#i mean i can imagine myself imagining a hot sea captain falling in love with me

[metaphysicsinwater]

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947), dir. Joseph L. Mankiewicz.

[hualianff]

Untethered (Bonus II) 《Bonus I》

For the first time in his life, XL feels like he can speak without the pressures and expectations of being a prince weighing down on his shoulders. He watches his facial expressions in the mirror as he rambles about the various meetings he had for the day. The subtle dancing of his eyebrows, rapid blinking of his eyes, and pinched corners of his lips—all indicative of how animated he is when summarizing his duties that seemed more like work than anything else.

The fact that HC is here, brushing his hair, and listening with occasional intrigued hums make XL reinvigorated as his role as prince. Despite the demanding energy, control, and fairness the role takes, XL is incredibly grateful for the privilege and promises himself to continue to fulfill this purpose to the best of his abilities.

So far, XL believes he’s done a sufficient job, preparing to ascend to the throne. After hearing him speak, he secretly hopes HC thinks so too.

“Ah, San Lang, thank you for kindly tending to my hair. It looks wonderful,” XL says once he feels the final knots come undone by HC’s broad strokes.

“Of course it looks wonderful. It is His Highness, after all,” the pirate captain comments smoothly. XL can’t help but smile at the compliment.

HC goes to place the comb back on the vanity. He switches it out for a short ribbon that shimmers silver when hit by the moonlight.

“Allow me to do one more thing,” HC adds. He gathers all of XL’s hair to fall behind his shoulders, the strands still a bit damp. With practiced movements, HC parts the prince’s hair into three sections, then begins braiding the pieces into a thick, tight section.

XL licks his lips in anticipation. Though he’s had his hair styled a thousand times before, this is HC who currently braids his long locks, a gesture that seems a bit intimate.

Not that you mind, XL briefly thinks.

“How have the last few weeks treated San Lang?” He asks, reminding HC of his promise to talk about his days on the ocean. HC pulls the pieces of hair tighter, focused on creating a simple yet consistent and neat braided pattern for the prince.

“Troublesome. There’s a new pirate ship we have encountered several times. They said they want to challenge us for our water territories, which is a load of shit because the sea belongs to no one,” HC spits out heatedly. His tone is harsh but his touch is gentle as ever. “I honestly think the captain wants to mess with me. Make me question my reign as the ‘most feared, ruthless, and violent pirate to sail the waters.’”

“Oh. I see,” XL says hesitantly. He’s not very familiar with the inside knowledge of pirate ways and society other than what is generalized by the public. And the palace’s gossip, of course.

Suddenly, a rush of hot air tickles XL’s ear. XL locks eyes with HC through the mirror, heart stuttering at the dark, hungry look in the pirate’s eye.

“What does His Highness think?”

“Think about what?”

“My reputation. Does the real thing live up to your imagination?” HC questions with a sly smirk, quickly tying the ribbon at the end of the braid, then moving it to fall over XL’s right shoulder. XL only has a few seconds to marvel at the stunning handiwork before HC leans forward even more, urging XL to turn toward him, their faces mere centimeters apart.

The pirate captain smells like manly musk mixed in with the ocean breeze. XL nervously gulps.

“I- um,” XL starts, feeling his face heat up. “Hmm, maybe not entirely...”

HC’s eye slowly flits down XL’s face. XL remains still, mentally kicking himself for wondering what it would feel like to close the small gap and-

“Fair enough,” HC remarks, pulling away, leaving a rush of air in his wake. “I suppose I’m not the madman people say I am. After all, His Highness wouldn’t have let me into his room otherwise, no?”

Something hot burns inside XL’s gut. He had to let HC in! If the pirate were discovered by the palace guards, he’d be imprisoned indefinitely for sure! XL was simply doing an act of service for HC...nothing too outrageous like HC implied.

Nope, none at all.

“You’re blushing.“

“San Lang better take a good look around lest this is the only time I invite him into my room,” XL huffs out, resolutely facing forward and avoiding HC’s penetrating gaze.

“Forgive me, Your Highness. I was simply teasing,” HC says, though he doesn’t sound all that apologetic. “A prince like you must have many admirers to choose from. I shall not take this privilege for granted.”

“Admirers? Where on Earth did you get that from?” XL asks, appalled. He hasn’t taken interest in any of the brides his father provided, much less traveled to other kingdoms in a serious pursuit to find one to marry.

“Is there not a ball happening this coming week? For you to choose a suitable woman to become your queen?” HC inquiries nonchalantly. He tucks a rogue curl behind XL’s ear, the prince subtly leaning into the touch.

XL whips around in astonishment, braid flying to his other shoulder.

“How did you know!?”

“I have ears on land, my prince. Even when I’m out sailing the sea,” HC says. “We have also passed numerous royal ships carrying your guests for the celebration.”

XL wilts in his seat.

It’s not much of a celebration if XL hadn’t wanted to host an engagement ball in the first place. Years of his father’s insistent pushing have led to more frequent gatherings with other royalty in hopes that XL finds a fiancé.

Unlike his parents, XL wasn’t betrothed from a young age. Furthermore, he hasn’t expressed  any interest in marriage even once becoming an adult.

(“Your mother and I were married at twenty. You, my son, are already twenty-two,” the king always said. “You should quickly find a princess who catches your eye. The sooner you get yourself a wife, the sooner she will start learning her duties as queen.”)

XL has successfully put off marriage for a couple of years, deferring to his rigorous training schedule and duties as prince as an excuse. Fortunately, his mother is willing to let XL take his time, as the king isn’t set to retire anytime soon. After all, XL learning his responsibilities as king is the most important task.

HC instantly notices XL’s deflated expression. He attempts to backpedal.

“I had no right to bring that up. If this is something Gege does not want to discuss, then, by all means, he may change the subject,” HC says quietly. Respectfully.

“No. It is fine. It is by no means a secret at all. The ball has been scheduled for weeks now,” XL murmurs while looking at his bare feet. He fiddles with the long braid, smoothing over the tightly wrapped strands absent-mindedly. “I’m not actively looking for a wife or anything. At least, I don’t want to...”

“Your Highness-“

“San Lang.”

HC’s mouth snaps shut. He straightens his back with his shoulders set square, standing at attention in front of the Prince of Xianle.

“Could you do something for me? A small favor, if you will.”

“Anything,” HC immediately answers.

XL subconsciously chews on his lower lip, a habit that his closest friend SQX reprimands him for doing because it tears up both the old and healing skin. Easy to overdo, not a quick fix, SQX claims.

XL rises to his feet. He holds his hand out to the pirate, palm facing upwards.

Where’s My Love – SYML

“Will you dance with me?”

“I’m afraid gege will be sorely disappointed with this one’s lack of skill,” HC says as a matter-of-fact, but he doesn’t hesitate to accept XL’s hand, his long fingers blanketing XL’s own.

The prince’s heart skips a beat as the pirate pulls him close until their chests almost touch. XL feels small; HC’s heeled boots to XL’s bare feet exaggerate their height difference, XL only coming up to HC’s chest.

XL feels small but strangely, he wouldn’t want it any other way.

“San Lang needs only to follow my lead,” XL says, looking up with a smile. He properly intertwines their left and right hands, then places HC’s other hand on his shoulder. Finally, XL goes to hold the pirate’s waist, the thin fabric giving way to the hard muscle underneath.

“Gege must have danced with a lot of pretty women before,” HC muses, moving his feet as XL slowly guides him into a waltz. XL hopes it isn’t just him imagining a slow, romantic piece to harmonize their movements.

“Is San Lang jealous?” XL asks without thinking.

Goodness, did those words seriously just come out of his mouth? Other than his eyes widening in slight horror, XL schools his face into a calm expression, not wanting to seem conceited or even desperate.

HC peers down with a lazy smirk, almost crowding into the prince as they turn to dance in a circle. Despite XL’s effort to appear unfazed by the prospect of HC envying those who’ve had the opportunity to dance with the Prince of Xianle, the pirate still catches the hopeful flicker of XL’s eyelashes.

“A little bit. Though in a way, I’ve had my fair share of dances with Gege myself,” HC states proudly, referring back to their previous sparring sessions. The break in focus has HC stumbling over his feet, prompting XL to squeeze his waist as a reprimand to concentrate.

“Ah, yes. San Lang’s skill is undeniable in that aspect,” XL says, laughing. “He’s also the first and only man I’ve danced ever with.”

“What an honor,” HC purrs out, and then he lowers XL into an abrupt dip, holding the prince by his hip and upper back.

XL’s breath hitches, wondering how they seamlessly switched positions. HC tenderly stares down at the prince, a twinkle dimly reflecting in his left eye.

“San Lang...” XL whispers, clutching onto HC’s shoulders. His long braid feels heavy like rope where it hangs down, nearly touching the ground.

“Your Highness.”

Their faces are millimeters apart, skimming each other’s noses. They’ve never been this close before, especially not in the absence of any sort of weapon. No one besides the king and queen, palace servants, and bodyguards are even allowed to touch the prince.

Now here he is, in the arms of the infamous Crimson Rain, on the verge of letting himself want.

Tentatively, XL licks his lips before asking, “Why do you always come back?”

“Gege knows this answer too,” HC solemnly says.

XL tilts his chin up, eyelids starting to lower.

“I come back for you, my dear Prince.”

As HC leans down—still supporting XL’s weight—XL meets him halfway for their first proper kiss, alone together in the prince’s room where the pale moonlight spills through the balcony doors. It’s a light and airy peck, one that ends way too soon for XL’s liking.

When they pull apart, HC stands XL back up. The pirate notices XL’s robe has slid off one shoulder. He goes to pull it back up but XL quickly grasps his jaw for another kiss instead.

They part again.

“Just...one more-“ XL breathes out, adrenaline coursing through his veins. HC’s lips are warm and firm, easily pliable as they press deliciously against XL’s own. “...one more.”

HC gladly obliges.

Their kisses gradually pick up in pace, HC’s hands respectively exploring the span of XL’s back, his hips, and sides. XL eagerly pulls HC over to the edge of his bed, spinning them around so he can climb onto the pirate’s lap.

HC groans low in his throat, comfortably looping his arms around XL’s waist.

At this point, all of XL’s reservations have been cast aside and he’s going to act on the desires concerning a certain pirate that have been taunting him for months now, damn it.

XL surges forward with a force that knocks HC back against the soft mattress.

“Your Highness,” HC growls between kisses, still trying to cover up XL’s shoulder, and now his chest where the robe is loose enough to reveal noticeable cleavage. XL shifts a bit to align their hips, unintentionally rubbing against HC. “Shit-“

“Hua Cheng-“ XL hums, belatedly realizing his slip up. HC nips at his lip for his mistake.

“San L-lang,” XL mewls like the starved for affection prince that he is. HC’s tongue darts out to swipe across XL’s upper lip. Then, his lower lip.

XL naturally opens up for him, gasping as HC’s hot tongue licks inside his mouth with a dominance that consumes XL. The more XL lets his lust cloud his movement, the faster he feels himself harden.

When XL’s hands brush along HC’s hair, they accidentally graze onto his eyepatch. HC grunts in surprise, which has XL springing back as the situation of the last five minutes dawns upon him.

He sits up on HC’s thighs, placing his palms on the pirate’s chest. Underneath him, HC is a gorgeous vision–thick, wavy hair splayed out on XL’s pillow, lips swollen and spit-slicked.

“Oh my- oh my lord,” XL chokes out, completely breathless. “Was- was that t-too much?”

“Not at all, Your Highness,” HC replies with a rogue-ish smirk. “Come here.”

HC embraces his prince with long arms, squeezing tightly and pressing a series of kisses to the top of XL’s head. XL hesitantly rests his cheek on HC’s sternum, aware of how close their bodies are pressed together.

“Who knew Gege could kiss like that?”

“Like what?” XL questions petulantly.

“Like a shameless minx,” the pirate captain answers, chuckling when XL whines at the implication.

“I’ve wanted to do that for a long time,” XL shyly admits.

“Me too,” HC murmurs. XL lifts his head, crosses his arms on HC’s chest, then sets his chin on them. “Since the moment I saw you sitting alone at the pub.”

“You wanted to kiss the crown prince at first sight?” XL asks, pretending to be scandalized. HC kisses the tip of XL’s nose. XL scrunches it up in response.

“Hmm, my prince now.”

“Well, your prince would very much like it if San Lang stays the night.”

“I must be back at the harbor before dawn,” HC says, stroking XL’s hair. “However, I can most certainly afford to accompany Gege while he sleeps.”

XL happily snuggles close to HC, not worrying quite so much about the ball now that he has something going on with HC. To his astonishment, the pirate seems to return his affections quite enthusiastically. As a prince with the duty to serve his people, XL reckons he deserves this moment of happiness.

After another hour of blissful exchanging kisses and aimless conversation, XL feels himself begin to drift. He hears a whispered promise from HC who protectively curls around him.

“I will never bring you harm, Your Highness. Your heart is safe with me.”

XL falls asleep into a dreamless slumber.

***

Present...

As if it happens in slow motion, XL swings the sword with all the power he possesses. HC’s arms stretch open in vulnerability, lips forming into a small, understanding smile.

“Gege.”

