#i thought sunrises meant now beginnings that's why crow was all about them

[darlin-collins]

"back then no one knew if they'd live to see another year,or even another day, it was a way of telling someone they're special,that they're important to you that you'd want them to carry on living,even if you die , you want them to see the next sunrise"

oh that tree looks very huggable at 220mph!!

[little-writings]

Jumin Week: Day 6 {Future}

Old and grey, you and Jumin spend the day together and wonder what could possibly come next in your lives.

Word Count: 2,556

Hello! I’m sorry I haven’t posted for every day, this week (Not Jumin week but just this general week) has been maybe the most stressful of my life? Probably not, but I’ve barely had any good days these past couple months so maybe it’s just wearing down on me. But regardless, I truly hope you enjoy this prompt and you yourself have a terrific day! Thank you, dearies <3

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Jumin woke in the morning with a yawn, the old familiar aches creeping in like the aged engravings of wood. 

The spot in the bed beside him was sunken but empty, the bedsheets spilling over onto his side with the familiar, albeit faded smell of your perfume. It brought a smile to his face, his crow’s feet growing worse every day because of you and your innate talent of brightening his days. 

He rose from the bed and his bones rattled in that curious way his father once warned him of. 

But funnily enough, Jumin hadn’t felt the years go by.

He remembered all the birthdays, the celebrations, and even the downs alongside the ups. 

Yet like a flowing breeze, it never weighed down upon him -- the loss of his youth never frightened Jumin. If anything a part of him had always looked forward to it. 

After all, it meant Jumin grew old with you. 

You both watched your hair fade to grey and wrinkles settle along your face in the nights full of quiet laughter where you’d draw along the outlines like one would with their palms. 

Jumin found you outside on the balcony you’d transformed into a garden years ago. The sky overhead was almost cloudy but patches of sunlight still broke through, a stream of such light spilling onto you in a splash of warmth. 

Jumin knelt down next to you, pressing a tender kiss to the side of your head. 

“Good morning love.” He hummed, his voice low and crackling, far less smooth than it once was but far softer and kinder in turn. 

You smiled and leaned into him, wisps of your grey hair winding ever so delicately with his fingers as he wrapped an arm around you, easing you close. Even now, years, decades, since you met, you remained tethered at the hip. 

“Good morning!” You beamed, your cheeks rosy and bright. “Did you get the tea I left you in the kitchen? I just made it. It’s your favorite, lavender!” 

“No, I must have missed it,” Jumin remarked. “I’d be more than happy to go get it if you’d join me.” 

“And what of the flowers?” 

“Surely they can withstand an hour on their own. I can have someone come up and care for them if you’d like.” 

You paused and an amused tinge washed over your smile. “I suppose they could...” Your shoulders dropped with a sigh. “I don’t even know why I started this garden somedays.” 

Jumin chuckled and rose to his feet, helping you up in return -- neither of you nearly as nimble as you once were. 

“Well, if it’s any consolation, I quite like your garden.” He glanced back at their blooming petals, a myriad of shapes, sizes, and colors. “I especially like your forget-me-nots.” 

“I would never not plant them!” As you both stepped inside you took a seat by the dining table and fiddled with your ring, the engravings weathered still just as true as the day you put it on your finger. “They were our wedding flowers.” 

“Exactly.” He took the still steaming cup of tea in his hands, his palms warming at the very touch. He took a sip and it warmed his entire body in an instant. “Do you want anything, dear?” 

“Oh no, I had honey and lemon earlier!” You sat back. “I watched the sunrise.” 

“Why didn’t you wake me? You know I would’ve loved to join you.” 

“You looked so peaceful!” You laughed and any symphony paled in comparison. “You used to so rarely get a full night’s rest -- I think you really needed retirement -- time for yourself... everyone needs it.” 

“I didn’t have anything to retire for, once.” He stood beside you, setting a hand on your shoulder and squeezing it tenderly. 

“You and Elizabeth 3rd could’ve gone on a wonderful vacation together.” You chimed. “I think she would’ve liked that.” 

That sweet, darling cat with fur as white as snow and eyes like a crystalline sky had passed away years ago but lingered ever so present as though she never entirely left. Jumin still kept her collar hidden away in his coat pocket -- like she may appear missing the little chime of her bell. 

She was family, as much as anyone else, but at least she left in her sleep, peacefully cuddled between the two of you, purring so loud and so sweet. That was all you could’ve asked for. However, you weren’t afraid to admit that tears still brimmed at the edge of your eyes thinking of it. 

“It was a shame she never liked the leash.” Jumin simpered. “But without you, I don’t think our family would’ve ever been entirely complete.” 

“Well don’t you worry,” You patted his hand and tipped your head up to give a grin as youthful as the day you met. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Jumin softened -- but weakened all the same. 

How much longer could you truly keep that promise? 

When you were younger that statement was so easy to say -- there was no sort of inevitability weighing down on your hearts. You married, you had a family, and you were utterly and absolutely blissful. None of that had changed. 

But each and every day, Jumin woke up a tad bit more afraid that you wouldn’t be there beside him -- you’d be no more -- and all over again Jumin would be alone. 

The world became dark and cramped at the very idea -- it was a world that he didn’t belong in -- a world foreign to-

“Jumin,” You squeezed his palm, snapping him back to reality. “I’m still here. I’m okay, and so are you.” 

Jumin remembered to let out the breath caught in his throat and a weight lifted from his body he hadn’t even recognized -- like cinderblocks tethered to his ankles being unbound. He was here and now. 

“R-Right... of course -- I’m sorry,” He folded his lips sheepishly, trying to undo the knot in his brow. “What would you like to do today?” 

You stood up and wrapped a gentle hand around his cheek, your husband melting into the touch as if it were easier than blinking. 

