me to join him, at the front,” he admitted lowly.

Carewyn looked up, startled. “...Your father’s in the army?”

“Yes,” said Orion. “He’s...a high-ranking officer. He expects that I will follow his example and lead our ranks into battle.”

Carewyn considered Orion for a moment. “...You don’t want to.”

Orion’s eyes darkened significantly. “...I don’t want to.”

When Carewyn didn’t respond, he pressed on.

“My father believes that the War can only be ended through force -- that justice can be only brought about by utterly destroying our enemy. But...I cannot believe that. I grew up on the border between Florence and Royaume. The town I’m from is so close that one could hop easily from one to the other. It caused some tensions, yes...but it also made it so that at first meeting, or even third or fourth, you never knew what side of the divide a person was on. And so I found myself constantly thinking...what is it that truly separates us? Is it morality? Is it values? Humanity? And yet I don’t think either side can boast having any of those things exclusively. It instead all comes back to a mistake made fifty years ago -- a land dispute that ended more violently than it should have. So many people have died, all because of that...and because neither King has decided to be the better man and choose forgiveness over vengeance.”

Orion bowed his head, his eyes closing solemnly.

“...My father asked me to help him lead the army, in an upcoming attack on the enemy forces -- one that he believes could end the War once and for all. But...”

He exhaled quietly through his nose.

“...I couldn’t accept that burden...so I left.”

Carewyn didn’t respond. Orion scanned her face, trying to read her reaction, but it was proving difficult when she wouldn’t look at him.

Does she...disapprove? he couldn’t help but think. She did think he was Royaumanian -- she didn’t understand that he wanted to protect her brother, not prevent him from returning home...but how could he explain that to her, without...?

“I know that the War could end, if my father’s strategy succeeds,” Orion explained, trying to keep his voice level despite the anxiety he felt, “but this is only one strategy of hundreds, all of which have failed. And even if our side was victorious...however many lives I could potentially save by fighting, I would be snuffing out far more. I realize that this is my responsibility alone, and sometimes one must be willing to do what others will not, to reach their goal...but flowers bloom under sunlight and water, not blood. If we could avoid burning a forest to the ground, wouldn’t it then be easier to bring it back to life?”

“Yes...but if someone wants to set a forest ablaze, you have to act if you want to stop them.”

Carewyn’s response was very soft and solemn, but there was no anger or disapproval -- instead, to Orion’s immense relief, it sounded almost encouraging.

“If you believe that Royaume could make peace with Florence, then you need to speak out for it,” she said firmly. “If you see it and believe in it, that’s great...but you need to make others see and believe in it too, if it’s going to really come about. Talk to your father, make him see things as you do -- and if he isn’t able to, then...well, I’ll talk to Andre, and you and he can discuss it together.”

Her lips spread into a gentle smile and she gave his wrist a light squeeze.

“My own family may have profited because of the War, but the people of Royaume, the common man, would celebrate, if peace could come about without further loss. If Florence would also, then that’s a step in the right direction. There’s more than one way to fight for something...all it requires is enough courage to place one’s goal over whatever risks stand in their way.”

Orion stared at Carewyn for a long moment. As he did, the black of his eyes seemed to melt, gaining a warmer, softer light that resembled candlelight rippling in endless, dark water.

“...Carewyn...”

Before he could say anything more, however, there was a loud explosion in the distance. Carewyn’s horse reared back in terror, which in turn spooked Orion’s, and both Carewyn and Orion had to quickly calm their steeds.

“Whoa, whoa,” Carewyn whispered in her horse’s ear, “easy, boy...it’s all right...”

Orion stroked his horse’s mane with a slightly trembling hand, breathing in and out as he tried to steady his heart rate. He then looked at Carewyn with a more serious eye.

“...Perhaps we should make our way back to the valley. It’s not safe here.”

Carewyn looked northward through the trees again. “Do you think your father’s started the attack?”

“No. Coordinated attacks require both strategy and assignments, as well as the element of surprise. I’d say this is a skirmish between younger, less experienced soldiers -- and if so, it’s likely to run farther afield and cause damage outside the designated battlefield.”

Orion could see Carewyn still hesitating. Although there was no fear in her face, she seemed reluctant to leave -- likely thinking of her brother, more than the risk to her own safety...

After a brief flicker of uncertainty, Orion reached out a hand and took hold of Carewyn’s arm not unlike how she’d taken his earlier.

“From everything I’ve heard from you about your brother, I truly cannot see him not doing everything he possibly can, to look out for your well-being...including looking after himself.”

A second smaller explosion in the distance made Orion stiffen slightly, his fingers tightening that bit around Carewyn’s arm.

“...We should move out of harm’s way,” he said as levelly as he could.

Seeing the paleness of Orion’s face, Carewyn relented at once.

“Yes.”

Bringing a hand up onto Orion’s horse’s reins, she directed both of them around so they could start riding back out the way they came.

As they came around a cluster of trees, however, their attention was caught by the sound of the cry of an eagle and many snapping branches. Carewyn’s horse reared back again, just barely dodging a large clump of golden-brown feathers that collided sharply with the ground.

Carewyn once again rushed to soothe her horse. Orion quickly climbed off his horse and bent down to get a better look at what had fallen.

It was a golden eagle, just as brilliant as the one they’d chased into the wood -- perhaps even the same one. It was conscious, but clearly in pain when it tried to return to the air -- its left wing crumpled up against its side and covered in blood and what looked like grayish ash.

Orion’s black eyes narrowed.

“Gunpowder,” he said. “The poor creature’s wing must have been struck by a stray bullet.”

Once she’d successfully soothed her white horse, Carewyn likewise jumped off its back. She dashed over to Orion, hitching up the skirt of her mother’s gown as she went.

“Can you hold him?” she asked.

The eagle gave an angry-sounding cry, baring its sharp talons at both of them, and it tried to hobble away back into the air with its one good wing.

“I don’t think he wants our help,” said Orion.

Undaunted, Carewyn ripped off some fabric from her outer-most petticoat. “Well, he needs it, whether he wants it or not. Can you hold him, please?”

Orion looked at the eagle. Rather than try to grab it, he met the eagle’s eyes and tried not to blink. The eagle looked back at him with a piercing gaze. When Orion extended a hand, the eagle lashed out its talons again -- Orion withdrew, but didn’t flinch.

“Steady,” he said gently.

He waited a moment, keeping eye contact with the bird, and then tried again. This time he was able to move close enough to touch before the eagle lashed out with its claws again.

“Peace,” said Orion patiently. “We mean you no harm, feathered friend.”

Another loud explosion in the distance made both the eagle and Orion flinch.

“That one sounded closer,” said Carewyn, her voice faintly tense but as gentle as she could. “We need to be quick.”

The flames of his childhood home were returning to Orion’s mind despite his best efforts, and he shut them out as best he could, closing his eyes and breathing in and out several times. Once he’d reestablished his focus, Orion opened his eyes again.

The eagle looked from Orion to Carewyn almost critically. Finally, after Orion reached in for a third time, it let the Prince run a gentle hand over its back. Once the bird was calm, Orion then carefully extended its wing so that Carewyn could reach it.

“This will likely hurt him a little,” Carewyn told Orion. “Please hold him still, so he won’t fly away.”

Orion brought a hand around the eagle, which fidgeted and cried out indignantly, but did not claw or snap at them. With Orion holding out its wing, Carewyn was able to reach into its blood-soaked feathers and dislodge the bullet. The eagle gave an angry, pained cry, and Carewyn very quickly set about wrapping up the wound with the white fabric she’d ripped out of her petticoat.

“There,” breathed Carewyn, her red lips spreading into a smile. “That should help...”

The bird looked down at its wing, gingerly folding up against its side as it surveyed her with a very beady eye. With a soft click of her tongue against her teeth, she slowly extended an arm out, holding it very still like a branch.

“Climb on,” she cooed. “That’s it...”

The eagle peered Carewyn over, but after a long moment, it gradually scooted over and leapt up onto her arm. Its talons dug into the sleeve of her dress with strength, and it was heavier than Carewyn expected, but she with some difficulty just barely managed to hoist it up.

“Your talent with animals shines through again,” said Orion with a wry smile, clasping his hands lightly in front of him.

“You weren’t half bad yourself,” Carewyn said amusedly. She brought a hand gently along the eagle’s comb. “You’re a very handsome bird, aren’t you? You poor thing...”

“You there!”

Both Orion and Carewyn looked up in great surprise.

Striding through the woods toward them was a very tall middle-aged woman. She wore a black capotain hat and an old-fashioned black dress with a white ruff around the collar, and her graying brown hair was tied up in an austere looking bun under her hat. Despite her apparent age, her step was strong and her posture as straight as a general’s.

“What are you doing here?” said the woman very sternly.

Carewyn stood a bit uneasily, thanks to the weight of the eagle on her arm, but she nonetheless straightened up, resting a hand on the eagle’s back almost protectively.

“We’re merely out riding, madam,” she said, not impolitely, but still confidently.

The woman peered down at both Orion and Carewyn with an eye almost as critical as the eagle’s had been as she crossed her arms. Her height made it so she towered over both of them with relative ease.

“Well, through your riding, you have trespassed on my land,” she said stiffly. “And it seems you’ve claimed something of mine.”

Her eyes flickered over to the eagle on Carewyn’s arm, taking in the makeshift bandage on its wing. The golden eagle gave a loud shriek -- the woman extended her arm, and it leapt the distance, landing on her arm instead. The older woman did not struggle to hold it up the way Carewyn had.

Carewyn blinked in surprise. “Then...he’s yours?”

“Do you have others, like him?” Orion asked curiously.

The woman peered down at the bird on her arm with a look that was rather like a scolding, but still affectionate mother’s. “No -- he’s one of a kind. All the more reason why I’m pleased to see him safe, after coming so close to the enemy camp.”

The eagle bowed its head, its gaze flickering back over toward Carewyn and Orion. When another cluster of explosions rang out through the air, however, both the bird and Orion straightened up abruptly.

The woman looked northward, and then beckoned Carewyn and Orion after her with her hand.

“Come with me -- with the armies positioned just north of us and a band of Florentine bandits just south, the safest place at present to wait out this skirmish is my home.”

The woman introduced herself as the Baroness Minerva McGonagall. Carewyn felt like the surname was familiar somehow, but she couldn’t quite place it in her memory. Regardless, McGonagall led Carewyn and Orion out through the trees. Only once they crossed the perimeter of the trees and McGonagall gestured toward the valley below did Carewyn and Orion see her country estate. It was odd that they didn’t spot it sooner, for although the valley seemed to cradle the small chateau, it was a rather beautiful and open estate framed by a wrought iron gate. The property itself was made of aged brick and stone with stained glass windows and overgrown with ice-trimmed ivy.

After holding out her arm so that the eagle perched there could jump down on the railing beside the stone stairs that led up to the front door, the Baroness invited Orion and Carewyn inside. As stern as she’d first appeared, she actually was a very kind host -- after Orion and Carewyn’s horses were settled in her stable, she escorted the two into the dining hall, where she served them some rose water and ginger biscuits. Once inside the house, none of them could hear the explosions from the battlefield -- it was as though the walls cancelled out all sounds from outside even though they must’ve been so close.

Seeing that the Baroness had no servants to help her, Carewyn insisted on taking the dishes to the kitchen and washing them, so as to thank the older woman for her hospitality. Despite being reluctant to accept the help at first, McGonagall eventually accepted it, her lips upturned in a rather dewy smile as Carewyn left the dining hall.

“Your riding companion has a very kind heart, Your Highness,” she said, once Carewyn was out of earshot.

Orion’s black eyes narrowed ever-so-slightly.

“...You know me.”

"Naturally,” said McGonagall. “You do very much resemble your grandfather -- and your father as well, I expect.”

“You knew my grandfather?”

“We met once, a very long time ago,” said McGonagall rather curtly. “Your name would also be Cosimo, correct?”

“I am called Orion,” said the Prince, his level voice dusted with the slightest edge. “By both my lady, and otherwise.”

McGonagall’s eyes grew a little smaller. “She comes from the Cromwell family, doesn’t she?”

Orion’s eyes narrowed that little bit more, but he did not reply.

“I suspected it due to her eyes,” said McGonagall, “but with how gentle they were, I wasn’t sure.”

Her eyebrows rose over her narrowed eyes as she leaned forward slightly and rested her elbows on the table.

“You have quite a predicament before you, Orion,” she said dryly, interlacing her fingers beside her chin.

Orion clasped his hands on the table in front of him, considering the Baroness carefully.

“Yet you decided not to approach me about it until Carewyn left the room,” he said levelly. “Is it because you suspected I knew your true identity, and why your house has been so miraculously shielded from the War raging on your doorstep?”

McGonagall peered at Orion over her hands with something like wry amusement. “Florentines are generally more favorable toward magic than Royaumanians. And considering your grandfather shielded my family after my mother accidentally killed the King and we fled across the border...well, it would be in-character for you, especially.”

“And yet you returned to the land that the King of Royaume had died trying to claim?” asked Orion. “Why?”

McGonagall gave a dismissive shrug. “It was our home. Even if we had to cast and recast illusions every day to prevent anyone else from finding it again, that was a cost we were willing to pay. And one I’m still willing to pay today, to protect those who live here.”

McGonagall’s eyes were drawn to the hallway -- a young man with tanned skin and a sharp nose had just paused in the door frame of the dining hall. His arm was in a makeshift sling and wrapped with what looked like bandages made out of petticoat fabric. When Orion turned around, the young man stared him down with just as beady of a look as the golden eagle from before had.

“The skirmish has ended, Baroness,” the man said brusquely.

“I hope you haven’t determined that by casting any more transfiguration spells, my young apprentice,” said McGonagall with a slightly reproachful look.

The apprentice’s nose wrinkled sourly. “No. The explosions have just stopped -- they probably decided it wasn’t worth trying to fire their cannons blindly in the dark.”

“Very well,” said McGonagall. “Orion, you and Carewyn may leave when you wish. Though I would recommend you steer clear of the border. The bandits in these woods are Florentines, so I doubt they will harm you...but I cannot be sure how they would respond to a Royaumanian, especially one related to one of their wealthiest noblemen.”

Orion nodded. “I understand.”

“Make sure you bring her back to the palace safely,” said the apprentice, his eagle-like eyes still rather critical upon Orion. “It’s the least you can do, considering she doesn’t know the extent of the risk she’s taking, interacting with you.”

He swept down the hallway and out of sight, still holding his arm. Orion was a bit surprised that the Baroness’s apprentice knew where Carewyn worked -- but then, he recalled, he’d seen an eagle flying over his and Carewyn’s heads once, while they were walking through the market together, hadn’t he? Might it have been this man then, as well -- as it likely had, every time he’d seen an eagle while crossing the border?

McGonagall looked back at Orion, her expression a bit more solemn. “I understand your rationale behind not telling her of your identity, Orion...but remember -- deception is just like any magical spell. Even the most powerful ones in the world don’t last long.”

Orion bowed his head. “...I know.”

He knew none of this could last. He knew that once Carewyn knew who he was, everything between them would change, whether he wanted it to or not. He did think that Carewyn would understand -- he desperately hoped so -- but even so, it was sad to him, knowing that his happy times with Carewyn were doomed to be so fleeting...

“I just...want to enjoy my time with her as long as I can,” said Orion softly. “However fleeting it might be...even when it is over...at least then I can cherish the memory of those moments forever.”

