#look at this handsome boy in all his adolescent glory

[wereadtoliveathousandlives]

[whatsmyline-pb]

The Art of Quitting

Part 3 of Inspired, Part 2 of Peaky Summer Bingo.

Tags: Fluff, humor, a bunch implied smut

Zalatwic (Polish): to accomplish something in a way that is either illegal or bends the rules, usually involve a bribe, political clout/connections, or simply personal charm

--

If asked, Alfie would deny that he loves Tommy. Not because he doesn’t (he absolutely, 100% does) and not because he’s some bumbling idiot who thinks himself above such emotions and is afraid to admit them to himself, but because Tommy is some bumbling idiot and Alfie’s not quite ready to risk scaring the little fucker away.

So Alfie holds back. He bites his tongue in uncharacteristic self-control and doesn’t let loose the mounds of adoration he so desperately wishes to bestow upon Tommy. One day he will, when Tommy is good and ready (or more likely okay and nearly ready), but not yet.

Instead, Alfie forces himself to focus on the bad— he needs something to keep him grounded, after all. Tommy has many flaws, so it should be easy. But the problem is those flaws are a strange amalgam of fortitude and hesitancy that should make loving him impossible but instead make not loving him a ridiculous, laughable endeavor, and in the end, Alfie’s left with his head in the clouds.

So it’s the trivial things that Alfie latches onto. Tommy’s smoking has been his main focus for weeks now, and he’s determined that Tommy quit the disgusting habit, even though he’s not once expressed the desire to do so himself.

Alfie takes a Pavlovian approach to it, at first. Every time Tommy lights up a fag Alfie delivers him a swift smack to the head, which has earned him uncountable glares and just as many blows in return. It’s gotten a bit out of control, Alfie has to admit. Tommy will flick his lighter with a wary eye trained on Alfie and Alfie will pretend he’s paying no heed and only when Tommy seems to have relaxed does he move to strike. But then Tommy’s only been feigning relaxation and is in fact ready for his assault and a ridiculous struggle ensues.

More than once this has led to them wrestling like adolescent fools on the streets. They inadvertently knock into an old lady one day who exclaims, cheerfully, “Goodness! Really boys, save the horseplay for the bedroom!” Tommy blushes a deep red and Alfie could kiss the woman. He refrains, instead scooping up the groceries that she’s dropped and escorting her to her car. (“Handsome and a gentleman to boot,” she beams. Alfie does kiss her, a polite peck on the cheek.)

Tommy’s long gone when he returns and Alfie has to ask a passing stranger, “You see which way a smoking man with brilliant blue eyes and a ridiculous haircut went?”

He finds him moments later, around the block, moodily stubbing his cigarette out. “You really need to befriend everyone we meet , Alfie?” he asks, and Alfie grins widely, throwing an arm around him.

—

When this counter-conditioning fails and leads only to the endangerment of the public, Alfie takes a more direct approach. He resigns to simply snagging each newly lit cigarette from Tommy’s lips and flinging them carelessly to the ground. Tommy, without fail, refuses to acknowledge this, fishes another from his pack in feigned indifference and lights it, only to have that one too snatched and thrown away, until the ruse leads to a pack fully spent and Tommy stalking off to the nearest corner shop in a storm of unbridled annoyance.

A sane person would retreat, take his newly purchased pack home and leave Alfie in the dust. But for some, inexplicable reason Tommy always returns, knocking impatiently on Alfie’s door minutes later, replenished and ready for more.

—

When Tommy at last addresses Alfie’s new approach it is night, and they’ve just had a spectacular and rather vigorous shag. Alfie’s just slipped out of him and Tommy is a puddle of bliss, pliant and open and satiated, cock soft and spent against his stomach. So naturally, it’s his next move to reach to his bedside table to extract the stowed pack, and naturally, Alfie plucks the pack quickly away and chucks it firmly against the furthest wall.

Tommy levels him with a look and Alfie shrugs.

“Die on your own time, sweetie,” he says.

It seems just the opportunity Tommy has been waiting for. He heaves himself up with determination and grabs his phone, scrolling through it, before shoving the screen into Alfie’s face.

And there they are, displayed in all their glory, the slew of photos Alfie had texted him just hours ago.

Alright, so yeah, Alfie had been craving a cigar earlier today, and yeah, he’d forced Ollie, burgeoning photographer that he is, to take some choice photos of him. Because Alfie knows how he looks while puffing on a cigar; knows that cigars are decidedly phallic and that Tommy's mind is as dirty as his and that, above all else, it is Alfie's humor that turns Tommy on, no matter how desperately he denies it. So, of course, he’d taken those photos for Tommy, sending them in an obvious attempt to rile him before their date that evening.

It had worked, hadn’t it? He's had Tommy moaning and writhing beneath him for the better part of two hours and they’d missed their dinner reservations entirely.

Now, Tommy displays those photos inches from Alfie’s face and triumphantly proclaims, “Hypocrisy at its greatest.”

But Alfie just laughs, wraps his hand around Tommy’s soft cock, and says, “Was just reminding you what this mouth could do.”

—

This gives Alfie another idea. He begins tallying on his phone just how much Tommy smokes in a day. At the end of the first day, as soon as they've entered his flat, he exclaims, “Seventeen!”

Tommy blinks at him blankly, says, “What?”

“That’s how many cigarettes you’ve smoked today and that’s how many blow jobs you owe me. So on your knees and pay up.”

Tommy does his best to look affronted but in the end, after a long silence, cracks a lopsided smile. “Alfie, you can’t keep it up for three blow jobs, let alone seventeen.”

Alfie is undeterred. He pins Tommy with the most serious of looks and declares, “Challenge accepted.”

He makes it to four.

—

As delightful as it was, this experiment backfires stupendously, because now every time Tommy has a fag resting casually in his lips Alfie’s mind goes quickly south and he squirms with arousal and Tommy sends him knowing, satisfied smirks.

“Alfie,” Tommy says, “is something the matter?”

“Tommy,” Alfie says, “Go fuck yourself.”

And so a new routine emerges, in which Alfie pretends he doesn’t care and Tommy sucks down too many cigarettes and Alfie has to eventually leave the room .

—

One night, when they’re undressing, Alfie realizes he’s forgotten to notice the smoking at all that day. Forgotten to notice because there hasn’t been any, and only when Tommy is laid beneath him bare and naked but for a small square patch on his arm does Alfie still in alarm.

He stares and blinks and catches his breath with a determined calm.

“You… Do that for me?”

Tommy rolls his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Just sick of your antics.”

In Tommy-speak that’s a resounding yes. Alfie feels a bit lightheaded. He brings him in for a kiss, long and deep, and when they part it just happens, just slips out on its own accord.

“Fuck, but I love you,” he says.

Tommy huffs out an exasperated sigh, mutters, “For fucks sake,” and tries to pull away. But it’s undeniable, that Tommy’s cock had leapt at his words (practically bounced off Alfie’s hip, hadn’t it?) and it spurs Alfie shamelessly on.

“Fucking love every little thing about you, don’t I?” He grins, cupping him suggestively, nosing against his throat. Tommy shoves him away.

“We've been over this, Alfie. Smaller than yours doesn’t equate to little.”

Alfie smiles broadly. It’s just too goddamn endearing how incapable Tommy is of letting a compliment simply stand. He pulls him back in.

“Don’t worry, treacle,” he says, “you’re just perfect, ” and proceeds to prove to him just how true he believes this to be.

[jalapeno-princess]

Something There

Prince Mark X Princess reader

Genre: Angst (fluff and potentially smut in the future chapters but this specific chapter is just full of angst).

Word Count: 6.5K

Summary: Ever since you were a little girl, you have been groomed to follow the ways of being royalty. Being a princess had it’s perks; you got to attend all of these fancy balls and parties, you lived in an enormous palace with your family and your best friend just so happened to be a prince of a neighboring kingdom. Everything was seemingly perfect. You barely had any worries other than what you would be like as queen once you would take over the family reign from your parents. You were still so young to be considering what your life would be like in the future, but your parents don’t give you much of a choice once you find out that they have given your hand away in marriage without your knowledge or consent. Although you knew it was going to happen sooner or later and you’ve accepted your fate, you weren’t ready to find out just who you were going to marry--and when it turns out that the man you are meant to spend the rest of your life with just so happens to be the same man you hate with a burning passion.

“Y/n! Are you ready yet? The Parks will be here any minute!” 

You giggled softly to yourself at your mother’s hasty words as your chambermaid helped you with the final touches on your hair. That word never set well with you seeing as how Elizabeth—or Lizzie was more like a second mother to you rather than someone who was meant to work for you and do as she was told by your parents. 

It wasn’t as though your family was ever mean to her or treated her as a servant. In fact, she was practically family; all of the people who worked your your family were more than just servants and it didn’t feel right calling any of them that. When you were first born, Elizabeth was hired to be your nanny and it was only for up until you were old enough to go to school. However, you quickly grew attached to her and her sweet, gentle and kind-hearted personality. 

There were times that you felt as though she was more of a mother to you than your own mother and since you hardly had any friends, she was your confidant and seemingly your best friend. She finished curling the last piece of your hair and playfully squeezed your side as she noticed the wide grin that hasn’t left your face since you heard of the news that Jinyoung was coming over to the palace. 

“You look beautiful as always my dear. I’m sure Jinyoung won’t be able to take his eyes off of you. He never seems to every time he comes over.”

If the blush wasn’t already extremely prominent earlier, now you were sure you must have been as red as a tomato. With the last few touches of powder on your nose; although it really wasn’t needed, Lizzie helped you in to your gown, and gave you a sweet smile as she took in you and all of your beautiful glory. 

“Time to meet Prince Charming.” 

Right as your mom had her hand the doorknob, ready to twist it open, you barely spared her a glance or even a polite greeting before storming past her in to the hallway. You mentally cursed yourself for not asking where the older boy was beforehand; your humble abode or so your parents referred it to was in more or less words gigantic. There were a lot more rooms than your family of five really needed. Twenty-five bedrooms, eighteen baths, three kitchens, a garden, six libraries—honestly you would have been content living in a simple three bedroom house. 