“I think a walk would be good.” 

You always said that when Jumin needed to clear his mind. 

The streets had become quieter as the years passed by. Perhaps all the honking horns and antsy tires dulled in his ears, but it no longer popped and crackled along the streets like it once did. 

Jumin didn’t mind it -- if anything, it gave him more of a chance to notice other things. The people, their conversations, the sky, the shops, and you. 

You chattered about all sorts of things and Jumin adored every minute of it. The second he chimed in you’d watch with wide eyes larger than dinner plates and Jumin couldn’t even finish without a smile stretching from ear to ear. 

“You should’ve been a comedian you know,” You said as they dawdled, the clouds now having parted to reveal a sunny and warm afternoon. “I would’ve gone to every show.” 

“Why do you say that?” 

“I love your jokes. I loved it when you’d call me just to tell me one you’d think of in a meeting.” You bit back a snort. “There was one -- it was my favorite -- about cats... shopping...?” 

Jumin was a tad bit embarassed that the joke came to him almost immediately. “Why don’t cats like shopping online...?”

 “They prefer... prefer a... a cat-alouge!” Like a firework, you lit up. Jumin’s heart swelled at the sound of your laughter, overwhelming anything else around you in a sea of warmth and wonder. Nothing else mattered. “Ah -- that’s it!” 

Jumin tipped his head to the side, smirking. “I don’t think my father would’ve approved of the career choice.” 

“He would’ve come with me to every show,” You mused. “I’d drag him if I had to!” 

“I sure you would’ve. I could always come out of retirement if you’d like.” 

“I only want you to do what you want.” You ruffled his hair, curly strands falling over his face. “But I would help you write your routines.” 

“Mmhm,” You shared a fond kiss and the faintest taste of tea still hung on your lips, sweet and warming. “As tempting as that sounds, I think I’ll stay right here.”

“I think that works just fine.” 

With your arrival home came a rush of refreshing, cold air. The day was spent settled on the sofa with a book settled between the two of you. Jumin found himself enthralled with stories since he’d gained the time to actually read them outside the late hours of the night. Though, since you joined him, the two of you typically spent until those late hours of the night talking about the stories. 

It was nice to finally have someone to talk to. 

You brought that thought to his head often. 

Yet as the evening trickled in with its colors of orange, yellow, and red, you rose from your spot beside him and stretched your weary limbs. 

“I need to go check on the flowers. Will you be alright?” 

Jumin chuckled. “Yes, of course, love.” 

He watched you leave and listened to the sound of the door opening and closing with a faint tug of his heart. He knew it was silly, but he already missed you. 

Goodness, how ridiculous he felt. How much worse would this be when you couldn’t come back? Not because you wouldn’t but because you couldn’t.

What would Jumin do when there was no longer you to wake up to?

Who would he look for in the mornings? Who would he spill all his thoughts and questions to? Whose smile and laughter could possibly even begin to light up his days like yours?

Who could Jumin ever possibly love in the unfathomably unmeasurable way he loved you? 

Who could he spend his days with... if not with you? 

What would even be the point of those days anymore? Without you, the world felt cold and unnerving -- like those craggy old spaces in Jumin’s mind full of tangles and twists that sent chills up his spine and lumps in his throat. He’d already lost so much -- the one thing he couldn’t stand -- couldn’t make it through -- was losing you. 

Jumin’s vision blurred and a tear dropped fell to the page of the story still clasped in his hands. 

He blinked slowly, suddenly a single instinct blazing through him as he scrambled for his phone, calling you.

Jumin could remember the restless nights he called you when you’d first joined the RFA. The way he spilled open his heart like the cracking walls of a dam, and how you listened -- ever so patient, and ever so kind. 

He just wanted to hear your voice -- that was all. Just for a moment and he’d be fine. Wouldn’t he?

You answered. 

“Jumin? Honey, why are you calling me? I’m just on the balcony, silly!” 

“Love...” Jumin sat down, his leg thumping against the floor, restless. His voice threatened to break and grew softer by the second. “Could you promise me something?” 

“What is it?” 

“When... when one of us has to pass -- let it be me.” Jumin pinched the bridge of his nose with a shaky sigh. “I-I’m not ready to be without you. I don’t think I could do it.” 

You didn’t speak, and Jumin thought he might shatter. 

“Come outside.” You murmured. “Could you?” 

“Ah... of course.” 

The evening air was cool with the faintest tinge of stars creeping over the grand roofs of the skyscrapers. Perhaps were it any other situation Jumin would’ve stargazed with you until you were dozing off with yawns and heavy lids, but now all inside of him was a deep, black pit of fears breaking through in full force. 

You gestured to him to a pair of seats overlooking the balcony, ornate and aged -- just like the two of you. He sat down across from you, your hand settling on his knee before he could begin tapping. 

“Jumin, what’s going on...?”

“Are you telling me you haven’t thought of it?” He furrowed his brow. “Not even once?” 

“Of course I have. We’re not young anymore -- and no one can avoid death,” You answered gently. “But I don’t think it does us any good to be afraid of passing on.” 

You spoke gingerly, leaning close. “We don’t know what happens after all this. Who’s to say we won’t start all over again? Just a different life and a different place? Or maybe there’s an afterlife. Maybe there’s nothing at all.” 

“I don’t understand.” 

“Whatever it is -- wherever we end up -- we’ll find each other again.” 

“Darling, you know I don’t believe in fate-” 

“And who said it was going to be because of fate?” You scoffed, smirking. “I will do whatever I can to find you no matter where we are!” 

Jumin raised his head, eyes widening in surprise. 

You puffed out your cheeks indignantly, stubborn as always, but your words still wavering with overwhelming emotion. “I swore to you when we married that I would be with you forevermore. That doesn’t stop because of something as silly as dying!”