McGonagall’s face grew a bit gentler, almost sympathetic. "I see...”

Carewyn returned at that moment, wiping her bangs out of her eyes with her arm.

“Orion,” she said, “it looks like the stars have come out.”

Orion looked out the window. The sky was dark with night and shining with stars.

“So they have,” he said with a soft smile. He turned to McGonagall. “Forgive me, Baroness...but might we sit in the valley outside your home for a short while, before we leave?”

McGonagall smiled. “Of course.”

Orion and Carewyn found a grassy spot in the crest of the valley where they could sit and look up at the stars. Upon learning that Carewyn hadn’t ever gone stargazing before, Orion lay back against the grass and pointed out each constellation above them to Carewyn in turn -- the hero Perseus, his enemy the Cetus, and his future wife Andromeda -- -- the divine twins, Castor and Pollux, otherwise known as a pair as Gemini -- and the queen Cassiopeia, which made Carewyn laugh, thinking of her friend, KC. Carewyn loved listening to Orion’s stories: the way he would vividly embellish every detail and go off on philosophical tangents in the middle was oddly endearing. After he told his first tale about Perseus, Carewyn was reminded of the Song of Roland, an epic about a similarly grand hero, and soon Orion would ask her to sing something in response to every story he told, however weak the connection was. When they reached Cassiopeia’s tale, Carewyn sang one of her favorite songs, Greensleeves.

“I have been ready at your hand To grant whatever thou would’st crave; I have waged both life and land, Your love and goodwill for to have.

Greensleeves was all my joy; Greensleeves was my delight; Greensleeves was my heart of gold, And who but my lady Greensleeves...”

As before, Orion found himself closing his eyes and relishing the feeling of Carewyn’s voice washing over him. At the end of this song in particular, however, when he opened his eyes, he found himself chuckling softly.

Carewyn raised an eyebrow. “What?”

Orion’s black eyes were sparkling like two miniature night skies as they ran over Carewyn sitting just below him. “It’s a lovely song, as always...but I have not ever seen my ‘star twin,’ so to speak, wearing green -- only ever black and blue. You, however...”

He took her hand so that he could extend her arm out like they were dancing, showing off the olive green sleeves of her dress.

“So it seems you are ‘my lady Greensleeves,’” said Orion with a wry smile.

“Oh, stop it,” Carewyn huffed, her cheeks burning as she withdrew her hand.

Orion laughed fully. It was the first time Carewyn had ever heard him laugh so openly before -- it was a soft sound in the back of his throat, like a chuckle, and yet so much brighter and warmer. Despite herself, Carewyn couldn’t fight back a full smile of her own. Her shoulder brushed up against Orion’s as she reclined back onto the grass, her body tilting slightly toward him as she looked up at the sky.

“...There’s a constellation called Orion, isn’t there?”

Orion smiled and traced the stars of the constellation with his finger. “Just there. Do you see his chest? And there’s his bow.”

“I see it!” said Carewyn excitedly. “His arm is arched back, right?”

“Yes -- he’s holding a club in his other hand. He was a great hunter, you see -- the greatest hunter, they say, aside from Artemis, Goddess of the Moon and the Hunt. Some say that he hunted alongside her. Others say she was his one and only love...and that she, likewise, never loved any other man, in all her days.”

When Carewyn didn’t respond, Orion looked down at her. She was considering the constellation very carefully, looking oddly deep in thought.

Orion tilted his head to look better at her face. “Your eyes resemble a dark pool.”

Carewyn looked up, startled.

“They’re so deep and mysterious, I hardly know what is within them,” said Orion. “Yet I would dearly like to know, if you were willing to share their contents.”

Carewyn’s eyes drifted back up to the sky uncomfortably.

“It’s just...I’m realizing that I don’t even know if Orion is your real name,” she murmured. “You said I could call you it...you did not say it was your name.”

Orion’s face became grimmer. His hands clasped over his chest and he too looked back up at the sky.

“...It’s not the name I was born with,” he admitted. “I chose the name myself, when I was young.”

The memory of the older boys at the workhouse shoving him, piling extra work on him, and mockingly bowing whenever he walked by rippled over his mind.

“Clear the floor for the Prince!”

“Why thank you, Prince Cosimo -- you’re too kind!”

“Does the mud add flavor, your Royal Highness?”

“When I was at the workhouse, my name...antagonized the other boys. So, to try to preempt the reactions, I started avoiding telling anyone my name. I would dread anyone ever asking.”

“Like when I asked you?” whispered Carewyn. Even though her eyes were averted, she was clearly very ashamed and upset.

Orion leaned against her slightly, offering her a gentle, reassuring expression. “No, Carewyn. I dreaded it when I had no answer I could give at all. It made me anxious...made me feel like I didn’t know who I was supposed to be...made it difficult for me to interact with much of anyone at all.”

He closed his eyes.

“But...after hearing the tale of the great hunter whose skill put him on the same level as a goddess...I decided that was who I’d be. I’d chase my dreams with just as much single-minded focus -- be just as free and strong of a man, by fighting the monster inside of myself.”

Carewyn looked up at Orion, her eyes rippling with sadness. “The monster inside of yourself?”

“Mm,” said Orion. “Mine is a frenetic beast. It makes it hard for me to think, act, or even breathe, when it’s particularly intense. It makes me question absolutely everything, including myself. It shouts so many things in my ears so loudly that I can’t move or react properly, and I have to break away from everything and everyone, just to silence it. Sometimes it even brings back bad memories that make the experience even worse.”

Carewyn was once again avoiding his eye, but it was largely because she was having trouble keeping her face stoic.

“...It’s terrible, when you feel like you can’t do anything,” she said lowly.

Orion didn’t speak. He wanted her to feel comfortable enough to continue -- after a silence, she finally pressed on.

“When Jacob first went off to War...I felt so helpless. So...alone. And worse...I felt like that’s how I should be. Like I should be alone, and empty, and cold, and in pain, when Jacob was off at War suffering, while I’m stuck here.”

Her eyes darkened.

“There are times when...I think I still should be. Sometimes...well, it’s all the time.”

She closed her eyes, exhaled heavily through her nose, and then looked up at Orion with a firmer expression.

“...But I know I can’t afford to sit around and feel sorry for myself -- not when I need to be strong, for Jacob’s sake. So I don’t.”

Orion’s black eyes softened visibly, rippling with empathy. “No...you certainly don’t.”

He paused. His eyes ran over Carewyn’s face, trailing through her hair hesitantly.

“Carewyn...” he said at last, very softly, “may I...?”

He swallowed.

“...May I rest my head, on top of yours?”

Carewyn’s face broke into a very sweet, tender smile.

“Of course,” she murmured.

Orion shifted over and, very tentatively, leaned back against the grass so that Carewyn’s head rested in the crook of his neck and his cheek rested against the top of her head. He closed his eyes -- she felt so warm...

“I...realize that the beasts inside of us are ours alone to face,” said Orion softly, “but...should you need a hunter to help you beat yours back...I will be here.”

Carewyn’s blue eyes rippled with emotion as she stared up at Orion’s face. Her red lips slowly turned up in a smile that was full of pain, and yet also fuller still of love.

“And I will always help you fight yours,” she whispered. “If you need me...I will fight for you.”

Orion’s expression cleared, losing all tension as a smile pricked at the corners of his lips. He breathed deeply, his heart slowing to a wonderful peaceful beat as he took in the smell of her hair. Carewyn watched his serene, handsome face, and she found herself moving into him that bit more, just to get a better view. For that moment, it felt like the whole world outside wasn’t there -- that the War and the palace and the Cromwell clan and everything she was and wasn’t didn’t even exist...and in that moment, Carewyn realized...

If she was ever truly free, she would want to love the man called Orion with all of her heart.

14 notes · View notes

musicnoots · 5 years ago

Text

The Rest Is History

Richard Winters/Reader

Requested by @thisishirathesecond: “Hi, Shannon may I request an imagine?, something like everybody thought winters don't have anyone back home, but he does and he is that good with hiding things, the boys in easy company make fun of him that he's single or a quaker, when the war over he introduces the boys to his wife who is very very very very drop-dead gorgeous and downright beautiful, voice like angel, gentle, kind but she has fire in her they boys was so shocked, jaws on the floor they are daze and awestruck.”

A/N: Consider me a Dick Winters love bot now!!! I love writing for him!

Synopsis: No one knew Dick Winters had a significant other until he attends an Easy Company gathering.

Tags: @gottapenny @those-dusty-jump-wings @curraheev @david-weepster @majwinters @alienoresimagines @wexhappyxfew @medievalfangirl @bandofmarvels @dumpofdumblings @junojelli @inglourious-imagines @dustyjjumpwings @higgles123

Dick Winters is a very private man.

He likes to keep private matters to himself, doesn’t matter who it involves, he prefers to keep it on the low and away from the ears of his men. In addition, he didn’t want to distract them with details of his personal life—he was their commanding officer, the man who would lead them into battle and tasked with bringing them back alive and victorious. He kept letters from home tucked under his sleeve during the war, bedside memories shoved into the back of his head, and a wedding ring safe in the breast pocket of his uniform.

Everyone assumed he was a bachelor, a good man with good intentions who had no one waiting back home for him, to wrap arms around his torso and shove their nose into the crook of his neck for a hero’s welcome.

While Dick did like to consider himself as a good man with good intentions, he did have someone waiting at home. You.

“You know,” he breathed, arm wrapped around your shoulders as the two of sit on the steps of the front yard of your house, stargazing after a particularly lazy Wednesday that consisted of making chocolate pie and napping on the couch in the afternoon, “there was a soldier of mine back in the war…”

The night is late and there are fireflies flying in the garden, the sky is as clear as water, and the stars shine brighter than your husband’s teeth in your wedding photo that hangs on the living room wall. Since 1939.

“Mm?” You were half asleep with your head on his shoulder when he spoke, as beautiful as when he took your hand and slipped on a ring that made you perennially his.

You were a secret Dick Winters kept only to himself—he kept your letters reserved for late night readings, he looks at the photos you send him when he’s absolutely alone to his own devices, touch-starved and longing to hold your hand on a picnic blanket under the stars. The days he yearned to see your face again, to have you kiss his cheek and smile as beautiful as the flowers that grow in the front yard of your house, kept under wraps as he fought a war in the middle of Europe, not knowing if he’d be able to go home.

He kept every single letter you sent him. Every single photo, every single gift you managed to shove in a small manila envelope—he used to keep them inside his closed hand as he slept, hoping to dream of you dancing in the kitchen like you used to. Cookies baking in the oven and fresh lavender sitting on the windowsill, going on the tips of your toes to peck his cheek and kiss his lips for all of eternity. Heaven is a place on Earth with you, and God knows just to what extent he’s willing to do just to spend another hour with his wrapped around your waist.

Dick knew he had to come back alive for you.

“Is it Nixon?” you asked, slowly yet steadily falling asleep on the shoulder of the man you loved so dearly. He smells of toasted almonds and fresh linen, and there’s nothing more you want than to fall asleep in his arms.

He chuckled. “No...not Nix. You know how he is.”

The first time Lewis found out about you, Dick was at his desk reading a letter you had sent along with a picture of you, the words Miss you drawn in black ink on the back. Of course he tried numerous times to set Dick up with the folks at the bar back when they were in officer training school, failing each time until he found him looking at your picture with stars in his eyes, his thumb running over your cheek like he usually does, more beautiful than the women at the bar—Dick was in love.

He was surprised to find that Dick has a wife, let alone a significant other. Lewis thought the man was too uptight, too compliant, he would have never thought someone as beautiful as you would have married someone like him.

“Guarnere,” he said, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you closer, “his name is Bill Guarnere. He’s put together an Easy Company get together this Saturday. I meant to ask if you wanted to come.”

He received an invitation earlier this week.

How he got this address will forever be shrouded in mystery, but there’s no way Dick is passing off an opportunity like this.

He’ll admit, the amount of times Guarnere has accused him of being a Quaker, a Mennonite, any Christian denomination has surpassed the fingers on his hands but that doesn’t change anything between them. Dick cares and supports his men equally, although Lew may have been receiving special treatment ever since training school, and if your husband trusted these men with his own life, then you would too.

When the date finally did come, you were dressed in your best clothes with your hand intertwined with your husband’s. Wedding rings out and behold for the entire world to marvel at, hair done just the way you like and it’s for no one but yourself, Dick Winters did not look like the good bachelor he was thought to be back in the war.

“Look who it is!” A man points at Dick with one of his crutches, square jaw and an accent anyone can acquaint to Philadelphia. “We got the whole band back together!”

Your husband reaches forward, shaking hands and exchanging smiles, and you try to avoid the stares and whispering heard from afar. You catch some of their names and faces—Bill, Babe, Joe Toye, Luz—they’re exactly how your husband described in the letters he sent to you back then.

“Gentlemen, this is my wife, Y/N,” Dick introduces you, his hand protectively on your waist and you wave to them, hoping to make a good first impression on the men he’s spent nearly half a decade fighting a war with.

“Newlyweds?”

“Oh, no. No, no, no… actually, we’ve been married for what is it?” He turns to look at you with furrowed eyebrows, thinking exactly how many years you have been in each other’s lives. “Almost ten years now? Definitely been together for well over ten years—she’s my college sweetheart,” he says sweetly.

“Hold up,” Bill spoke on behalf of the men at the gathering, “sir, so you’re telling me that you were married the entire time we were in Toccoa, in Aldbourne, in Europe, and we didn’t even know?”

“To be fair Guarnere, we were in the middle of a war.”

“But still!” he exclaimed amidst all the chattering that erupted around them. “You’re telling me and the rest of the company that you had a wife this pretty waitin’ for ya back here? Sir, I’m glad you’ve been happily married for almost a decade, but me and the boys, we—”

“Can’t believe that someone as beautiful, smart, and witty as her married someone like me?” Dick said. “Neither can I, but I’m glad she chose me. I’m grateful that she waited that long for me to come back from the war, I’m grateful for her, I really am.”

You can’t remember what else he said that left you with rosy cheeks and smiling the same way you did as on your first date together, but you know what waiting for Dick to come back after all those years, finally having him in your arms in the front yard of your home was worth it, and rest is history.

#band of brothers fanfiction #band of brothers fanfic #band of brothers imagine #band of brothers imagines #band of brothers #hbo war #easy company #dick winters #dick winters x reader #richard winters #richard winters x reader

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byorder-fanfic · 4 years ago

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Love Thyself, Then Thy Neighbour

Summary: Linda Montgomery is tired of living for everyone but herself. It may not be holy, but it is hers.