Something inside XL shatters. The familiar term of endearment is for XL’s ears only. His heart pounds against his rib cage with the ferocity of an imprisoned soul, screaming at XL to ask not what he would wish for in death, but what is he willing to live for?

The answer is right in front of him.

“I’m back.”

Three things happen at once.

A deafening BOOM fires at the royal ship from the opposite direction, pitch-black flags with the symbolic skeleton of a fish piercing through the chilly air.

Simultaneously, a blinding flash of lightning strikes across the sky, signaling an even more intense downpour of rain that obscures everyone’s vision. Surprised screams echo somewhat mutely among the roaring winds.

Lastly, XL swings his sword so it barely skims the open blouse HC wears and keeps rotating until it crosses behind him, where he lets it go flying back to the royal ship.

At that moment, XL leaps forward into HC’s embrace, where those long arms encircle his waist, and both men are sent tumbling down into the crashing waves of the raging ocean.

《VI》

[anonniemousefics]

My Dearest Inej | Chapter Six

Chapter Masterlist

Originally posted on AO3

Rating: Teen And Up

Synopsis: A series of letters kept among the personal belongings of Captain Inej Ghafa.

Chapter Six: Dear Nina

Hello, lovely,  

Some news and a request. I am going away on an assignment for the next several months, and this one’s rather sensitive. It means I’ll be out of reach for a time. Don’t worry your wonderful Inej brain about it, though. You know very well I’ll be just fine.  

Here’s how I’m thinking we make due in the meantime. I’m writing down all my adventures and silly thoughts to send you as soon as it’s safe, and then we’ll be able to catch up in no time at all when all is right with the world again. You should do the same. Once I’m able, I’ll send a giant wad of letters along with where I can be reached to the Van Eck mansion for Wylan to hold on to for you until your next trip to Ketterdam. There. Not so bad, right?  

I miss you more than cake. And that’s not an exaggeration. Be safe, lovely. And give them all hell.

All my love,

Nina

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

(enclosed in an overstuffed envelope marked “Nina”)

(translated from Kerch)

Dear Nina,  

Your last letter has made me grouchy. I don’t know if there would have ever been a good time for you to fall off the map, but I think there could have at least been a better time than this. I’ll take your suggestion, though, and settle for trying to imagine your face when I tell you these things. When you read this, let’s imagine that we’re at that cafe in West Stave. The one with the little white tables outside. You’ve ordered enough waffles to feed five men, and I’m all hopped up on hot chocolate, and we can’t stop snickering. It’ll happen again someday, right?  

I’m going to use this letter to take a break in entertaining you with stories of battle at sea and the many delightful ways in which bad men beg. I’m docked in Ketterdam today with my head dangerously full of some truly mortifying events. I don’t know what to do, Nina. Keep eating your imaginary waffles – I’m going to offload a great many details and bring you up to speed.

I’ve told you that Kaz and I write letters. That they’re sort of a romantic nature. I know you think I’m crazy. I’m well aware that I have no idea what I’m doing. I don’t know -- there’s just something about him I can’t give up yet. And I love these letters. They’ve become the first thing I pick up at every new port. They’re these little slices of Ketterdam – all of the good stuff, that is, and none of the bloodshed.

It’s dangerous, though, isn’t it? Only getting the good side of things. It messes with your perception of reality.  

It should surprise no one that Kaz Brekker is good with pen and paper, considering how we’ve seen him con. Sometimes I worry that’s what letter-writing really is to him. Another way to con. He says things in letters that you could not even imagine, Nina. He can be affectionate. He can be really funny, maybe even playful. He can also write the most sincere, heartfelt sentences. You read them, and you really forget he’s, well, Brekker. It’s almost like, when he writes me, he’s not. Like some other side comes out when he picks up a pen, and it’s the side I’ve always hoped was really there all along.  

I’m such a goner for this other side, Nina. It’s become a problem. Try not to spit out those imaginary waffles.  

It’s a problem because, in person, when I’m in Ketterdam, he’s still Kaz Brekker, the persona, the enigma. It started messing with my head, because there is such a stark contrast between Kaz Brekker the enigma and the Kaz who writes me these insanely charming letters. That’s not to say Kaz Brekker isn’t trying to be less enigmatic, but it’s little things. He can take off his gloves more now without having violent reactions to a brush of skin. He’s managed to hold my hand for a few, brief moments. I’ve tried to cozy up to him, but I don’t know. It’s impossible to know what he thinks of it, if he likes it, if he hates it, if he resents it – until a letter shows up. And then he’s writing, “I miss you” and “I’m dreaming of tasting your lips.” (I’m imagining you making that silly fanning yourself gesture, and I really hope that’s true. Saints, I miss you.)

I’m rambling so much. I wish you were just here instead.  

He wrote me this letter after Jesper’s birthday, Nina. Ughhh, why are you so far away? It was a really good letter. A really, really good letter. We had a moment during this hot air balloon ride (yet another reason you need to come back to visit Ketterdam – we do birthday experiences now). Jesper and Wylan were on one side of the balloon’s basket, wrapped up in each other and all the sights with their backs to us. And, out of nowhere, he pulled me close, tucked me right up against his side, close enough that I couldn’t help but hold him back. At first, I could actually feel his heart racing and thought maybe he’d pull away. But he settled after a minute, and we rode in the balloon for a good while like that, stars overhead, city lights below. That was all, and it was more than enough for me. I still think about it all the time. He told me later that he thought it was a nice night, and so I thought it best to leave it at that. We had a nice night. Nice, like when your dinner isn’t ruined or someone opens a door for you.

But this letter that awaited me in Os Kervo. You know Suli, right? So, if I use the phrase (nearest translation: “I shit a brick”), you’ll understand just how shocked I was. He wrote how he never wanted to forget that night and the way I looked and the way he felt. It was perfectly un-Brekker-like. It might have made you cry.

The contrast has never seemed so stark.  

And so it came down to this: I needed to know that Kaz Brekker in Ketterdam was capable of actually being this person who keeps showing up in envelopes and using his name.

Which brings me to my most recent trip to Ketterdam. This was the trip after the hot air balloon ride. Before I arrived, he asked if I wanted to stay in the Slat this trip – with him. Don’t choke on your waffles, please. Nothing was going to happen – he can barely hold my hand for more than a few minutes, and at least one of the times it’s happened, I had to bribe him with Ravkan toffees first.

I had one condition for this arrangement. I wanted to bring letters for him to read aloud. Perhaps most incredibly, he agreed.

Right. This is where it gets ugly.  

I’d spent the day at The Slat. Usually my first day on land, I find I’m unusually exhausted, and everything in The Slat is fresh and new since Seeger’s fire – I’d even venture to say comfortable. I slept most of the day, a luxury I know you’d appreciate. I was up around dinnertime, and he’d brought in dinner. (It was those meatballs and mash pots we used to love so much. I hope I’ll be able to eat them again after this without wanting to hurl.)

Dinner seemed like a good time to try out the letter reading. We’d spread out the food on his desk and passed a bottle of kvas back and forth to lighten the mood before he rolled up his sleeves and I gave him the first one. I had tried to pick a variety of his letters to bring along, the ridiculous ones right up to the one I can’t get over – the one after the hot air balloon ride.

Before you get too excited, we didn’t get to the hot air balloon ride letter.

It was going so well in the beginning. My cheeks were hurting from smiling so hard, listening to so many charming words come from that voice. He seemed to be enjoying it even – feet up on the desk, a sip of kvas here, read an old joke there, and he’d try not to smirk to himself when it made me laugh. He even let one of his own laughs slip once or twice. It was just what I wanted. I felt like I was finally putting together a whole picture out of two halves.

But then we came to this letter he’d given to me on the docks of Fifth Harbor, thanking me just before I left after Seeger’s fire. I was getting ready to hand it over to him, and my heart dropped right into my feet. Nina. I’d forgotten I’d written something really, really, REALLY embarrassing in the margins. Just. Sankta Alina. I don’t know if I can repeat it.  

I tried to skip over that one, but he was having none of it. Everything had been playful and a little flirtatious up until that moment, and he swiped it from my hands. Sankta Elizabeta, my face is burning up while I’m writing this. Tell me this is salvageable. Oh, wait, you’re in backwoods Fjerda or something. Ugh, why, Nina, why?  

Everything got really quiet – he’d seen it right away. I could tell he was surprised, but that was it. I have no idea what else was happening in that brain of his.

What it was was this. I’d made a note of how different he was on paper and labeled that Kaz by his original name. I’d written that I like Kaz Brekker, but after these letters, I was in love with Kaz Rietveld.  

NINA. (Untranslatable Suli vulgarities)

I snatched the letter back – he wasn’t even making eye contact with me. He hadn’t even budged. It was too horrible. The silence felt never-ending. So, I left. That was yesterday. Now I’m staying on the Wraith. Maybe forever.  

I have to say something, and I wish you were here to help me figure out what to say. Somewhere in the back of my mind, there are fragments of lessons and sayings my father would have about this, if I could only cobble them in to something coherent. I’m trying and trying to imagine how he must be feeling.

He couldn’t have been that surprised about my feelings, could he? Not after all this time, not everything we’ve written. It’s not as if I’ve been terribly coy. I’m forcing myself to believe he would not be horrified to know how I feel. No, there’s something else.

How awful it must feel to think someone you trusted finds only a part of you lovable.

I have some soul-searching to do, Nina.

Come back.  

Inej

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

(hand-delivered, unaddressed envelope)

Dear Inej,  

I’ve spent the whole night thinking, and I have some things to say. I won’t read this one out loud, so if you have a hard time believing it’s me, I guess you’ll just need to get creative.  

I know you’re embarrassed. You might remember I have intimate knowledge of what it’s like to be in your position. At first, I wanted nothing more than to ease your mind and put everything back the way it was. There was a large part of me that was awestruck that you’d find even a small, half-dead remnant of myself worthy of loving. I was ready to crawl back to you and do anything to erase this moment from time.

But then I realized that’s not a fair deal to Kaz Brekker.

And before you start making faces, I’m not becoming one of those politicians that likes to bloviate in the third person. Just for the sake of clarity in this letter alone, I’ll use the labels that you used.  

Inej, Kaz Brekker saved my life. Yours, too. And a lot of other people’s. Kaz Brekker could find me food and dry clothes and shelter when there was no one else. Kaz Brekker has fixed and built and risked and fought and salvaged. And yes, there are a good many things he’s terrible at, like not being an unmitigated asshole. He is not friendly or particularly kind, and he’s rarely truthful. There are many things he should never have done. He’s done unthinkable things he’s not even sorry for. Trust me, Inej. When it comes to hating Kaz Brekker, I have a front row seat.  

But the only reason there’s a Kaz Rietveld here for you to love at all is because Kaz Brekker brought him this far.  

At first, my instinct was to write a letter detailing all the many ways I can become more like the man you love. And that’s not to say there isn’t some wisdom in trying to coax him out a bit more – you tend to have good taste in most things. There’s probably some value in striking a balance.

But Kaz Brekker is part of the deal. You can’t have one without the other. There is a lot about him – about me -- that I would not and will not change. So, I need to know that you see the same value in him. In all of me. Because, if you can’t, I’m not sure it will matter how much I’m in love with you, too.  

And to think we might have avoided this whole mess if I just would have let you bring a flute. To that I say, mati en sheva yelu. I am in love with you even if you play a damn flute.

Are you smiling at least a little bit? I hope so.

Sincerely,

K. Rietveld

[lunnamars]

lunami prompt: during a fight nami is hurt in a "normal" way (like a twisted ankle), idk how to evolve the story but maybe luffy helps her by giving her a piggyride?

Hello, dear anon! Sorry for the delay, but here it comes an oneshot. I hope you like it!

Another ambush, another clashing with the Marines in high seas and another ordinary day for Luffy to come back completely worn out and hurt. Really hurt. Bleeding. And every common human, being in its right mind, would decide to be bandaged and lie down to hopefully sleep and rest. 

However, not Luffy. Never Luffy. The captain is no normal human being, he doesn’t abide by the rules. So instead of being fast asleep in the infirmary, the boy was right in front of her, full of bandages from head to toe, worried because she had a swollen ankle.

A fucking swollen ankle.

Dear God.

Nami sighed and said for the hundredth time, "Luffy, you don’t need to keep carrying me all the time. I said I’m fine."

But the captain was stubborn as a mule. "But Nami~! What if you fall because it’s hurting too much? WHAT IF YOU LOSE YOUR FEET??"

Luffy had a bigger imagination than all of them, but she wondered if he really believed in the nonsense he says sometimes. She grimaced and blinked, "Sometimes… sometimes I don’t know where you get these ideas from."

"You're not a doctor, you idiot. You don't know about these stuff", he gave her his usual childish pout, and Nami could only roll her eyes.

"Yeah, but neither do you. Anyway, stop with the piggyback ride. I can walk on my own."

Nami stood up and started walking away from him when suddenly a sharp pain pulsed on her ankle and she had to lean in the wall next to the stairs. She cursed because it hurt and because she could feel that victory smile on Luffy's face. She didn’t even need to turn around to see his crooked smile and his arched eyebrow. 

The navigator sighed again for the two hundredth time and said with her back still turned, "Go on. Say 'I told you so'."