You took in a sharp breath, and a few tears broken from your eyes, pouring down your cheeks, Jumin immediately reaching out to wipe them away. 

“As long as you love me, I will stay -- I’ll find a way to you,” You took his hand as it lingered on your cheek and held it close, clinging. “I’m just as scared but-” 

“As long as there’s a chance, we’ll do everything we can to find each other again,” Jumin shifted to lean over you, pressing a kiss into your hair. 

“And I’ll never stop loving you, so I suppose we’re stuck together.” He tipped his forehead against your own, your eyes puffy and gleaming with affection.

“I don’t want anyone else.” 

Jumin embraced you and his arms wound around you like vines vying for sunlight -- so fervent and so desperate like it were all he ever wanted. Neither of you were ever quite sure when you’d let go -- and neither of you cared. 

You weren’t young and youthful as you once were -- your skin was wrought with wrinkles and your hair was greyer than dust but your love hadn’t changed, not a bit. That adoration was still just as enduring and unending as ever -- and it would be, whether in this life or the next it would prevail. 

You just had to find each other. 

And neither you or Jumin would ever stop searching. 

[koenashi-blog]

= FE:Fates AU Support Conversations: Hiiro & Waki =

C SUPPORT

Hiiro: Waki.

Waki: Oh, Hiiro. What can I help you with?

Hiiro: I just wanted to make sure you were well. I never thought you would join the army, of all things.

Waki: I'm doing fine—honest. I've been in Hoshido's service for a few years already, so I've had plenty of time to get adjusted. I'm more concerned about you. Capable warrior as you are, the camp is rife with talk about your... well, origins.

Hiiro: About how I'm from Cheve.

Waki: ...Yes.

Hiiro: People will always talk and assume as they please. A Hoshidan in Nohrian territory, a Hoshidan coming from Nohrian territory—the rumors will all be the same regardless of where I am. It's no skin off my back. You shouldn't be worried on my behalf.

Waki: I'm your friend, aren't I? How can I not be worried?

Hiiro: I appreciate your feelings, Waki. But please, lay your troubles to rest. Should anything happen that truly bothers me, I will come to you.

Waki: I expect you to keep those words.

Hiiro: I will. I promise.

B SUPPORT

Waki: Just need to twist this a little more and... that should do it. Now I need to let this cool down before I put it back into place.

Hiiro: Waki? Do my eyes deceive me? Are you actually in front of a hearth—with smithing tools?

Waki: I'm a mechanist, you know! It's my responsibility to maintain and repair my puppet as any rider would for their mounts. After all, I'd be in a bind should it not function properly on the battlefield.

Hiiro: I understand and yet... I've always remembered you as wanting to be a painter. Smithing was going to be my trade, when I succeeded my father.

Waki: Painting has very little use in a war. I wouldn't last with a weapon, either. At least, with this, I could retain my craftsmanship while fulfilling my duties here. It all worked out. I mean, look at what I've managed to create! The outside is beautifully carved from cherry wood with an internal system of iron springs and cogs and levers that are coated to perfectly channel magic to achieve movement. I'm very proud of this puppet.

Hiiro: It is rather impressive.

Waki: ...And to be honest with you, all I thought of while I was building this puppet were the times we used to help your father in his workshop.

Hiiro: Some help we were. Back then, we couldn't even lift the hammer to shape the metal, so he just had us quench the blades.

Waki: But Tanizaka was using the quenching trough, so we had to use the standing one. And since neither of us were tall enough to reach the top, I had to sit on your shoulders to even dip the damn thing in the water.

Waki: I'm pretty sure that Tanizaka occupied the trough on purpose. He was always sly like that.

Hiiro: Everything worked out in the end, though.

Waki: With us two, it always did.

Hiiro: At least... until we left.

Waki: ...Yeah.

Hiiro: …

Waki: …

Waki: You couldn't help your circumstances. You moved out of necessity. I could hardly blame you for that.

Hiiro: …

Waki: Come on, Hiiro. What was it you said before? 'Please, lay your troubles to rest. Should anything happen that truly bothers me, I will come to you.'

Hiiro: That was a poor imitation.

Waki: But the sentiments behind it are true. It even made you smile a little.

Hiiro: … 'I expect you to keep those words.'

Waki: That was an even poorer imitation!

A SUPPORT

Hiiro: ...Waki.

Waki: We seem to be bumping into a lot lately. Rather, you seem to be seeking me out.

Hiiro: …

Waki: Hiiro. What’s wrong? You can tell me.

Hiiro: …I heard some rumors around the camp. They… They said that you had been seduced by a court poet. That he had forced you into unsavory acts and debauched you.  

Waki: …Ah.

Waki: Well, they’re not completely wrong.  

Waki: It was after you and your family had left. He had yet to become a court poet, then—he’d just been a man named Hibiki with a gift for words and a strong aspiration to show his talents to anyone who would listen. When we first met, he told me that he saw me before in my father’s boat when we were pulling up our nets. He told me that I was beautiful, that the sunrise behind me couldn’t even compare—all in verse.

Waki: Now that I think about it, you probably wouldn’t have liked him. You would’ve said he was too glib and that he was trying to lead me astray. You were always the reasonable one out of the both of us—with you gone, I was swept away by the force of his praises. I drowned in the way he said he loved me. By the time he had asked me to leave the village to make a better life for the both of us—him with his poems and me with my paintings—I was too drunk on all of it to say anything but yes.

Waki: We went to the capital. Hard times befell us, despite the city’s affluence. Hibiki was getting increasingly frustrated with the situation and, after a while, he resigned himself to taking the examination in order to become a government official. His examination soared above all the rest. They say that even the late king had been impressed, though I can’t say for sure if he was just exaggerating. Nevertheless, it seemed like our luck was changing. Hibiki told me I would worry for nothing anymore: he has the court’s favor. I could stay at our home, tend to the domestic tasks, wear all the kimonos and jewelry I had always been too ashamed to don, paint to my heart’s content. And when he would come home, we would love each other.  