Word count: 1957

Warnings: Swearing, LOTS of talk about religion and Church, war, hospital and blood mentioned

Author’s Note: I really hate the misogyny in the way Linda was written and I think that sometimes the fandom demonises her as a bitch for her religious beliefs, so I wanted to try and make her a bit more sympathetic. Hope you like it xx

One thing that being brought up in a strict Catholic home is that Linda leant not all rules were written in the big book. The most important rule was that women didn't work. Her mother would huff and puff when she was eighteen and desperate for work, saying that being a wife was work enough. Keep his belly full and his balls empty became the second most used phrase in her house after Amen. Linda Montgomery kept her face straight as her mother introduced her to nice, young Catholic suitors who she would take one good look over and ask whether they supported Miss Pankhurst and her plight for women's enfranchisement. Her mother would tut and her father would bury his head in the palm of his hand, as another man was scared away to the next young girl. Linda was a radical- Linda was wrong. So, when she met another devout woman at a local meeting for WSPU, she immediately trailed along to the Church that could possibly allow such beliefs alongside the teachings of Christ. The Quaker priest welcomed her with open arms, saying he was thankful to help her cast away the false idols she had been brought up with. Her mother spat at Linda's shoes, saying she had condemned the family by falling into an ecclesial community. Was this the love thy neighbour teaching that each holier than thou figure preached? So, Linda got a flat with Dorothy Evans (the woman who'd brought her to the Church) and attended that service on Sunday, then woke up before the Sun to get to work on Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday and Friday. Saturday sometimes too, if they needed a girl to work an extra shift.

That was another unspoken rule, even amongst the Quakers. If a woman was to find work, as rare as that would be, there were only two professions deemed suitable for good Christian women: teaching and nursing. Now, Linda had never been fond of children, so nursing it was. She had romanced the idea of it all throughout training, cooing over her baby blue uniform in the mirror that matched her eyes and thanking God for her ability to help others. It was no menial task, she would never say that. With the drunkards that gained injury after injury to the horrors of the Spanish influenza, on top of the everyday maladies that she guided to a hospital bed and patiently listened to her patients as they told her their stories. With those that noticed her silver cross that she always wore proudly over her uniform, she'd been invited to sit by their bedside and pray alongside them. Eventually she'd learned a couple of appropriate Bible verses to encourage and uplift, sometimes even writing them down if they wanted a more permanent influence. Then the War happened. The called it Great- she couldn't agree. Dorothy and her had both decided right from the start that knitting socks and lighting candles would not be enough for them. They packed up their nurses uniforms and followed the soldiers as they marched over to France. Romance was lost in the makeshift hospitals set up over thick mud that got their long dresses turning brown. Linda learned not to care; there were worst things that ended up on her aprons and managed to soak back through her clothes, turning her skin pinkish. As soon as she got home, she burnt her nurses uniform. She wanted to keep it at first, as a reminder of all that she'd lived through, but no matter how many times she washed and scrubbed until her hands were a familiar pink raw, the smell of blood never washed away. The photos stayed, as mementos to remind her that the Lord saved her, that he was with her still in the sleepless nights and the guilt that plagued her soul.

Instead of returning to the hospital before the Sun woke up on Monday, Linda found work at the only home she knew. The Church offered all kind of charity and volunteer work for her, but she was also employed as an accountant-cross-secretary role. She was good with numbers. She never knew that before. Nurse Montgomery was gone, but Linda Montgomery was proud and faithful and working still. She was twenty six and made sure to use her well-earned right by attending each and every campaign that her local area had to offer, voting according to her beliefs whenever an opportunity was open. Linda clung to it, to her faith, to her work with all she had. She had to make herself right in the Lord's eyes, had to make all those lives lost and unsavable soldiers that she'd pray with till their soul extinguished like a candle, she had to make it worth it. It had to mean something. So, when Linda saw a strange man stumble into the Church one Friday night, looking over to the empty rows of pews with hesitance and fear etched in every line in his face, she knew what she had to do. He was a handsome man, she couldn't deny it. Maybe it was that which piqued her interest.

Excusing herself from the desk (although the priest was getting on and hardly even heard her) she walked down to meet this tall man in a bulky grey coat that still hadn't figured out he was supposed to sit on the pews.

"Hello there sir, are you alright?" She asked, polite and smiling. He looked up at the sound of her voice, although he didn't have to look far as she was quite the bit smaller than him. His eyes trailed up and down. Linda pulled her cardigan tighter around her shoulders, feeling her face go the same colour as her clothes. She didn't wear baby blue any more, even if it matched her eyes. This man had a soldier's haircut, shaved at the sides, and the rest of it was slicked back out of his nervous-looking face, a moustache presiding over his top lip.

"Um...yeah, well," he sounded a little gruff, although that was probably in part to his thick accent that Linda couldn't quite point her finger on. "Well, this is embarrassing. I thought this was supposed to be a Church, see, so I thought I'd come on in, but...uh, I, um, didn't mean to intrude. I'll leave you be."

"This is a Church," she said it quickly, before he could turn around to leave.

"It is, hey?" He chuckled a little to himself, rubbing the back if his neck. "Sorry, I thought there'd be a confession booth or something. They have that in St Oswald's."

"They have confessionals in Catholic Churches, this is a Quaker Church." She kept a smile on her face, although she heard the bitter voice of her mother ringing in her ears. Ecclesial. Pagan. Damned. "But if you need to talk, you're welcome to take a seat. I'm not a priest, but I can try my best to help."

She gestured to the pew, and the man ever so ungracefully set himself down, tucking his coat behind his hips. She sat in the pew in front of him, turning on her side so that she could face him. He, however, seemed to only be interested on the floor.

"What can I do for you, sir?"

"No, don't call me sir." He shook his head, looking up as he held his hand up too. "Arthur's the name, Arthur Shelby."

"I'm Linda Montgomery," she shook his hand demurely, not sure if the ragged-looking man was really the gentleman he presented himself as.

"Montgomery?" He smiled as if there was something funny about that. "That's a proper lady's name, that is. Bet your husband's a rich man or somethin'."

"I don't have a husband," she told him, showing off her bare ring finger. It never seemed important.

"How come?" He scrunched up his face as if in genuine confusion. "A lovely lady like yourself should have a man eating out the palm of ya hand."

"Work and war," she explained simply, shaking her shoulders as if it meant nothing. "I was a nurse. Never had time for it."

"Now you have no man but Jesus, right?"

"Something like that." Linda moved a hand over, reaching onto his. There was a point to this conversation, one she was keen to getting back to. "Why are you here, Arthur?"

My, um, aunt always comes here when she needs, I dunno...clarity, I guess? I used to go too," he stumbled through his words, clearing his throat at odd moments as she tried to figure out how to get his heart into words. "I loved the hymns. But then the war happened, and I have all this shit in my head. Can't get rid of it either, cause I'm still a soldier. Still a fuckin' soldier."

His hands shook under Linda's own, and she was quick to realise the cracks in his lips and bruises under his pale eyes were a clear sign of withdrawal symptoms.

"Arthur, you aren't at war anymore," She said gently, rubbing his calloused hands soothingly. His wide eyes looked up at only her and she felt it stir a sermon in her. "You can find peace, I swear it. I know you've just quit drinking." His brow creased in shock, but he didn't dispute it. "The temptation you feel will be difficult to fight, but once that battle is over, you won't have to fight anymore."

"Work, love, work. I have to."

"Fuck work." She surprised even herself with her bold statement that was hastily followed with a look over her shoulder to see the aged priest nodding off in the back room. "There's a lot of things that aren't written in the Bible, Arthur, but that doesn't mean they aren't Gospel truth. The most important thing is that you have to love thyself before you can love thy neighbour. Once you help yourself, get yourself out of the darkness you're in, you'll find a way out, a way to better things."

There was a pause for a moment in which Linda could see the conflict in Arthur's eyes between blind faith in a woman he'd just met, and doubt in his own abilities.

"You're an angel," he whispered. He leaned forward and she half expected him to kiss her, although she didn't move her head back. Rather, when his hands rested onto her cheek, she moved forward ever so slightly, watching his adoring look with a little smile on her pink painted lips. "I think the Lord sent me to this fuckin' Quaker Church for a reason, Linda. I think He knew I'd meet the pretty blonde cherub woman who knew just what to say to stop me from reaching a bottle again."

"You give me too much credit," she warned.

"No, love, no. No one's ever said I could have a redemption. It feels good to be believed in."

"There's a temperance group here," Linda started rubbing circles in his hand. "Would you like to join? I work at the Church so you can pop in and see me afterwards, tell me if the Lord sent you in the right direction."

He laughed a lot at that, eyebrow cocked.

"You want to see me again, huh?" He said it like a dare, something amusing in the words.

"What would be so crazy about that?"

Bold words weren't usually Linda's forte, but she'd chased after work, the Church and a good life. Why couldn't she chase after this handsome man the Lord delivered to her?

#linda shelby #linda Shelby fanfiction #linda Shelby fanfic #Arthur shelby #peaky blinders fanfiction #Peaky Blinders #peaky blinders fanfic #peaky blinders fic #peaky blinders fluff

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bqstqnbruin · 5 years ago

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Hoops and Pucks

I have more requests to do but this is something that has been on my mind for a bit so I had to write it before I wrote my lesson plan (as you can tell I’m a great student OOPS).

But please keep sending in requests! I don’t know about you, but gives me something to do other than watching TV.

Hope you like it! _________________________

“Welcome to the Palestra for a game day matchup between the Saint Joseph’s Hawks!” The announcer starts, the Penn side, booing, the Saint Joe’s side cheering, “And your University of Pennsylvania Quakers!”

Every year, the Saint Joe’s Hawks played Penn at the Palestra. It was a Big 5 game that all the students went to; every other year it was considered a home game for the Hawks since the Palestra used to be your team’s home while Hagan was being built.

Well, they were your team. You did your undergrad work at SJU, now you’re doing your grad work at Penn. But, after four years of going to SJU games and half a semester of Penn games, you still knew the SJU cheers better.

“Oh, when the hawk!” clap, clap, “Goes flying in!” clap, clap, “Oh, when the hawk goes flying in! I wanna be in that number! Oh, when the hawk goes flying in!” clap, clap. Then it goes again to the tune of ‘Oh, when the Saints go marching in,’ followed by ‘Let’s go Saint Joe’s,’ four times. Before the start of every half, the students would be screaming that, just like they did today. You were chanting along, much quieter since you were technically no longer a Hawk, especially since you were wearing UPenn gear.

“Seem weird that you know their cheers?” the guy sitting next to you says.

“I just graduated from Saint Joe’s in May and spent the last four years as one of those students,” you point over to the student section. 54th and Airborne, the name of the group of students who were ‘in charge’ or the student section, was in front next to the dance team with the drum. You were one of the students who would walk on the court at the start of each game and beat the drum to symbolize the ‘heartbeat of the Hawk.’

“Wouldn’t wearing Penn gear make you a traitor?”

You look over to him. Damn, he’s attractive, and he looks so familiar, but you start laughing, “I’m a student at Penn now. You can take the girl away from Hawk Hill, but you can’t take Hawk Hill away from the girl.” Both of you start laughing because of how corny that was.

“I’m Tyler, by the way,” he extends his hand to you. “I just wanted to see a game.”

“What do you mean?” You ask turning back to the game. The Hawks were up 13 to 9, which was shocking considering how bad they had been while you attended. Their rebuilding phase was a long one for sure.

“I’m in town for, uh, work, and I had a free day, and I’ve heard about the Palestra and wanted to come see it. I didn’t really care who they were playing.” He explains. Just a guy who wants to see a basketball game. That was you with hockey; you didn’t care who was playing, you just want to watch a good game. You had loyalty to your hometown team, but other than that the ending score was irrelevant.

“Stop going for three’s, you never fucking make it!” You screech as the team has four failed three-point attempts in a row. “Learn how to get the rebounds instead!”

“You know your stuff.”

“I know the team. But what do you do for work?”

“Uh, I play for the Dallas Stars.”

Your head snaps to him so fast you practically have whiplash. You get a good look at him and finally make the connection. “Fuck, you’re Tyler Seguin, how the hell did I not recognize you? I was going to go see you play the Flyers tomorrow night but I couldn’t afford the tickets.”

“Oh, you were coming to see me?” He says, smiling at you with a stupid cheeky grin on his face.

“Yeah. I was. You’re my favorite player on the Stars.” You shrug and blush, knowing that gives him permission to egg you on for more.

“Oooh, favorite? The more you talk, the more I like,” he says, the grin not leaving his face.

“I’m from New Hampshire and have been a Bruins fan before I could comprehend anything else. I was even at Game 7 in 2011. I was losing my mind watching you guys win the cup. I honestly cried when you were traded.” Play stops on the court because one of the players for Penn traveled. “Wait, listen. I started the chant the student section is about to do.”

Both of you sit for a moment as you hear the students yell, “You walked, you traveled, you took too many steps,” three times as the Penn player looked over his shoulder with pure anger on his face.

“It’s not hockey, but I would love to see a fight,” Tyler says, leaning back as far as he can in his seat. The Penn player wouldn’t tear his eyes off the student section as they kept cheering. Their coach was doing everything he could to get his attention, but the student section was egging them on for being down 32-14.

“I am definitely guilty of yelling ‘let em fight’ and almost getting thrown out of Hagan,” you admit. You were a hockey fan before you were a basketball fan, and it showed a little too much. Other things you would yell include two minutes for pushing, fine him for embellishment, and throw him in the box.

Half time comes up and you and Tyler just keep talking. He’s being flirty and you’re having a hard time controlling yourself from flirting back. You can’t flirt with an NHL player. He’s Tyler fucking Seguin.

“So you said you wanted to go to the game tomorrow?” he says as the second half is about to start.

“Yeah, but tickets are too expensive. I’m just going to stay in and work on a paper instead.” Tomorrow was Sunday, so you had class the next day anyway. Might as well work on the paper before your week started.

“What if I got you a ticket?” he grins, raising an eyebrow, his arm extended so that it lays on the back of your seat, begging for you to lean back into it. But you knew that NHL players get comped two tickets per game. At least Boston did that for the Bruins according to Charlie Coyle.

“Oh, no, you don’t have to do that. How would I be able to pay you back?”

“How about you let me take out after this game and that could pay back?”

“I’ll pay for dinner if you give me free tickets? I’m down.” You lean back into your seat, just letting his arm wrap around your shoulder. The touch of his fingers sent chills down your spine. It also, oddly enough, felt comfortable, like this was just how it was supposed to be.

“Oh, no. I’m taking you out on a date. I asked, I pay,” he smiles, pulling you in closer to him. If it weren’t for the armrest separating the seats, you would probably be cuddling right now. In public. And for some reason, that didn’t bother you at all.

“So that just means next time you’re in Philly, I get to pay.”

“I guess I’m coming back to Philly very soon then.”

#tyler seguin #tyler seguin imagines #dallas stars #dallas stars imagines #stars #stars imagines #nhl #nhl imagines #hockey #hockey imagines

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myhauntedsalem · 4 years ago

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The Fox Sisters

In 1848, strange ‘rappings’ were heard in the Fox family’s Hydesville, New York, home. The rappings were capable of answering questions, through the number of knocks and taps they made.

It was soon believed that the Fox sisters, Kate and Margaret, were communicating with the dead.

March 31st, 1848 is a date many Spiritualists will cite as the beginning of their movement. On this date Kate/Cathie (12) and Margaret/Margareta (15) Fox began a series of communications with spirits through ‘rappings’, and relaying messages from a spirit who was said to haunt their home.

The Fox family lived in a small house in the hamlet of Hydesville, New York – now a part of Arcadia, Wayne County (Hydesville no longer exists). The house was said to be haunted, and several previous tenants later stated they had vacated the premises due to mysterious noises.

In mid-March, the Fox family began to be disturbed by strange noises and activity in their house. At first, John Fox (the father of the girls) believed the noises to be natural, the floorboards of the house settling in the changing seasons. The children did not take to this explanation, and soon would be found in the morning, sleeping in their parent’s bed, having fled there during the night.