She stood still, waiting for him to say something or laugh at her, but nothing came. When she least expected, Luffy had scooped her in his arms and glanced at her with a big toothy smile. "Luffy, I told you not to—"

"You told me to stop with the piggyback ride. This is bridal style, Nami. Are you dumb?"

Bridal style?! How the hell he knows this?

"Dumb?! The nerve of you, you rubber man—!", Nami raised her fist to punch his face, but he dodged. Then, out of nowhere, his expression became serious and he whispered.

"You're too proud, Nami. I'm here to help. Don't you know that?"

Nami closed her eyes, inhaled his scent, touched the skin that wasn’t covered by any bandage, and spoke softly, "Luffy. I just twisted my ankle. It's not a big deal. Yes, it hurts when I walk but I want you to rest."

"But I'm worried about you", he whined.

The navigator knew why he was worried — he thought it was his fault that she got hurt. In the middle of all the chaos, Luffy had bumped into her and lost his balance; Nami just did what she could so they wouldn’t fall flat on the ground but in the process, well, she had sprained her ankle. No big deal at all. Why couldn't he understand that? It's nothing compared to the punch in the stomach Luffy received. 

And it angers her to no end this selflessness he has sometimes. He should be in bed, resting, not being restless because of such a foolish thing. So she tried a different and softer approach. 

“Luffy, I'm kinda tired. Wanna lie down with me? Guess Robin wouldn't mind.”

Anyone who would listen to such words would definitely scold her or give her a very disapproving look. An unmarried woman lying with a man? What a sin!

But Nami didn't care. She knew Luffy, she knew he harbored no romantic feelings for her and didn't have a single malicious bone in his body, so she had no reason to feel threatened. Or ashamed. 

“Yeah! Let's go, Nami!”

At the exact moment the words fell out of her mouth, she knew Sanji would be coming in hot, jumping right at Luffy's jugular. 

“You damned rubber man!! How dare you get into the bed of the beautiful Nami-san?!?!!”

Nami already raised her hands to stop him.

“It's alright, Sanji-kun. I'm really tired indeed.”

“But Nami-swaaan, he doesn't need to lie down with you!!”, Sanji whined and pouted. Then he had heart eyes again, “I can go with you!!”

Sometimes Nami didn't know where Sanji got the idea that she'd choose him if he insisted hard and long enough. She thought she was pretty obvious about how she was actually in love with Luffy for quite some time. 

I mean, it's not like she has voiced that, but the navigator thought they'd have understood by now. Robin knew, that Nami was sure, but the crew has never said anything though. 

She wondered if Luffy knew. Nah, probably not. It's not any of his interests.

A pity. She wished it was. 

But no matter. Nami still liked what they had — this strong companionship, the undeniable loyalty, and trust. It was enough. 

(Sometimes it wasn't, to be honest, but that were times when she was just being selfish). 

“Well, but I want him to, but thanks for always worrying, Sanji-kun. C'mon Luffy, I really wanna—”, she stopped mid-sentence the moment she looked at Luffy with raised eyebrows and a gaping mouth. What? Did she say something wrong?

“Luffy?”

“Mhmm, sure, Nami”, he looked away and started walking towards the girl's room, with Nami on his arms. 

She frowned and didn't know why he looked surprised. Maybe I did say something wrong. 

—

“C'mon Luffy, come to bed”, she sighed and massaged her temples. 

“Ahhh Nami~, I wanna watch more tv~!”, Luffy whined and glared at her. 

“Luffy, come to bed right now. Don't make me go there and drag you by the hair.”

Luffy was right beside her in a lightning speed. 

“Smart decision.”

Nami fetched another pillow, made room for him and covered the both of them. She found a position that wouldn’t hurt her ankle and then, helped Luffy settle down.  

“Nami, why did you say you wanted me to come lie down with you?”, Luffy was looking at her with his funny owlish eyes. 

“Why? Do you have a problem with that?”, he shook his head vigorously, “First it's because you make me feel safe and second because you need to rest, Luffy. You're human, you know?”

The captain nodded and brought Nami closer to his chest. Her heart skipped a beat and she caught her breath. His heart was beating at a regular pace and it was almost lulling her into sleep. 

Nami realized what made her so pissed — she was worried sick about him, worried that someday he could get seriously injured because he was one of the most wanted (and hunted) men in the world and her beloved captain could be taken away from her because he was only human.

“Nami. I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere. I'm not leaving you guys. I'm not leaving you, stupid.”

His tone was final, there was no hint of doubt and it spoke of a promise. If he could keep that, the navigator had no idea, but she chose to believe in him. She had the knowledge that no one in this world is invincible, not even Luffy (or Zoro or Sanji), but she likes to think he was and will continue to be fucking hard to defeat. 

“You know I don't go down that easily, you dumbass. I also have you guys to protect my back, so I'll be fine. We'll be fine”, his voice was low and kind. 

She still finds amazing how Luffy's emotional perception of people around him was always on point. Especially with the crew, especially with her. Somehow, he knew her and knew what she needed. Like he was inside her mind, living in her brain and forever etched in her heart. She was in love with him (there was literally no doubt about that) and in love with their connection. 

“Promise me, Luffy?”

“Yep.”

“How can you be so sure?”, she asked in her sleepy state. 

“Because I wanna come home to you, shishishi.”

Suddenly, she was wide awake and raised her head to meet his eternal happy grin. Gosh, I fucking love you, stupid man in a straw hat. 

She curled up more in his arms and grunted, “You better do, Monkey D. Luffy. Otherwise, I'll kill you myself.”

Nami felt him jerk, probably frightened, and she just smiled in his chest. 

Please, always come home.

[charlieknighte]

a creature born / a fire set

Genfic - Background Samot/Samothes

Character Study - Family Angst - Found Family

3,512 words

A gift for BYZANTIUUM in the Secret Samol fandom exchange

content warnings: the horrors of war™, unhealthy family dynamics

Sometimes, as the son of gods runs with thieves and scoundrels, he thinks that it’s not so bad to have lost everything he once knew.

Sometimes, as Maelgwyn slogs down rows of army tents and lifts his face to his father’s volcano for the hundredth time that week, he feels as if this war is all he’s ever known.

The corner of Marielda that his army is situated in isn’t particularly pleasant, the flaming sea bracketing them in on three sides, the hot, moist air frizzing up Maelgwyn’s curls and bringing a never-ending sweat to his brow. Even at night, the sea never quite lets the city fall into darkness, sitting like a dim red horizon behind the cubes of bright yellow light cast by the army’s temporary lodgings. The sight used to be beautiful before it fell into monotony. 

Tamsen, his second-in-command, follows close at Maelgwyn’s heels, her ever-present and barely concealed anger and contempt not much of a breath of fresh air. She doesn’t generally direct it at him, but he can feel it simmering in her speech as she reports the latest updates from the front-lines. She’s not one to sugarcoat things, not one to pretend the cost of this war is just numbers on a page. Sometimes Maelgwyn wonders if she hates his fathers for all of this. Sometimes he wonders if he can hate his fathers, but he knows that he could never bring himself to.

Do you love him? Samot had asked him the last time they spoke about Samothes, his tone of voice expectant, knowing the answer and only needing to present it to prove his point. When Maelgwyn was younger, he’d often worry that his fathers didn’t love each other anymore as they shook the house with their arguments. Now that he’s older, the truth that you can love someone and still hurt and hurt and hurt them makes him feel sick. Of course he loves him. Of course they both love him, and yet here they are. 

As they grow close to Maelgwyn’s own tent, Tamsen reaches the end of her report and settles into gloomy silence. Maelgwyn tiredly asks, “Anything else, Tamsen?”

She snaps right back to professionalism. “There's been a scuffle between two lieutenants. Not the first time. Their captain wants you to have a word with the instigator.”

Maelgwyn blows his hair out of his face, half purposeful and half out of annoyance. It sticks to his forehead, and he has to swipe it out of the way instead, irritation mounting. He’d have much preferred to be able to continue to his bed in peace. “At what time?” 

“Well, sir...” She stops in front of a tent and gestures. The path she’d taken him on must have been engineered to get this over with. Sometimes he nearly resents her efficiency. He suppresses a sigh and lifts the flap of the tent, stepping inside. It’s small, but not as cramped as a lower ranking officer’s bunk might be. At his intrusion, there’s some shuffling behind a curtain separating the beds from the cluttered, meagre living area. 

“Lieutenant?” Maelgwyn asks, his voice stiff and formal and sounding like it comes from another person entirely.

There’s a groan and more shuffling, like someone turning over in bed. “What d’you want?”

Half-asleep, Maelgwyn guesses. And ill-mannered. “I heard about your run-in with your fellow lieutenant. Your captain sent me to have a word.”

There’s a beat of silence, and then an impassioned thrashing and indignant thump as the lieutenant gets out of bed. “Well, you can tell Thackeray that instead of snitching, next time he can come to me directly," he says vehemently, finally emerging from behind the curtain with a rumpled uniform he clearly only just threw on. "I'll kick his ass—" It takes him a remarkably short amount of time after recognizing Maelgwyn to gain a sense of composure and scramble into a salute. “I mean, I'll deal with him myself. Sir. Sorry.” He grimaces to himself for a moment before settling into a pleasantly blank expression.

Something about him stops Maelgwyn cold. He's barely even a teenager, but it’s not that—uncomfortably young troops are far too familiar around here. It’s just that he's so familiar. Brown skin and sharp eyes and curls cut according to Marieldan vogue, but too loose to be local. He looks more like a westerner. And something about his contemptuous self-assurance, even now that he’s being deferential—the shrewdness of his eyes—I'll kick his ass—somehow he jolts Maelgwyn back to his best times as a child, running through the streets of his village after his best friend, stolen pies in their sticky fingers, a similar sly gleam in her eye. Maelgwyn feels like all the wind has been knocked out of him at the intensity of the memory.

“What's your name?” he asks, mouth dry.

“Hitchcock, sir.” Underneath the formal tightness of his voice, he still sounds squirmy, like he’s expecting a punishment to be handed down any moment.

Maelgwyn sighs, rubs at his face. If only there was a way to phrase what he wonders without crossing a dozen lines. “Try not to get yourself killed.”

Hitchcock's carefully blank expression wrinkles a little bit, and he looks at Maelgwyn like he's grown an extra head. “Okay,” he says, clearly caught off-guard by the lack of formality or reprimands. Maelgwyn is still reeling. He wishes he could ask him if he knew a little girl in the plains, but he knows it’s impossible for him to have been alive back then. The unnatural length of his life is starting to catch up to him. The silence between them is beginning to drag on uncomfortably long. Hitchcock stares at him without any regard for etiquette. The intensity of his eyes is suddenly too much.

“As you were,” Maelgwyn says, self-conscious at having been seen in a moment of conflict. He backs up, floundering for the tent flap and stepping out before his grip on himself can start to slip. As he bursts out into the warm, muggy night haphazardly, Tamsen looks at him quizzically. He shakes his head to clear it and squares his shoulders again, as a general should. “Anything else to report?” 

“Nothing, sir.” She cuts her eyes away from him, pretending not to have seen his moment of weakness.

“Then you’re dismissed for the night.”

Some nights, he almost regrets dismissing her. Those are the nights when he’s too heartsick to pretend that it doesn’t hurt when his soldiers’ laughter grows quiet as he passes them, when they keep their expressions stiff and serious around him as if they think that’s what he wants. They’re the nights that he wishes he could sit around a fire and trade war stories with someone without being afraid of revealing too much. 

Maelgwyn quietly imagines that as Tamsen clicks her heels together sharply and salutes. Maybe it’s for the best. Maybe her anger towards the gods would make her too bitter towards him if she knew. They turn together in opposite directions, Maelgwyn continuing down the rows of tents as they grow larger and more lavish. Contrarily, his tent is functionally plain and small, and not as cool and inviting as the lieutenant’s had been. Not the tent a son of Samothes would be given, if that was how he was known.

Some nights—those same nights that he wishes for a cup of ale and a warm fire among friends—he yearns for a place in a crowded bunk, hearing the muffled noises of other soldiers as they turn over in their creaky beds or grumble in their sleep. Tonight, he tries to put the thought out of his mind as he gets ready for bed. It’s too hurtful to dwell on. He doesn’t bother lighting a candle—his bedtime routine is so utilitarian he barely needs to do anything but strip off his uniform and fall into bed. Inside this tent, he has nothing, and usually it’s easier than the overwhelming number of fires outside waiting to be put out.

He sees Hitchcock again a few weeks later, in a lineup of officers waiting to be promoted by his hand. As he shook hands, pinned medals to chests and offered congratulations, most soldiers flinched, gazes unable to stay on his face for more than a moment. Their grips were limp and their thank yous rushed, too awed by his holy presence to keep it together. Maelgwyn feels like he should’ve gotten used to this by now.

Captain Hitchcock only looked up at him and grinned.

---

It’s odd, to have stumbled out of a university basement with a gauntlet affixed to his hand and not more than a handful of his memories of life. Most days Maelgwyn frantically spins in a daze of confusion, grasping at what memories he has, trying to cobble them back together into a sense of self and winding up frustrated when the pieces don’t fit as he feels they should. Other days—rarer than they should be, creeping up on him and overwhelming him with blissful surprise that he didn’t see coming—he feels steadier. Not quite good, but okay. He forgets his struggle to try to remember to be himself and just is. Those days feel like a fresh start.