Waki: That’s how it was supposed to have been, at least. The temptations of the court are like the waters that make up the sea. Hibiki was swept up in that grandeur much like I had been with his words. He changed. He would stay at the castle for days at a time, would flirt and lie with other noble concubines, would guilt me into silence and into… into what the rumors say.

Hiiro: …

Waki: He made me question myself. Wouldn’t I be betraying his love for me? His good faith? What home would want to accept me back, willful child that I am? What family would take back the person who’s supposed to be their son, but finds them to be lured by pretty kimonos and hair ornaments and other things meant for a daughter? He was the only one who would love and accept the me that I discovered to be true.

Waki: But I had enough of it, after a while. And in the many years we’ve known each other, slept in the same bed, indulged in one another’s bodies and hearts—in all that time, I learned the potency of words and the power of credibility. I needed to use mine to free myself from it. But who would listen? Hibiki certainly wouldn’t. Neither would the court, I assumed. He was a prized official who had rose to a high-ranking position. I nearly lost all hope until, on the one afternoon I was going to throw my life away, I crossed paths with a woman.

Waki: ‘What ails you so?’ she had asked me. I crumpled and sobbed and laid all my burdens onto this stranger—and as I wept of all my misfortunes, she merely put her hand against my back and comforted me. When I emptied myself of all my tears, she said something I’ll never forget.

Waki: ‘You have endured much. Your strength will be rewarded and the world will vindicate you.’ Her words rang true. Soon after, our relationship came to light. All the things he had done to cement his place in the court were exposed. He still retained his position, but his reputation suffered as a result. I could go home.

Waki: …The one who made it happen—the one who vindicated me and rewarded me with my freedom—was none other than the late Queen Mikoto.

Hiiro: And that’s why you enlisted afterwards.

Waki: Mm…

Hiiro: Waki—

Waki: Don’t feel bad for me. Don’t feel guilty for not being there. Like I said, I can’t blame you for what you had no control over. You’re here now anyway. We’re both standing here because of how our lives played out, so… don’t regret any of it. It all worked out in the end.

Hiiro: …His name was Hibiki, correct?

Hiiro: If I ever come across him… I’ll cut him down myself.

Waki: Now, now, no need for any reckless bloodshed. You’re already suspected of being a Nohrian spy, anyway.

Waki: Besides…

Waki: I’ve already called to be first in line to hit him.

Hiiro: …Together, then?

Waki: Heh. Gladly.

S SUPPORT

Waki: Hiiro!

Hiiro: Hm. For once, it’s you taking the initiative to talk to me.

Waki: Only because you called me out here. It’s the middle of the night, for goodness’ sake! We’re not even on guard duty or anything.

Hiiro: Forgive me. I tried to keep it until morning, but curiosity got the better of me. Besides, I thought it would be better for us to have this talk without fear of interruption.

Waki: Did something happen?

Hiiro: No, nothing happened. I was just bothered by something during our last conversation.

Hiiro: You didn’t confirm nor deny that Queen Mikoto was the reason you joined the army. Ever since the beginning, I found it strange that you would suddenly take up arms. You were never the type to exert yourself physically and from what you told me about your time with Hibiki, there had never been a need for you to strengthen your body. Yet here you are, training and repairing and fighting with the rest of them.  

Hiiro: Waki, what’s the real reason you enlisted as a soldier?

Waki: …

Hiiro: Please, tell me the truth.

Waki: …

Waki: After the incident with Hibiki, I was going to go back to the village. I didn’t really have a clear plan in mind for what I would do when I got there—I just wanted to go home.

Waki: As I was passing through the city gates, I overheard talk about a swordsman. His strength was slowly gaining renown and infamy. He had sharp, blue eyes and hair as black as a murder of crows. They say he could cut through anything, even shadow itself. He had all the features of a Hoshidan, yet this swordsman hailed from the Nohrian territory of Cheve.

Hiiro: Ah...!

Waki: I had to find out if it was you. That’s why I joined this army. I didn’t care whether it was all for naught in the end. It gave my life a purpose again. If there was even a grain’s worth of a chance that it was you, then…

Hiiro: Waki…  

Waki: …

Waki: …I missed you terribly. I always had. And while I never blamed you for your circumstances, I spared myself none of the same mercy. I always felt like if I had been stronger or braver or even a little more reliable, like a normal boy should have been… I could have persuaded you to bring me along. All I ever wanted was to be by your side.

Waki: Even when I convinced myself that I loved Hibiki, the only one my heart yearned for was you.

Hiiro: …

Waki: …Sorry. I suppose now’s not the time for such sentiments.

Waki: I answered your question. Let’s go back to camp and rest.

Hiiro: No.

Waki: No?

Hiiro: …You had said before not to regret where our lives lead us because this is what it culminated to. I can’t accept that.

Hiiro: Because the one thing I regret, more than anything else… was leaving you behind.

Hiiro: You said you didn’t blame me for moving away. But your words ring true—I could have taken you along. I could have convinced our families. I could have even taken you and we could have run away together.

Hiiro: But instead, I played the obedient son and accepted my fate without any protest. Because of that, I nearly lost you without ever realizing it. I regret my inaction now more than ever. However, it’s also because of that regret… that I plan on not letting you disappear from me again.

Waki: Huh?

Hiiro: …Do you remember when you worried for me before? When those suspicions of me being a Nohrian spy were going around? I told you that I didn’t care for their words because it will be the same wherever I go.

Hiiro: But if I’m completely honest with myself, just having you believe in me and my integrity was enough to assuage my fears. Your opinion was all that ever mattered to me.  