You’ve been living in the palace from the moment you were born. All you have ever known was this life. Being a member of the royal family—but not just any member. The heir to the throne. You were the oldest sibling of your parents children. Your sister Angelina was fourteen and your brother Theodore was only seven. It was only natural for you to be the next in line for queen. However, you were growing tired of this life. 

Sure, you were extremely grateful for the many blessings that you had because of who you were. You had a roof above your head, you had a great education, a family that loved you, people who took care of you and people who adored you—you were very lucky to be who you were. However, if you had the choice, you would run away; run away with the wonderful man you were only moments away from reuniting with after going weeks without seeing him. 

The thought of settling down, moving in to a quaint little farmhouse and starting a family with Jinyoung never failed to make you feel warm and fuzzy on the inside. You’ve known Jinyoung for almost your entire life. In fact, both his and your parents barely gave either of you enough time to learn how to talk before having you play with one another. 

Since you were a little girl, Jinyoung was one of the only people your age that you could call a friend. It wasn’t until less than a year ago did your friendship with the handsome prince develop in to something more. You weren’t necessarily dating; Jinyoung claimed it was because he was aware of the fact that royals never got to choose their life partners—parents would decide who their children would spend the rest of their lives with. 

Normally, it was with the child of another royal family and in most cases, the eldest child of either family would get married first. You were hoping that your parents brought the two of you together as friends for a reason; so that maybe one day you would become Mrs.Park Jinyoung. Sure, deep down you knew that it wasn’t exactly the most plausible situation but you were hoping and sometimes you’ve prayed that your dreams of marrying Jinyoung would one day come true. 

You were still considerably young to be getting married; twenty-one was still an age of adolescence yet you were anticipating your parents giving you away to a future king in less than a year. Until then though, you and Jinyoung were selfish and began to see each other in secret. There were times where you’d sneak out through your window to meet him at a nearby park somewhere or he’d climb a tree just outside your bedroom and you’d find yourselves reading a bunch of books, stealing kisses from each other and just basking in the presence of the other. 

As much as you didn’t want to say that your life was rough just because you had everything you could ever want and need—life as a royal could get very rough. There were so many eyes on you; everyone seemingly judged your every move and kept up with all the members of your family. If anyone were to find out about your secret rendezvous with Jinyoung, you were confident that you’d be the talk of the entire town. Plus, you were afraid of the consequences that came with going against your parents wishes or what was considered tradition. 

Whenever you’d look at Jinyoung or even just think about him, it was in those moments that you wish you were a common person. The number one thing your heart desired was to spend the rest of your life with the person you loved, not the person your parents set you up with just so that your families would receive social gain and growth in power. You were miserable—not being able to choose your own destiny was heartbreaking and extremely unfair. 

Jinyoung was verbal about how unhappy he was that he couldn’t be to you what he wanted to. No matter how hard either of you could try to hide it, there was no ignoring the fact that you and Jinyoung were simply not meant to be. That never stopped you and Jinyoung from doing whatever it was that your hearts desired together. Wherever life ended up taking you, he would always be your first true love. 

You were racing down the hallway and wasted no time in guessing where the Parks could have been. The party being held tonight had been planned for months now; neither your father nor your mother went in to detail about what this party was for, but then again your parents were notorious for throwing parties without any actual reason behind them. People would come from near and far, all around the country just to be able to say they attended one of your family’s parties. 

Your parents would have entertainment, music, delicious food, beautiful decorations and just nothing but the best ambiance and atmosphere. Once you finally made your way in to the ballroom, your eyes immediately landed on his devastatingly handsome features. God, Park Jinyoung was just the definition of perfect. He was currently dressed in a black suit and a red tie; a combination that you’ve mentioned to him a few times that you found very attractive. It brought a smirk to your face knowing that he was probably thinking about you while deciding what to wear tonight. 

He had yet to notice you since he was kneeling on the ground, having a conversation with your younger brother. Watching the two of them interact and hearing the little boy laugh at what you were sure had to be a corny joke of his, you could feel your heart growing heavy. Jinyoung was such a gentleman and took care of both your siblings as if they were his own. He was also extremely kind-hearted and generous towards your parents. They would always ask when the next time he would come over was. He blended right in with your family—you were hopeful that maybe, just maybe your parents would find it in their hearts to break that stupid tradition and allow you and Jinyoung to be together. 

You didn’t realize that you were so focused on the current state of your relationship with Jinyoung to notice that he was now walking towards you. The gentle squeeze of your hip broke you out of your thoughts as he dragged his fingers along the side of your cheek; causing goosebumps to raise on your skin. 

“Hey princess. I’ve missed you so much. Have you missed me? You look stunning by the way. Simply gorgeous. How’s my favorite girl doing?” 

If you weren’t in the middle of the grand ballroom where anyone could have seen the two of you interacting, you probably would have kissed him. His lips looked so soft and so pretty and with he way he was eying you up and down, licking and biting his bottom lip—you wanted to show him the effect his unwavering gaze was having on you. 

“I’m doing a lot better now that you’re here. I’ve missed you too Jinyoung. You look very handsome.” 

He sent you a flirtatious wink and motioned towards the direction of the library you frequently visited. Any time he hinted towards being intimate with you, you could physically feel your heart beat against your chest. Right as the response of agreement was on the tip of your tongue, a soft voice interrupted any plans you were moments away from having with the older boy. 

“Y/n! You look beautiful sweetheart! How have you been? Jinyoung hasn’t stopped talking about you since our last visit—oh, sorry dear, I didn’t mean to—well, it’s not like you try to hide your excitement anyway. It’s so nice to see you again. Where are your parents?” 

Mrs.Park pulled you in to a hug and allowed you to greet Mr.Park. To your dismay, in your peripheral vision, you could see the last person you felt like interacting with tonight. The sight of him made your skin crawl and you were sure that if you were to see yourself, you’d be wearing a scowl on your face. 

“Mark, sweetie. Aren’t you going to say hello?” 

You absentmindedly rolled your eyes at his mother’s curiosity. By his not so subtle scoff and the way he looked around at everyone and everything but you, it was clear that he had the same feelings of disgust as you were currently experiencing. Mark Tuan—he was Jinyoung’s older brother. The oldest of the Park siblings. Why he had a different last name than your best friend; you had yet to understand but you never asked since it wasn’t your business. You just assumed that maybe he took his mother’s maiden name while Jinyoung took their father’s last name. 

You’ve known Mark for as long as you’ve known Jinyoung—but unlike the close knit relationship you held with his younger brother, you wanted nothing to do with the sarcastic asshole that was Mark Tuan. Honestly, you could tell by his actions alone that Mark hated you. He had to; there was no real explanation as to why he was so cold towards you and why he made it his responsibility to ignore you and pretend as if you didn’t exist. 

When you were younger, you, Jinyoung and Mark often played with each other whenever you’d visit their castle or when they’d come over to your palace. At one point, maybe when you were six and Mark was eight, you considered yourself closer to him than you were with Jinyoung. He was a lot more fun and outgoing when you all were younger—but time was a bitch wasn’t she? 

When he turned fourteen, that’s when he ended up cutting you from his life completely. It’s been almost ten years and you still had a difficult time comprehending his rough and crude demeanor towards you. You’ve asked Jinyoung on multiple occasions why Mark changed out of the blue; was something going on at home that seemingly changed him in to such a prick that lived to displease you? 

Was it something you said or did that you didn’t realize back then? You weren’t going to lie, you missed Mark. Well—you missed the old Mark. The Mark that would read chapter books to you before you could even read on your own. The same Mark that stayed up till three in the morning with you because you had a nightmare and were too afraid to go back to sleep. 

Sure, you should have asked him yourself what led him in to turning against you so that maybe, you’d be able to move on from it and stop blaming yourself for something that was out of your hands. But you were a coward and you were afraid that his behavior was all in your mind. Before anyone could say anything, he stormed past you and made his way in the direction of the kitchen. His mother gave you an apologetic look before bowing in remorse. 

“I’m so sorry about him y/n, he’s had an exhausting day but that’s no excuse. We’d better go look for your parents. There’s a lot we need to talk about. You two go have fun. Jinyoung sweetheart, maybe later you can go keep your brother company. We all know how he feels about these parties. It’s always a pleasure seeing you y/n.” 

You gave the older lady a gentle smile and allowed both Jinyoung’s parents on their way before motioning him towards your favorite hideaway. You were tempted to reach for his hand which was practically second nature to the two of you, but you were afraid of someone seeing the sudden movement of affection and you refused to allow someone get the two of you in trouble just so they could make a couple more bucks. 

It didn’t take you long to make it to the library but once you finally did and locked the door behind you, Jinyoung wasted no time in pulling you against his chest. He swiftly shoved his face in the crook of your neck and left a couple of sloppy kisses against your jaw before looking down at you with a sad smile. His hand was cold as he cupped your cheek and as soon as his lips melded perfectly with yours, all the hostility you felt from earlier with that unnecessary interaction with Mark disappeared. All that mattered in that moment was the beautiful boy who’s embrace you were currently in. 

“I’m sorry he’s such an ass. You don’t deserve that kind of mistreatment.” 

Out of all the things Jinyoung could say or do, something about the way he cared so much about you and showed you as much as he would tell you made you feel as though your heart was about to jump from out of your chest. If you had it your way, you would have ran away with the boy in question and got hitched a long time ago. It was like this every time you’d be around his entire family. More so whenever Mark was around. 

He always seemed to apologize for his brother’s brash actions and responses and you weren’t exactly fond of him anymore, but you did think about him every now and then. You wondered why things ended up the way that they were now—if he ever thought about you in a way other than disgust and hatred, and if he wished your friendship was what it used to be when you were kids. It didn’t matter though; you had many other things to worry about like one day ruling your kingdom and preparing for marriage. 

“Hey, everything okay?” 

You failed to realize that you were dozing off at the thought of Mark to listen to whatever it was Jinyoung was probably telling you. He continued to give you a look of pure curiosity but you refused to let him know what was going on in your mind. As much as you trusted Jinyoung with your life, you didn’t think he would understand why his brother was now taking up the capacity of your thoughts. 