That’s the benefit of forgetting the rest of his life—it feels almost as if this is all he’s ever known. Being dragged along on whirlwind heists, each disastrous and joyful, a spinning dance that at turns nauseates and delights him until he learns how to settle his stomach and feel consistent glee. A nervous thrill running through him as he pockets something that isn’t his and knows he’s gotten away with it. Running down alleyways after the Six—after his friends, his friends—heart thumping a dizzyingly fast tempo, feet aching, whoops rising from his throat unbidden but welcome. They always cut it close, and that’s part of the beauty of it—being crammed into smaller and smaller spaces and always engineering some way out. Always managing to find their way back to a safe place deep under the city, where they can share drinks and congratulatory hugs and sit on the floor sorting through their loot far into the night. On nights like these, Maelgwyn feels at peace.

Tonight’s take was excellent. They shake out their bags and pockets into a huge pile between the haphazardly arranged couches in the Six’s basement, voices still high and boisterous from adrenaline. Aubrey falls upon the pile first, snatching away a book of alchemy that one of the Hitchcocks swiped—specifically for her, undoubtedly. She scampers off to curl up in one of her favorite chairs, nose already buried deep between pages. Sige is next, scooping up a brick-sized tome Maelgwyn doubts anyone else would be able to lift or would care to spend hours poring through. Castille takes a little longer picking through the pile, finding the books on magical theory and Marieldan history and natural sciences that Maelgwyn’s come to know are her favorites. The Hitchcocks take more of an interest in finding drinks than books, which is about what he expected. 

As Maelgwyn settles next to Castille, one of the twins presses a glass into his hand with a grin. It’s white wine. Maelgwyn doesn’t quite know why, but the lightness relieves him. He takes a generous chug, excited to slip into the giddy, warm chaos of the night that his friends always manage to create.

He’s long since settled into an arrangement to share Castille’s books—they have overlapping tastes, and what with their shared amnesia, a similar drive to brush up on the history they’ve forgotten. They settle into a comfortable quiet in their own corner as the rest of the Six shout out their discoveries as they find them, buzzing now from the excitement of getting their hands on knowledge that’s been untouched for what might be years, jealously hidden away by Samothes’s heavy hand. 

Maelgwyn knows, objectively, that he is Samothes and Samot’s son. Castille had told him, pity clear on her face as she realized he didn’t remember. He knows, but it’s funny—he doesn’t feel like the son of a god, no matter how hard he tries. When he tries to think back to his past, he feels a sort of nausea at remembering something he’ll never be again and could never claw his way back to. The vastness of his forgotten past seems so threatening, like it hides horrible secrets he’d be better off not learning. It’s hard to put out of mind. At the very least, it contrasts with the lightness and joy of his life now, even when the spaces between it stretch long. He is happy here, welcome here, at times even able to put his fathers’ war out of mind.

That’s why his heart sinks when he realizes the first book he’s picked up is on exactly that— the war. The things Samothes writes about Samot… Maelgwyn could never imagine writing things like this about someone he loves. They make him ache to read, secondhand pain that’s filtered down from them despite how little he remembers of being their child. In Samothes's furious scripture decrying the boy-prince's rebellion, he can see through the anger to the deep sorrow of betrayal beneath. In even the cruelest of his propaganda against  his husband, there’s reluctance, a sense that he’s holding himself back from showing the worst of Samot’s nature out of some remnant of respect. Maelgwyn knows in the depths of his mind that Samothes could strike much more cutting blows if he wanted, that there’s a cold cruelty in Samot he can’t quite remember the specifics of but used to feel like searing ice.

And yet… Samothes loves him. Even with rebellion. Even in a war.

There’s incredible tenderness to be found in his fathers’ writings, if one goes looking. Love letters, hundreds of them, thousands of them from the millenia they’ve been alive. Collected and annotated, dripping with endearments and genuine adoration. Even after reading about the violence they inflict on each other, their love letters beg the question—how could such a deep love have been lost completely? How could a fraction not have persisted, even after everything?

Do you love him? Samot asks expectantly, a dozen years and a thousand miles away.

Maelgwyn closes the book with a snap, hands clammy. He sits with it for a moment, letting the warm ruckus of his friends’ voices wash back over him and remind him where he is and who he isn’t. He sits until his hands feel more like his own again and then pushes the book back into Castille’s pile, trying to find something more innocuous in its place. He emerges with a guide to edible plants in southern Hieron. He traces his un-gauntleted fingers over its cover, far more pleasant memories sparking in the depths of his mind. 

Some nights his grandfather would come to their house in the woods, and when he would step inside he would begin shouting so suddenly it shocked Maelgwyn. It would sound less like an argument and more like when one of Maelgwyn's fathers would lecture him, one-sided and allowing for little rebuttal. Eventually his grandfather would step back out, fuming. He would stare up at the sky and take a long breath, and when he looked back down at Maelgwyn he would always be smiling kindly. Why don’t we take a walk? he would say. Maelgwyn would be so relieved to get away from the arguing for even a few minutes that he would’ve gone anywhere with him.

His grandfather would walk Maelgwyn and his friends out to the forests and plains and creeks around their mansion, leading them through the terrain in a way that implied familiarity with every inch. He'd spend hours teaching them what berries to eat, what leaves to pick for tea. To remind you that I'm always here to look out for you, he told Maelgwyn cheerfully. It had helped—when Maelgwyn felt lonely, as he often did, he would wander out into the thick yard behind their house and immerse himself in the forest, feeling his grandfather's warm, comforting presence. 

He realizes now that his grandfather is the continent itself, of course, and he had meant for Maelgwyn to seek his presence in a literal sense. It’s hard to feel him now, here, where Maelgwyn’s father has such power. The streets are densely packed with stone and metal and concrete, but still—bits of Samol still manage to peek through. The roots of trees forcing their way into the gaps between cobblestones, flowers determinedly poking up in the tiniest pockets of dirt, moss and lichen lightly dusting the roofs of houses. Nature always finds its way through no matter how hard Marielda works to keep it out, like a nagging parent. That’s one thing from his past Maelgwyn doesn’t mind holding onto. 

It hits him that he’s going to have to give this book away when he’s done, and he’s seized by a creeping sorrow. It wouldn’t be fair for him to keep it—it’s merchandise, and more than that, it’ll likely fall into the hands of someone who could use the knowledge in its pages. But at the same time, he knows he’s the only person in the continent who could appreciate it for more than the simple guide it is. To him, it’s a piece of something—someone—he loves, wood pulp paper and plants distilled into dyes. Its weight in his hands is precious to him.

He sits, frozen and conflicted. Castille, oblivious, erupts in a flurry of laughter and gets up to help Aubrey lift a tome almost as big as her. Maelgwyn can’t move after her, left in a private bubble of confusion and trepidation that even noise can’t burst. One of the Hitchcocks flops down beside him in Castille’s place, already a little too drunk. Maelgwyn doesn’t think much of it until he realizes Hitchcock is looking at him. He feels a pang of fear that he’s being judged until he realizes there’s a sharp sort of curiosity in Hitchcock’s eyes, even as he lazily lets his head loll back against the couch.

Maelgwyn’s attachment to Castille is straightforward, but he doesn’t understand why Hitchcock is familiar to him. Some of the memories that try to surface when he looks at him seem to be from an impossibly long time ago, before Hitchcock was even supposed to be born. He remembers wildly tearing through the roads of his childhood with only mischief on his mind, hands grubby, curls untamed, chasing a girl with a mud-spattered dress who screamed far more wildly than him. Maelgwyn would probe him for possible connections if he wasn’t too nervous to reveal such an intimate memory, and if he trusted Hitchcock not to spin it for his own benefit. Crafty little worm, he thinks, his fondness soothing his anxiety once again. 

Hitchcock suddenly sits forward, nearly tipping over unsteadily but catching his balance. He gestures at the book in Maelgwyn’s hands. “Take it," he says earnestly. Like he could read the hunger in Maelgwyn’s eyes. 

Maelgwyn is taken aback. He stammers, and knows that tips Hitchcock off to the fact that he guessed correctly. “What? It's… it’s merchandise. You need it."

Hitchcock glances back at the rest of the Six, engrossed in cheering Aubrey on as she determinedly drags her gargantuan book up to a table. He leans in conspiratorially. There it is again—that familiar glimmer in his eye, the one that brings back the wild, free times of Maelgwyn’s childhood.  "No, we don't. Not that badly. Take it."

Maelgwyn is breathless at the idea. Of course he’s stolen things before—many, many times during his tenure with the Six—but they were never for himself. It’s been so long since Maelgwyn owned something of his own, something that hadn’t been handed down to him by his parents or their followers, bearing a heavy burden of expectation or responsibility. Maelgwyn imagines dog-earing the book’s pages and writing notes in the margins and pressing flowers between chapters, leaving tangible marks of his existence all his own, and nearly bursts into tears. 

He slips it into his jacket discreetly, the shiver like the one he’s learned to enjoy after a theft running through him. Hitchcock grins with infectious, mischievous glee, and Maelgwyn can’t help but laugh with him.  “C’mon,” Hitchcock says, pulling him up by his hands. “Let’s dance.” 

Maelgwyn lets himself be pulled, stumbling, to the center of the room, trepidation overwhelmed by excitement. The Six cheer for them as they start some partner dance Maelgwyn has no name for, Hitchcock whirling him around in dizzying circles until they’re both breathless with laughter, stumbling against each other as the rest of their friends find their own pairs and fill up the dance floor around them.

If Maelgwyn closes his eyes and lets himself melt into the moment, he can forget he was ever a god’s son, ever chosen to fight a war that wasn’t his, ever a historical figure before he was a person. He can wash those thoughts away with this life he’s built, no matter how temporary. This is all he’s known, and all he ever needs.

[dishonoredrpg]

Congratulations, PAYTON! You’ve been accepted for the role of THE TOWER with the faceclaim of RODRIGO SANTORO. What poetry could I write about Feivel? He is, at his core, a worldly man, has seen much, knows plenty, and still finds himself entrapped in a world which he feels he cannot possibly belong to. There is such a human quality to him in the way he shifts and turns just to keep himself alive; your concept with the mirror was especially fascinating -- he has a charm to him, but is it a charm that he’ll be able to stomach later on down the line? I also vastly appreciate your willingness to step out of the box and explore a character you’re not as familiar with; I can really see your affection for him here, and I’m excited to see what you bring to us with him!

Please review the CHECKLIST and send your blog in within 24 hours.

NAME: Payton or Paypay

PRONOUNS: She/her/hers

AGE: 27

TIMEZONE, ACTIVITY LEVEL: My timezone is GMT-7. I anticipate being active on the dash (as in posting starters/writing responses) typically between 4-6 days a week, with 4 being more typical. Writing is a pretty big component of my self-care and allows me a creative outlet to use some of my energy, so I will be on frequently. 

ANYTHING ELSE?: I know this is a second application picked from a small handful of skeletons that still remained, but I wouldn’t be applying for another skeleton if I wasn’t just as excited and dedicated to what I could bring to the group with this skeleton as I was with my first application. At first I was pretty bummed and told myself if I couldn’t get back into a very excited state I would just kind of let it be, but the more I worked on this application the more excited I got about the skeleton and the character I was building out from it.

IN CHARACTER

SKELETON: The Tower

NAME: Feivel Asturias

FACECLAIM: Rodrigo Santoro, Chris Hemsworth,  Joel Kinnaman

AGE: 42

DETAILS: What about this character interested you? Who are they to you? This can be as long or short as you want it to be, in whatever format you prefer.

I suggested this to you during our conversation during which you gave me feedback for my previous application, but The Tower’s skeleton is a big old jump away from characters I’m used to playing. Out of the skeleton’s that were left, I found The Tower’s to be quite compelling and likely the most challenging role to play for me. But I like challenges! Challenging is fun. I think in terms of my own development as a writer, playing a character that feels like such a departure from what I’m used to is a great way to stretch my creative muscles and really push myself to think deeper into the choices I’m making for my character.

Another component I like about The Tower is their history as an explorer. I would like to see story-telling be a strong component of their characterization because they have so many lived experiences. Given the setting, it’s likely he would be one of the most if not the most well-travelled roles in the group. His lived experiences would take him to the ends of the earth that his contemporaries only dreamed of, and I imagine he would be all too eager to recount the stories of his youth (only slightly editorialized… okay, fine, with some pretty significant embellishments). I imagine his life has led him to present as rough around the edges, as a survival tactic, as a leadership strategy, and as a mode of self-preservation… but when he gets to talking, when someone really gets him in his lane of story-telling he takes on an air of slight warmth and overwhelming nostalgia. He also absolutely adores young people, which is discussed a little further elsewhere in the application (one of the plot points if I’m not mistaken).

I am also very interested in toying around with his current role as an antiquarian--because who doesn’t want to make up a whole bunch of mythical items and historical artifacts and lore? I feel like not only would I be able to use him as a method to contribute to the general story line, but it would be a great way to explore some world building within the parameters you’ve set for the group.