Hiiro: I don’t care about your past. I don’t care about you being a willful son or wanting to wear pretty kimonos despite being a boy or wanting to paint nothing but goldfish until the world ends.

Hiiro: I only care having you with me.

Waki: H-Hiiro…

Hiiro: I love you, Waki. I realize that words may be a cheap currency to you now, but that is the truth I had promised you from before.

Waki: … *sniff*

Hiiro: Come here. It’s alright.

Waki: *sniff* H-Hiiro, I— *sob*

Hiiro: Shh. You don’t have to say any more. I already understand what you want to tell me.

Waki: I-I’m sorry, H... Hiiro... *sniff*

Hiiro: Shh… It’ll all be okay. I’m right here. I promise.

[justsomehobo]

Hatt’s Army, Chapter 2

Constructive criticism welcome! 

(Originally published July 6, 2017)

Wednesday: June 19, 1940

The next morning, I was awakened by the warmth of the pilot light in my firebox, set alight by a cleaner who had swept the floor, polished all my controls, turned a small valve that looked as if it were built for a garden hose, checked to ensure my auraphone was rising from a low contralto at a healthy rate, and moved on to Edward on my immediate left. Simmering comfortably, I woke up slowly to see, through the crack in my shed door- for the windows were boarded up on account of blackout regulations- that the morning sky was already beginning to brighten. By the time most of our drivers had arrived on their bicycles, we were all still groggy but beginning to grow sharper.

"Good morning, old boy," greeted Boris as he boarded my cab.

He waited a while, but I didn't bother giving anything above a low groan. "Anybody home?" he joked, looking up and rapping at the glass of my fisheye.

"Stop it!" insisted Maxwell, and all-but-shoved him to the back of the cab. I gave a lazy 'tsk-tsk-tsk' in agreement.

"That's no way to start a morning," yawned Edward to whomever it may have concerned.

"Ah well," I responded, "just, erm... be thankful we're heating up in time for the Report."

Edward, who had heard the rumors of my earlier bank engine fiasco with the Wild Nor'Wester, stifled a chuckle. Henry, Gordon and James didn't bother to hold back.

"PFFFFAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH HA ha ha ha!"

"AAAW HA HA HO HO ho ho ho huh huh huh…!"

"Eh HAH ha ha ha hah hah heh heh heh heh...!"

Edward kept quiet because he knew better than to give them a rise. I kept quiet because I knew of no other option.

Soon enough, it was six o'clock, and we were all gathered in time for the Morning Report. Yard Boss Havirty stood before us in his spruce-green uniform and Levi trousers, his goatee and thin, deer-like face standing in stark contrast to his naturally curly, unkempt hair that poked out from under his Zuckerman helmet.

"Good morning to you all, sirs," he shouted clearly after blowing his whistle, as he had done for years.

"Good morning, Foreman," we all answered almost instinctively.

"Today, I have some very important news for you all," Havirty heralded, "so please, pay close attention. I'm looking at you, James." James, who had been admiring a flock of crows against the sunrise, balefully glanced back at the Assistant Director.

"Now, we all heard Big Winnie's speech yesterday afternoon, and he said he would have some legal issues resolved so we could concentrate on the war effort. Among these issues was an ongoing labor lawsuit between a local union and the LMS's Faculty Commission. According to recent reports, the suit has been summarily arbited by royal action in favor of the Union; and as part of their demands, our local Commission representative office has been relocated, from Euston House in London to the Gallant Office Park in uptown Crovan's Gate. I expect you'll all be seeing him by my side quite often- especially you, Gordon. From Monday evening until Thursday morning each week, he'll be making his home in a seaside resort just south of here, and you'll be taking him to and from his office aboard the Nor'Wester. So without further ado, now would be as good a time as ever to get each other introduced. Wait here a moment, I'll call him out." And with that, he stepped into the turntable's control box to use the transceiver inside.

He directed our attention to a black Duesy pulling up nearby. Out from the left-hand front door stepped a man with a rather… heavy-set appearance. I have heard many call him 'pear-shaped', but personally his body reminds me more of a mango. He wore a freshly-ironed blue suit jacket and tie, with a yellow cardigan underneath, matching trousers, a pair of leather dress boots, in which he was almost tiptoeing over the ballast, and a top hat, which he was clutching tightly to avoid having it blown away. He walked over to the turntable with a security guard in uniform at his left, and a butler at his right. Both were keeping uncomfortably quiet, for he was in the foulest of moods.

"It's a pleasure to have you with us this morning, sir," said Havirty as he shook the mogul's gloved hand. Then turning back our way, he announced, "I would like to introduce to you all to Sir Charles Topham Hatt, Faculty Commissioner and Chief Inventory Director of the North Western Division of the London, Midland and Scottish Railway. I am- at least, technically speaking- his assistant.”

"So theyse ah Units 1 through 5?" Sir Hatt almost muttered in a curious tone. "I had olways wondahd…"

"Sir," addressed Havirty as he led the stout gentleman down the turntable in my direction, "here is our Fowler 3F, . Hereabouts we like to call him Thomas."

"Hello, kind Sir," I stammered, feeling almost guilty of receiving his attention. He didn't reply, seeming too intent on looking me over. Perhaps he was admiring how my long, slim funnel and dome up above my smokebox and boiler contrasted with the boxy cab and bunker behind and water tanks to the left and right. Sharp-dressed, refined men are always going on about ergonomics and functional form and such.

"Now, Thomas," stated Havirty clearly, "here are your orders for today: 

after reporting to Tidmouth Station at 7:30 this morning, you must

arrange the morning Limited for Edward at Platform 4 by a quarter to eight,

and the express at Platform 1 on the hour.