“I’m fine. Shall we go to the library—“

“Not so fast you two. The last time you snuck off to the library, nobody could find you for hours. There is meaning behind tonight’s party and a very important announcement will be made. Let’s go.” 

A soft sigh fell from your lips; but it was quickly replaced by a child like grin and blush on your cheeks at the thought of what you and Jinyoung had been doing that warm summer day and why none of the staff nor either of your families could locate the two of you. 

By instinct, Jinyoung reached for your hand—one of his favorite things to do with you was hold your hand. On multiple occasions, he has told you that holding your hand made him feel safe and at ease. You were his own personal security blanket. Unfortunately, it was as if he remembered that you weren’t alone. He was quick to retract his hand as he was to reach for yours and it sent a rush of sadness to your chest. If only you could be affectionate with him without having to worry what others would say or think. Hell, you couldn’t give less of a shit if the town were to talk about going against your parent’s wishes to be with the person who owned your entire being. Every time you thought about the future; living in a castle somewhere in the country, having a bunch of kids running around and ruling the Kingdom—Jinyoung was always right there by your side. 

“Maybe we can sneak off later once my parents make the announcement.” 

He hummed in agreement, but didn’t turn to look at you which was odd. With every chance he could get, he’d look at you while you talked or did practically anything. He just really loved looking at you. Now, his shoulders looked slumped and his excited demeanor from earlier was no longer. This made you wonder if he was upset that the both of you couldn’t get your alone time or if there was something weighing heavy on his mind. 

He didn’t seemed bothered when you practically threw yourself in his arms not too long ago but then again, Park Jinyoung was the king of poker faces. If something ever did bother him, you could never tell because he’d never showed it no matter how troubled he was. As you walked in to the dining room, you were surprised to see just how beautifully it was decorated. Sure, your parents would set up the entire palace to look amazing with every party and event that your family held, but something about tonight was different and it worried you that you couldn’t put your finger on it. 

“I forgot to tell you, you look breathtaking as always. I can’t seem to take my eyes off of you.” 

You looked up at him and smiled fervently—grinning cheek to cheek. Every time he complimented you, you’d feel like a little school girl who had been flirted with by her crush. Jinyoung always knew exactly what to say to make you feel like the most important person in the room. When you entered the ballroom, all eyes immediately turned to face you. You were surprised to see just how many people your parents invited. 

Whatever reason they were throwing this party had to be a pretty big deal. You recognized some of the guests to be fellow kings and queens with their families—there was also a couple of dukes and duchesses, governors, mayors and just a lot of important and very powerful people invited. However, you had a feeling with the way everyone seemingly turned their attention to you that this party had to do with you in some way. It wasn’t your birthday, nor did you think you accomplished anything worth celebrating. So why did everyone seem so interested in your sudden appearance? 

“Jinyoung.”

“Hmm?”

“Is it just me, or is everyone looking at me?” 

He gently squeezed at your side while leading you towards the table that your families were sitting at. The sight of Mark also gazing at you caused your stomach to tighten. As a princess, you were used to this kind of attention—but that was only when you knew the meaning behind it. Right now, you felt uncomfortable and that was an understatement. Mark wasn’t helping with the blank expression on his face. Thankfully, Jinyoung’s presence was taking your mind off of the anxiety building up in your chest. 

“You’re the most beautiful girl here. That’s why. I can’t stop looking at you either. Don’t worry about it too much okay? Let’s just enjoy tonight. When we think everyone is distracted, then we can dismiss ourselves and have our own party. How does that sound?” 

As much as you wanted to be excited at the thought of finally being alone with the older boy, you couldn’t push back the thought that something bad was about to happen. It was hard to put your finger on it, but something just didn’t feel right. You nodded slowly in agreement, just so that he wouldn’t ask you any more questions. You began to come up with different excuses to leave, but you didn’t want to hear it from your mother. 

To your surprise, the night went off without a hitch; although you were still very anxious for reasons you didn’t even know yourself. Since you spent most of the night talking with Jinyoung, you were unable to witness the way Mark was sending daggers across of the table but you could feel him staring at you. As the night went on and it neared the end of the party, you slowly began to relax. Whatever reason the party was thrown for had yet to be made known of, so you assumed your parents either forgot or the reason wasn’t too important. 

“Jinyoung.”

“Hmm?”

“I think they’re all distracted. Everyone is either drunk or exhausted and what better time to go than when everyone is—“

“Everyone. I have a very important announcement to make. Please gather around.” 

You released a frustrated sigh as all the party guests gathered around the dining hall—filled with curiosity as to what your mother had to say. The suspense has been eating you away at the seams this entire night. Although you had yet to find out exactly what your mother had planned to confess, it didn’t take a genius to know you were involved in the announcement somehow. She grasped at your fathers hand and pulled him next to her; the look of worry on her face didn’t go unnoticed by you. In fact, you had a gut feeling that she probably wanted him there by her side for moral support. 

“You all know, that in every royal family the first child is the heir of the kingdom. Our beautiful daughter y/n is going to be twenty-two soon. Although I do believe she is still so young, her father and I have decided that it is time for her to settle down and get married in order to continue our family name for many generations to come.” 

As those words fell from her lips, you could feel your throat drying up. Nobody—neither your mom nor your dad said anything of the sort to you. Marriage? Your mom said so herself, you were still so young. Why were they having you get married and why didn’t they talk about this with you before humiliating you in front of hundreds of your guests? This is why she seemed tense the entire day; you should have known there was more to this party than just a simple celebration. Never does she worry about your timeliness like she did earlier. It was all making sense to you—she was worried that you were going to make a run for it if you were aware of what was going to go down tonight. 

“Y/n—“

Your parents turned towards you and you completely ignored the look of remorse on your father’s face. How could they do this to you? Jinyoung’s hand slowly made its way up your arm and you were grateful he was trying his best to calm you down because you were only seconds away from having a panic attack. The idea of marriage didn’t bother you. You’ve always dreamt about getting married for such a long time now, but you weren’t ready yet. Especially because you were well aware that the beautiful man who was attempting to take your mind off of your unfortunate situation would not be the man you would call your king—your husband. To your dismay, it only got worse from there. Your mother’s next words made your head spin and you were ready to throw up. 

“My husband and I along with the Park family have decided to unite as one in order to better control and take responsibility of our two kingdoms. Our two kingdoms will now become one on marriage. Since they’re both the eldest, Y/n and their oldest son Mark are set to marry in two months—“ 

You couldn’t even let her finish before storming out of there completely. The atmosphere was suffocating and you were on the verge of passing out. Just at the sound of his name with yours in the same sentence as marriage made your head spin. 

There was no way—no way in hell that you were going to marry Mark Tuan. They couldn’t force you to marry him. You haven’t had a genuine conversation with him for over nine years and every time you did have to talk with him, his words were always filled with malice and disgust. You were extremely vocal about the fact that your friendship with Mark was no longer what it used to be when the two of you were kids. Your mother knew all about your grudge against the older boy and how he always tried to make you feel bad about yourself, so why did either of your parents feel like setting up an arranged marriage with a man you were sure wanted nothing to do with you? 

Did you do something to anger them? Did they just so happen to find out about you and Jinyoung and were angry with the idea of you sneaking behind their backs and going against royal tradition? How could they force you to marry the brother of the man who was the rightful owner of your heart? There was no way you could do it. 

There was no way you could ever see Mark in a way other than disgust. How could you spend your life with someone you’ve spent more time bickering with and insulting than having an actual decent interaction? You can’t even remember the last time he said hello to you without throwing in a crude comment. Once you made it to your room, you slammed the door and sank to the ground while tears built up in your eyes. 

Since you ran without hearing the entire announcement, you failed to learn all of the details behind the marriage but you didn’t care. You were set on running away—or at least you weren’t going to give up without a fight. You were old enough to make your own decisions. As much as you loved your parents, you couldn’t help but think that marrying you off to Mark was to bring more power and wealth to both his family and yours. 

Bringing up the idea of marrying Jinyoung was weighing heavy on your heart—you would still be becoming one kingdom, but just with a different son. Your parents brought you and Jinyoung together all those years ago for a reason didn’t they? Was it not to get the two of you to become close so that you’d get used to one another and end up agreeing to marriage? God, you wanted to scream to the top of your lungs but nothing was coming out. You felt defeated—broken, helpless. 

You didn’t know how long you were sitting on the ground for, but when you heard the soft knock on your door you were hoping that it was the only person you wanted to see right now. Knowing how he could be though, there was a chance it wasn’t Jinyoung. He was the kind of person who wanted to give you your space for a few moments before allowing you to lean on him and as much as that was a quality of his that you admired, there was nothing you wanted more than for him to hold you and to tell you that everything was going to be alright. You were met with disappointment when you opened the door to Lizzie, but that was only because she wasn’t Jinyoung. 

Jinyoung. 

How was he feeling at the news? The two of you might not have been an actual couple, but there was a mutual unspoken agreement that you belonged to each other. His heart was yours just as much as yours was his. He was the man whose wedding ring you wanted on your finger. He was the man whose arms you wanted to fall asleep in and whose kisses you wanted to be waken up with in the morning. You wanted nothing more than to have mini Jinyoung’s running around the palace and you wanted to rule the kingdom with him by your side. 

Due to tradition however, you accepted the fact that the life of your dreams would never happen. The two of you kept sneaking around and ignoring the fact that the chances of the two of you actually ending up together were even more slimmer than the chances of him becoming king one day. However, you held on tightly to the hope that one day, your parents would come to the conclusion that tradition is stupid and there’s no legitimate reason as to why royal families continued to follow it. 

Did he know about this? There’s no way he could have. He would have warned you wouldn’t he? Both you and Jinyoung told one another every single thing that went on in your life. Whether it was good news or bad—he’d celebrate with you if something good happened and he’d comfort you if the world wasn’t on your side. If he even had the slightest hunch about his parents along with your parents wanting to marry off you and Mark, he would have told you about it. Or at least, you would want him to. But you couldn’t read minds; you didn’t know what he was thinking and this now made you wonder—what did Mark think? Did he know about the arranged marriage? 