I also think that the skeleton suggests that The Tower would be willing to take some risks, which would be interesting to play out. The fact that they were willing to play dumb in front of the king until it was clear playing dumb meant certain death, they take a chance: they try to bargain for their life, and it works. As an unofficial advisor, they view their stakes as being slightly less high than someone officially in the post, so they take risks: they combine a healthy amount of tact with speaking their mind. They see a monarch unhappy in her marriage and desperate for release, so they take a risk: they stand a little too close, brush the back of their hand against hers as they pass in the hallway, and find themselves in a full blown affair. I think taking risks would be an inevitable character trait of The Tower, who likely feels lonely for adventure and too big for their body now that they find themselves land-locked.

The actual card of The Tower also relates strongly to the history I imagine for Feivel and what I would assume could be a turbulent future given his affair with the queen and potential shifting alignments. I see “Tower upright: Sudden change, upheaval, chaos, revelation, awakening” relating to his arrival in Tyrholm and the killing of his men and consequential end to his way of life/loss of freedom. “Tower reversed: Personal transformation, fear of change, averting disaster” makes me think of his need to navigate the court and avoid what could be certain disaster if the affair with the queen became known to the wrong people as well as his perceived need to tiptoe around The Sun.

Something of interest to me regarding the typical depiction of this card is the image of the card itself. One website’s information on the card stated: “A stone tower is struck with lighting and lit in flames, two people jump from the tower presumably to their deaths. An image of chaos and destruction is painted.This lightning/subsequent fire enters in through the top of the tower and knocks off the crown. The people jumping accept that they do not know what awaits them when they fall - but it is certainly better than burning in the rubble of the tower.” I find this really compelling because I think that if Feivel was present for the event Mini wrote for Kithri’s para sample (and Mini makes that headcanon) or if Feivel sees or perceives Septimus mistreats his wife or perceives King Septimus as cruel in other ways it would be relatively easy to radicalize Feivel. Feivel knows he’s coming in hot on his expiration date, and even if he isn’t on the brink of death and he’s just feeling a little run down, I think he would really struggle to accept a land-locked existence where he’s essentially prisoner in Castle Tyrholm, and might, as the card depicts, run headlong into certain doom rather than accept the alternative if he found a cause worth self-destructing for.

BACKGROUND:

You are born on high seas, the ocean so ingrained in your identity that you could scarcely tell the difference between the waves of a storm battering your ship and the untamed beating of your own heart. Your childhood is composed of tangled memories of stern looks, rope burn, aching muscles, calluses, stolen goods, and the sound of splintering wood. The smell of gunpowder from the cannons found a permanent home in your nostrils and you lived with a constant sensation of breathlessness between the battles and seascapes that colored your days.  Your early years are like the ocean itself; ever-moving, unforgiving, and constantly threatening to pull you under in its cruelty if you so much as dare to be still for even a moment.

As you enter your teenage years, the treatment you receive only becomes harsher. You are no longer only responsible for chores around the deck, but you are brought into roles of responsibility where a misstep can be the difference between life and death of a crew member. You participate in your first ambush, and it terrifies you how easy it is to drive a blade into another body and how hard it feels to draw it back out. But letting that deter you is not an option. The stakes are high, and the sting of every slap and lashing’s meaning is two-fold. Corporal punishment is a daily reality of your life, the best way a motley crew of pirates knows how to instill discipline. And beyond discipline, you know you’re the next in line for leadership and as a leader you must be unyielding. Your father is preparing you, and the way you see it the crack of his leather strap against your back is the only way he knows how to say he loves you.

You are seventeen when you inherit your father’s ship, his death a sudden and brutal blight that stains a corner of your mind you avoid with vermillion and a mix of pain and resentment. Your mother died long before, when you were no older than six or seven. The closest thing you have to any memory of her face is the memory of her running her fingers through your hair to soothe you to sleep. every time the sea breeze rustles through your hair it evokes her memory. You keep it long and unkempt for that reason alone, though if anyone asks it’s a matter of convenience. It is unbecoming of a captain to display such vulnerabilities as sentiment and weakness—or at least that’s what your father before you conditions you to believe. You quickly realize you see leadership fundamentally differently than your father. Where he asserted authority by means of dominance and violence, your approach values brotherhood.

You find yourself establishing a Brotherhood of Asturias. You name your clan in honor of your ship. Later in your life, you will name yourself in honor of your clan—not as a badge of honor, but as a reminder of your shame. No one would accuse your clan of reformation. To anyone outside of your fold, you’re just as ruthless as your father. You’d still burn the world to the ground for the promise of glory when the flames died down. But within your kinship, you develop a sort of honor code. Your commandments are as such: honor those who honor you, betray no other lest your life be on the line, help the needy if it helps yourself, to kill an innocent is the most mortal of sins, and you shall not advance yourself at the harm of others. Your reputation does shift, but only slightly. Rather than pillagers and barbarians, you are seen as a ruthless treasure hunter.  

For the next fifteen years, your reputation precedes you. You travel to the ends of the earth in search of the relics of the old gods and to reclaim the wonders of the world. It isn’t easy work, but the payoff makes it worth it. You accumulate wealth with nowhere to spend it, but the sense of power of merely possessing the rarities and finery you have is enough. And you love the camaraderie and catharsis. By your mid-thirties, you are grizzled and scarred. Your body aches from the strain of your journeys, but your mind is somehow light under the sheer weight of the stories you have to tell. Your life is spent fast, but if anybody asks it is spent well.

Finally, aware of your limitations and content with your life of misdeeds, you select your successor and one final mission. You view it as a training exercise to cement your decision: both to lay down your arms once and for all and that you’ve chosen the best and brightest to take your place. You set sail to the remote island of Calamity in search of an item of lore, so simple that the common man would pass it over without a second glance: the Mirror of Ouroboros. The mirror is a small, handheld curio of impossible value. The reflector itself is a small, obsidian mirror that upon first consideration seems harmless if not impractical. However, upon looking in the mirror its magical virtue presents itself by revealing three truths about the user, each of them as destructive as the next if the user is without fortitude of mind. You recover the mirror with little consequence along the way, and you are reassured that your decision making was sound. You are resolved to your fate and wary from travel, you drift off to sleep easily after your final ransacking.

You are dragged from your bed by a pair of hands as cold and harsh as death itself. The mere touch is enough to pull the breath from your lungs. You don’t recognize her at first, but The Sun will haunt your nightmares for the next several years, and in a much more present way haunt your days as well. You are thrown before the king, your crew not far behind. But it is toward you who the king directs his ire. He demands the mirror, and you bite back at his entitlement. You tell him you don’t have any such item, and he knows you are lying. You tell him the mirror is no creation of his god, the Undying One, and as a result it shouldn’t be any interest of his. It’s the wrong answer. You realize it’s the wrong answer when you hear a squelch from behind you, and the sound of a body drop to the floor. The groaning is easily recognizable as your second in command, slaughtered as result of your folly before they even had their real chance to carry on your legacy. The world mutes, but you’ve seen this scene before. There is nothing but a loud ringing in your ears, but you know The Sun is working down the line of your men behind you.

Your hands shake as you pull the mirror from your breast pocket, and you consider looking into it. Surely the madness is a better fate to resign yourself to than to live with your indirect responsibility for your brotherhood’s death. For another moment, you consider allowing the king to look into it, to exact your revenge without needing to so much as lift a finger. Instead, you slide the mirror across the floor, still safely contained in its cloth shroud. You hear your voice warning the king of the mirror’s power, that with patience and research it could be the key to turning his kingdom into an empire. You tell him that more relics exist across the span of the globe, some of them here on the continent of Markholm. You’re bargaining for your life, despite the fact that according to your very own honor code you no longer deserve it.

For some reason, the king lets you stay. You know this is more a strategic move on Septimus’ part than an act of mercy. You are hardly a free man. You yourself know that not all prisons have bars. Yours doesn’t, but you’re locked in a cage all the same. Your wild heart rails against your fate at first, but your tired body cannot keep up. You slowly resign yourself to your circumstances. You spend your day lamenting and licking wounds for months, giving Septimus advice through gritted teeth and refusing to recognize kindness from anyone around you. You are like a cornered dog, but you damn well know better than to bite the hand that feeds.

Slowly, the dagger in your heart loosens and you move through the stages of mourning your freedom, your crew, and your former life.  This doesn’t mean that your life in Tyrholm is easy, but you start to recognize areas of comfort. The Empress shows you a modicum of kindness, and you cling to it. The way you see it, the pair of you mean little more to each other than a pair of warm bodies at first, but it’s a momentary distraction the both of you welcome. The way your rough, calloused hands catch on the silk she seems herself to be spun from reminds you of your place, it stops you from being careless enough to leave fingerprints. You stop yourself from getting emotionally attached--no one ever accuses you of being a wise man, but you know better than to shit where you eat. The Moon gravitates in the perimeter of your attention, and you wonder what she wants from you, though she never seems to ask for much. The Sun also exists within your gravitational pull, though you wish she wouldn’t. You have nothing but enmity for her, an emotion you know is futile but that you can’t seem to put away.

The one thing you take seriously is your role as advisor. Septimus strikes you as mad and simple, a ruler grounded in dualism and individualism. Your belief in brotherhood and the collective clashes with Septimus’ harsh reign, but you can stomach it given your years spent under your father’s thumb. You yourself are never treated with particular cruelness after you are added as a member of the court. A part of you cares how everything shakes out, even though your body tells you it might give out before you see things through. Another part of you only cares about slowly convincing Septimus to give you a longer leash to try to convince him to dispatch you for one last adventure or two.

PLOT IDEAS:

You’ve Got Your Reputation and Your Good Intent (The Emperor): Feivel was not exactly a willing addition to the court. With death as the only alternative, joining up with Septimus looked like a good choice, but in the skeleton it doesn’t suggest that The Tower ever develops any sense of loyalty or admiration for King Septimus. In fact, in the connection section with Judgement, it suggests that The Tower finds the world they find themselves stuck within to be “horrible”. Given I want to incorporate captaining a ship as part of Feivel’s past, he would chalk up the state of the world to mediocre leadership. Further, The Tower is smack in the middle of the triangle depicting attitudes and loyalties. He doesn’t have much skin in the game, but he kind of gives a shit. I have to imagine that given their travels, The Tower would have a stronger concept than Septimus of how the other side lives, how people perceive things, of even surface level diplomacy, who seems to make decrees and decisions at a whim. Knowing that The Emperor is the next in line for the throne, I imagine The Tower would want to see the heir equipped with more of a holistic outlook rather than a self-interested, dualistic approach. While it sounds like Septimus is the one who likes to be regaled with stories of adventure and daring, I imagine Feivel might try to impart some sort of wisdom about different perspectives, universal truths, and interest in the plight of fellow man. The Emperor has probably never experienced life outside of the castle walls, certainly never outside of Tyrholm where many valuable lessons for a future ruler wait to be learned. But Feivel struggles with putting his meaning into words, he isn’t some educated member of the court, he’s a rogue in nice clothing. There is no underlying agenda aside from expanding the young heir’s worldview--but the danger of saying the wrong thing, of the slightest slip up in the tone of voice being read as a criticism of King Septimus makes the line between good intent and treason a tricky one to walk.

Suffer the Fools (The Moon): Feivel enjoys young people tremendously. Youth tends to couple with ambition and vigor. This is also part of why he even wants to bother trying to impress some of his lived experiences on The Emperor. Based on the connection written in The Moon’s bio, it seems like The Moon would be eager to listen to those very same stories. The Tower is depicted as a cache of information regarding other civilizations, the old gods, history, antiquities, magic, and tales of their own youth. I think in talking to The Moon about these stories and being listened to, a friendship would be forged and from that friendship, trust. Feivel understands thieves' code, he can pick up the dynamic in most any room he walks into, he knows history, he recognizes value when he sees it, navigation and survival in the wild is a given… but all of this was learned through oral tradition. Books were of little value on a ship, education wasn’t valued in his lifestyle. In his previous station, Feivel couldn’t have cared less, but now it’s developed into a soft spot. What does it say of a king if their antiquarian and unofficial advisor is illiterate? I think that if Feivel developed trust with The Moon, he would be willing to share this vulnerability asking them to write correspondence for him in a pinch and potentially how to read and write. I think this vulnerability might help lead The Moon to ask the questions they have about magic as discussed in The Moon’s connections.

All’s Fair in Love and War (The Empress): I am interested in exploring the connection listed in The Empress’ bio depicting the affair between The Empress and The Tower. It is not really mentioned in The Tower’s bio or in the main body of The Empress’ bio. I am interested in exploring Feivel’s motivations in this affair. Is there genuine affection that Feivel feels for The Empress, or does he see her as a pretty treasure of the king’s that makes for an interesting conquest? If there is genuine affection, how does he deal with the jealousy or perceived mistreatment of The Empress as a wife? Additionally, there could be a number of interesting consequences for the affair to deal with as far as jealousy, not being able to bit his tongue regarding Septimus’ attitude about his wife, or even the secret of the affair becoming more widespread. I think the affair could also complicate the way that some members of the court and group see Feivel. They could potentially misread the affair, whether it’s a matter of the convenience of the two just acting as warm bodies for one another or if it develops into a full blown emotional affair, as Feivel tries to step into a role of power or exploitation. It’s also some pretty damaging ammunition against him if he crosses the wrong person.