The Fox’s had heard strange sounds in their pantry, and footsteps on the stairs leading to the cellar.

On March 31st Kate decided to challenge the unseen creator of the sounds, by asking it to repeat the snapping of her fingers or claps of her hands, to which the noises complied. Margaret then had a try, referred to the unseen entity as “Mr Splitfoot” – a nickname for the Devil, and challenged it to other mimicking of which, once again it did.

After the sounds completed the counting out of numbers, the eldest of the Fox sisters was too afraid to venture further. However, Kate tried to explain it all away as someone trying to fool them, as April Fools Day was to take place the following morning.

Mrs Fox decided on one more challenge, asking for it to sound out the ages of her children. Once again, the request was answered with each of the children’s ages rapped out, a gap in between, but what shocked Mrs Fox was the final, seventh set of raps, numbering three, the age her youngest child had died.

More communications were made that night, and it was finally discovered that it was the spirit of a 31 year old man, who had been murdered in the house, his body buried in the cellar. He had living children, but his wife had since passed. Finally, he agreed to keep creating the raps for witnesses.

Mr Fox went to get some neighbors to witness the rappings. The first, Mrs Redfield, was expecting it to be a joke, but upon seeing the terrified family, took the events seriously. The spirit rapped out her age, her husband’s age, and soon the house was filled with many from the local community. Still the rapping continued, answering questions.

Before the night was ended, the present living were able to ascertain how the murder took place and where. The spirit was that of a peddler named Charles Rosna, and he was murdered, throat cut, for his money (about five hundred dollars) in one of the bedrooms a few years previous. He was taken down the cellar and was buried quite deep.

On April 1st the cellar was dug out, till the workers hit the waterline, at which point they gave up. No bones were found, and that day and night no rappings were heard. Perhaps it was an April Fools Day joke after all?

However, the sounds did return, and this time, on the following Saturday, over three hundred people crammed in the house, and overflowing outside. The rappings began to be heard the following day as well.

Although much of the community was mystified, there were a select few who considered the communications as witchery and trickery. The Fox family were asked to leave the church congregation, due to being seen as engaging in unholy practices.

The sisters were moved – Kate to her brothers house, and Margaret to her elder sisters house. The Rappings were heard at both locations, so it was determined that it was the girls themselves the spirit realm wanted to communicate with.

It was suggested that an alphabet be developed and used to communicate with the spirits, a kind of spiritual Morse code. With this new, more in depth way of communicating in place, the sisters received the message that they should not hide “this truth” from the world.

The Quaker community (The Religious Society of Friends founded by George Fox in 1650) in Rochester, where the girls where now living with their siblings, invited the Fox sisters, and were soon convinced. It was this Quaker community that formed the inner core of what would become the spiritual movement.

By 1850 the sisters were performing public séances in New York, their elder sister Leah being the official interpreter of the raps, which became very popular and as their fame spread, so did the rise of many other people declaring they too could communicate with the spirit worlds through the ‘rapping’ medium. Many people attended the séances in the hopes of getting financial tips, love advice, seeking truth about their partners and many other quite frivolous things.

The timing was perfect; with the publication of several books looking into the notion of spirit, there was a massive boom in those flocking to see such wonders for themselves. Undoubtedly, and as can be expected, it proved to be quite lucrative, not just for the mediums, but also for the owners of the locations playing host to them. It was not all dark dingy back rooms, but also theatres would be booked out, filled to capacity.

However, as always, there were the critics who investigated these claims. Dr Charles Page from Washington DC booked himself in to a few of the Fox sister’s séances, in order to closely investigate what was happening. He finally came to the conclusion that it was the girls making the noises, the rappings seemingly coming from under their dresses. Even though he published such findings, it was not conclusive and still the sisters popularity grew.

They began to move through high society circles, and also married into them. Margaret married an Arctic Explorer, and Kate a London Barrister. Soon they engaged on ‘missionary work’, sitting for high class and high financed people in order to provide a spiritual aspect to their lives, making them more complete.

Several influential religious leaders at the time also turned from the church to embrace spiritualism, a fact that alarmed many.

However, it was soon to come to an end, at least for the Fox Sisters. In 1888 the two sisters had developed drinking problems and quarreled at large with the rest of the spiritual community. They also quarreled with their sister Leah, and began to travel for their séances without her. It was on one such occasion, October 21, 1888, while in New York City, that Margaret appeared at the New York Academy of Music and shocked all who were present, and the world.

She demonstrated how she had faked the rappings, and other phenomena throughout the years, by cracking her toe joints. She could do this at will and repeated how the ‘spirits’ would answer her questions. She also explained how it all began –

It started as a prank the sisters formulated to scare their mother, all those years ago. They used apples attached to strings and raised and released them to create the rhythmic rappings heard throughout their Hydesville home. They also soon learned they could cause further sounds, by snapping their fingers while placing their hands against a solid wooden object.

They attempted to end it by suggesting it as an April Fools Day Joke, but had messed up when they/the spirit agreed to continue with the neighbors present.

They felt if, at that point, they came clean, they would be in a lot of trouble with their mother. It was when they moved to Rochester that they confided in their sister Leah the truth of the matter, and she helped them develop their skills by teaching them to snap their toes and other joints. They got so good at it they could use either feet, swapping one from the other.

She also explained that no one was touched by spirit during the séance, but rather it was an effect of the noise. At times people could hear the noise, and that by feeling the slight vibration, they may feel it in their shoulder and exclaim to that extent. None of it was real.

The confession ran in the newspapers, much to the spiritualists dismay and the rejoice of their critics. The sisters then made statements against the spiritualist movement, denouncing the entirety of it as a falsehood. Kate Fox was especially damning claiming “I regard Spiritualism as one of the greatest curses that the world has ever known.” for the New York Herald.

However, one year later, Margaret Fox recanted her confession, saying that although she could crack her toes so can many other people, it was not a skill she developed for fraudulent purposes, but was a way of falsely explaining spiritualism as a trick. She was down in her moods, an alcoholic and when she was offered $1500 (A very large sum of money in the day) for an exclusive exposé, to appear in New York World, how could she resist?

She also wanted to hurt her sister Leah, whom she had been quarreling with. The damage had been done, and Margaret Fox died, largely from her alcoholism, on July 1st, 1892. A Mrs Mellon visited with Margaret Fox during her final days, and claimed to have heard the rappings. Margaret could not have performed them, as she was essentially paralyzed. They came from the ceiling and floor. Mrs Mellon was not a supporter of the spiritual movement.

Leah had died a few years previously, and Kate died the following year in 1893.

One final note. If you visit the Lily Dale museum, there is a large tin box on display. Inquiry will reveal it was found in the cellar of the Fox home in Hydesville. A false wall was discovered, and in the space was a ‘skeleton’ and ‘The Peddlers Box’. Unfortunately the discovery is dubious at best, many of the bones belonging to a chicken, and the space it was found in an extension of the cellar, rather than a walled in section.

#The Fox Sisters #paranormal #ghost and hauntings #ghost and spirits

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hysterialevi · 4 years ago

Text

His Name Was Isaac - Ch. 5

Fanfic summary: During a mission to avenge his mother’s death, Isaac hunts down the men responsible for her murder and kills them off one-by-one, only to discover that his last target is taking refuge among the Van der Linde gang. In an attempt to kill them, Isaac attacks the gang and unknowingly becomes enemies with his own father, who is in the process of fighting his own battle for redemption.

Point of view: third-person

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This story is also on AO3

TWO DAYS LATER

AURORA BASIN

Making haste across the camp, Arthur strode over to Dutch’s cabin with an uneasy spring in his step as he joined his fellow gang members, his mind racing with incessant thoughts of doubt.

The Van der Lindes had spent the entirety of the previous night preparing for today’s robbery and equipped themselves with every possible weapon, completely armed to the teeth.

They were carrying shotguns, rifles, pistols, knives -- hell, even dynamite. Arthur had no earthly idea how they were supposed to sneak past all the lawmen while looking so conspicuous, but he assumed that Dutch would have some sort of “miracle” plan to work things out.

He always did.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Dutch announced, approaching his men as they waited outside the cabin. “Today’s the day. We’ve been plannin’ this robbery for a long time now, and I am well aware that there has been some skepticism...” he threw a glare at Arthur, “...about how this is going to work. But trust me -- we’ve been doin’ robberies like this for decades now. We was born and bred as outlaws. We live for jobs like this. This ain’t nothin’ new to us.”

Dutch held up a reassuring hand. “We are gonna be just fine. Just follow my lead, lie low, and don’t do anything stupid. Now, as for the plan...”

He gestured to two gang members. “Cleet and Joe are gonna stay behind to guard the camp while we’re away. They’re also gonna help pack things up since I do plan on movin’ once we’re finished in Blackwater.”

Arthur raised a question. “Where we going?”

“I don’t have an exact location yet,” Dutch answered, “but I’m thinkin’ of heading east. I’m not fond of civilization -- you know that -- but it’s clear to me now that this gang ain’t ready to run itself. If there’s anyone out there who can cure my illness, or postpone my death at the very least, it’s a chance I have to take. And I doubt we’re gonna find any fancy doctors over in New Austin.”

Micah joined in. “And what about the robbery?”

“Just keep your wits about you.” Dutch advised. “As you all know, there are many lawmen guarding this bank. According to Mackintosh, we can expect roughly a dozen. I don’t want any of you firin’ your guns unless absolutely necessary. Understand? Let’s try to keep this as quiet as possible, and as quick as possible.”

“Now, as for who’s doin’ what... Arthur, you focus on gettin’ the vault open. I don’t care how you do it. Whether you wanna beat the teller, or figure out the combination yourself, just make sure you don’t draw the law’s attention too quick. Micah and Bill, I’m countin’ on you two to keep any unruly customers at bay. We got enough to worry about as is. I don’t need any surprises. Shay, you be on the lookout for anyone that tries to stop us.”

“What d’you want us to do if somethin’ goes wrong?” Arthur asked. “Where should we meet?”

“If we get separated, head to Quaker’s Cove. It’s a jetty just south of Blackwater. But do not ride straight back to camp. We can’t risk leadin’ the law into the heart of our gang. Now... is everyone clear on the plan?”

The gang exchanged looks with each other, all of them nodding in agreement.

“I think we are, Dutch.” Shay replied.

The older man grinned deviously. “Then let’s goddamn do this.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A FEW MINUTES LATER

TALL TREES

Galloping through the forest at full speed, Dutch and his small army of men carved their way through the thick woods as they hurried to Blackwater, anxious to get this robbery over with.

Not only were they expecting to see heavy resistance at the bank, they also had to ride straight through Skinner Brother territory in order to reach it in the first place. And they weren’t exactly the type to cower in the shadows.

There were toppled stagecoaches lying on the side of the road, people hanging from trees, rotting horse carcasses leaned up against the rocks, and columns of black smoke just above the horizon that pinpointed their other camps throughout the region.

It was no wonder the Pinkertons took an interest in this place. Anybody who wandered into Tall Trees was essentially signing their own death warrant, and even the local law had been spooked away from this area.

Arthur just hoped they didn’t get roasted alive before they reached Blackwater. Dealing with a few cowboys who had badges slapped onto their coats was one thing, but these Skinner Brothers... they were no joke.

They were crazy, but clever. Wild, but organized. Nowhere to be seen, but everywhere at the same time. They had been targeting travelers and lawmen alike for years now, and Arthur doubted their gang would be any exception.

Unbeknownst to him however, there was another, much more urgent threat that awaited them in the forest.

And he was far more familiar with this one than he realized.

Holding his rifle close to his chest, Isaac attentively observed the gang from behind a boulder as they traveled along the narrow paths, completely oblivious to the man watching them from afar.

The young man had been waiting in the same spot for nearly two hours now and already set up a few traps in order to delay the gang’s return, but he didn’t plan on killing Mackintosh just yet.

He was surrounded by too many people. Too many obstacles. The Van der Lindes had a reputation of being some of the deadliest outlaws in the country, and Isaac knew damn well he wouldn’t be able to tackle all of them single-handedly.

If he was going to kill Mackintosh and escape West Elizabeth with his life, he’d have to eliminate the men protecting him first.

That was why he was going to poison their food.

Peering through the scope of his rifle, Isaac scanned the gang as they breezed past the trees, riding like a bunch of bats out of hell. At first glance, none of them seemed to stand out, but upon taking a closer look, Isaac suddenly spotted Mackintosh himself riding alongside another man.

“...There you are, you piece of shit...” He muttered under his breath, tempted to pull the trigger and be done with it.

But he couldn’t do it. Not yet.

Isaac wanted Shay to know who was coming after him, and he wanted his face to be the last thing that pathetic murderer ever saw... but he was going to do it right.

He didn’t spend fifteen years hunting Mackintosh down just to shoot him like a bird in the breeze. If Isaac was going to kill him, he’d do it in a way that neither of them would ever forget.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, the young man lowered his rifle and forced himself to stay back, allowing Mackintosh to ride away with the rest of the gang.

It pained Isaac to just let him slip out of his fingers like this, but if everything went according to plan these next few days, then he’d get his revenge sooner than he even knew it.

He just had to wait a little bit longer.

Standing up from the ground, Isaac tugged on his horse’s reins and led him through the woods, trying to stay as low as possible while he headed for the entrance to Aurora Basin.