Was he as hurt and disturbed at the news? Did he run away like you had not too long ago or was he currently trying to get his parents to change their minds? Everything was just too much and your mind was racing. Thankfully, instead of saying anything, Lizzie pulled you in to her arms and softly began to run her fingers through your hair. She didn’t say anything as she consoled you which is what you preferred. It boggled your mind sometimes; she was more of a mother to you than your own. Your parents were always so busy with their duties to really pay attention to you and your siblings. 

Lizzie practically raised you, which is why you weren’t surprised that she knew exactly what to do to get you to calm down. You couldn’t even count on two hands just how many times you’ve cried in front of her and how she got you to settle down before things got worse. When you felt her run her thumbs right under your eyes, that’s when you were made aware that you were crying. Though, who could blame you? 

Sure, you’ve been groomed to do whatever your parents told you to and you were aware of the fact that it was highly likely for your hand to be given away in marriage to someone not of your choice since you were old enough to grasp the idea of marriage. Yet—you weren’t prepared to go along with any of this. Once Lizzie felt as though your sobs slowly silenced, she led you over to your bed and had you sit down before taking her place right next to you. With all the energy you could muster, you placed your head on her shoulder as a exasperated groan fell from your lips. 

“I know I should have known something like this was coming, but I don’t think I can do this.” The comforting touch of both her hands on either sides of your arms relaxed you quite a bit, but you were still so frustrated. 

“I know sweetheart and I’m so sorry it has to be this way—but you and I both know you have to. There’s no getting out of this.” 

She was right; you’d never have enough courage to run away and you were confident that even if he did care about you and wanted to be with you, Jinyoung loved his mother too much to do such a thing like that. You too loved your parents too much to dishonor them by not going along with their wishes. However, you wanted to be selfish. You wanted to choose yourself first this time. From the moment you realized you were a princess, you followed every single one of your parents orders no matter how much you disagreed with it. This time around was different. This time—your heart desired to put yourself first and there was no way in hell you were going to take Mark’s last name and move in to the same palace as him. 

“But Lizzie—“

“No buts my dear. I know, trust me. I wish things could be different, but this is an example of why being a royal isn’t all that people assume it to be. Yes, you have privilege and luxury, but at a cost. In your situation, you can’t be with the person you love. Hey, Mark seems like a nice guy and he’s very good looking—“

“Haha, very funny. Mark Tuan? Nice? I don’t think those three words belong in the same sentence. He’s the biggest asshole I know. He hates my guts. You don’t see the way he looks at me Liz, it’s like I’m the scum of this earth—the dirt underneath his fancy dress shoes. This marriage will never work.” 

She got up from the bed and you looked up at her in curiosity but she didn’t give you any chance to ask what she was doing before the older lady made her way over to your closet. A tiny smile rose on your face as you saw her preparing your nightgown; you were ready to call it a night after the mess of events you just went through and you could only pray neither your parents were going to come find you and bring you back outside. As she helped you out of your dress, you released a sigh of comfort. One would think being a princess was so much fun because you got to dress up for parties, but if you had the choice you would wear a pan suit. 

“He doesn’t hate you—and before you give me that look, I actually observe the way he looks at you. You on the other hand, I don’t think you get to see the way he looks at you. You’re too busy ogling his younger brother to even notice him at all. I don’t think it’s my old eyes deceiving me, but I think he looks at you—well not at you, but he looks at Jinyoung in jealousy.” 

You couldn’t help yourself; a sarcastic chuckle came from the back of your throat at her revelation. Mark? Jealous? Of what? What was there for him to be jealous of? By the knowing look on her face, and from past experiences of how slow you were whenever it came to realizing things, she opened her mouth and spoke before you could even ask what  she was referring to. 

“He really has no reason to be jealous. You’re just being silly. Why would he be jealous of Jinyoung?” 

As much as you admired and loved Lizzie, you couldn’t believe one word that was coming out of her mouth. There was no way Mark would ever see Jinyoung as competition and they weren’t exactly close, but at least they were civil. 

“Why would he be jealous? Well, there’s a lot I don’t know about their relationship but what does Jinyoung have that Mark doesn’t?”

“You.”

[birdsandspades]

I Was Never Good at Waiting- (Sugawara x Reader) Chapter 1

- It was your last year in highschool, everything had been going smoothly until you got assigned the new teacher. Sugawara Koushi was handsome, maybe too handsome for his own good. Be he wasn't flirting with you right, teachers shouldn't do that....I guess we will see where this year goes.

Work Count - 4,281

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“Stand clear, the train doors will be opening shortly.” The speakers overhead rang out as you pulled into the station.

You waited for your turn to step off the train step and onto the concrete platform in front of you. Your phone buzzing in your jacket pocket as you walked up the station stairs to the streets. Turning it over, your screen illuminated with your mother's contact name. You slid your thumb over the screen and lifted the phone to your ear. 

“Hi mom.” You beamed, nodding a thank you to the man holding the station door open as you walked outside. It wasn't unusual with everything she had on her mind that she would forget important days on your schedule. But none the less you were happy she remembered today. 

“My big girl is a third year! I can remember when you were just little, hiding in between your father's legs on your first day of kindergarten!” Her laughs bounced from the phone speaker.  

You chuckled lightly at her remark while looking at your watch, 7:50 still plenty of time to get to school. Stopping at the beginning of the cross walk you watched the cars pass by as you waited your turn to cross. “How are you doing mom, how is grandpa?’’ You questioned as the light turned red and the crosswalk countdown started. 

“We are good, he's been walking around outside again. How are you kiddo, did your dad call you yet?’’ She smiled, already knowing the answer.

“No, but he did send me one of those motivational animal photos, the standard greeting.” You laughed. It was his signature text, his way of saying “I’m thinking of you, just don’t know how to say it.”

Your first destination was in sight as you rounded the corner, a small convenient store you frequented often during the school year. The roof had been repainted over the summer, the dull blue replaced with vibrant red. The door and concrete light poles painted to match. Much to your amusement the same burnt out bulb remained on the neon open sign. The P had been dark the first time you walked into the store, and had remained unlit every time since. 

“Mom, I have to go but i’m glad you called.” You rushed as you entered the store. 

“Ok, call me after school and tell me how it goes, I love you...i’m so proud of you ya know. My big girl so…” She choked on her words, on the verge of a motherly breakdown. 

“Bye mom, I love you!” You exclaimed, stopping her short of her emotional speech. You loved talking to her, but she could go on forever if you didn’t cut her off. 

Dropping your phone into your bag you scanned over the drink selection. You opened a few different cooler doors, finger hovering over the assortment of coffees before ultimately deciding on your regular cheap can. Why fix what isn’t broken? You walked it over to the counter and set it down before pulling out your wallet and setting some money into the tray, scooting it towards the clerk. 

“Hey kid, first day of school already?’’ The old man smiled as he scanned your item and took your money from the tray. 

You nodded and smiled as he handed you back your change on the tray and the can of coffee. “Sadly.” You laughed lightly, picking up everything. You thanked him, walked to the door, “Have a good day.” You waved as you pushed it open and continued your walk to the school. 

Your breakfast usually consisted of a trip to that very convenient store, and the occasional dinner, and light midnight snack. You never really had time to make breakfast and lunch for your day while getting yourself ready for school. With your parents gone most of the time you had to manage yourself. But you didn’t mind it, you understood the implications of the life your family lived.

Your father was traveling most of the year for his job as a wildlife photographer, and your mother was with your grandfather in Tokyo. She had made the decision to leave when your grandfather, her father became ill. Grandma had passed away when you were younger, too little to really remember her face, but old enough to remember the feeling of walking hand and hand with her in the gardens you tended together. Grandpa decided to keep the house and live by himself that same year. The memories weighed too heavy on you and your family to tear that away from him. 

You had told your parents it was fine to leave you with the house while they were away, you used the excuse that it would teach you responsibility. You could get a part time job and focus on your studies. You did end up doing just that, but it was also nice having the alone time so many adolescents craved. 

Slowly your school came into view as your morning walk ended. Aoba Johsai, it was the school your mother went to as a kid and now you were rounding out your years as a student as well. You walked through the gates of your school as you searched around for the group of students that would be crowding around the homeroom assignments for the year.

“F/N- chan!”You looked around, greeted by your two favorite idiots pushing past the groups of students walking through the front gates behind you.

Hiroto, a pole of a boy. He sported a pair of glasses and his usual brown bowl cut. He had looked the same since you met him, just slightly taller as the years went by. He had the same dull white tennis shoes on as he had for the past three years. You wondered why he had never gone out to buy a new pair. He had the money and the time. But he still saw the use in them, the beauty he would say. He saw that in a lot of things. That was probably why he had a permanent smile tugging at his lips. His sunny disposition on life couldn't be dampened, no matter the storm.  

Yua had been that perpetual storm. Not in the dark and gloomy sense, she was more like a hurricane. Everything she did was a whirlwind of emotions and energy. She did everything on a whim. Led by her heart, never her head. You could tell that just by looking at her. Her hair was freshly bleached, a stark change from the dark green you had seen only months before. Her hair was much shorter now as well, messily chopped just below her ears. Her appearance changed with the seasons, always slightly bolder each time. She was bold with everything she did, unwavering and powerful. But nonetheless devoted and caring to everyone around her, that was the trait that drew you to her in the end. 

Next to each other, they looked completely out of place. But together you made something special. You balanced each other out, each giving one another the friendship you all had desperately sought after in your early years. They were your best friends, your only friends. 

You had met Hiroto a few days after moving to Japan with your family. He was the son of one of your mother's fellow professors at Tokyo University. They had stuck you in a room with the quiet boy one morning during a staff meeting. He had inched toward you over the course of the hour, head tilted to the side in an attempt to catch a glimpse of the game that lit up your GameBoy screen. You had caught on after a while, getting up to sit next to him. He silently thanked you, watching you pass level after level. As time went on watching, turned into playing, playing turned into talking, and talking turned into “Mom can Hiroto come over for dinner tonight, I want to show him the dog across the street.” It had been a quick growing friendship, you two meshed together so well it was almost like he was meant to be your best friend. 