Mirror of Ouroborus (The Sun/The High Priestess): One of the things I would look forward to adding to Feivel’s character and the group as a whole is sort of building out the world with some mystical items. In this case, I think it could be fun to toy around with the item that landed Feivel on King Septimus’ agenda in the first place. This is a plot I would build out with either of the two more experienced necromancers. The item I have in mind for this plot point in particular would be called the Mirror of Ouroborus, an ancient, magical artifact the most of the world either doesn’t believe exists or has already forgotten. The mirror itself is a small, obsidian mirror that upon first consideration seems harmless if not impractical. However, upon looking in the mirror things begin to complicate. When looking in the mirror, it shows its user three truths. The first truth is easy to swallow: the reflection morphs into the user at the epitome of their potential, in their greatest state of glory. The second, the reflection morphs into what it is that stands in the way of those accomplishments, whether its an internal or external force. And third, it shows the essence of the user as they really are. Each of these reflections manifest as a simultaneous, momentary vision, but the mirror itself is dangerous. The lore surrounding the mirror depicts the third reflection driving everyone bold enough to stare into the mirror mad, incapable of swallowing the truth about themselves and the inherent flaws of humanity. However, who better to look into the mirror than someone numbed to even the most base emotion? Though it’s unlikely Septimus would put something as valuable as a master necromancer on the line for anything less than a guarantee. I would imagine in this plot, Feivel and either The Sun or the High Priestess would be tasked with unraveling the mystery of the Ouroborus Mirror for its eventual use.  

If You Stand For Nothing, What Will You Fall For (General): Check out the triangle of alignment and who is smack in the middle but The Tower? I think this presents a few interesting concepts. There are so many different components of the skeleton that could suggest many different ways for his allegiance to be pushed and pulled. If he has a personal rather than transactional relationship with The Empress, her alignment of general tolerance of King Septimus might pull him toward anxiously waiting out the king. Then again, it might have the opposite effect if Feivel ends up having very spiteful feelings about the Empress being stuck in the marriage. I envision most of the connections listed on the bio slowly dragging Feivel’s alignment toward the bottom left of the chart. I want to explore Feivel’s character with a moral alignment of true neutral as well, which I think would create a lot of interesting dynamics given Feivel seems to be starting from a place of general neutrality as well. I would be very interested in seeing what, if anything, could radicalize Feivel given his starting point.

Through Terra Incognita: Feivel is not exactly a member of the court by choice, but rather quick wit and Septimus’ whim. I would argue that Feivel sees himself more as a prisoner of the court than actually free. He was brought to the court by force, and he’s essentially kept there out of fear of the Sun. Sure, there are perks. He probably is all about that food, a nice bed, fancy clothes, and a comfortable place to rest his tired bones… but just because he wanted a rest doesn’t mean he isn’t restless. It might be interesting to have Feivel be dispatched by Septimus to retrieve some sort of treasure or antiquity with another character or maybe even two. This item could potentially be central to the plot if it interests you to invest in the plot in that way. I think this could be an interesting way to interact with Judgement (religious relic?), or potentially The Hermit or Strength. However, I’d be happy to make this plot work with whoever might be interested even if they aren’t listed there. Fievel is probably incredibly eager to go on any sort of adventure and get out of the city, so he would jump at the chance to go on such a quest, even if he clashed with his travel companion every step of the way.

Brave, Intrepid, and Then Some: If you do not recognize the lyrics used as titles (here and the plot point above), the song “The Trail We Blaze” from Dreamwork’s masterpiece The Road to El Dorado is big inspiration vibes for Feivel and his adventurous side. He knows he is never going to be the marauder he was before his years in Tyrholm, but there’s a spark in him that can’t quite go out. I think something to feed into this, and his general world knowledge, would be to develop a sort of “wonders of the world” for Markholm. Something I think that might be interesting to do is to pick a few characters and try to create artifacts, locations, etc. that are sort of drawn from or inspired by these characters. Perhaps they would not be significant to the plot, but I think it could be a fun concept to build out Feivel’s experiences.

CHARACTER DEATH: I think given some of the pies he’s stuck/will stick his finger in there’s a pretty real chance he might piss off the wrong people eventually (Septimus, Reynaud, Naenia given his fear of her) whether that be by him making a false move or his affair moving from a bit of an open secret to a full blown scandal. Also, he’s lived a rugged life, which I’m sure has taken a toll. Given the parameters you’ve set up to support players if there’s a character death and the context of this character I’m comfortable with it.

WRITING SAMPLE

Another restless night, and Feivel found himself roaming the halls of Castle Tyrholm with the company of his faithful hound, Gunport, at his side. It was the sound of the wind whistling outside his sleeping chamber’s window that kept a good night’s sleep at bay, the sound reminding him of those wind whipped days out at sea that built him into the man he was now.  He lobbed a ball down the corridor lazily and got some mild entertainment watching the hairy beast chase after it with gusto before bounding back to its master’s side and pushing the slobbery toy into his hand. But even the momentary distraction couldn’t hold back the feelings that he was now more a ruin than a man.

His father had died valiantly in battle, though the skirmish itself could have been avoided by better planning. Even so, his father had died with his reputation intact, ruthless to the end. Feivel himself had quickly built his own mythos around himself, even if it was not as cruel as his father’s. He knew the Clan Asturias had gained a measure of renown, enough for King Septimus to know of their accomplishments, and as the captain of the ship Feivel himself was the figurehead of the legend. On nights like this, he would retract his steps and try to pinpoint the exact moment he had gotten too far ahead of himself or too comfortable. He knew what his father would say, that his downfall was the direct result of trusting anyone but himself. Some nights, Feivel felt that conclusion was correct. On other nights, he surmised that his fate was inevitable. For years, he had wondered how legends were brought to their knees. Now he knew he was little more himself than some exotic game King Septimus had cornered and would eventually mount on his wall like the other trophy animals in Castle Tyrholm’s gun room.

The candlelight flickered from further down the hall, and both Feivel and Gunport stood aware, their two sets of wild eyes pointing in the direction of the disturbance. He wondered vaguely if someone else was being kept awake by the ghosts of their past, or if perhaps it might have been the growing sense of restlessness that had been building behind closed doors and in whispered conversations throughout the castle. He had only been a member of the court for a handful of months, but he knew what the early stages of insurrection looked like. This was something he altogether aimed to avoid, more than convinced that the king would be able to put an end to any treason before it truly started.

It surprised him to see the queen passing through the hall, and for a moment he felt his presence was inappropriate. Life in Tyrholm had come with a healthy dose of culture shock, to say the least. He had cleaned up well, this was true, but he knew he was far from noble. His manners had provided ample fodder to mock him in his first months in the court, and the stiff clothing he had been given felt like it choked him. Perhaps it was his station in his office that made him feel most like the butt of a cruel joke, the books that lined the shelves and his pot of ink and paper virtually useless. He had wondered for a while how long King Septimus would humor him after he realized his master of antiquities couldn’t so much as write his own name. Luckily enough, he had proven himself entertaining enough to listen to that when he was called upon it was almost exclusively in person. Whenever the need to write was unavoidable, it was no trouble to intimidate a servant or page into writing it for him. It took little more than a menacing glare and the simple lie that he preferred to dictate his response rather than be saddled with the chore of writing his message himself.

As The Empress approached, Feivel bowed. It was practiced to look natural, as if he’d been bowing to monarchy all his life rather than copying the other members of court over the past few months. He also took grain pains to make the motion as fluid as possible despite the strain it caused his lower back. “Your Majesty,” he greeted, “I apologize for disturbing you this evening.” He tossed the ball away again, figuring someone of her stature had little interest in being near such a creature. The dog took off again after the ball, springing clumsily down the long hall.

“It’s quite alright,” Queen Calliope responded in a muted voice. She lifted a slim, graceful hand that caught the moonlight as she gestured before them. “Perhaps you would walk with me?”

Before Feivel had much opportunity to respond, Gunport had asserted himself into the situation. The dog pressed the ball into the palm of the queen’s hand, wet nose, slobber, and all. It was the habit of a well trained dog to return whatever it was fetching directly into the hand of it’s master, but Gunport was friendly and apparently wanted to extend the invitation to play to the queen herself. Embarrassed by what he assumed was poor manners, Feivel became somewhat nervous and hoped to escape the interaction without insulting Queen Calliope. He turned his attention from her hand to her face to respond, but his answer was delayed slightly as he observed her unassuming beauty; the smoothness of her skin, her piercing dark eyes, the way her silk-like dark hair framed her face and swept against her shoulders, and the delicate shape and hue of her lips. He was a man who recognized finery when he saw it, and what held more value than the wife of a king?

“Another night,” he mumbled, staring at the toe of his boot rather than in her eye. His voice was gruff, a bit terse as a force of habit. “When I don’t have the hound with me.”

Accepting his answer, the queen lifted her hand to pass the ball back to Feivel. He extended his hand, accepting it from her, unintentionally brushing his fingers against the back of her hand. The contrast between the two did not escape him, his own hand rough with work next to her unmarred skin. Her skin was smooth and cool compared to the warmth and calluses of his own hand. He let the touch linger for a moment before his eyes met her own. She didn’t seem disturbed by the touch, which even if unintentional was an insult to her station. Queen Calliope placed the ball in his open hand before bidding him goodnight with a soft, amused smile. “Another time then, Feivel. May the Undying One bring you safely to another day.”

“Another time then,” Feivel repeated, holding the ball up as if it were some secret known only to the pair as he walked backward toward his quarter. He tossed the ball over his shoulder with a roguish grin, his eyes trained on Queen Calliope. Only when she turned his back on him to continue on her way did he turn away from her.

EXTRAS

I want to plot out what the affair looked like, from start to current state, with The Empress’ player, so I’m not taking my writing sample as gospel. It just seemed like the most natural thing to write because I think the connection with another person in Tyrholm he established with The Empress was probably a turning point in his mourning process/ability to accept his current station as basically a glorified prisoner in Castle Tyrholm and to engage more with others.

Inspiration Blog (There are three pages, you gotta click the last little dot with a sort of square to get to the next page)

[hopeful-starship]

Welcome to the 1st installment of “Chloé finds cool ask lists and answers them despite nobody asking”! This one is courtesy of @bgbygirl, go check them out!

🐰- do you believe in soul mates?  Heck yeah i do. I haven’t found mine yet, but he’ll come around. I believe it.

💌- diary or journal? I’d rather journal! I sometimes just write out my feelings on loose paper when i feel bad, but i’ve rarely kept a diary for more than two weeks.

✨- which fictional character (book, show, or movie) do you relate to most? Holy WOW this is difficult. I’m a mix of chunks from a lot of characters, but i feel like i’m the closest to Cath from Fangirl (a wonderful book by Rainbow Rowell, which i highly recommend you check out).

💕- are you crushing on someone? I was literally three days ago (you’ll know if you follow my crush chronicles tag - which you probably don’t because it’s not that interesting), but i’m thankfully getting over it. I love boys and i love crushing, but he wasn’t good for me - at least not in a romantic setting.

💋- kissing in the dark or kissing in the rain? I’d say rain. If i’m kissing a boy, i probably find him handsome, and i want to be able to see him.��

🐝- describe your aesthetic in emojis I’m on my laptop so i can’t use emojis, but i’d say my aesthetic as a mix of “80s rock dad”, “horny on main” and “pastel cinnamon roll”. It’s a weird mix. 

🍼- what is your favorite memory? The 2nd time i met Captain America in Disneyland Paris this summer. I went to shake his hand (because the 1st one did that) and he said “no, i’ll hug you if that’s okay”, and that was THE CUTEST SHIT. I blog a lot about Bohemian Rhapsody at the moment, but i love the Avengers A LOT, and Steve is my favorite, so that was very special.

🌸- what is your favorite flower? Not orchids, surprisingly! I like them, but i like how the word sounds more than i like the flower itself. Is lavender a flower? I’m going to say it is. Lavender is my favorite flower.

💖- have you ever been in love? I’ve said i was in love a couple times in the past, but looking back, i don’t think i was. I was very fond of them, but i don’t think i was -in love-.

🍰- strawberry or vanilla? Strawberry! (Side not: i’m realising i changed a lot over the past few months, because the answer’s been vanilla my whole life)

🍯- describe your favorite smell I have two, and they’re extremely unrelated lol. The first one is speculoos cookies being baked, and the second one is that generic boy perfume smell (my friends say that doesn’t exist and i’m crazy, but i know what i’m talking about and i hope you do too)

🎂- if you had 3 wishes, what would they be? I generally have trouble with this question. The first thing that came to my mind was: i wish i could be sure everyone i love knows i love them, and i wish i wouldn’t constantly doubt they love me back.

🍪- cookie dough or cookies? Cookie dough. Cookie dough always. Any day of the week. I love cookies, but cookie dough is my favorite thing.

☕- coffee or tea? Neither! I don’t like hot drinks!

🍃- would you rather live in a sea with mermaids or a forest with fairies? I’m fascinated by the ocean, so give me those mermaids any day!

🍂- what’s your middle name? My middle name is Jeanne! It was apparently two of my great-grandmothers’ name.