“C’mon, Aldo...” he whispered, getting the poison ready. “We’re almost there.”

~~~~~~~~~~

A WHILE LATER

BANK OF BLACKWATER

Gathering near the edge of town, Dutch and his men all huddled up in a straight line as they observed the bank standing in the distance, their hearts pumping with adrenaline.

It didn’t look like anyone in Blackwater had taken an interest in their activities just yet, but considering the horses’ restless whinnies and the way they struggled in their bridles, a storm was on its way.

They’d have to move quick.

“There it is.” Dutch said, observing the tall building. “The Blackwater bank.”

He glanced side-to-side, checking on all his men. “...Are you boys ready?”

Micah rolled his shoulders. “Ready, Dutch.”

“Good. Then let’s--”

“--Hold up.” Arthur suddenly interrupted, gaining Dutch’s attention.

He furrowed his brow in confusion. “What is it?”

The other man narrowed his eyes ominously. “This don’t feel right...”

“What doesn’t?”

Arthur gestured to the bank’s entrance. “Look. There’s hardly anyone here. No guards, no Pinkertons, no local law...”

Dutch was already bored of his skepticism. “So...?”

“So, where the hell is everybody? When Shay and I were last here, we counted at least a dozen people. Ain’t no way they’d just leave the bank unguarded like this.”

Micah mimicked a snore. “Doubt, doubt, and more doubt. Do you ever stop worrying, Morgan?”

Arthur glared at him in annoyance. “I’m just tryin’ to keep what few people we have left alive, Bell. You wasn’t there when we scouted this place out. They had a goddamn army of lawmen protectin’ this bank.”

Shay jumped in. “It’s true. We saw a shit ton of men here, Dutch. It wasn’t pretty. If we stayed any longer, we woulda gotten caught.”

“And now...” Arthur continued, “they’ve all suddenly disappeared. On the same day of our robbery, no less. That can’t be a coincidence.”

Dutch shrugged casually. “Whether it’s coincidence or fate, I won’t complain. You was worried that we wouldn’t be able to find any openings, weren’t you, Arthur? Well, here it is. Now, put on your mask and set aside your worries. We’ve wasted long enough bickering about how we’re gonna rob this bank. I say it’s time we goddamn do it.”

Bill pulled his bandana up. “Right behind you, boss.”

Arthur let out an irritated sigh but followed Dutch’s actions nonetheless, preparing his pistol. “Fine. I’m with you. But I ain’t celebratin’ anytime soon.

Dutch dismounted his horse. “Then keep your gun close, and follow my lead. We have only one chance at this. Let’s not waste it.”

Prowling towards the bank like a pack of wolves, the entire gang steadily approached the front doors while keeping their eyes peeled at the same time, admittedly somewhat unnerved by Arthur’s observations.

Even though the two of them didn’t get along in the slightest, Micah couldn’t deny that he did find it a bit strange that no one was guarding the bank. Nobody outside the gang knew about their plans for the robbery -- except for the young man Micah spoke with -- and he was fairly certain that none of the other members had been in contact with the law.

If everything was at it seemed, then that meant the little rascal had gone behind Micah’s back and given the Pinkertons a tip about their next move. He was probably trying to buy himself some time by trapping them in Blackwater, and using the law as a way to delay their return.

...Goddammit, Micah cursed to himself. He was going strangle that boy if he ever saw him again.

“Alright, cowboys...” Dutch said lowly, flattening himself against the wall. “You all know what to do. Keep your guard up. Grab as much money as you can. We go in, and we go out.”

He pulled his mask over his nose. “Follow my lead!”

Whipping out both of his revolvers, Dutch planted a firm foot in the door and kicked it open, causing it to swing loose as everyone inside jolted their heads in his direction.

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery!”

Rushing into the bank, Bill and Micah immediately got to work and started waving their guns around, making sure that all the customers were on the floor.

“Stay down!” Bill exclaimed, slamming the butt of his rifle into someone’s head.

Screams of panic could be heard throughout the building as the gang swiftly took control of the bank and cornered people into the walls, keeping them trapped behind the threat of getting shot.

“Don’t do nothin’ stupid!” Micah snarled. “Or you’ll get a bullet in your head! Understand?”

“Mr. M!” Dutch called out amidst the chaos, beckoning Arthur to the vault. “Go on and do your thing! We’ll keep an eye out for any law. Just get those bags full!”

Charging to the back of the bank, Arthur instantly aimed his pistol at the teller’s head and pulled down the hammer, forcing him to follow his every command.

“What’re you, deaf?” He barked, grabbing his collar. “Open the goddamn vault!”

“O-Okay!” The teller cried out. “Okay! J-Just... don’t hurt anyone!”

Reaching for the vault’s knob with a shaky hand, the teller frantically began to put the combination in while cowering under Arthur’s intense stare, his breath trembling uncontrollably with fear.

So far, everything was going according to plan, and neither Shay nor Dutch had raised the alarm yet, but Arthur just couldn’t shake the feeling that something big was coming.

Why else would the law leave the bank so vulnerable like this? This town was no stranger to criminals. Even in the busier parts of the city where things were more civilized, Arthur would still see at least one or two lawmen strolling about.

The only logical explanation he could think of... was that the Pinkertons were hoping to lure them all into one spot before wiping them out.

They must’ve known how Dutch’s mind worked by now, and they must’ve been able to predict that he’d hit the bank eventually.

Arthur’s only question... was how they knew it would happen today.

“There!” The teller whimpered, throwing his hands in the air. “I-It’s open!”

“Good, now get outta my way.” Arthur shoved the man off to the side, pushing forward into the vault.

“It’s open!” He announced to the rest of the gang. “Someone get over here and make sure this fool don’t try nothin’ funny. I’m gonna get the money.”

Stepping over the unconscious body of another customer, Arthur grabbed the bag dangling from his shoulder and began shoveling bundles of cash into it, wanting to get out of this godforsaken city as soon as possible.

He could already hear the whistles of police officers blaring in the distance, and if the amount of footsteps storming their way was anything to go by, Arthur imagined they were about to have one hell of a fight on their hands.

He just prayed they’d live long enough to see the end of it.

“How’s it lookin’ in there?” Dutch shouted across the bank.

“Good!” Arthur replied, not sounding too confident. “But it ain’t as much as we expected!”

The older man dismissed his comment. “Well, take it anyways! Now is hardly the time to be picky, son! We got lawmen headed our way!”

“I know! I’m goin’ as fast as I can!”

Moving onto the next stack of cash, Arthur opened up a second bag and began piling money into that one, hurriedly trying to swipe every single note he could see.

It sounded like someone was giving orders outside of the bank -- most-likely positioning their men to surround the building -- and just by listening to the scattered sighs of relief coming from the customers, he guessed that their gang was probably in the least favorable position right now.

How did they arrive so fast? Arthur wondered. He knew that something was amiss just based on the absence of any lawmen at the bank, but it still seemed odd to him that they were this prompt.

There was no way in hell that any of this was a coincidence like Dutch suggested. Someone told the law where their gang was going, and when they were going to be there. Someone here was a traitor.

Now they just had to figure out whom.

“...Van der Linde!” A man’s voice bellowed, causing the entire gang to fall silent.

Arthur froze in the vault, glancing over his shoulder at Dutch.

“Who the hell is that?” He whispered. The older man gave him a puzzled look.

“No idea.”

Readying his guns, Dutch crept his way over to one of the windows and peeked through the dusty glass, subtly taking a closer look at their unexpected visitor.

He couldn’t see their face from this distance -- what with all the sand billowing around -- but it didn’t take long for him notice the array of Pinkertons that had gathered outside.

They were in more trouble than they realized.

“Dutch van der Linde!” The man repeated, sounding much more aggressive this time. “I know you’re in there! Get out here! Now! There’s nowhere for you to run!”

Dutch kept himself hidden behind one of the walls, making sure that none of the Pinkertons could sneak a shot in.

“...And to whom do I have the displeasure of speaking with?” He called out, earning a few snickers from the gang.

“Oh, you know me.” They replied, evidently not threatened. “Much better than you think, old friend.”

A single man emerged from the crowd on horseback, holding a shotgun in his grasp.

He was dressed in a black suit and bowler hat -- similar to the rest of his comrades -- and he donned a familiar-looking mustache that instantly led Dutch to recognize his unforgettable face.

“It’s me,” the man said, “Edgar Ross. You remember, don’t you, Mr. Van der Linde? Your people shot my partner Milton in cold blood all those years ago. Thought I’d drop by and say hello.”

Dutch scoffed. “Well, I must say, you certainly have a... unique approach to reunions, Mr. Ross. Normally when I greet people, I’m holding their hand. Not a gun.”

The Pinkerton’s expression remained flat. “Oh, I doubt that. Your lot are murderers, Dutch. Savages. You’ve become just as deranged as those Skinner Brothers, and everyone knows it. But not everyone knows how to deal with it. That’s the one mistake Milton made that got him killed.”

Ross cocked his shotgun, prompting the rest of the agents to follow suit.

“I told that man, time and time again, that if you want to cage a wild animal, you have to treat it like one. You can’t show mercy to those who don’t understand the concept of it. Otherwise, they’ll just perceive it as weakness.”

Dutch decided to hold his fire for now and warned the gang to keep calm, despite their itchy trigger fingers.

“Oh, come now, Mr. Ross.” He bargained, his tone sharp with caution. “Must this day end with even more bloodshed? You pride yourself on being a civilized man, after all. Do you not? So why don’t we conclude this situation with civility... and put our guns away? Like gentlemen.”

Agent Ross didn’t budge in the slightest. “Civility was damned the minute you walked into town, Dutch.”

Dutch’s entire demeanor shifted at the response, and Arthur could’ve sworn he saw something snap inside the old man. Something akin to a fire being ignited.

He had this look about him that said he was going to do something bold, and judging by the way he scanned the room, Arthur had a feeling it was going to be dangerously reckless, too.

What on Earth was he planning?

“Y’know what, Mr. Ross...?” Dutch said darkly, his voice rumbling like magma. “You’re right. Civility be damned.”

Without giving anyone time to react, the man suddenly grabbed one of the women in the bank and held a gun to her head, presenting her to the lawmen as she shrieked in fear.

“What the hell are you doing...?!” Arthur questioned through gritted teeth, completely forgetting about the money.

“Saving our lives...!” Dutch growled under his breath. “Just let me handle this, son.”

Dragging the woman so that she was visible through the windows, Dutch tightly held her in his grip and kept the pistol aimed at her temple, practically drilling the barrel through her skull.

“Shit!” Edgar’s partner Fordham exclaimed. “He’s got a hostage!”

Dutch chuckled at that. “Oh, I assure you, mister! I’ve got far more than just one! There are plenty of souls in here ripe for the taking, and I will most definitely take them all.” A malicious glint twinkled in his eye. “...Unless, of course, you let us go. We are... civilized folk, after all.”

Micah and Bill both laughed at that, but Arthur wasn’t anywhere near being amused. If their gang managed to survive this mess of a robbery, he and Dutch were certainly going to exchange a few words later.

“Shay,” Dutch whispered, gesturing to the explosives on his person, “plant a stick of dynamite on the rear wall, would you? It looks like we’re blasting our way out of here.”

Mackintosh nodded, bolting over to the other side. “Alright. Just keep ‘em distracted.”

The outlaw grinned. “Oh, don’t you worry, my boy. I will.”

Bringing his attention back to the Pinkertons, Dutch continued to restrain the woman as she frantically struggled in his grasp, sobbing due to the panic.

“Now, Mr. Ross,” he carried on, “I hate to put you in such a tough position, but if you want me to let these people go... I’m afraid I’m gonna need some assurances in return. A few favors, if you will.”

The Pinkerton glowered at him, refusing to comply. “Hubris will be the end of you, Dutch. Let that woman go. She isn’t a part of this.”

“Wasn’t.” Dutch corrected. “But now, I’ve made her a part of it. So, what it’s gonna be, agent? Can we come to some sort of understanding? Or shall we skip the small talk,” he pulled the hammer down, “and get straight to the shooting?”

Fordham turned to Ross, his face plastered with concern. “...We have to do what he says, Edgar. For now, at least. He’ll kill her otherwise.”

The other man wasn’t convinced. “...No. He won’t. A hostage is no use if they’re dead.”

“But you heard Dutch,” the young man persisted. “He has more than one. You’ve seen how far this gang will go. Who’s to say they won’t shoot them one-by-one until they get what they want?”

Ross sighed in annoyance. “Do not believe the lies that these savages throw at you so easily, Archer. You really believe he has more than one? Dutch is just saying that to get the exact reaction he’s getting out of you.”

Fordham remained staunch. “Are you really willing to bet their lives on that? We can always recover the money stolen from this bank, but we can’t bring those people back once Dutch pulls that trigger. Whether he’s lying or not, we have to comply.”

In spite of the reluctance he harbored, Ross listened closely to Fordham’s words and reconsidered his stance on the situation, finally deciding that perhaps, his partner had a point.

Even though letting Dutch run away was the last thing he wanted to do, saving the lives of innocent people was more important. Dutch was most-likely going to die off soon anyway, considering the state of his health, but if there was any chance of having him face true justice, Ross was going to take it.

Still, he had to prioritize the safety of those hostages before anything else. They were completely defenseless in that bank, and if Dutch was actually telling the truth, then Ross didn’t want to be the one who simply stood by and watched as they died.

“Fine.” Edgar conceded. “We’ll stand down for now. Just make sure that he doesn’t--”

Before the man could even finish his sentence, a sudden explosion erupted from the bank and shook the entire city around it, causing the Pinkertons’ horses to rear out of fright as smoke polluted the air.

“What the hell?” Fordham blurted out, his eyes popping wide open.

“Goddammit!” Ross yelled. “They’re escaping through the back! Don’t let them get away!”

Whipping the reins on his horse, Ross and the rest of the Pinkertons immediately began galloping after Dutch as they charged towards the Great Plains, running like there was no tomorrow.

They didn’t hear any gunshots prior to the explosion, so Fordham assumed that Dutch had spared the hostages, but even then, their chances of survival were pretty slim. That bank certainly wasn’t the biggest one in America, and there was no way to guarantee that the dynamite hadn’t gotten them instead.

“They’re heading west!” Ross shouted, keeping his eye on the horizon. “Stop them!”

Opening fire on the Van der Lindes, the Pinkertons began showering the gang with a storm of bullets as they barreled their way across the open fields, leaving a trail of gun smoke and dust behind them.

A symphony of screams and shouts could be heard throughout the region as Pinkertons were sent tumbling off their horses by the Van der Lindes’ attacks, causing them to leave trails of blood on the golden grass below.

“You see them anywhere?” Fordham yelled over all the commotion, reloading his rifle.

Edgar did his best to peer through the smoke.

“...No.” He said in disappointment.

Ross yanked on the reins and slowed down to a halt, commanding the rest of his men to do the same.

“Shit...!” He cursed, attentively scanning the tree line. “Those bastards are quick. I’ll give them that.”

Fordham caught up to his partner, slightly out of breath due to the sudden chaos.

“Well, what do we do now?”

The other man gazed at the carnage behind them, more fervent than ever to take Dutch down.

“Keep searching for them. While their trail is still hot. We’ll push them all the way to Armadillo if we have to, but it won’t be easy. There aren’t as many of them nowadays as there were before. It’ll be harder to pick up any tracks.”

Fordham gave him a firm nod. “Understood.”

“But first,” Ross said, stopping Archer before he could leave, “I want you and a few other men to check up on the hostages at the bank. Some of them could’ve survived. If they did, they’ll need someone to look after them.”

The young man felt a sense of relief upon hearing Edgar say that. “Right. Of course. On my way.”

“Then make it quick.” Ross ordered. “I don’t want to give these animals the chance to flee the state. We have them by the neck. It’s time we took them down for good.”

Turning back towards Blackwater, Fordham called out to some of the other Pinkertons and beckoned them to follow him, breaking into a sprint as they all rushed to the bank.

Meanwhile, Ross stayed behind and continued his search for the gang, admittedly feeling sour that he let Dutch slip from his grasp once again.

Why was that man so difficult to catch? He was nothing but another lowlife terrorizing the American countryside, and it wasn’t as if the Pinkertons hadn’t dealt with his type before. In fact, Edgar was even willing to wager that they had fought worse.

He supposed it had less to do with Dutch himself, and more with the people who surrounded him. They were loyal. Well-trained. Bred for killing. The type of men who would rather die than let their leader be taken.

That was why Milton’s methods never worked. He gave the other members a chance to leave Dutch behind without realizing that he was the only world they ever knew. He bet his survival on the assumption that those people had something to go back to when, in reality, the gang had become their new family.

In Edgar’s eyes though, they were all monsters. Every single one of them had to be eradicated if the Pinkertons ever hoped to find peace, and despite how he may’ve clashed heads with Fordham occasionally, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to catch them alone.

The Van der Linde gang was dying, yes.

But that was what made them so dangerous.

And this time, the Pinkertons were prepared.

~~~~~~~~~~

HALF AN HOUR LATER

AURORA BASIN

“D’you think we lost ‘em?” Micah asked as he brought his horse to a stop, his heart still racing from what happened at the bank.

Dutch let out a deep breath and slouched in his saddle, coughing a few times before spitting on the ground.