Yua on the other hand was the polar opposite. She had at one point been the worst part of your days in fourth year.

Everyday she would pick fights with you. Most days it was innocent enough, she would push you, maybe call you silly names. But you had always ignored her, unfazed by the gremlin child you were forced to interact with everyday. You could tell the lack of attention bothered her, and she was going to get a reaction out of you one way or another.

She had stated it was because your hair was all over her desk and she was tired of moving it out of the way, but you knew better. Over the course of the lesson Yua would snicker to herself, a little evil laugh echoing behind you every time you tried to move away from her. She had always been a bit strange to you, but the vocality of today's evil acts were putting you on edge. The lunch bell rang and you were ready to get away from whatever she was doing behind you. You stood up, stepping on a layer of h/c strands splayed out on the floor below your desk. You turned around, horrified by the tight grin that painted the girl's face. In her hand was a pair of craft scissors, in the other was a fistful of your hair. 

Mean words were exchanged, fists were thrown. Before you knew it you both were landed in after school detention for the foreseeable weeks to come. During those after school hours was when she grew on you. She opened up to you over the year, showing her kind and caring nature in small bits and pieces. She was still an absolute goblin most days, her nasty jealousy streak peaking through in her worst moments. But she loved and cared for everyone she met, and you saw it. She just had a chaotic, overbearing way of showing it. It took years to work your way up to the friendship you both had now, it also took years to grow your beautiful hair back to it's original glory.

“Have you looked at your homeroom assignment yet?” Hiroto smiled once he reached you.

“Not yet, I just got here a few minutes before you two.” You answered, wrapping an arm around the both of them as you pulled them into a hug.

“Aww F/N, it's been weeks since we’ve seen you. That stupid job at the coffee shop kept you away from us.” Yua frowned, groaning into your hold.

“Well it was only a summer job so you can annoy me all you want now.” You laughed, pulling them towards the crowd of students.

“Hiroto-kun, can you see any of our names, all these BEAN STALKS are blocking the way!” Yua yelled at the students crowding the listings. 

“Yeah I see all of our names by each other, we're in…homeroom...five I think.” Hiroto craned his neck to see over the heads in front of him, squinting at the small text. 

“Who's the teacher this year?” You questioned, looking up at him as he decoded the lines in front of him.

“It says Sugawara. I think he’s new, he wasn't here last year.” Sinking back onto the soles of his shoes Hiroto pulled you and Yua out of the crowd and towards the school entrance. 

“Sugawara just started this year.” Smiled a girl next to you as you made your way inside. 

“Yeah, he's supposedly pretty young, and attractive.” Her friend smiled slyly at the last bit, nudging you with her shoulder as you moved past her to your shoe locker. 

“As long as he can teach this idiot math I'm sure he will be a great sensei!” Yua laughed as she ruffled up your hair. 

“I’m not that dumb. But it would be nice if he would be nicer about my questions, unlike Shirato Sensei.” You shivered at the thought of your teacher last year. Taking off your shoes you slipped them into your locker, sliding your feet into the assigned slippers on the floor. You closed the door, the lock clicking as you turned to walk with your friends.

It was your last year at this school, your last year with your friends. You had already decided to attend Tokyo University the following year, it was a dream to finally be closer to your mother. Hiroto was destined to inherit his father's small but profitable insurance business. Yua, well who knows what she was gonna do at the end of the year, she probably didn't even have lunch figured out for the day. 

You walked with your friends as you made your way towards your classroom for the year. You were engrossed in the conversation they were having on last night's newest anime episode. You had no clue what show they were watching, or who any of the characters were. But you loved to listen to their passionate debates, the small rise Yua got from Hiroto always making you laugh. You would miss this when school was over, so you basked in it. The feeling of happiness that only they could give you. 

A hand on your shoulder turned you away from your bickering friends. Turning around, you were met with a pair of honey eyes, Yoshiki. 

“Hey, I was calling you but I don’t think you heard me.” He laughed, his eyes soft and uncertain as he looked between you and your friends. 

“Oh, i’m sorry. It's hard to hear anything over these two.” You smiled, laughing as you pointed to the two of them. The bell rang, giving you the chance of escape. You pushed your two friends on as you waved a goodbye to Yoshiki. 

He raised his hand, giving you a small wave as you rushed down the hallway.

“That was weird, does he still talk to you?” Yua questioned, looking back at the confused boy.

“No, we haven't talked since winter break last year.” You frowned as you pushed them inside the classroom. It was for a good reason, you didn’t know what to say to the boy. If you had found the words before maybe the awkward interaction could have been avoided, but that time had since passed. 

You found some nice seats by the window, a reward for being the first few into the classroom. The room was located on the third floor of the school. The window had a beautiful view of the schools court yard and all the trees surrounding it. Yua took the seat in front of you while Hiroto sat in the seat across from you. You had taken this seating arrangement since the beginning of fifth year, it was tradition. Watching the rest of your class file inside, they slowly choose their seats as the classroom filled up. You watched the clock tick the seconds away as you waited for your first class to start. 

The final bell rang and everyone sank into their seats as they continued talking to each other. A few minutes passed before the door to the classroom slid open and a man walked in looking at the bundle of papers in his hand. The students quieted in unison as he made his way to the desk at the front of the room, setting down his papers and coffee cup before turning toward the chalkboard. He picked up one of the larger white chalk pieces that sat on the small shelf underneath.

“I’m Sugawara-sensei, I'll be your homeroom teacher as well as your science teacher this year.” He wrote his name on the board as well as the period times. Once the full schedule was written down he turned around, a wide smile directed at the students in front of him. Setting down the chalk, he reached for the attendance sheets on his desk. 

The girls you saw at the lockers were right, he was attractive. Was that the right word to use? Maybe encaptivating was better in this situation. 

His soft grey hair fell around his face, framing each one of his delicate features. His hazel eyes scanned the room as he talked. They were deep and full, like a cup of coffee with just the right amount of cream. You followed the curves of his face to the small beauty mark under his eye, over his petite nose, acrossed his milky white skin, to his soft pink lips. You watched them as he spoke, coming apart, pressing back together. You were mesmerized by them, by him. 

He flashed a smile your way and tilted his head opening his mouth again. 

Yua touched your shoulder lightly, noise flooding your senses. You looked around the room at the eyes that laid on you, and you alone. 

“L/N- san, that is your name right?” Sugawara questioned.

You looked up at the man standing at the front of the class. His words directed at you as he stared your way with a sweet grin. 

“Um yes Sugawara-sensei, i'm sorry…” You trailed off as your face heated up. 

He laughed lightly as he continued the roll call, his eyes shifting from you to the next student. 

How embarrassing you thought, “Everyone probably saw how I was staring at him.” You signed, laying your head in your hands.

“Ok, well let's get onto our morning meets and then we can discuss how I expect my class to be run.” Sugawara led everyone's eyes up to the chalkboard while he continued on with the morning information. 

You tried to focus on his words, you really did. But you were just a teenage girl, your mind wandered. It wandered to his frame, he wasn't the tallest teacher you had at the school, maybe around 5’8- 5’9 but he would tower over you. He was what the magazines would call slim fit, maybe more on the fit side. You watched as he continued to write on the chalkboard, his arm muscles tensing against his white button up, then relaxing as the fabric loosened again.

“Hey stupid, pay attention!” Yua harshly whispered over to you, pulling you out of your inappropriate thoughts. 

Your face began to bake again as you shook your head slightly and smiled apologetically at her. “He’s your teacher idiot, stop drooling over him and focus for Christ sake.” You warned yourself as you set in to focusing on the information he wrote on the board.

Sugawara had already moved on to the itinerary of the class schedules and when he would be back to teach science for the day. Pointing to the last class of the day a girl at the back of the class raised her hand pulling his attention away from the board.

“Hmm, yes...Hina?” He pointed at the girl who seemed pleased that he already remembered her name. 

“Sensei could you tell us a little about yourself since it's your first year at Seijo?” She questioned, ready for him to deny such a rude request. 

“Um, well I guess I could tell you a few things about myself.” He hummed in response, sitting down on top of his desk. “I just graduated college last year in the spring so this is my first real teaching job, i'll be helping out with the volleyball teams here at Seijo when I have free time, and…” He paused for a moment, glancing at the book on his desk. “Well I really like poetry.” He smiled at the last fact before standing back up.

“It’s time for college prep courses, so go ahead and start your independent studies and I'll call you up one at a time so we can start your files.” Sugawara sat down in his desk chair and pulled out a paper from his pile. “Ok, Hiroto you can come up and take a seat.” Sugawara pointed to the chair next to his desk as he flipped through the papers. 

“So now I know why you liked “Lolita” so much.” Yua snickered as she pulled her desk next to you. “You practically had a drool puddle on your desk Y/N-chan.”

“Oh shut up, it won’t happen again. I just didn’t expect him to be so, I don’t know, beautiful.” You puffed as you pulled out your summer reading.

“BEAUTIFUL?” Yua shouted, pushing away your hand as you rushed to hush her. The eyes of classmates landed on the both of you as well as Sugawara’s from the front of the room. 

“Independent study is independent.” Sugawara reprimanded as his gaze rested on you.

“I’m sorry sensei.'' You apologized, looking over to Yua who was busy avoiding both of your heated gazes.

Sugawara turned his attention back to Hiroto and you looked back down at your desk. 

“Yua, do you have to be so loud? Just do your summer work.” You whispered harshly, opening up your book and turning away from her.

The minutes ticked by as Sugawara called each student to the front of the room for the individual college discussions they would have. This would be a bi-weekly thing he would have to do, during this time he would guide the students on the right path to getting into the schools they wished to pursue. It was his job as your homeroom teacher to make sure you knew what you were doing after you walked out those doors and on to college.

“L/N- san, it's your turn to come up.” Sugawara was monotoned, flipping through to your file.

You turned away from your book to see Sugawara motioning for you to come up and take a seat, his eyes trained on the papers in front of him.