Then James's stopping goods is due out by 8:30 at Platform 3,

and a scenic train is expected at Platform 1 at 10 o'clock.

Then comes Elevenses, and between then and tea you shall report to the Tidmouth depot and cooled for an inspection, wash-down and a refill of coal and water. Then, once you are re-lighted,

you are to report back to your post by tea to disassemble the scenic.

A train of goods vans is expected in at that time, and when unloading is finished- which should be around 4 PM- you are to sort the vans evenly in the 3 spurs up-yard.

Processing for the Wester is expected to end at 6:45,

and for the Limited at half-past seven.

When you have finished shunting those, you may report to the Depot for the Evening Report at nine."

"Yes sir," I registered.

Havirty went on to introduce him to Edward. Our Number Two wasn't the strongest or newest of us, he explained to Hatt; in fact, he was at least 60 and his boiler was smaller than mine. But his age meant that he was dependable, experienced and understanding, and so Havirty had found a niche for him here, equipping him so that he could move both backwards and forwards just as well. This made him great for more urgent deliveries, as he could assemble light trains without the help of a shunter.

Henry was our heavy mixed-traffic engine, impartial to trucks or coaches. He was always recognized everywhere he went both for his wide boiler size and his unique bright green Mid-Sodor livery. He was built here on Sodor in 1916, our manager then explained when his turn came, in response to increasing pressure on the old Mid-Sodor Railway by Parliament to increase wartime production. The story goes that the technicians at the Crovan's Gate Engine Works simply cobbled him together from the spare parts of other engines, and I've heard many a disgruntled yard worker call him 'Crovanstein' behind his back. Nonetheless, when the war had ended and work slowed down, the bean counters at Euston decided we were better off keeping him than replacing him. He was always willing to prove himself to Havirty, for better or worse, and that, we all supposed, was his saving grace.

While Henry was haphazardly designed but modest in his ways, our express engine Gordon was anything but. He was a Princess Coronation, purpose-born and bred to run heavy express lines, and the way he spoke of it, he may as well have had royal blood in his boiler tubes. In his emperor's cloak of Midland scarlet, he was given the job of pulling the island division's flagship express train, the Wild Nor'Wester, from Knapford to the seaside town of Brendam, then to Vicarstown just across the strait from the Greater Isle, each morning from 8 to 9, and back again to Brendam and Knapford from 6 to 7 each evening. On Saturdays, when the express didn't run, he was often given stopping or scenic passenger trains, or occasionally heavy freight (a job he considered unfitting of an engine of his stature). As you may guess, 'Prince Gordon' often seemed to forget whose railway it was and who was giving the orders.

James, who wasn't as scrappy as Henry or as purebred as Gordon, still wasn't sure just where he fit in here. A Class 28, he had done local freight work in Lancashire in his early days; but then war broke out, the Government took control, and the bean counters decided to transfer him here. That must've been two months ago, and Edward was still showing him the ropes. James would always go back to the Depot each evening with another rumor from the lips of a workman for him to evaluate. Though James still missed his friends back home, the rest of us- along with Havirty- were beginning to count him among us in our boilers and smokeboxes.

"How come I never get to pull trains like the rest of you?" I thought out loud, listening to the other engines' orders enviously as Havirty made his rounds. "All the brave young men are off on the beaches and landing-grounds, defending their King and country. Why is it that I should stay here?"

"Bah!" James was quick to answer. "It's out of your league. You're already slow enough now, just pushing coaches in and out of the station!"

"Besides," put in Henry, "you don't even have a tender. I bet that little bunker of yours can't hold enough coal for you to make it to Crosby, let alone the Channel!"

"Ah," added Gordon slickly. "We are in agreement, then. To everything there is a season, little Thomas, and a time to every purpose under Heaven: a time to sow and a time to reap, a time to mourn and a time to dance. My season is now, and my purpose is to help run the Northwestern line. It is what I was put on this Earth to do, and so I give this cause all I have to give. Your own time and purpose, Thomas, is not so different from ours. I suggest you give it the respect and dedication it is due."

I looked over to Edward in hopes he would be holding out for me, but all I saw was a glare of frustration mixed with a dash of regret. A glare from Edward, it was rumored, could speak volumes, and the lowered eyebrow and widened aperture and eyelid-angle of this one came together to read: "Proceed at your own risk."

"Fine, then," I taunted back. "You just wait! You'll be sorry! 'Cos when all the Shunting is gotten done, I shall run away to the Beaches myself! And when I come back, I'll make you all regret every last word you just said just now, 'cos I'll be pulling a whole ticker-tape parade, I will! With a big brass band and everything! You just wait and see!"

The other engines took no notice, for Thomas was a little engine with a long tongue.

[latviju]

A case study on the relationship between a certain Estonian and a certain Latvian, one thousand years in the making.

for @kahendkoodi

Aiga had, up until this point, never met the boy from the North. It was here, in this open field of rye, that their fates would inevitably cross for the rest of their long, grueling lives. A soft breeze rolled through the plain, rustling his dirtied, curly locks. His own hair, which almost blended in with the stalks of rye surrounding them, clashed with the darkness of the other boy’s mop; it reminded him of the leather of his father’s sheath, deep and dangerous. But his father was long, long gone now, leaving him to wander these lands in search of answers.

( Little did he know that he would never find them. And that even millennia later, there would still be a remnant of his past self, an echo roaming the countryside on a fruitless quest for knowledge. )

It took some time for either one to speak, yet there was an unspoken agreement that lingered in the silence between them, as if they seemed to understand one another. They each had their own secret, a knowledge that the laws of mortality did not apply to them, but just by being in the other’s presence they seemed to be able to sense, simultaneously, that they were not the only ones.

It was a small comfort, knowing that there was someone else like him.