💫- what is your sun, moon, and rising sign? I had no idea what this meant, so i googled it and apparently my sun sign is Pisces, my moon sign is Taurus and my rising sign is Leo! Which apparently means i’m affectionate and emotional (very true), like to be praised and appreciated (also true), and am even-tempered and calm (not so true).

🌧️- favorite thing to do on rainy days? I love sitting/lying next to a window and listening to the rain fall while reading or writing!

🍭- how tall are you? I’m 6′2! (188 centimetres) (basically a fuckin giant)

💒- which show would you want to live in? I know the question probably means TV show, but i’m twisting it around and understanding musical, because damn i love theatre. My answer is Mamma Mia. OF COURSE IT IS. I want to spend my days dancing around a greek island and singing Abba songs at handsome dudes. (this might be a later question, but spoiler: Mamma Mia is my favorite movie)

🎄- what is your favorite holiday? Christmas! I fuckin love Christmas! I’m currently sitting in my Christmas pyjamas (yes, on November 17th, leave me alone)

🍦- what scented candle is your favorite? I’ve never had any candles (my mum thinks they’re too dangerous), but i generally like those that smell like cinnamon and apples.

🎶- favorite song right now? You may have noticed i have a bit of an obsession with Bohemian Rhapsody. My current favorite song is It’s Late by Queen, which i discovered when i was extensively researching their discography after seeing the movie. Oh my wooorld, that guitar riff gets me railing.

💘- 3 ways to win your heart? 1) Sing/play any instrument ever 2) Be kind 3) Have a lot of hair The truth is, if you’re a guy and you’re (even remotely) kind and attractive, i’ll fall in love with you, even if it’s for 20 minutes.

🍩- current mood? A bit weird, if i’m honest. I’m generally good, but it feels like the sword of Damocles is hanging over my head and a depressive episode is threatening to drop on me.

❄️- what is your favorite season? This is a difficult question for me, there are things i love and things i dislike about every season! But i’ll say spring, because i can go out without a jacket, but it’s not too warm yet.

💍- your current relationship status? Married to Gwilym Lee (jk lol, i’m single as all hell - someone date me please, i’m so alone)

📷- a photo of yourself

Here, have this picture of me being a Captain America fangirl in Disneyland Paris (i’m going back in three days and the excitement is UNREAL)

💅🏻- do you like being spoiled? OH NO. I’m not one of those who can’t accept a gift, but i can’t help but wonder what i did to deserve it and stress about it.

🕊️- 3 habits you have? 1) Arriving at college at least 30 minutes before my class starts and sitting on the floor outside of the classroom, reading or watching videos 2) Dancing a bit too enthusiastically at bus stops 3) Skipping class when i feel overwhelmed and hiding in the library/in a café with something to eat and something to drink, and watching a heckton of videos in hopes of making myself feel better

🦄- how do you perceive yourself? Well it depends on how i feel when you ask the question - but generally, i think i’m a rather good person, or at least i try my best to be. I’m as kind as possible. It’s going sound conceited, but i’m a bit too smart for my own good - which means i overthink everything and end up in a state of existential crisis 9 times out of 10. Physically, i’m mostly ok with how i look - although it sure would be nice if i could find ONE guy who thinks i’m alright too.

🦋- how do you think others perceive you? I’m not answering this question, because i don’t want to end up in aforementioned state of existential crisis. Feel free to tell me how you perceive me though, i’m interested!

🌈- things I find attractive in girls/guys I’ll answer for guys, since they’re what i’m attracted to! Smile is something super important for me. I love hair, especially when they’ve got a lot of it (hello Brian May). And i seem to have a thing for cowboys and guitarists. (...again, hello Brian May)

🍓- one secret about yourself The main reason i obsess over “celebrities” (and even daydream about being with them) is because it’s easier than falling for guys i know irl and getting rejected.

🍒- how do you act when you have a crush? Like a FUCKIN IDIOT. During the first week i had a “thing” for my former crush, i couldn’t speak to him without stumbling on my words, and i almost fell on him on the tram. I can’t function properly when i like someone.

💔- the reason behind your last breakup? I’ve never been with anyone, so i’ve never had a breakup; so i’ll tell the reason behind my last rejection. Thankfully it didn’t hurt too much, he was in love with one of my friends and she loved him back, and i just knew they’d be good for each other. So just before they got together, we talked it out, just to clear the air, and so he knew that i wasn’t fully in love, i just liked him because he was cute and kind, that of course i wouldn’t do anything to interfere with their relationship, and that i really wanted us to stay friends. He was an absolute peach and he’s one of my best friends today!

💬- what your last text message says? It’s two heart emojis! (to a friend, don’t imagine any boys are talking to me)

🎥- what show are you currently binging on? I’m not watching any show at the moment, i’m trying to catch up on my Watch later Youtube playlist! But i did have half a Harry Potter marathon with a friend this weekend.

⛅- what is your morning routine? Brush my hair, tie it up in a ponytail (or a bun if it’s really greasy woops), wash my face, shower, dress, pack my bag, have breakfast, fiddle on my phone if i have extra time, go!

💗- who do you miss? I miss my friend Antoine. I know we’ve seen the best of each other, but sometimes i just miss the guy he was when i was 15.

🥀- last time you cried? Wednesday afternoon! While, you guessed it, watching Bohemian Rhapsody. It’s been 4 times, but i still cry a lot.

🎁- when is your birthday? March 3rd!

🔪- scariest/creepiest experience? I try to steer clear of anything even remotely scary or creepy, i hate that kind of stuff.

💤- date someone younger, older, or same age as you? I really don’t care as long as the connection’s there, but life has shown that i get along better with people that are a bit older than me!

🎀- any question you want I’m going to make this question into “where do you hope to be in three years?” because i think it’s interesting. If my plans don’t change, i’ll be in Brighton, taking another degree which i’ll hopefully enjoy this time. Which means i’ll have my own flat again - i hope it’s somewhat near the sea, so i can go quite often. I also hope i made friends that are on the same wavelength as i am, and who knows, maybe even found a good guy?

If you read this whole ordeal, thank you so much lol! That was really fun! I hope you have a nice day!

[sometimesrosy]

Dutiful chapter 2; Lively

rosymamacita

Chapter 2 read on AO3

What a lively company at Murphy hall. Of course everyone would look to the dashing Captain Blake as a match for the lively cousin Echo. Of course Clarke would have to bear it all, the courtship, the social gatherings, the long walks.

And of course to Bellamy Blake, Clarke Griffin was nothing, nobody, merely the meek sister of his host, a quiet, dependable fourth at cards. The woman who plays the pianoforte while the lively sort danced.

Murphy Hall was lively. Every day and night, it was filled with laughter and youth and jubilation, for all, but Clarke. The addition of Emori’s cousins created such an air of celebration, as Emori and Niylah and Echo filled the warm house with ribbons and songs and chatter. It was a happy place to be and Clarke witnessed it all. John himself was charmed and sat with her one morning while she played with her nephews.

“The ladies are remarkably lively, are they not? They bring such an air of possibility. I confess, Emori has longed for their company but they have always been occupied by other concerns. I think Emori misses the freedom of her life before marriage, and her cousins do remind her.”

“They seem a happy and beautiful sort,” Clarke said, imagining a time when she herself embraced that kind of optimism.

“Oh, don’t listen to me, dear sister, I know you must think us all remarkably silly ninnies to be taken with such childish pursuits. You have always been so steady and dependable, always willing to be there for others. To take care of them. You really are the best sort.”

Clarke smiled. It would be churlish to say that she resented being responsible sometimes, that she wished she could run away to adventure, especially when he complimented her so.

“It must be a burden for you to listen to us joke and play all day when you’d much rather be reading or learning something productive or something. You always made me feel he wastrel.”

“I don’t think I was needed to encourage that feeling at all, John. You did fine on your own.”

He laughed and patted her hand fondly. “Always so accommodating, even with your brother’s own wastrel ways. But I am a changed man. Look at me now, master of my own house and host to such charming and wholesome company.”

The smallest boy, Jasper, handed her a toy bear and then toddled over to hang onto his papa’s knees. John smiled down at him.

“You are certainly very wholesome.” She was proud of him and she loved him and his little family. Even the girls coming to stay.

“I am so wholesome, I am intending to encourage domesticity and wedded bliss for all those around me!”

Clarke stopped. “Whatever could you mean?” Her heart was all a flutter for absolutely no reason.

“Why I intend to get my young cousins as happily married as I myself am! There is nothing for it but to spread the nuptial happiness around. I thought sure you knew.”

She shook her head afraid to speak. “I fear I do not.”

“Our party last week? The dashing Captain Blake and Lieutenant Green.”

“Oh.”

“Why yes. He said that you were already acquainted with him from your time in Polis. Tell me. Do you think he would be a good match for Echo or Niylah? Is he a good sort of fellow.”

No matter that her heart was not beating, she could do nothing but speak the truth. “He is the best of men.” She felt sure that John would hear her dashed hopes in the words. But he did not.

“Wonderful. You have given us your blessings. You must know that I hold your judgment up above anyone else’s. I depend upon it greatly. Now I can relax at my matchmaking ways and admit that yes I have invited the captains to come and walk about the grounds this afternoon. To entertain us and puzzle out which of the girls would make the best wife for him.”

John did not wait for a response. He was sure he had it already. And he didn’t notice the way she stared at him as he departed. And the way her heart was in her throat, or how the room was spinning, or how her hands had gone cold.

“Auntie Clarke!” her older nephew, Wells, said. “Come play with me.”

She turned her attention back to the child, and swallowed. “Anything, dear one. You would never break my heart.”

****

She was glad to have gotten the warning. If Clarke had not been prepared to see Bellamy Blake striding into the parlor, dressed for a stroll, she might have fainted dead away. And watching the girls, especially Echo, flutter about him might have forced an unbecoming weepiness right out of her. But as it was, she was prepared. She had steeled her backbone to the inevitability of the lively flirting of the pleasant party.

“Oh but you simply must come with us, Clarke,” Niylah entreated her and her sister joined in.

“Yes do, Clarke. Your company is ever so soothing. You are always sure to make sure that any party you are a part of is satisfied and engaged. We must have you. Isn’t it so?” Echo’s words were sincere, and she was, herself, so pleasant a girl, and the rest of the party agreed so wholeheartedly Clarke could do nothing else but concede to accompany them. As she reached for her bonnet she caught the glance of the one person who was not celebrating that Clarke had agreed to come with them.

Bellamy Blake’s eyes were so dark and stormy as they met hers that Clarke felt changed all the way to her toes. She did not know if she felt hot or cold, she only knew that she could not move until he broke her gaze and swept out after the rest of the party.

On the walk, she let herself lag behind the party, although it was clear that no one noticed her falling behind. The knowledge of what she and Captain Blake had once meant to each other combined with how little he seemed to care now filled her with an inexplicable shame. And it was all she could do to trail behind, listening to the bright chatter of the girls, John and Emori’s fascinated questions about Captain Blake’s adventures on the high seas, and Bellamy’s answers, tales that filled her with fire and with yearning.

It was too much to bear and she let herself slow down even further until she could no longer hear of a life that she had no right to. The group had passed far ahead of her, bright laughter floating back on the wind only occasionally and Clarke struggled with the weight of everything, of all she had lost and what she must surely never find again. She had thought that she had put Bellamy Blake behind her, had made peace with her lot in life, but it was evident now that this was not so.

She reached the fence at the road and put a hand to it as she stepped over the stile, but her toe snagged in the hem of her dress and she nearly stumbled. Before she could gasp, there was a strong hand on her elbow helping her over the gate.

Captain Blake said not a word, but his eyes pierced hers, as he passed her through to the other side.

“There you are!” cried Niylah. “We thought we lost you.”

“Shame, Miss Clarke, getting so far behind. We will have to make sure you do not escape us again.” With that the two girls each took one of Clarke’s arms and continued on in their walk, on either side of her. The conversation continued on, much like before, only this time she was in the middle of it, although she was rarely addressed, and Captain Blake still avoided admitting her presence.

*** Clarke had to admit that the company at Murphy Hall was of the most genial sort. The addition of Captain Blake and his friend Captain Monty was met with the utmost delight as John and Emori were pleased to report that Echo and Captain Blake were developing an attachment.

The Murphys could do nothing but assume that Clarke shared their joy in the happiness of two such fine folk, and Clarke did nothing to disabuse them of the notion. She continued to play the pianoforte when it was asked of her, and to sit in as fourth when another hand was called for in pinochle. She entertained the children and served as walking companion when one girl or another wanted to stroll about the picturesque lands. Clarke was, in all cases, considered to be a fine companion.

Clarke determined herself to be satisfied with this and had gone to fetch a shawl for Niylah. She was perhaps quicker in returning than the party had expected. As she was nearing the door to the parlor, she heard her name mentioned. A tremor set up in her bones that could not entice her to break into the conversation, nor could she force herself to turn away.

“John has told me,” Emori’s bright voice came through half open door, “that his sister Miss Clarke has never once had a suitor. Can you imagine? Such a pleasant girl.”

“What, never?” Niylah asked, her interest piqued.

“Not a one. Her first season in Polis was interrupted when they called her home to care for the estate and their injured sister Raven, and she refused any other entreaties to take another season in town. For sure if it had been me, I would have gone to cause as much trouble as I might, but I found my dear John early in life and had no need to search any longer.” Clarke could hear the fondness in Emori’s voice.