You gathered your belongings, making your way to the front of the room. You stood awkwardly next to the chair beside him, eyeing the light wood of the seat. 

He looked up at you and back down to the seat before smiling, “Come on, take a seat. I promise I won’t take long.”

You slowly sat down, scooting the chair a few inches away from his own as you handed him your papers. 

He responded to this by moving his chair closer. “Ok so what college did you pick...” He mumbled while looking through your documents. “Tokyo University, that's where I went, and you're gonna go for a culinary degree?” He caulked his head slightly, looking up at you.

You nodded, earning a smile. “I um, I liked to bake stuff. Like cakes and pie and pastries…” You trailed off as you looked down at the desk. The bell rang, signaling that it was time to leave for your club introductions. You started to stand up as Sugawara put a hand in front of you motioning for you to stay seated. 

“I’ll see you soon class!” He waved as everyone walked out of the classroom, the butterflies settling into your stomach as the last student closed the door behind them. It was probably out of courtesy, but for you it was a death sentence.

“Well if you ever need someone to sample your recipes you're welcome to bring them in.” He continued, flashing you a soft smile as he held your gaze. 

For a third time in one period your face heated up as he continued to look your way. Your eyes trying to fix on anything but him. Finally he looked back to the papers and flipped through them.

“Well your test scores are decent, but your math may need some working on if you want to pass the entrance exam, and your class finals.” It sounded more like a threat then friendly advice as the words left his lips. He winced slightly as he saw you sink into your seat, he had not meant for it to sound that way. 

You nodded, playing with your fingers as you stammered. “Math is my worst subject. I have a hard time with it. No matter how much time I put into it, it just doesn't make sense.” You paused before going on. “But I’m going to focus on it this year. Since I quit volleyball I'll have more time to study.” You sighed, mad about the decision. 

“Volleyball, what position?” He perked up at the mention of the sport, leaning in closer. 

“I was the team's main setter sensei.'' You finally looked up at him, but the eye contact didn’t last long when you saw his smile.

“I’ll make you a deal. I’ll find you a tutor for math twice a week, but only if you come back to the team.” He closed your file, pushing it into the pile. 

You looked up in shock. “Sensei I, yes please. I tried to sign up for one but they were all assigned to students.” You sat up in your chair, taken aback by such a kind gesture. 

Smiling he stood up and you took it as your sign too as well.

“Then it's a deal. Go find the volleyball team in the gym for the meeting and I'll let you know who I find at the end of the day.” He walked towards the classroom door, opening it. 

You nodded and started towards the door. “Thank you sensei!” You smiled as you walked past him, bowing slightly before running down the hallway. 

He waited till he couldn’t hear your steps before he made his way back to his desk. He sank back down into his seat and let his head drop down into his hand, “Sugawara Koushi, what the hell are you doing?”

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Next Chapter

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[exilevilifyrp]

                                           file: introduction

full name: dallas costa age range: 33 identifies with: born under a bad sign by cream genesis: hybrid gender: cis-male portrayal: dj cortona

                                                                         file: skeleton

Brute force and brash tones, that was all he’d ever known. Lungs filled with hot air, legs furiously kicking, he entered this world a fighter. A wretch of a human. Willful and arrogant, demanding survival instead of earning it. A child born of privilege, with the words of his childhood always sharpened like knives. All used to nick and scrape away all the weakest parts of him, his father desperately wishing to mold and shape Dallas into much more than he was supposed to be. But with pockets deeper than a young boy could ever imagine, Dallas ran wild with impropriety, focusing on immediate pleasures instead of working for what he wanted. What else was he to do? He was born prince, the city at his fingertips, and he walked through life with ease because no one had ever taught him any different. He took what he pleased and never apologized for who he was.

A Costa. A King in the making.

He was a rambunctious boy, carefree and curious, rife with desire to impress the man who’d raised him with never a kind word and instead always a firm hand: his father. Mitchum was never a generous man, never one to spend more than a few minutes at a time with Dallas if he thought the boy deserved it, which he rarely did. But he always did have a message, a mantra, if you will. You’re destined for greatness, he’d say. But the look in his eyes never quite met the weight of those words, as if he never truly believed them when he looked at his own son. It was easy to pick up on, that rejection from the man who gave him life, and at such a young age it only made him an angry child, his fists always clenched in an uncontrollable rage, never quite sure where it truly stemmed from because looking too deep inside always seemed like a ridiculous notion—something a man doesn’t do. Not when downing half a bottle of whiskey would do the trick.

So instead he lived in the moment, in the now, hurdling from each liquored up escapade to the next, always acting first and forgetting to even ask for permission later. Wherever he went, a fight surely erupted, chaos following him around like an invisible mentor, teaching him the way of conflict, of seizing any and all opportunity to play on people’s delicate emotions, to assert control over those meek and mild mannered. But such unfettered dominance undoubtedly stemmed from that very weakness his father had always known Dallas had, and he told him as such time and time again. Every time he disappointed his father, he was told how useless he was. How impetuous and immature, so ignorant and idiotic.

Think before you act, his father would always say, mustache set in a straight line as he tidied up yet another one of his son’s messes.

But where’s the fun in that? Dallas would ask, a shit-eating grin playing across his handsome features, already planning his next adventure.

But much to his son’s amusement, there came a time when Mitchum’s opinion no longer mattered, no longer held any credence in the Costa hierarchy for he’d gone and gotten himself arrested. He’d never been one for mistakes, never put himself in the position to be vulnerable in the eyes of the law, but one misstep, one miscalculation of his own self worth had landed him in prison for life and smeared his family name in one fell swoop. Some could say he simply fell, that Mitchum Costa, the once-revered patriarch, flew too close to the sun, and just as foolish and reckless as Icarus, he burned. And with him, his entire family was scorched, tainted by defeat and crippled by the loss of their supposedly fearless leader. Forcibly, they crashed into a devastating heap, smited down by Mitchum’s delusions of grandeur, helplessly watching in despair as their name and all they stood for fell from grace. And if he was asked, Dallas would probably laugh at such a thing. With a wicked smile upon his face, of course, and a celebratory drink in his hand, he’d offer up a toast as he saluted his father, congratulated him on making the gravest mistake of all: claiming himself a God, the very thing he’d always told his son never to do. But this story isn’t about a father’s failings, nor the pain or hardship of a callous man who got what exactly he deserved.

This is a story of a wild boy, greedy in his resilience, with an infectious sort of lawlessness coursing through his veins,  rising from the wreckage of a legacy turned to dust.

Following the imprisonment of his father at age fifteen, his mother had to make a name for herself somehow. She had to come up with a way to earn a living, figure out a way to keep a roof over her son’s head and put food on the table now that all their accounts had been frozen. But if there had been one thing Mitchum had done right, it was lock down contingencies. Followers of Haus Costa had flocked from far and wide, like vultures circling the body, hoping to get a chance at the seat now that the king had fallen. But instead of crumbling under the pressure of losing her husband, their provider and breadwinner, and cowering at the sight of six-foot-three, two hundred pound men at her door, Eliana stepped up. She refused let some nobody without the name of Costa nor the damn-near royal blood take over the syndicate, no. She became the leader Mitchum never could have dreamed of, taking on the nitty-gritty parts of the job with grace, attempting to instill a sense of responsibility into Dallas. She worked day-in and day-out, never breaking a sweat, never hesitating an inch when she had to get her hands dirty, nor giving it a second thought when she chose to pass on those same lessons to her son.

A beast of a woman, she had transformed a name once mildly feared and most certainly sneered at in a quite few sections of the universe into one that elicited great renown, now existing in only the most darkest of places, whispered on the lips of the most evil of monsters. Costa, it lurked in the shadows, ominous and terrifying.  What did they sell? Guns, drugs, protection. What did they trade in? Secrets, ammo, fame and fortune. Harrowing and revered ten-fold compared to her husband, Eliana had turned an ambitious little syndicate into an empire rich with blood-splattered gold. And with her help, Dallas rose ever higher. For eventually it’d be him who would take over. It’d be him and only him to fulfill a legacy, like his father had always wanted, he just never could have imagined it’d be Eliana’s instead.

He started off slow despite the urge to fall head over heels into the family business, regardless of the desire to drench dip his fingers into the sea of boundless income and violence. It called to him, the senselessness of it all, the way it was complete chaos organized by his mother, no longer a victim but a heroine of epic proportions. The way she worked, with such ease and calculated moves, like a master of chess and everyone she met a simple pawn in her game, weak and pliable and bending to her every will. He wanted that for himself, wanted to hold that kind of glory in the palm of his hand. And if he could have, he would have willed himself a deity, demanded people bled in his name by the thousands only to strike them down when they fell at his feet in worship. And if there had been one thing such infamy had taught him, one thing he’d learned while watching his mother reinvent herself a Queen, it was that such power, autonomy and influence in the right hands, well, it could span an entire universe.

And so he worked himself to the bone, laid himself bare before Eliana’s throne only to be met with disapproval, with hindrance, taking him nearly three years to work from mere foot soldier to captain. And what a perilous climb it had been, an uphill battle with seemingly no end in sight, but she knew her son better than most. She knew wanting responsibility and handling it were two very different beasts, their motives completely different, and before she could offer him such a position in good conscience, he had to learn; had to grow up; had to become a man. And for a while, it worked. For once in his life, Dallas stepped up. He never let his guard down and focused on every task at hand with unprecedented precision—like a true heir. Earning respect had never been his forte, not when he was handed far too much far too soon in his adolescence, but men came to fear him. They cowered when he entered a room, one hand gripping Polly as she rested gently against his shoulder and the other twirling a cigarette. But anyone who ever claims power doesn’t corrupt, is a fool. And so was Dallas.

With the title of underboss, of second-in-command in his sights, he began to slip. Little things fell through the cracks as his vision tunneled, once again only able to focus on those immediate pleasures he loved so much. It was one thing when his love of a good time would cloud his judgement, when it would force him to act instead of think, to do instead of plan ahead, but now? He wanted that crown, the one resting atop his mother’s head; it called to him, whispering in his ear like a seductive mistress of avarice, begging him to give in—to betray everything and seize that throne.