***

The battlefield had become far too familiar for his liking: the smell of copper, of desperation in the air; battle cries howling over the sounds of clashing iron; the dying breaths of the fallen, thickening the air around them. It was a chaotic atmosphere, one that Aiga would be forced to immerse himself in time and time again.

This was where he met the boy a second time. He was taller than him, leaner, and there was a ferocity in his eyes when he drove his sword through a man’s shoulder that left an odd sense of calm in his chest----after all, it mirrored his own. He saw himself in the northern boy, saw a friend, and even though they were on opposite sides of this particular fight, he knew that this was someone he wanted as an ally. Distracted, he had frozen in place, but the battle continued listlessly on around him. No man wanted to be responsible for a child’s death if he could help it, after all. As the northerner forced his blade out of his opponent’s limp body, their eyes met briefly. There was an odd look in his eyes, then, almost like… curiosity. But the flicker of intrigue was gone just as soon as it had come, and instead of confronting him, or even moving on to another opponent, the dark-haired boy turned around and walked away, turned his back away from the bloodshed and carnage.

He wasn’t quite sure why, but Aiga decided to do the same.

( There would be plenty more of it later, anyway. )

***

Their lands conquered, their people divided, the two boys had been united under one name: Livonia. There were some complications, some straggling tribes and a lack of full ecclesiastical power, but when all was said and done, the two were essentially in a union together.

It was early in the summer. Aiga--now named Karlis, or Karl by the noblemen--and Imme sat under the welcoming shade of an oak tree. The former was showing the taller boy how to make a wreath of flowers, in preparation for the midsummer festivities. Imme’s neck was covered in a soft sheen of sweat, and Karlis couldn’t help but notice that the line of his jaw was just beginning to sharpen, the bob of his neck starting to become more pronounced. Their process of aging was fickle, and there were times where it dragged on and times where it accelerated at an inhuman rate, but this was a different type of growth they were experiencing: in human terms, they were just barely on the cusp of becoming men.

Well, who knew how many centuries that would take, at least from a physical standpoint.

“You know,” Imme began, in a dying tongue that Karlis was still able to understand, “I think the gods meant for us to get married.”

“The gods? How come?”

“I don’t know,” he shrugged, but there was a thoughtful look in his eyes, the makings of a smile curling at his lips. “It just seems like it was meant to be, I guess.”

Karlis glanced down at the wreath on his lap, fiddling with a stray stem absentmindedly. “... There’s only one god now, dummy.” His tone was just barely above a whisper, and he could tell how unconvinced he sounded. They had been forced to adopt this religion, after all. He shouldn’t be expected to abide by it just yet.

“Well, then I say it’s in His plan.” The blond wasn’t sure what to make of that, but before he could say anything in response he felt a pair of lips at his cheek. It was a swift kiss, light as a feather, but he felt the blood pooling to his face in embarrassment nevertheless as he glanced incredulously over at the other boy. This was followed by a loud, cheerful laugh from the latter. “I like it when your face flushes like that. It gives you color.”

“... Finish your wreath, or the gods will be displeased with you.” Despite himself, Karlis was smiling down at his lap.

***

Everything was German now. Their nobility, their lands, even their names had been replaced with uglier, rougher versions that grated their throats.

But in the comfort of each other’s presence, there were whispers of dying languages, of new dialects that were just being born, of old tales and battle stories and, most importantly, of names that they could truly call their own.

They would talk until long after the fire was put out, speak in hushed murmurs and covered giggles. Some nights, they would just begin to see the sunrise, and the sound of the roosters crowing was a sign for them to finally lay their eyes to rest. If the people posing as their parents noticed, they said nothing on the matter.

It would be difficult to convey how delighted they were to hear each other’s true names roll off their tongues, anyway. How joyful it was to have someone to understand you wholly and unconditionally. Even if they were two different people, with different pasts and presents and futures, there was an inherent awareness that was not only accepted, but welcomed in every meeting gaze, every fleeting touch.

When they weren’t working on the farm, or separated due to another battle, another war, they would find each other under the shade of a tree and lie in the grass with their hands resting gently on top of one another. Words needn’t be spoken when their hearts could reach out from underneath their fingertips, resting in each other’s palms.

***

“Is this what marriage is like?” Karlis whispered one day, as the breeze made the grass around them dance and the fabrics of their clothes rustle. They lay beside one another in a clearing deep in the woods, propped on their elbows so they could face one another properly. There was a sacred hum to these woods, an old knowledge that hung in the air and allowed them to pretend that they were in another time, a peaceful one.

Imme shrugged. “We don’t have children, or a house, or a farm. But… we have each other. I suppose that counts.”

The blond pursed his lips, somewhat dissatisfied with the boy’s answer. “... There was never a ceremony. I don’t think it really counts.”

“Well, how about we make a promise?”

“A… promise?”

“To protect each other. Forever and always.”

“Forever and always.”

***

The word hardship, if used to describe their collective experiences throughout the centuries, would be an understatement.

Their union was eventually disbanded as borders were drawn in order to better benefit their ruling powers, and several spheres of influence were established in their respective lands. Poland-Lithuania, Sweden, even Denmark had their lands for the taking, but it wasn’t until the end of the Great Northern War that things began to truly take a turn for the worse.

( Not that they had ever been easy. )

Jānis was, for all intents and purposes, considered to be a man. His official papers listed him as being eighteen years of age----though they also stated that his name was Ivan, a constant reminder of the oppressive Russification of his people. But that was a discussion for another day. He had, physically speaking, aged quite a bit. He had grown, the angles of his face had matured, and he had learned to deal with restless nights.