“To be fair to my sister,” John said, “I do not think Polis was a place that made her happy. She was always more content to stay at home and care for us than to go out and make merry and dance and find a dashing naval officer to fall in love with.” The laughter in the room was soft and fond. The silliness of the idea. “Besides, she refused to talk about her time in Polis and I always came away with the impression that it was an uneventful and lonely time for her.”

“It cannot be,” Echo said. “She is lovely enough, with her golden hair and pleasant figure, with a substantial fortune. Surely someone attempted to win her heart away. Perhaps it was a scandal and she is hiding her wicked ways.” The laughter came again.

“My sister? A scandal? She would never even consider it. There has never been a better, more honorable person. She would never harm the people she loved by acting in such a way. That kind of behavior was entirely the territory of her youngest brother, and she would never have acted the bad example for him.” This time the laughter was at John’s expense. “No. Clarke Griffin is the finest example of womanhood who will sacrifice everything for those she loves. We must all strive to be more like her in all things.”

“I simply refuse to believe that Miss Clarke is such a paragon of womanly virtue that she never danced or kissed a man—“ the protests in the room were cut short when Echo simply spoke over them, “or challenged the rules of polite society. She’s a woman, not a paragon of domestic life. I believe that she has a rebellious soul underneath her meek exterior,” Clarke heard a shifting. “Tell me, Captain Blake, you knew Miss Clarke when she went to Polis, was she always as John says? So perfect?”

Clarke was afraid to breathe.

“I must confess,” Captain Blake’s deep voice came slowly, cooly, “the Clarke Griffin I met here at Murphy Hall bears little resemblance to the Clarke Griffin of my acquaintance in Polis six years ago. She has changed so entirely that I might not have known her at all, without the introduction.”

For Clarke, the world had stopped. But the discussion continued on.

“La! I told you so,” Echo cried. “Miss Clarke danced all night and had suitors surrounding her. She was the wild child.”

“You are the wild child, Echo,” Niylah laughed. The rest of them laughed. Clarke could bear it no longer and fled to her room. When Emori knocked on her door to tell her that they were going for their constitutional, Clarke begged a headache and stayed away.

[jshoulson]

Today’s Poem

Letters to America (An Abecedary) --Fred D'Aguiar

For Yogita and Anish�

“Ah neva seen this before in all ma years.” Testify, Sis. How we grew accustomed, Spoiled almost, by decorum, now try Mosquito larvae cultivating at speed In standing bodies of water. Pigeons Flock rooftops, twist, launch, shout As one, spin sky, turn skulls porous.

Car repair shop drills sing industry. Tires feel out parking, meters freed. First horn blare triggers this chorus. Step up pistons, fire motor mouths, Say our only worry is our worst fears Come true. Mosquito straw proboscis Drinks from my arm, bam! Adios asterisk.

•

But, really, am I eyeballing an armored truck? Says one dung beetle to half earthworm, Who replies, as Gloucester, I see it feelingly.

Who gave those uniforms permission to storm School car parks, automatics drawn? Finches ask Robins, who, channeling Auden, whistle —

Bang! WTF!

Bang, bang, Lulu, Lulu gone ...

The calypso worked its juju On my digital radio.

Flags at half-mast for this Union. Taps on trumpets dawn till dusk. Guides, Scouts, look out for rainbows

Projected on a disused warehouse in LA County. Clocks throughout the land tell one contiguous time. Rain and shine stop dead in tracks on borderlines.

•

Cat asks me if dogs can ever be cool. After two of my kind pin down one of his On a front porch until chased off by our rulers.

I open my mouth to spit some piety about Lions lying down with lambs but only bark What my genes say I should, ears pulled back.

Do you remember Judas Iscariot? Thirty silver Pieces and a certain last supper just for this. A taser for every problem warns the bee

With an empty bonnet, sting for emphasis, About why one plus one never makes two, After voting from sea to oil-slicked sea.

Look at her, look at him, hold, kiss babies In photo ops, all gaga, minus bathtub Never mind water, in this national soap,

This wait for the next sentence whose weight “Illegals” carry on shoulders they look over Nonstop, even in sleep, one eye open,

Breath held when police cruise by, Car backfire skin jump heartbeat skip, Day in, day out, glory hallelujah, do I have

A witness as empire zips into bonfire. For what? To dip wrists in fresh water From an inverted fountain in a square.

•

Black lives matter but blue lives matter more. Duh. Veins, blue, blood, plus or minus, B this or A that. Epicurus, I find your coin staring up at me From the bottom of my beer mug, too late For Troy, for Trayvon. I need a flotation device, A buoy, Woolf’s lighthouse and single room Garvey’s Star Line to beam me up Scotty.

Where is yesteryear’s full moon that silvered Towers and made a midnight lake of the city Where lovers strolled, hand in hand, one black, One white, with no mind for anyone and no two Minds in their business? Gone the way of drones Whose shadows crossed the moon without trace On GPS to sow grief in the name of cod, liver, oil.

Spell it out or risk talk stuck in ecofriendly caves. Black and blue, both, why can’t we, intoned, Rodney (not Walter), get along? Because, Because, because (fill in the dots) with your Trotsky (or Brodsky) and your Marx (Groucho). Laugh therapy narrows eyes, blocks ears, Hurts jaws, ribs, merrily, merrily, cha-cha. Cha.

•

Eek-A-Mouse blasts my buds, as I read The instruction manual, which says One thing but leads to another When I piece it together, finally. It being the thing I refuse to name.

My nerves, porous as that strainer I hold over a tilted pot full of spaghetti In hot water. Pavarotti in the shower, Malcolm before a cracked mirror, Gaga at each news item competing

For part Fool. Ornate, abandoned nest Left in place, in my suburban rafter, Squirreled from without a note, Unless feathers could ever be a sign Of things to come, of what once was.

•

Face Beckett’s door, imperceptibly ajar.

His stage direction, for how things Turn out here if this show goes on.

Sir Ian, why reserve your last check For your flies, before you take the stage?

Because all eyes alight there first.

Mr. Spock, where is the logic in this?

I marvel at comics from my youth In 4K, LED. Captain, put me ashore.

By which I mean at sea with sirens, Ears unwaxed, sternum lashed to bow.

What is your name? Kunta. Whip.

Am I not a ... asked Sizwe in Fugard.

You are trans, on loan from genes, Dust, waves, particles, here, today.

•

Go-go in la-la land whines craft for art’s saké. See that chrysalis hanging like a mural. Should it stop unfolding, hold back Dues, suspend when wings peel gloves, Snake free, take flight, remind the greed In our chi, Che, cha, what turns without Turning? If you must know, but first,

Shush, write milk in lemon juice on foolscap, Read by passing over Bunsen. Mercurial Chemists, we were all Curie. Cooked crack Ready to pay any price, to find out if love Could ever be a portion, all you would need, To spin Mercator a tad faster on whiteout Poles, match our heart, tap, rat-a-tat burst.

•

1. Hummingbird feeder needs refill 2. Peel sticker, off window, that says glass 3. Buy T-shirt with directive, mind the gap 4. Sip tea from mug, of civil rights dead 5. Breathe in, sure, but really exhale 6. Note how breeze lifts a whole branch 7. Whose green skirt shows white undies

•

I mean certain legends about flight that grow up with right minds to help them come to terms with change that may be out of their control.

Lone branch ranges from a curved palm 90 feet over LA’s 1914 craftsman in historic Adams. How flayed branch cruises broadcasts a specific gravity geared to flight of the right kind, slow, bracing, reluctant, noncommittal, inevitable, and resigned to its fate.

Through double-glazing I hear, so I believe, that swoosh of storied capital decline, swish perhaps, almost a whistle, as you wish, much like us as kids with a clasped blade of grass held to our pursed lips for that didgeridoo that was elevator music to us atonal types.

But how can a branch sing if made to move on by wind and rain from where it began, and thought it would end, even if a philosophy spread among shoots of a final sail set for another dimension?

As word of government raids spread through town and university we forwarded emails, Instagrams, and stopped with neighbors in streets to exchange the latest.

Is this time for emergency measures or are we too blind to know what we can feel coming a mile away, where someone who knows someone we know stops for bread, milk, eggs and is grabbed, handcuffed, and carted off to detention? Imagine us as branches dislodged in a sea change helped by soft water. We cling, not to give up on all we know. What for? That fall, we must accept as fate.

•

Juggernaut ancestors shape-shift cumulus, March across dull blue grass to bagpipes.

Change bandages on Grandmother. Amputated right hand she says she feels

Rainy days in Georgetown as a firm handshake That rattles all 27 phantom bones, makes her shiver.

Grandfather never averts his bifurcated lens From his Golden Treasury, unless his hanky readies

To catch eyewater at the blurred sight of her. In a time of airships, of toothpicks operated

Behind hand cover. Whoever you vote for, (Runs the calypso) the government gets in,

Ting-a-ling-a-ling. Doan tek serious thing Mek joke, bannoh. WTF. Twin towers got us

Here. Nah, Reagan. Nope, slavery. Try again. Irony, that republic of deferred action.

Hummingbird smashes into that glass door, My mother walks absently into it too.

I glance just in time, brake and catch a face That I look through to my final destination.

•

K Street in South London? Now? How? One morning at 6:30 I crossed Blackheath Hill.

On my paper round Met a scrawny fox halfway Uphill, down, not sure.

We paused, inhaled each Other, fox-trotted away, In a slight panic,

Me thinking tabloid Headlines, rabid animal Chases paper kid

On delivery route. Follow as I buzz myself Into a tower,

Board elevator, a man In a suit exits, With the merest nod.

Climb 8 floors, carry That fox, and just as I plunge The folded Mirror

Into letter box, Door, ajar, flies open, wham!

A very pregnant Woman, naked, swollen breasts Blazing redhead, small

Burning bush at crotch, Fills doorframe, scrambles my head. She takes one moment

To compute I am Not her partner, slams door, smack, In my wide-eyed face.

That moment, as she Processes me and I her, Stretches out enough

For me to see her Shoulder-length, red, flaming curls And inverted red

Triangle tuft at her crotch, Bright stretched skin at her Distended navel,

An outie, as though I crashed at high speed and could Recall the lead up

Frame by stark frame for Posterity, mine and hers, Her child near its term.

The rest of my round I peer left, right, near distance, Round bends, for said fox.

I conjure woman, Pregnant, framed by her threshold, Here, now, with only

Me, you, these measures, This emergency, all three, To foster, connect all.

•

Lap up 70s Airy Hall, Guyana. One road in and one road out, One of everything village, Caiman, donkey, peacock, And mad expat Englishman Footloose and fancy-free Who we stone with red sand That crumbles on contact Grabbed from the roadside That acts as giant bow, Strung with two-story house, Whose Greenheart frame, Tensed, held all this time. English pelted for saying, Down his big burnt nose, That he was sent here To rule us half-clad children That he in his better days Seeing better times before Guyana’s famous red rum Got the better of him, Helped sow high and low, And everything between Our town and country.

•

Maestro, we played shoots Planted in one place Sprouts in disorderly rows, Up whole feet if you look away For a spell, all loaded In one hammock strung Between rafters in a back room Empty until harvest Stuffed paddy from roof To pillar to post. Rice husk smell for days. Rocking chair song and dance On full moons, donkey-bray At midday, peacock-scream Various most afternoons.

•

Now help bring barefoot Pale instep, cracked heel, stamping Englishman back, not to curse, Stone or ridicule, but to hear How he would remedy this now So out of sync with then.

•

Once more help us

•

Parse wheat from chaff,

•

Quantify this voting

•

Result that tests our gall.

•

Stepped-on alligator, Uncle

•

Takes for a log bridge

•

Until it lifts, shakes, yawns.

•

Velocity of legs cycling air, Caiman, not alligator, Lassoed between two poles, Fetched back to the house, Cut loose in a fenced field For sport for that day, Lost to me every day since. I bring it back, steady Its shine, against this time,

•

Where I am told one past Counts most, all others Must be put down to what That alligator, jaws open, Head reared, presents, Ready to lash with tail, Charge at anyone Who takes it for a log.

•

X marks the spot where Englishman walks in half Circles, pumps his bent Arms as if to fly, cackles Like a peacock, only to get The real thing started, The two in a quarrel thrice Removed from that magic Flower duet from Lakmé By Léo Delibes. Peacock, Donkey, caiman, village fool, Be my ally, bring it all, Cow, moon, dish, spoon.

•

Yo-Yo Ma follows Eek On democracy’s Shuffle Play.

•

Zebra asks me in Queen’s English peppered with Esperanto If he be black whiff white stripes Or white wid black stripes. I wake with this atonal pair On the edge of my edginess:

“I do not care, I do not care, If the Don has on underwear.”

“But don’t you think or worry some, That his nudity is zero sum?”

“I cannot see for the life of me, Why that should concern anybody.”

“I fret when all’s said and done, We leave him be, he has his fun.”

[metaphysicsinwater]

Forlorn! the very word is like a bell

         To toll me back from thee to my sole self!

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947), dir. Joseph L. Mankiewicz.

[metaphysicsinwater]

Of course, he did.

The Ghost and Mrs. Muir (1947), dir. Joseph L. Mankiewitz