It was reckless, what came next. Taking that job with those two idiots, two inexperienced soldiers just like he had once been, and trusting that they could get the job done, that they’d have his back when the shit hit the fan. And when the unexpected happened, when the buyers demanded the drugs and refused to pay, their guns loaded and aimed right at Dallas’ head, the soldiers cowered. They cracked under the pressure, pissed themselves and left him for dead. He’d managed to take down two out of four on his way down, and before the Overwatchers showed up and slapped the cuffs on him. And even though he was barely conscious, he couldn’t help but laugh. To smirk in the face of irony, belligerent and ornery in its determination to be his undoing. For history had surely repeated itself, and despite his best efforts, Dallas Costa had become the last thing he’d ever imagined: exactly like his father.

                                                                        file: known associates

LUDOVIC MIRE - when you look at him, you don’t see a leader, you see a failure. it’s nothing personal, you say, just not something you like to see in a captain. in a leader. after all, you were the captain of your own ship, and men like you weren’t born to take orders from men like him. it’s only a matter of time before the rest of the crew thinks so too.

                                                                   THIS CHARACTER IS UNAVAILABLE.

[katiebruce]

year of the wildflower

I can’t believe it’s fucking February and I have yet to sit down and reflect on the end of yet another year. 2018.

Two Thousand and Eighteen.

What a glorious, glorious year you were for me. (It was the ten-year anniversary of 2008 after all, so I probably should have seen that one coming. Hindsight is a fickle beast I’ve yet to learn to tame.)

I started the year off with a lot of newness—preparing to move out of my apartment of seven years, for example.

Though I knew it was time for a new beginning, the months leading up to this move were hard for me. I felt like I was separating myself from some former version of myself; a hermit crab shedding her proverbial shell.

The moment we found Hoegarden, however, I knew it was the right choice.

Only four blocks up the street (a six-minute walk; I timed it) from my old place, it felt like the comfort of home laced with the thrill of a new start.

And so, I packed.

I purged.

And the week before I moved, I flew to India. (I am nothing if not wildly ridiculous at a seemingly predictable rate: life change? Leave the fucking country!)

I have been talking about going to India obsessively since the eleventh grade (I had learned about Holi and became obsessed with Eastern culture quickly after.)

Though I paraded around with arrogance, I was quite intimidated to plan this trip. It was something I don’t think I realized was happening until we had landed, disembarked, and had been rushed into the chaotic Delhi streets at midnight before it really hit me—that I was here, and I couldn’t be afraid.

So, I wasn’t.

I had only one bad experience that night, and I handled it—I learned to say no. As an American, millennial, feminist, I thought this was something I was already good at.

Turns out, I was not.

But I got better. And by the end of my trip, I felt so completely safe, so enamored by the sights, the smells (rich dirt moist with the smell of sweat, the sultry scent of saffron, sweetened candy from the streets…curry!) that I was sad my time was over so soon.

This trip prepared me for Morocco—the adult I had to be, the sticky situations I had to diffuse, middle eastern culture. I wandered those golden, enchanted markets thirsty for authenticity, and I always seemed to find it, for better or for worse.

There was lots of yelling. Lots of jetlag. And lots of running for flights.

But between these two trips, these two monumental events in my life, I walked away and felt growth. I felt proud of where I’d gone and what I’d seen. And that, though I was accompanied by friends (and oh, the friends we made!) I had accomplished this feat mostly alone, planning and ultimately orchestrating both trips by my lonesome, endlessly researching cultural customs, Indian cuisines and transport, Ramadan rules (because we were in Morocco during the holiday) and I had fucking succeeded.

I flew again to London (London, London, London, alwaysLondon) and Scotland and finished up my year by going to Australia.

Five continents in one year.

I spent an entire day running around Jaipur, my phone almost being stolen by a monkey, and I tried to get an Uber in a place where elephants are considered vehicles and you can order a tuk-tuk via the app.

I bathed, fed, and walked a rescued elephant—Chin Chin—and felt her two-ton belly swollen with babies (twins!) as she made me laugh by playing with my hair and squirting water on my head when I wasn’t playing with her.

I was welcomed into the home of strangers and fed a home cooked meal; the best I had in all of India.

I made friends with the soda-shop boys near our palace of an Airbnb and left them with all of my change upon leaving the country. (This would leave me completely screwed at the airport where the vendors did not accept credit cards, but alas—who am I if not starving and stressed about non-reving out of another country?)

I woke up at four in the morning and rode all the way to Agra to bask in the wonderful Taj Mahal. I dipped my toes in it’s gorgeous lakes and dreamt of a love so big someone would construct a monument to celebrate it someday that would put this silly marble slab of stone to shame.

I returned to Spain and wandered the streets of Barcelona and Madrid like a pro; how quickly three years had passed, how recently it seemed upon returning.

We flew down to Morocco and booked a famous riad with a driver and were escorted through the airport like queens (gluttons, really.) We wandered the many rooms of our new home excitedly, pretending to be princesses and bursting into wine-induced fits of laughter when the first Ramadan calls came over the loudspeaker and bellowing down into our open-aired fortress.

We wandered the gardens of Yves Saint Laurent and I impressed Lauren and Beebs with my correct pronunciation of the designer’s name (thanks, Cardi.)

We took a horse drawn carriage through Marrakech and were swindled by henna artists in the streets (it was still worth it.)

We boarded a ten-passenger caravan and took a trek that took us through the northern African mountains, the many small villages and ruins, learned about the art of rug making and sipped on delicious mint tea.

And then I was proposed to. His name was Watik. Once again, I said no. Albeit a more forceful one.

We drove directly into a sand storm and learned how to adorn our heads with a “passport to the desert” to protect us from the harsh conditions.

And then we rode camels through the fucking Sahara Desert.

We camped in giant rooms and dined under the stars (the most delicious of the tangines we had, though it’s honestly hard to pick) and listened to our guides play African drums under the moonlight.

And then we went adventuring into the night.

I remember climbing to the top of a dune, digging my toes deeper into the sand and being amazed at how bright the moonlight shone over the dessert sands.

(We watched the sunrise in the morning, and I was equally in awe of nature’s subtle beauty.)

We wandered the ancient city of Fes with our newly married friends and took in the smells of sweet mint leaf and the curing of animal hyde in the tanneries.

I took a few weeks off traveling and fucking prepared for what would be my mother’s first trip abroad: The UK.

I got to see the excitement fill her eyes upon seeing the London skyline, see some adolescent excitement light up in her upon taking her to her first protest (baby Trump riot—yes, it was as amazing as it looked on television) and watched her fall in love with old, ancient English streets, the ones I’ve loved for so many years, watch her accept my longing, my desire to make this my home, as she fell completely head over heels in love with it, too.

I drank violet gin and watched bagpipers play in the street and climbed to the highest part of Edinburgh just so I could turn around and look down at it in awe.

I watched Paul Simon say farewell, with another 500,000 fans in the royal gardens and wept with emotion when he opened his set with “America.”

I came back and saw Paramore with my strawberry, I saw St. Vincent in all her glory, Twin Peaks and First Aid Kit and even flew to Denver to see Ryan Adams play Red Rocks.

I stressed, a lot.

And yet somehow always made it through.

I celebrated my Dad’s sixtieth birthday and got to finally show him around Chicago, my home, and watch as he pieced together a new aspect of me he never seemed to understand before.

I flew to Denver to meet up with my best friend for a road trip to Salt Lake to see Panic. We cuddled and laughed and jammed and danced under the stars in beautiful Big Sky.

And then there was Australia. Rainy, jungle-esque Australia.

Noodle night in the muddy park and Aussie pizza (twice, because it really was that spectacular.)

Twin Peaks at an abandoned skate-house and teenagers blacking out around us.

Ferry rides hopped up on Nyquil. Books read in cafes.

Beautiful, beautiful Melbourne.

Lauren laughing at me because of fear of all the various vicious birds we encountered. My allergies through the roof, throat closing in the royal gardens.

Not one single fucking kangaroo.

There was San Francisco and fleet week and the Mystic Valley Band at a winery in Sonoma. (The most beautiful sunset I’d ever seen—and that wine!)

I left the country so many times this year with no more than pennies to my name, no place to stay when I landed, nothing but an inspiration and the courage to make myself show up for a flight.

I took myself to the Opera and felt bougie for sipping on black coffee the entire time and sitting alone.

I relaxed.

I found myself hiding away in my new home, no school to attend (because again, I fucking GRADUATED COLLEGE) and no trips to take and I felt… peace.

An old friend came to town and I met up with him for drinks and now Taylor is my boyfriend.

Me; a boyfriend.

Me; in love.

I held his hand at Chriskindel market and consoled him after an eventful first Thanksgiving together. I rubbed my hands through his luscious hair and kissed his forehead where the small patch of gray grows in with the eager fervor of old age. (My old man.)

I let him love me, all of me, and sat back in amazement as I lowered my walls, my protection, and let this one man weasel his way through the booby traps I had planted long before.

(He detonated them all.)

I watched, silently—though often times conflicted—as the light in his eyes grew familiar, listened as his sweet, humble snoring cooed me to sleep.

I fell in love.

And through all of the fantastic adventures 2018 took me, through every corner of the world, I did not know that what I had been looking for all along was him. My love, my prince, my sweet, sincere, annoying, handsome, smart, idiot, adorable boyfriend Taylor.

And now I feel so whole.

2018 was a big year for me—in every way imaginable. I even started grad school (I’m a masochist, I must be). But it was the last year I would be in my twenties.

In February, I turned twenty-nine and began preparing myself for the start of a new decade. I felt unaccomplished and somehow proud of what I’d done—scared yet eager to grow older.

Weeks before my birthday, I marched proudly with thousands of others through the streets of my home, my city, protesting our asshat of a president and the suppression of women’s rights. I remember walking through the streets, sign in hand, feeling like a fully actualized version of myself; I was finally the person I had always wanted to be.

It just took me longer than I had expected to get there.

My twenties were a tumultuous time (something eerily familiar about the terrible two’s, no?)

Where I lost myself and tried on new versions of myself for extended periods of time.