The year was 1760. Both he and Nigulas had already been under Russia rule for nearly forty years now, since the end of that cursed war, but he, as of yet, had not paid a visit to the latter. There had been written correspondence, of course, but they both had been far too preoccupied with their own affairs for spontaneous visits. Jānis figured, however, that it had been long enough since he had seen his long-time companion. He had written ahead, advising the Estonian of his forthcoming visit, then made the necessary preparations for the trip.

There seemed to be a mixture of apprehension and excitement bubbling inside of him as he waited at the familiar doorstep, heart fluttering with nerves. Then, the door opened, and… before him was a sight he had not been entirely prepared for. Nigulas’s eyes were bloodshot, his stubble overgrown, his hair somewhat bedraggled----he looked like a nervous wreck. But, perhaps most importantly, he had lost the telltale spark in his eye, the once-constant glimmer of mischief that Jānis had always been so fond of.

Russia had defeated him, in more ways than one. He felt a pang in his heart at this simple thought.

“Jānis,” the taller man murmured, his voice hoarse with disuse. “Come in, come in.” A small smile tugged at the Estonian’s lips, but it was tired, forced, no longer out of force of an old habit.

Of course, Jānis couldn’t have looked much better himself. He was pale from stress, and there were long bags under his eyes from a lack of fitful sleep. And it was in that moment of realization that he knew that things would never be the same between the two of them again.

They were two different, broken people now.

***

The Russians would rule mercilessly for another couple hundred years.

Nigulas would progressively become more distant, and Jānis, in turn, more tired.

***

Their respective wars of independence were grueling, at times seeming almost futile, but by the last months of 1918 they were both free.

Oskars longed to go to Tallinn, to see his friend and celebrate with him properly, but there was still tension following the dispute over Ruhnu. He still believed it should have gone to him, but that was neither here nor there.

He had, at one point, received a telegram from Nigulas, with four simple yet heavy words.

You broke our promise.

The accusation still lingered in the back of his mind, leaving a stinging sense of dread in his chest. The celebration would have to wait, then.

***

Mid-1919. Things had simmered down enough over the Ruhnu debate, and they were both still high on the victory of independence.

Oskars had finally paid that visit he owed Nigulas, and in their own form of celebration, they had gotten drunk to the point of laying down on the wooden floor, heads resting beside each other. The former was contemplating what it meant to be a free man.

What an arbitrary, innocuous word. Free. But to people like them, it meant so much and so little, somehow simultaneously.

At some point, one of them had lit a hand-rolled cigarette, and they passed it between each other, taking turns inhaling the smoke as if it were hashish. ( It wasn’t, though they were not above doing so. But there was still a certain comfort in the needless buzz of tobacco, one that they both loved to share in the intimacy of each other’s company. )

“What happened to us?” Oskars heard himself asking. Smoke hung in the air carelessly between and above them, and he envied it relentlessly, envied it for being able to float past all the sickness and cruelty of the world below.

“... Russia happened,” Nigulas replied, his tone laced with a thick bitterness that was becoming habitual of the man these days. A vague, indelicate answer, certainly characteristic of the Estonian’s flair for the dramatic, but nevertheless somewhat true.

“Well… you’re not wrong.” Oskars held the cigarette carefully in his mouth and took a long, contemplative drag before handing it back to Nigulas, who took a puff himself before finally putting it out on an ashtray they’d been smart enough to bring down to the floor with them. The dark-haired man inclined his head so he was facing the other, and the blond made a move to do the same but was soon distracted by the feeling of a nose grazing his cheek, a pair of lips brushing against his jaw. Oskars took in a shaky breath, and he adjusted himself, tilted his neck so he could meet Nigulas’s lips with his own. It was a slow, lazy kiss, tasting mostly of alcohol and tobacco, but neither one would complain----it was simple, nice. It was good enough.

***

The Second Great War was over.

They were under Russia once more.

***

The 1980s were a time of unrest, of unease. They were on the cusp of independence, it was tangible in the atmosphere, in the air around them, and there was a profuse impatience prevalent in every public space, every government building.

They had decided to take a short break from it all, take a weekend trip out to Oskars’s home in Bauska. The Latvian countryside was always a nice escape, as it had remained largely unchanged throughout the past several centuries. There was a reminiscence that hung in the air here, like if they could lose themselves in the woods they would be able to rewind time, as well. To happier days, perhaps.

But what days would those be, exactly?

Oskars and Nigulas lay side by side on the grass, looking up at the stars, their fingers just barely grazing over each other.

“We never had much of a childhood, did we, Nila?” Oskars mused aloud, mostly to himself but also, by default, to Nigulas. “I mean, even before the Christians came, all we knew was invasions, battles… We didn’t live much like children at all. And all for what? A lifetime of… living under someone else’s rule?”

“Careful, Oskars,” Nigulas began, a teasing lilt in his voice. “With that kind of attitude, you’ll turn into me. Bitter as grapefruit.”

“I would argue that grapefruit is more of a bittersweet,” the Latvian contended. He adjusted himself so he was lying on his side and, in an uncharacteristic fit of boldness, he reached his hand up to cup the Estonian’s cheek. He felt himself plagued by an odd mixture of fondness and something akin to remorse, to loss. “... What happened to Imme, to my vīrs?” Now, he really seemed to be talking to himself, but these were words that he wanted Nigulas to hear regardless. “You always had such a beautiful smile.”

In a similarly uncharacteristic manner, Nigulas had fallen silent. His expression was blank, but Oskars had known him long enough to be able to read him; the tightness of his jaw and the war in his eyes betrayed him, and it saddened the Latvian to know that this was their reality now, that they had been so thoroughly broken that there was no chance of returning to the way things were before.

He would have to make do with the people they were now.

The world went still as they kissed under the stars, in the most cliche of ways, but it kept turning, providing them with a future full of opportunity, of hope. And Oskars took comfort in the fact that no matter where it took him, Nigulas would be there at his side, irrevocably.