“I... I think so.” He confirmed, slowing to a trot. “I doubt the Pinkertons will give up easily, but it doesn’t seem like they know where our camp is yet. We should be safe for the moment. Just keep an eye out. They already took us by surprise once. We don’t want it to happen again.”

Arthur grumbled at that and immediately hopped off his horse, almost tempted to hightail it out of West Elizabeth right there.

“Well, it wouldn’t have happened in the first place if you’d have just listened to me!”

Dutch looked at Arthur with a cautionary glare, his eyes wild from the fight. “I do not have time for this right now, Arthur...!”

But the younger man wouldn’t let up. “And when do you have time, Dutch? Huh? I tried to warn you twice about the risks that this robbery entailed, and twice you decided to ignore me!”

Arthur pointed outside the camp, his tone rough with disbelief. “You nearly killed that woman, Dutch. An innocent woman. Just like the one in Guarma.”

Micah scoffed. “Oh, you’re really gonna pull that one out, Morgan--”

“--Stay out of this, Micah.”

Dutch raised his voice, shouting over the two of them. “Enough! Stop it. Both of you.”

He brought his focus to Arthur, evidently furious with the man’s constant doubt.

“Listen to me, son. I did... what I had to. It ain’t pleasant, but sometimes, survival comes before morality. You saw the way those Pinkertons scrambled once I took that woman hostage. Their hesitation is the only reason we managed to escape. What else could I have done?”

“You could’ve listened.” Arthur said. “You could’ve listened to all the people who’ve warned you ever since the beginning, but over and over again, you chose not to. And now look where we are!”

“We are still alive, Arthur!” Dutch replied.

“We’re dying!” He yelled back.

Falling silent after his sudden outburst, Arthur sighed in exhaustion and removed his hat, wiping some sweat off his brow as Dutch approached him.

“Arthur,” he said, his voice much gentler now. “I... I ain’t got that much time left. You know this.”

Dutch put a hand on the man’s shoulder, looking him in the eye.

“I need you to be with me in these final moments. Not against me. These Pinkertons -- they don’t care who they kill so long as they’re killing one of us. All they want is to destroy our gang, and that’s why we need to stick together in this fight. We cannot let them win, Arthur.”

The other man’s face sank with despondency. “...They’re already winning, Dutch. It ain’t got nothin’ to do with us. That’s just the way it is now. Civilization is gonna be on top of us soon, and we’re gonna disappear someday, too. Whether we’re ready for it or not.”

Having no more desire to argue with Dutch, Arthur hurriedly pulled the bags off his shoulders and slung them across his horse’s saddle, not even bothering to grab his own share of the take.

“Here’s the money we got.” He showed Dutch. “Do with it what you will.”

Contrary to what Arthur expected though, the other man didn’t throw himself at the cash and, instead, simply gazed at Morgan, his eyes lost in sorrow.

Arthur could tell that Dutch felt a little apologetic for pushing him away like this, and they both wished there was some way they could get through to the other, but with all the pandemonium surrounding them these days, it seemed like their words often carried next to no weight.

Their conversations usually had about as much progress as Manifest Destiny did in New Austin, and considering the fact that Dutch didn’t pull out his gun this time, Arthur wondered if the man was truly sorry for his actions.

“Arthur...” the man whispered, “I--”

Before he could say anything though, the disgusting sound of someone retching abruptly interrupted them, and upon turning to see where the source was coming from, Arthur saw Cleet clutching his throat in the distance, his face turning into an alarming shade of blue.

“What the hell...?” Arthur murmured, still trying to process the view. “What’s wrong with him? Is he sick?”

Shay took a closer look at him, suddenly breaking into a panic once he realized the man was dying.

“Oh, shit. He’s choking!”

Putting his things down, Shay instantly jumped off his horse and rushed over to Cleet in an attempt to help him, only to screech to a halt when a gush of blood came spurting out the man’s mouth.

“Jesus Christ!” Mackintosh exclaimed, staring widely at the horrific scene.

Meanwhile, Cleet collapsed to the stained grass beneath him and continued to writhe in agony, his lungs desperately gasping for oxygen, but to no avail.

His lips were purple, his eyes were bloodshot, his teeth were red, and the veins in his forehead protruded to the point where Arthur thought they might burst through his skin. There was a yellowish foam bubbling around the corner of his mouth now, and despite the gang’s efforts to help him, his condition only seemed to deteriorate.

Eventually, within a few short heartbeats... he was gone.

Just like that.

All because of one untimely meal.

“...Lord above...” Dutch breathed out, still in shock.

“What... what the hell just happened?” Shay asked, gazing down at Cleet’s body. “Did he really choke?”

Arthur examined the man’s hellish-looking face, almost immediately coming to a conclusion.

“Of course not, dumbass. Look at him. Foam ‘round the mouth, bloodshot eyes, blue skin. Somebody poisoned Cleet.”

Bill called out to them from the supply wagons, adding even more problems to their already long list of concerns. “Yeah, and they also stole everything we have!”

Dutch strode over to him. “What’re you talking about, Williamson?”

“Look!” He pointed at the empty crates. “Our food, our money, our ammo -- it’s all gone! And our weapons are destroyed, too!”

Dutch glared at Joe with a deadly expression, clearly on the verge of killing someone. “Mind telling me what in the actual hell happened here, Joe?”

The poor man was at a loss. “Cleet and I didn’t see anyone in the camp, Dutch! I swear! There was no one here the whole time!”

“Is that so?” He snarled, grabbing Joe by the collar. “Then explain to me how Cleet was poisoned and our supplies were destroyed if nobody was goddamn here!”

Joe had no answer to offer. “I don’t know, Dutch. Truly, I don’t. I swear on my life--”

“--Good.”

Whipping out his gun, Dutch aimed the weapon straight at Joe’s forehead and nearly pulled the trigger, only to be stopped when Arthur intervened.

“Dutch, don’t!” He insisted.

“Why not?!” The older man asked, his jaw clenched in anger.

“Because we have no evidence that it was him! It could’ve been someone from outside the gang, for all we know!”

But Dutch wasn’t having any of it. “That’s what you believe? Oh come on, Arthur! How else could the Pinkertons have known when to corner us? How else could someone have snuck into our camp -- while we were all gone, no less -- and destroyed our supplies? Someone in the gang is helping the rat, and right now, I don’t see any other obvious suspects except for the one standing in front of me!”

Arthur rested a hand on Dutch’s arm, urging him to lower it.

“Even if it was Joe, we don’t have time to deal with this now, Dutch. The Pinkertons are still lookin’ for us. We’ve got a fresh trail leading straight to the camp, and if we don’t leave soon, we’re all gonna be hanging from a noose by the end of the week. We’ll find out who the rat is once we’re in a safe location. Or safer, at least.”

Dutch took one last look at Joe and ground his teeth together, deciding to hold back for now.

“...Fine.” He complied. “But don’t think I’m just gonna drop this, Arthur.”

“Oh, I know, Dutch,” he agreed. “I won’t either.”

Returning to their lives, Arthur and Dutch finally calmed down and started helping the other members pack up the camp, both of them extremely disturbed by the events that just transpired.

Not only did they lose one of their men today, they also had a plethora of new issues to worry about.

The Pinkertons were on their tail, Dutch was losing his mind, their supplies were all destroyed, and now, it was pretty clear that someone among the gang had turned traitor.

Why would they do this? Arthur questioned. What did they have to gain by killing a group of people who were already knocking on death’s door? Money? Power? Freedom from the rope? He had no idea.

Well, whatever the answer was, Arthur imagined they’d all probably be dead before they found out. The whole world was fighting against them now, and without anywhere else to run to these days, it felt like the walls were closing in on them.

Hope continued to wither away like a flickering candle, and seeing as how their family just got a little bit smaller, Arthur assumed it wouldn’t be long before the flame was completely snuffed out.

That was how the world functioned now. Civilization was bigger than all of them combined, and soon... it would consume them too.

Such was the way of life.

#red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #rdr2 #arthur morgan #isaac morgan #dutch van der linde #Micah Bell #Bill Williamson #edgar ross #archer fordham #rdr2 fanfic #rdr2 oc

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apexart-journal · 4 years ago

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Tasha Dougé, Day 12

Today started bright and early with a Landmark Commission Public Hearing. There were 10 locations on the agenda. The first one was the Kimlau War Memorial. The minute I heard the name, I was like I know that memorial. It brought me right back to Day 4. I got to hear more history about the memorial, but it was nice to hear people talk about the impact the memorial has on them. I heard individual stories from people reflecting on how their families migrated to the States for the American Dream, while others shared how representation matters to them and how they show up in community. If was clear that the memorial’s presence impacts them and adds immense value to the community. Now my memory of the that area is infused with their stories. The Landmark Commission will convene again on June 15th to make a decision. I hope it gets approved.

Next, I was supposed to head over to the Park Slope Center for Successful Aging. NYCares partners up with them to deliver meals to seniors. I called to let them know I was running late, but I was informed that they already distributed all the food and didn’t need any more volunteers. Dang that was quick. I asked what was their schedule for delivering food. I was told Tuesdays and Thursday. I said thanks. In my mind, I made a mental note to let Abbie know what happened and try to get this back on my schedule. Sad I missed it, but the day still had much to offer me. Next stop, Prospect Park.

I’ve been to Prospect Park a few times, but had no idea how nice the park was. If I was going to an event, that was exactly what I did. I would beeline my way to the event’s location, not paying any true attention to my surroundings. Nor did I think to look up what was actually in the park. So my trip today was a scavenger hunt to find the Camperdown Elm (tree) and the Quaker cemetery, all while staying open to whatever else I discovered. Early on in my walk to these places, I walked under this gorgeous underpass. I couldn’t help myself, I just had to take a pic. I didn’t think it was possible, but I think walking through it was some sort of time travel because I look even younger. Forty where? (Not in my face, but in my knees. lol) The Camperdown Elm was located a few steps away from the underpass. It looks like something out of a fairytale. It gave me Chronicles of Narnia vibes. Mr. Tumnus, are you there? If you get the reference, know that I love you. Anyhoo, the Camperdown Elm is special because its branches grow parallel to the ground. Its branches are really do majestic. I was definitely getting Ferngully vibes. (I love that movie! Avatar is like the people version to me.) It was almost cut down, but through the efforts of an artist/poet, Marianne Moore, the elm was saved. The poem she wrote about the tree is renowned. Not to far from the elm is the boathouse. There was a bride getting professional pictures taken and I could see why. Absolutely gorgeous! I could have stayed by the water for much longer than I did. I watched the momma swan and her babies, and the turtles sunbathing on a log further out. The moment was serene and tranquil and much more. Abbie called me back and we caught up. We sorted everything out with my schedule for the remainder of my time. Thursday, I would go deliver food to the seniors and Abbie said finally get to kayaking. I mentioned since I had a gap in my schedule and the weather was clear, I would try today. She said go for it. I continued on my walk until I got to the Quaker cemetery. It’s closed to the public and it made think that maybe they was silence in death as well. Doesn’t look like there will be any music clubs happening here. En route back to the train station, I passed by the boathouse again and you won’t believe what I saw. A Black-crowned Night Heron!!! You already know that I took a picture. I immediately thought about Marlys and how she is going to love hearing about this. For me to see this bird again (in a different park), what were the odds? I just had to look up the symbolism of the heron. Here are some clips of what I found:

“Heron symbolism is important because the heron meaning refers to tranquility and stillness for us humans. We need to understand these two elements well if we wish to recognize the opportunities in life... Primarily, the bird is a symbol of beauty because it prospers and flourishes in the majestic realm where the land and shore dance in a symphony. The result is a wondrous spectacle. The marriage of the two elegant energies of water and land is included in the meaning of herons. The heron shows us the abundance of life in the sea, for when we see the peace, contentment, and tranquility that the heron finds at the edge of the waters, we are assured of the plethora of life present inside the waters.”

The link says so much more that resonates with this moment, where I am in my life and what the future holds for me. God, Universe, Ancestors, Lwas and other deities, I hear you and I receive it. Thank you Prospect Park. Now I really want to go to the water. Kayaking here I come. Unfortunately, my excitement to be on the water was met with a closed gate. How sway? No rain and still no kayaking. At least, I tried. It was disappointing for sure. I’ve kayaked on the Hudson before, but it was so long ago. I was really looking forward to doing again. The Sunset Mediation was exactly what I needed to settle this day.

Socrates is my park homie. My sister actually moved to Astoria about 4 years ago. Once she got her dog, we frequented the park more often. However, never have I ever participated in mediation in the park. There was a decent size group in the park. As per the name, the sun was setting and that meant the temperature was dropping. The facilitator had a mic, but they were barely audible. To be honest, it didn’t matter because we were there to be still and mediate. The coolness of the grass sent electricity through my body and then, there was calm. My calm did get interrupted with some of the city sounds. Yet, after the city listening exercise, I was able to incorporate some, not all, of the sounds into my mediation. The session ends at the same time as the park, so with about 20 mins remaining, the park attendant started to announce that the park was closing soon. He did so again 10 minutes later. With the remaining time, the facilitator asked that we turn to our neighbors and chat for a bit through intros and reflections on how we went. The folks next to me paired off really quickly, but two women called me over to join them. There names were Morgan and Jenna. They were nice folks from the neighborhood. We shared what brought us to meditation. I told about the residency, but not my art. lol. It was a good mini convo. We left each other saying that we may see each other again. Calm and coldish, I headed on my way and that was the end of my day.

#TashaDouge LocalNYC #Tasha Dougé #LocalNYC

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quakerjoe · 5 years ago

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LAST CALL ON FACEBOOK

I’m done. I’ve had it with Facebook, so fuck this shit; I’m out. Here’s the final publication...

THE LAST CUPPA JOE SERVED ON FACEBOOK: TUESDAY 10 MARCH 2020

Perhaps you’ve noticed that it’s been quiet around here despite all the political excitement. If you’ve guessed “He’s in facebook jail again”, you’d be right. Being put in a childish “time out” because I pissed off someone who came to MY page uninvited is the name of today’s game, and I’m done with it. I already lost the original Quaker Joe page with well over 10,000 followers without an opportunity to say good-bye, so I’m doing so here and now to you all and to share some final thoughts about what I’ve learned about America, its people, and the political process in a collection of simple, straightforward observations. Here it goes.

First, it has become abundantly clear that America simply does NOT want to make this “a more perfect union” as prescribed in the Constitution that everyone claims to hold so dear. My whole life I’ve watched the GOP sink the economy and destroy civil rights and worker & environmental protections while making massive money grabs. While doing so, they’ve enacted shit laws to benefit the rich while screwing “the help”, meaning YOU in general.

This brings me to “Democrats are feckless” and suck-ass at delivering a clear message or any sort of show of strength. While they’re busy trying to clean up the mess left by the GOP every turn of the tide, the GOP points at them and they shout “Look at the mess the Dems are responsible for!” and Dems say nothing. Civility, I guess. It only goes so far before you get the reputation for being wimps. You know, like today.

Democrats are yesterday’s Republicans. They’re scared, angry and afraid of taking chances. Bold leaders like Bernie Sanders want to bring us ALL to a new, all-time high. Democrats are now his #1 enemy, trying to tear an honest man down. “He hasn’t accomplished anything” the same way Jesus didn’t in the N.T. No, I’m not comparing the two, but it’s funny how a “Christian Nation” isn’t rallying behind a Jew who is a former carpenter and is trying to lead a movement to tend to the poor and heal the sick. Fuck, Bernie could walk on water and turn water into wine all while bringing a dead man back to life and the Dems AND GOPers would still shit on him.

Liz Warren. She’s a brand. Granted, her brand is taking a royal shit on the rich and powerful by calling them out on their bullshit, and she used to be a hero to me, but we’ve got to face it- she ignored the call in 2016 when Bernie urged her to run for POTUS. She was either afraid of Clinton or she was playing the “But I’m A Woman” card and secretly wanted to back HRC. Either way, Warren was out for Warren, not a Progressive agenda and clearly wasn’t behind the cause. When Sanders picked up the torch for the Progressive Cause, she fucked him over and backed HRC, all while calling herself a Progressive. Again, she saw HRC as the inevitable victor and ponied up with her, probably hoping for a cabinet position. She’s doing it now, only more cautiously. This round, however, she thought it smart to shit all over Sanders EARLY in the game and when she did it cost her and her campaign tanked. She’s dropped out. So why hasn’t she openly endorsed Sanders, a fellow Progressive? She won’t. She’s waiting to throw in with Biden after the Primaries and we ALL know it. She’s no champion of the Progressive cause. She’s a brand and she’s looking out for her own ass and nothing more. She’s fallen from grace, if she ever truly had some. She WAS GOP before and clearly nothing’s changed much.

Biden. Fuck me, are we seriously considering fronting this next generation “W”? Why not just hand the election to trump now and get it over with. 2016 all over again. He’s already lining up his potential cabinet with Wall St. tycoons, and has OPENLY admitted that he’s going to slash Social Security (even though the Fed. OWES it a fuck-tonne of payback from all the times it has dipped into YOUR paid-in benefits) and Medicaid/Medicare, but do Americans find this a threat? With typical GOP mentality on BOTH sides of the aisle, it’s only a threat when a Dem. wants to do it, but if the GOP tries, well then it’s all good and fine. Biden is a fucking REPUBLICAN. Just because he CLAIMS to be a Dem, it doesn’t make him so. He’s racist, and twats like Kamala backing him already after the whole “I was that little girl” jab in the debates only shows that she’s not for “We the People” but her own ass. Shocker.

I could go through the list of formerly anti-Biden hypocrites who’ve jumped on board to support Biden and shit on Sanders. All the moneylenders are organizing and ganging up on the ONE true delegate trying to save YOU and not the RICH. Again, this is a CLEAR example of how America doesn’t WANT to be saved.

This has taught me that Americans are not only deluded and hypocritical, as a people in general, but that they seem to LOVE being put into position of strife and misery. It’s where they’re the happiest; embracing the stupidity and ignorance instead of trying to find a way to make us ALL safer, healthier, and happier. Americans HATE being happy with the “others” are happy too. Instead of reaching down to help a fellow American up, it’s the “American Way” to punch down and blame the poor and powerless for their own failings while the rich at the top keep pissing and shitting down on them all while making money grabs.

Next, there’s all this infantile bullshit about “Bernie Bros”. Seriously, shut the fuck up. Hypocrisy in action, yet again is what this is. I’ve found in my personal experience that if I call out another Dem on their bullshit, I’m labeled a “BB”. No matter how you try to point out how Pelosi’s asleep at the wheel or Schumer’s a babbling idiot or how Biden’s a declining fuckwit who can’t string words together and that trump will eat him alive on the debates if he’s the nominee, because I back Sanders, I AM THE ONE getting labeled. The media and the fuckwits out there who are tender little snowflakes who can’t handle criticism or having dirt on their picks dug up and called out cry and cry and cry until someone puts an admin in FB jail for days or even weeks or months.

So to them I say- “Fuck ALL y’all!” I’m done here. Cry me a river because I’m sailing off of Facebook and leaving you all with this cesspool of social mania run by a cunt who backs trump. It’s bad enough knowing that the game is rigged when electing who’ll be our nominee in the Dem. party, but it’s fucking stupid trying to fight the battle here on social media when there are thousands of people following who don’t have a problem with my postings, the description WARNS that I cuss here, yet it only takes one or two fucktards to shut down your page. Fuck this bullshit. I’ve got better shit to do, and my posts on other platforms like Tumblr and even Twitter never get me blocked or locked out. Childish as this whole notion of social media is, at least virtually every other platform is infinitely less riddled with whingers, bitchers and cry-babies who can’t take the heat and instead of clicking to go elsewhere they feel the need to fuck up a page. Enough is enough.

So for those of you who’ve even made it this far and still want to follow me, you can find me on Tumblr, a much more grown-up platform, here at https://quakerjoe.tumblr.com/. If you’re into Twitter (yuck) I’m there too for who knows what reason. https://twitter.com/QuakerJoe2020 will get you to me. I hope to see you all at one of those places. It’s been a real adventure and learning experience, but all I’ve learned is that America is a dirty, filthy nation with a dark and sinister past that it refuses to acknowledge and accept, let alone apologize for because admitting that you’re wrong is UNAMERICAN. Trying to do some form of penance is considered weakness, and turning to truth instead of lies and deceits only leads to the revelation that you’re all up to your eyeballs in selfishness, racism, misogyny, all sorts of phobias, and that you’re only happy as a nation in general when you’re literally given the liberty to tear each others throats out legally.

Good-bye, Facebook. I hope you ALL get a chance to get the fuck out and perhaps regain some sanity one day because if there’s one thing that trumplefuckstick did that was good, it was that he took off the covers and the gilded paint and showed us all what Americans REALLY are, it we’re not pretty.

-Quaker Joe

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otheroutlandertales · 6 years ago

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Anonymous said: How about one of the stories from Grandfather Tales -- the book Jamie printed when he and Claire went back to Scotland?

Author’s Note: This one is loosely based on the fairy tale Tikki Tikki Tembo.

Other Grandfather Tales

by @abbydebeaupreposts

“Da, Da, Da!” Ian Murray glanced down to see his son tugging on his sleeve. It was getting toward nightfall, but the children had been indefatigable. Not even sitting them all down for dinner had quieted them. Still, it was a special kind of joy to see Og with his cousins. As if that thought had conjured her up, he caught a flash of Bree’s red hair mid-swing as she was tagged by Jem. “Yer it!” he shouted with glee and escaped the long reach of her arm. It was so good to have them back on the Ridge. His eyes swept across the campfire taking in the sight of his mother and his uncle leaning against each other in companionable silence, like him, both content to watch all the children running and playing in the meadow just beyond.

His auntie Claire was helping Rachel put things away for the evening and Roger still wasn’t back from the springhouse with the jugs of ale.

He felt another sharp tug and stared into the sun kissed face of his son, “What is it, a bhalaich?”

“What’s thee names?”

“What? My names?” Ian wondered what he meant. Og still had a tendency to mix his prepositions.

“No Da, thee,” he said pointing to his own chest, “All them.” Og bounced up and down on his heels and made a wide sweeping gesture to encompass just about everybody in his field of view.

“He wants to know his middle names,” this explanation coming from Mandy who had intercepted her father and was now carrying a jug that looked heavy in her arms. Ian quickly plucked it from her, pouring himself a generous glass. When he didn’t immediately respond, Mandy went on, “I’m Amanda Claire Hope MacKenzie and Jemmy is Jeremiah Alexander Ian Fraser MacKenzie, Da is Roger Jeremiah Wakefield MacKenzie and Mam is Brianna Ellen Randall Fraser MacKenzie and Grandda is—.”

“Ah, like the way I am Ian James Fitzgibbons Fraser Murray,” Ian noted.

“And Okwaho'kenha,” Rachel said using his Mohawk name. She scooped Og up and held Ian’s gaze. He could read her like a book, and knew he was going to be fielding this one.

“Well Og, the plain truth of it is, yer name is just plain Og Murray. We thought we’d pick out a name for you in the Mohawk fashion when you got a bit older.” The real story was only slightly more complicated than that, but he could tell from the look on his son’s face neither of these explanations were going to satisfy him. What else could he say? It simply did not match with his mother’s Quaker upbringing nor his Mohawk traditions to give children ostentatiousness names at birth.

Og, unfortunately, had been going through a why, why, why stage -- morning, noon and night -- of late. Now, he could tell his son was gearing up for a lengthy discourse on the subject and had no way to head him off at the pass.

Salvation came in the form of a gravelly voice from across the fire pit, “You should tell him the real story.” Upon hearing his grandfather’s voice, Og squirmed until Rachel put him back down and he raced across the edge of the fire to strong arms that helped him climb onto his lap, Og pulling himself up by latching onto the man’s thick, white beard.

“Story? Thee tell, Moopa!” Og demanded.

“Thee wants to hear it, then?” Murtagh gently teased, for prepositions were hard enough for a bairn to figure out, let alone one with a Quaker mother.

It had been Og who’d christened him Moopa and, of course, the name had stuck with all the rest of the bairns as well. He was pleased to have his own special family name. Murtagh accepted a glass of ale from Claire, who had returned and settled down beside him for what promised to be a good tale, if the smiles on Jamie and Jenny’s faces were any indication.

“This is a story about your other grandfathers,” he began and slowly all the other children came to settle around and listen as well, “Yer Grandda Jamie and your Grandpa Ian, ye ken the one in Scotland?” Murtagh look down at Og.

“Oh, Lallybroch,” he breathed. Og had been told enough stories for the Highlands to occupy a place of almost mystical wonder in his imagination.

“Aye, just so, my lad. Wayback when your grandfathers were around Jem’s age, they had been given charge of the stables, the watering and feeding of the horses.”

At this Og uttered the Cherokee word for horses and, hearing it, Ian shared a private smile with Rachel. “Well, it was getting to harvest season and yer great grandfather, the one they called Black Brian,” this time it was Jem’s turn to exclaim, “Dubh!” Ian watched as Jamie shot his grandson a look of startled appreciation, it had been a long time since he’d heard anyone call his father by that name.

“Aye, that’s what they called him,” Jenny agreed.

“Believe it or no, Granny Jenny’s hair used to be black as night, just like our father’s,” Jamie said, patting his sister’s knee.

“Ye may be younger than me, my lad, but do ye ken ye have almost as much silver on yer heid as me?” Her eyes danced.

“The boys, puffed wi’ self-importance at being given such responsibility, began well enough, mucking the stables and getting the hay. But they soon tired of lugging heavy buckets of water between the well and the stables. Yer Grandda got it into his head to have some fun with poor Grandpa Ian and next thing he knew, a bucket had been dumped right o’er his head. That made your Grandpa so angry that he turned quick as lightning and went after Jamie.”

“Aye, charged me just like that daft bull up in the north pasture,” Jamie confirmed.

“It’s hard to picture Ian going on the attack,” Bree laughed, remembering her gentle uncle as more of a peacemaker than a fighter.

“No… not after the leg, that’s true enough,” Murtagh agreed.

“In his prime, though,” Jenny said, “He was a canty wee fighter. But he got the best of Jamie wi’out landing a single blow.”

“What happened?” Germain demanded. At that, Murtagh snorted and gave all the children a look full of mirth.

“Jamie was so surprised, he backed all the way up to the edge of the well and the next thing he knew, he went arse over teakettle, straight into the well!” At this the children let out delighted shrieks of laughter, and the adults all smiled at the abashed look on Jamie’s face. “Well, now, luckily he didna hit his head on his way down; but he was trapped, and good. Stuck there at the bottom of the well. He couldna climb out, for the stone was slippery and Ian wasna strong enough to lift him all by himself using the rope. Try as they might, he and Ian couldna figure out how to get him out of there.”

“Aye, the worst part was the chores werena done. I thought if Da came back and saw me trapped, he’d likely throw Ian in after me. So, I told Ian to run quick as he may and get help.” Jamie told them.

“I was out back, plucking a chicken,” Jenny added, “Feathers all over my hair. I was sweet on him, even then, and thought I must look a fright but even so I kent he looked worse. All red in the face, wheezing and a look of terror about him. Lord, I thought something terrible had happened to Jamie.”

“Something terrible did happen to Jamie…” Jamie put in and Claire laughed.

“I meant,” Jenny said with the exaggerated patience of someone who has had this argument many times before, “Something really terrible, and the longer it took him to spit it out the more worried I became.”

“What did Ian finally say?” Claire asked.

“He said,” Murtagh cut in, rolling his eyes at Jamie and Jenny for interrupting his flow, “‘James Alexander Malcolm Mackenzie Fraser has fallen into the well!’ That’s why it took him so long to get it out. Ye ken there were several Jamie Frasers living around those parts back then and so he needed to tell the whole name. And yer Granny Jenny said, ‘Oh my lord, James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser has fallen into the well! Ye must go find Murtagh!’ And so poor Ian didna even have time to catch his breath and he had to set off again, all over Lallybroch desperate to get my help before Jamie’s Da came back. And at every croft he has to say the same thing, ‘James Alexander Malcolm McKenzie Fraser has fallen into the well, is Murtagh here?’ It took forever for him to get that great long name out over and over again. By the time word reached me, it was too late. Brian had returned. Between the three of us, we managed to get Jamie out of the well. By that time the poor lad was an ice cube. I’m surprised wee pieces of his backside didna crack off with each lash his Da laid down. I dinna think either lad sat down for two days after.”

“God, ‘twas true, there I was shiverin’ and shaking so hard I swear I could hear my balls rattling in-” Jamie abruptly closed his mouth, turning red as he suddenly remembered the women and children. Murtagh gave him a look and he saw more than one of the boys absently touching their own laps in sympathy.

“The next day, I overheard Jamie and Ian talking, and Jamie says, ‘God man, what took you so long?’ And Ian, still smarting from the strapping he got from Brian and then the ten extra his own Da added, turned around, all red in the face and steaming and he said ‘I’d like to see ye do better! Running around the countryside yelling out a name like James Alexander Malcolm MacKenzie Fraser. If I had been the one who fell, it wouldna have taken ye all of two seconds to say Ian Murray and I’ll tell ye now, if I never ever have to say that long name again it will be too soon!’”

“Oh Christ, poor Ian,” Jamie said wiping tears of laughter, “I’d forgotten that part.” Jamie nudged his sister’s leg. “Come to think of it, I dinna think he ever did say my full name out loud again. When I became a mercenary in France, he shortened my name altogether, introduced me as Jamie MacTavish.”

“And so, wee Og Murray, not long before yer parents got marrit, Ian went back to see Grandpa in Scotland and yer Grandpa told yer Da that story. Then, made his son promise that he’d take better care and no’ burden his grandson with a muckle-sized name. The shorter the better, that’s the moral of that tale!”

#outlander fanfiction #otheroutlandertales #mod abby #ch: murtagh #ch: oggy #ch: young ian #ch: jamie #ch: jenny #ch: ian #canon divergence #book: bees #category: general #oot #*

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shortmania · 5 years ago

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What religions do you think each of the HA characters would follow as adults?

Oooooh, religion. The topic everyone loves to pretend doesn’t exist and just copy-pastes onto their favs without comment. This’ll be fun. Sure hope nobody runs me over with their car after this. That’d be just… terrrrriiibbblleee, haha…

Okay, I’m gonna come right out with it and say I think Arnold is a lazy Christian. This headcanon is brought to you by our sponsor, the original claymation short, “Arnold Goes to Church.” So, yes, I think Miles and Stella must be religious in some sense. Stella’s probably Catholic, since I HC her with a mom from Central America. I’ve always pegged the Shortmans for very lazy Christians (no clue what denomination, just… Christians), so I think when Miles and Stella met, Miles was not used to attending Church regularly or at all, but he started doing it because Love. So for the first year or two of his life, Arnold attended service every Sunday like clockwork and just completely zonked out, and then at some point after his parents peaced out of his life, he started reading the Bible because it was another way of keeping them close. I’ve always found it hilarious when people describe Arnold as “a good Christian boy,” because it’s such a perfect epithet for him. He really is such a good Christian boy. Everything about the way he conducts himself just screams it. Like, you know Arnold didn’t get that virtuous stick up his ass from his grandparents or, ha!, the boarders.

That said, yeah, I think he’s lazy about it, too. I don’t know that Arnold’s ever set foot in a Church more than a few times in his life since his parents pranced off to take a decade-long nap; I’m not sure that it’s something he believes with his whole heart; I’m not even sure it’s something he spends much time thinking about. I see it functioning as a kind of absent-minded security blanket more than anything, and if prodded about it, he’d just make a face at you. When he gets to be an adult, I can totally see him taking religious studies in college, though, since his parents got back and kinda roped him into attending Church again, on top of that whole uncomfortable San Lorenzo thing with the… the Green Eyes… worshipping him and all, like… Yeah, I can see it becoming a fascination of his. In my personal canon, he ultimately ends up pretty agnostic, but still practices from time to time just for the sake of it, and not just Christianity. He speaks with the Green Eyes often and the whole of their society is mounted on a firm bedrock of religious belief (they insist he’s divine and he’s not gonna be a dick about it), so he adopts a gentle, deferential kind of relationship with religion as a whole.

I think Helga’s chronically atheist by day, bitter believer by night. Like really just sobs obscenities into her pillow and demands things. Hasn’t she done that in show? It seems like that’s happened before in some sense. Sometimes when Helga’s “talking to herself,” it really feels like she’s speaking to some higher power, and not very kindly. I don’t really see that changing too much once she’s an adult. Like, a lot less anal and far more judicious about it all, but still kinda leaning somewhere in the middle. Not really agnostic, she’s too dramatic for that–just, like a light switch constantly flipping back and forth.

Harold’s Jewish. He always will be Jewish. I think he’s happy that way. I don’t see him ever changing. He’s gonna be your friendly neighborhood Jewish butcher, secure in himself and his beliefs without ever being disrespectful about any of it, and you’re gonna adore him.

I’ll briefly mention a few others I’ve thought about a little, but that’s kinda the end of the characters I’ve given real and genuine consideration towards. Except Sid. I’m gonna sob-laugh about Sid for a second and none of you can stop me. Brace yourselves.

I think Sid’s going to bounce from belief system to belief system until he dies. Like literally, one week he’s Baptist, the next he’s Buddhist, the next he’s Pagan. One week, he just shows up and announces he’s a Quaker because “that Marge Felt lady was right, my relationship with God is my business and my business alone and I shouldn’t have to justify it to anybody, not those stuffy weirdos at the Church or you, Arnold,” but then literally a couple weeks later he shows up smoking an incense stick and is like, “Institutional religion has always been oppressive. The heart and soul of the body is the only true indicator of reality. The stars are my truth.” Naturally he discards all that by next month and is a devoted Catholic and he’s never been anything but a Catholic, deep down he’s always Known he’s Catholic, he was Born a Catholic and how could you suggest there was ever a time he wasn’t Catholic?? Arnold??? Fuck you, Arnold?? The priest is standing right there, Arnold?? You Bitch???? One time he tries to break into Judaism but Harold punches him in the face so hard the next day he’s an atheist with an emo haircut and a spontaneous obsession with Asking Alexandria. Harold feels a little bad. But only a little.

Nadine’s casually spiritual and meditates from time to time with Sheena, who is a far more devout incense smoker. Probably where Sid got the idea from.

Stinky’s a vampire. He’s Christian in theory, but he can’t go into Churches. T'shame.

Rhonda Is Not White 2k19, so whatever religion there is in her home country is probably what she practices very fashionably and with great pride and little reflection. Because she’s just… like that. Don’t ask me what her home country is, I’ve been trying to figure it out but it’s hard. Korean? Filipino? Lebanese? Idk. I’m open to suggestions.

That’s all I got.

#Anonymous #asks #religion #hey arnold #HEY ARNOLD!#jazzing #yes i know incense isn't for smoking #if a single one of yous comes into my inbox like ''um actually--'' i will annihilate you #much love

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frankences · 5 years ago

Photo

“Weeds in the Garden”, oil on canvas by frankences

Talk delivered at Philosophers’ Camp, State University of New York, School of Environmental Science and Forestry, Newcomb, NY, October 6, 2019

This essay contains several Christian references. They just happened to be handy. This painting is not about religion. In fact, it is my belief that a religious version of dominion as human domination is problematic. Feel free to replace the word God with Universe or Source or Origin or whatever you wish.

“Weeds in the Garden” is the title of this painting. It was originally inspired by the Pope’s Encyclical on the environment, titled; On Care for Our Common Home* (Laudato Si’ translated means “Praise Be to You”). Praise be to our common home! In this document the Pope clearly states that environmental justice is social justice and that allowing the globe to warm up further, endangers the world’s most vulnerable people. After reading the encyclical I was weeding in my garden and as I tossed out what I believed to be weeds I considered that we do this to people. We dismiss other humans as being ‘less than’ and toss them out.

What is a weed? In the following definition I have replaced the word plant with the word human. The result is truly horrifying:

weed: A human not valued for use or beauty, regarded as cumbering or hindering the growth of superior humans... An unprofitable, troublesome, or noxious growth. Human control is important on earth. Methods include hand cultivation with guns, powered cultivation with armaments, smothering economically, lethal discrimination by the media, bombing, or chemical attack with poisons.

We label plants and humans when they don’t serve our purpose. Our inability to perceive the value in a plant or human does not mean that individual has no value. Should we toss certain people aside based on our bias and judgment? Contrast this approach to gardening with that of St. Theresa of Avila (1):

“Beginners must realize that in order to give delight to the Lord they are starting to cultivate a garden on very barren soil, full of abominable weeds. His Majesty pulls up the weeds and plants good seed. Now let us keep in mind that all of this is already done by the time a soul is determined to practice prayer and has begun to make use of it. And with the help of God we must strive like good gardeners to get these plants to grow and take pains to water them so that they don't wither but come to bud and flower and give forth a most pleasant fragrance to provide refreshment for this Lord of ours. Then He will often come to take delight in this garden and find His joy among these virtues.”

I think St. Theresa is referring to original sin in the beginning of this prayer but she goes on to talk about reconciliation which I will discuss later. Like weeds some people truly are trouble makers and cannot be allowed to continue to harm themselves and others. They must be separated but not tossed into the compost.

Early last summer I decided to stop weeding; mostly because of ticks. As a result of this ‘neglect’ some interesting things happened. Surprising plants appeared like viper’s-bugloss, evening-primrose, and bee balm. Where did these things come from? I didn’t plant them.

I took lots of photos of my garden to use as resources for this piece. One of the image files became corrupt when I loaded it onto my computer. When this image appeared on my monitor I thought it was beautiful! It has all the colors in my palette. This picture was reduced to its smallest parts in the form of pixels and serves as a perfect metaphor to describe how we all come from the same source and will return to this source. The following is a passage from Genesis:

“In the sweat of thy face shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground; for out of it wast thou taken; for dust thou art, and unto dust shalt thou return.”

(Genesis 3:19, King James Bible)

Outside of religious tradition materialists agree on the conservation of energy. Materials dissolve, they are transformed - one form dissolves into another form. Physicist Aaron Freemen expressed it this way in his essay titled “Physicist’s Eulogy” (2):

“You want a physicist to speak at your funeral. You want the physicist to talk to your grieving family about the conservation of energy, so they will understand that your energy has not died. You want the physicist to remind your sobbing mother about the first law of thermodynamics; that no energy gets created in the universe, and none is destroyed. You want your mother to know that all your energy, every vibration, every Btu of heat, every wave of every particle that was her beloved child remains with her in this world. You want the physicist to tell your weeping father that amid energies of the cosmos, you gave as good as you got. And at one point you’d hope that the physicist would step down from the pulpit and walk to your brokenhearted spouse there in the pew and tell him that all the photons that ever bounced off your face, all the particles whose paths were interrupted by your smile, by the touch of your hair, hundreds of trillions of particles, have raced off like children, their ways forever changed by you. According to the law of the conservation of energy, not a bit of you is gone; you’re just less orderly.”

Freeman doesn’t go far enough. Photons and neurons scatter but then what? Freeman is only describing the physical disintegration. He is describing only what we know at the present moment; what we are able to measure with our feeble instruments. That’s not the end of the story. The physicist David Bohm (3) wrote about this in his papers about hidden variables that “depend both on the state of the measuring apparatus and the observed system.” Mr. Freeman probably thought this eulogy was comforting and there are parts of it that are beautiful, but the way he described our physical disintegration is part of a larger problem. The scientific method dominates our thinking. The way we look at the world is fragmented. We believe that everything is measurable and we often mis-measure. We don’t fully understand what happens when we genetically modify food. We don’t fully understand how some medications work. We artificially categorize people into races and classes. This is destructive. In his book, “Down to Earth, Politics in the New Climate Regime” (4), French philosopher Bruno Latour suggests that the people in power who are saying that climate change isn’t real actually know for a fact that it is real but choose to further the narrative that it is false. They understand that land masses are shrinking and are hoarding resources. They don’t care that indigenous people are especially vulnerable and are tossed aside to make way for money making opportunities. The Amazon is a perfect example of this.

Now I will circle back to the idea of reconciliation that St. Theresa referred to. “Weeds in the Garden” is a painting about migration which will be exacerbated by climate change. In it, each plant is portrayed as an individual. They are looking toward the Omega Point, or Source or Origin or however one wants to describe ultimate reintegration. Our poem “Dust to dust’ refers not just to physical death but to reintegration. We were once integrated and now we believe we are fragmented but there is a growing movement towards reconciliation and it takes on two forms. One form of reconciliation includes philosophers who have reconciled to the idea that we are near the end as a species. The philosopher Jean Gebser for example, wrote that fragmentation taken to the extreme would bring about our eventual demise. In his book “Ever Present Origin” Gebser states:

“If the mis-measurements are not stopped by fulfillment of the task assigned to us, they will lead to relinquishment of ourselves, and the final loss of mankind through atomization and dissolution.”

Philosophers like Sean Kelly, from the California Institute of Integral Studies (6) believes that we are at the end of the Anthropocene. Humans will become extinct. He suggests we take action as one would with a diagnosis of a terminal illness. We should use the time remaining to love and comfort one another.

This is sad but there is good news. There are those who are making peace with creation. The Quakers in Australia are committed to having an integral relationship with indigenous people. The Quakers recognize their role, not only in Australia but globally, that has led to genocide and ecocide. They are willing to recognize their past belief in their own superiority and to embrace a new idea of interhuman relationship. They strive to understand and live by the Aboriginal law of love that they refer to as “that of God.” In her essay titled, “To Learn a New Song” (7) the Quaker environmentalist Susannah Brindle describes a mysterious experience in her own garden:

“Some years ago we rented a suburban property which was impossibly choked with oxalis weed. With greater knowledge of this gardener's nightmare than I, (my husband) Ray took a powerful weedicide to it and, when that had no effect, I spent weeks systematically removing each little nut-like root from carefully marked areas. Our efforts netted an oxalis crop surpassing that of our neighbour's in determined virility. Only then did I remember ‘that of God’ in the oxalis. In less than six weeks not one oxalis could be found, although their acid-yellow flowers could clearly be seen on the other side of the fence. Our garden was free of them for over six months until we moved out. Then they began to creep back. We have a peace-pact, too, with the rabbits where we live. In spite of several warrens among the rocks and stories of devastation to everything planted by our neighbours, the rabbits cause no damage to our tree plantings or kitchen garden, and although we occasionally see them, their warrens seem no longer open for business. You may be wondering how an environmentalist can feel compassion for introduced pests, particularly one that has caused so much devastation to the soil of this country. When I consider the damage done by us whitefellas - invaders just like the rabbits and the oxalis - I am reluctant to get too self-righteous. As I have never heard Aboriginal peoples suggest that we vanish from their land, I feel obliged to look for less violent alternatives to eradication of other introduced pests.“

Susannah suggests that to know is to love and to begin the process of reconciliation we must get to know “that of God” about one another. In summary, humans are not weeds in the garden, nor rabbits to be exterminated. I offer no external solution. My wish is that the viewer will look within, to the inner garden, to clear blocks to receptivity. Our work is to cultivate what is beautiful. We must not struggle to pull the weeds. That is not our job. We cannot always foresee how a person will grow. It is hubris to assume we can predict what anyone will contribute. The fact that a plant or human exists is enough evidence of their worthiness.

References

* United States Conference of Catholic Bishops. (2015). On Care for Our Common Home: Laudato si: encyclical letter. Washington, DC.

(1) Teresa, Kavanaugh, K., & Rodríguez Otilio. (1987). The Collected Works of St. Teresa of Avila. Washington, D.C.: ICS Publications.

(2) Aaron Freeman, born 1956, physicist, journalist, comic

(3) David Bohm (1952), Wholeness and the Implicate Order and A Suggested Interpretationn of the Quantum Theory in Terms of “Hidden” Variable. II http://physics.nmsu.edu/~bkiefer/HISTORY/BOHM_1952.pdf https://journals.aps.org/pr/abstract/10.1103/PhysRev.85.166

(4) Latour, B., & Porter, C. (2018). Down to Earth: Politics in the New Climatic Regime. Cambridge, UK: Polity Press.

(5) Gebser, J. (1997). The Ever-present Origin. Athens, OH: Ohio University Press. Gebser on dissolution (pgs. 536 and 537 EPO): “If we surrender to the destructive deficient powers, if we ascribe to rationality a character of exclusive validity, if we continue to measure time with inappropriate measure, then we shall have indulged in mis-measurement, a … hubris, presumption which is not only inadequate but runs counter to the task.” P538, “Today, while the integral is over determining and dissolving the mental-rational consciousness, the mental capacity of thought is being mechanized by the robots of calculation - computers - and this is being emptied and quantified. Prayer wheels, the fragmentation of myth, and computers are expressions of man who remains confined in his familiar consciousness frequency while the necessary “tide=turning” new consciousness mutation begins to superimpose itself over the exhausted consciousness structure. Each excess of quantification leads to powerlessness, vacuity and helplessness. Wherever this is evident it is an indication that the inadequate consciousness structure is already surpassed. In this light, the computers are a negative omen of the new consciousness structure and its strength.” 1973

(6) Sean Kelly (2019), Living in End Times: Beyond Hope and Despair, California Institute of Integral Studies

(7) Susannah Kay Brindle (2000), TO LEARN A NEW SONG A Quaker Contribution Towards Real Reconciliation with the Earth and its Peoples, Published by the Australia Yearly Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers), PO Box 108, Armidale North, Victoria 3143. Copyright 2000 by The Religious Society of Friends (Quakers) in Australia Incorporated. 2nd impression 2001. .

#contemporary art #landscapepainting #oilpainting #migration #climate change #integral art #St. Theresa of Avila #laudatosi #irrealism

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