I dropped out of college and worked three jobs.

I moved cross-country with my best friend to live in a big city like I had always wanted to.

I became a flight attendant.

I went back to college and graduated. Then I got into fucking grad school.

I fell in love with four boys: the first, my first. The truest, the purest; a complete and total heartbreak. The second, from afar—that spark, that magnetism—now a friend engaged himself, and I couldn’t be happier for him and his wife-to-be. The third, my German—a wrong fit I tried so desperately to squish into all of my open, healing wounds. And the fourth, my love—my Taylor. My partner.

I slept with some awful people (two; M & T).

And kissed plenty more.

I lost friends I thought I’d never lose and met friends I thought I’d never have.

I discovered what it is to be broke.

Brutally, honestly, broke.

And yet I traveled.

I visited fifteen countries in those ten years and did it all on my own terms. I saw Stonehenge, the Sahara, the Taj Ma-Fucking-Hal, went to Oktoberfest, played Sega in Japan and even saw Alex Turner a whopping four times in one decade. (What a facetious little man.)

I cried in bathroom stalls and did coke in bathroom stalls and danced so much I felt invincible and once upon a time even owned the streets of Ybor.

I did acid on tinder dates and even dated a girl, my only girl, my Kelli.

I watched as my sister got engaged and our little family grew by one.

I lost my Cody, my baby, and felt his spirit in a haunted hotel in South Dakota (hi, baby.)

I wandered many foreign streets and stumbled my way through foreign languages and ordered foreign food I couldn’t pronounce the name of and didn’t like the taste of.

I went to so many concerts I’ll probably be deaf, and probably soon.

I was so surrounded by love and so alone at times I silently cried myself to sleep in a new city.

I cut off my hair, got six tattoos and went to so many different music festivals.

I was wild; I was timid. I was fierce; I was afraid. I was whole; I felt alone.

(Walt Whitman isn’t the only one who can contain multitudes.)

[thefairefolk-rp]

Welcome, Catherine! Your application for your original character, Tathal Genlen, has been accepted!

Name/Nickname Catherine

Age: 28

Prefered Pronouns: she /her

Timezone: GMT+1

Activity and Availability (Please answer in words as well as rating your availability from 1-10): 8-9 Due to college

Have you read the rules and FAQ? Yes

IC INFORMATION

Character Name | FC: Tathal Genlen | Henry Cavill Age: 600 years old.

Species: Faerie hob

Court: Seelie

Occupation: Royal knight Tathal the Pureheart

Appearance

Tathal is tall and broad with curly dark hair and piecing blue eyes that has a flash of brown in the right eye after a battle which secured him the title of a Royal Knight. His skin has a slight tan which is due to working out in the hot sun all day long as a boy, with his mother and sister. He holds himself straight and tall, but there is an innocence in the smile which he rarely shows. When in court, he will have his hair and clothing neat and respectable, as he wants to show his true loyalty to the queen. But when in battle, he will tie his long hair back and will not shave as he has more important things on his mind then grooming. Tathal wears a talisman necklace given to him by his mother who was a weaver in her younger days. It is a simple necklace which is woven from leather but has protected him in every battle and originally belonged to his father.

The voice that accompanies this man is one of a solider. When he shouts, his voice is loud and powerful. But when he speaks in court, his voice is deep and smooth, giving a feel of calm and safety amongst the soldiers and royal folk. Tathal walks with purpose and always gives everyone he speaks to full eye contact and a rare gracious smile. He can be an object of many ladies affection within the court, but he would rather focus on his job in hand until he meets the one. An overall view of Tathal is that he is strong, capable and loyal to the seelie. Brought up with manners and can dance relatively well should the occasion require it, Tathal enjoys parties once his work is done. His steady gaze can make people feel safe and wanted.

Personality Tathal is a calm, kind person who only fights for the seelie when he is told to. He is apt at dealing with wounds and has helped others in the past. If he hadn't become a knight, Tathal would have joined the monks of the tears of Iwan  but he had his path set out for him by his father, much to his family’s delight. Under his stoic exterior, Tathal is a romantic, charming, generous man who wants to settle with a family of his own one day. He believes that hope and glory only comes with hard work and sheer stubbornness. Unfortunately for him, there can be times where his personal feelings cloud his judgement and he can become impulsive and argumentative with the female unseelie. He finds them impolite and he isnt keen on rebels of any kind, but there is a small part of him which also finds the argumentative unseelie’s arousing, yet he chooses to ignore that feeling most of the time. He is widely regarded as the loyal one who tends to focus on work rather then pleasure, he also has a strong moral compass and does what is right for the court even if that means hurting himself.

Background

Born in a small cottage just inside the realm, Tathal was brought up by his mother after his father, *Luca the gold valiant, who was from a wealthy background, died in battle. His father was one of the queens favourite royal knights and when he died he requested his son take his place as a royal knight, when he was ready.  Tathal grew into a strong young man after daily work for his mother and younger sister. He became the man of the house and lost out on having a fun adolescence like his friends. Tathal learnt how to cook and clean and mend clothing as the family was extremely poor. His mother would tell him to go and have fun with friends but all he could think about was how to get food on the table for the following day. As he grew, he knew he had his life mapped out for him and his mother always reminded him of the queen’s promise to his dying father that Tathal would became a royal knight. It started with him as a squire for one of the greats who had been a good friend of his father’s. Tathal learnt quickly and when he wasn’t watching the knights, he was at home reading by candle light while his sister and mother slept. Tathal was known to be the quickest ranking Royal knight, due to his ability to lean and retain knowledge quickly. Many nights he would watch from his window as the court threw lavish parties and Tathal would be tethered to his books, waiting for the day he could join the knights.

Things moved quickly for the young man and eventually he was called for. He joined the ranks and fought for the seelie. He brought back bodies of his kin when they were bloodied and bruised or dying as he couldn’t bare them not to be with their own kind. This caught the notice of the queen who asked him to see her. As he knelt at her feet, he told her that he was a *Luca the gold valiant’s son  and that it was his job to bring the seelie home to rest. She saw the loyalty in his eyes that his father had once shown her and thanked him for his service by making him a royal knight and naming him *Tathal the Pureheart . This was Tathal’s finest moment and he became a Royal knight and the fact she had called him pureheart made him feel closer to his father. He helped his mother and sister get a bigger home and once he knew they were safe and cared for he went back to the court to stand by his queen. Nowadays you will find him close to the queen, he is observant and watches the court to make sure the seelie are safe, like a loyal solider to the court.

* should the names need to be changed please let me know as I have a few other ideas. - please read on  for more of the explanation of his knight name

Para

Tathal was exhausted. Every muscle in his body ached and all he wanted was to sleep. But he continued on his trusty steed to the court which was like a mirage in the distance. He looked down at his bloodstained clothes and stopped his horse, Tathal could not go back into court in such a mess. Climbing off his horse Kal, he noticed a small brook nearby. Tathal patted his horse then walked over to the brook and began to clean his clothes, he could not face the queen in such a disarray. He pulled off his tunic and began to clean it in the waters, then washed his face and hair before tying it back neatly away from his handsome face. He wrung out his clothes and hung them on a tree to dry. Sitting at the water’s edge, he began to clean his wounds from battle. The one on his arm was painful, so he began to bathe it in the clean refreshing water. It was then he noticed in the reflection, something was behind him.

Moving slowly, Tathal placed his hand on his golden sword, ready to draw. He stood slowly and then turned. What he saw will stay with him forever. There, a few feet from him was a unicorn. mesmerised by the creature, he stepped out of its way as it moved past him to drink from the brook. Tathal watched it drink and then smiled, a rare gracious smile. He slowly and calmly reached out to the creature, stopping as the unicorn made a quick head jerk. He then continued until he felt the warm soft mane of the unicorn against his palm. Tathal stroked its mane and then felt the pain in his arm subside. He nodded at the creature and left it to drink from the brook as he moved to put on his clothes. Tathal walked back to his steed, with a new sense of vigor. He gave it some water and then climbed on to his horse and patted his side. “Let’s go home.” He said softly in the horse’s ear. As Tathal moved away from the brook, he turned to see the outline of the white horse moving away. Could this have been a sign from his father?

Once back in court, Kal has led away to the stables and Tathal was free from his duties. He made his way to his family home and knocked on the door. “Tathal.” His sister cried throwing herself into his arms as soon as she opened the door, causing him to wince slightly. “ You are wounded, come let me help you.” Tathal followed his sister and then saw his mother. Immediately he lent forward to her embrace and kissed her forehead. “Hello, mother.” He said as the same gracious smile which he was known for, crept across her face. “ My boy is home from battle. Are you hurt?” she asked and he shrugged.“ Nothing some good food won’t fix.” Tathal chuckled and then sat down as his sister fussed over him. His mother made him some food and placed the bowl on the table. “What brings you here?” She asked sitting beside him. “ I missed you both and there was something I wanted to share with you.” He said with a mysterious smile. “ You are getting married?” His mother asked hopefully as she clasped his hand and Tathal shook his head. “No. I saw a unicorn.” His sister dropped her cloth on the table and stared opened mouthed at him. “A real one?” She asked and he nodded. His mother smiled at him and ran her hand through his dark curls. “That was a message from your father. Tathal the pureheart.” she said softly.

[free-mormons-blog]

Archaeology and Our Religion -- Old Testament and Related Studies -- HUGH NIBLEY 1986

Archaeology and Our Religion

Nothing illustrates better than archaeology the inadequacy of human knowledge at any given time. It is not that archaeology is less reliable than other disciplines, but simply that its unreliability is more demonstrable. Meteorology (to show what we mean) is quite as “scientific” as geology and far more so than archaeology—it actually makes more use of scientific instruments, computers, and higher mathematics than those disciplines need to. Yet we laugh at the weatherman every other day; we are not overawed by his impressive paraphernalia, because we can check up on him any time we feel like it: he makes his learned pronouncements—and then it rains or it doesn’t rain. If we could check up on the geologist or archaeologist as easily when he tells us with perfect confidence what has happened and what will happen in the remotest ages, what would the result be? Actually, in the one field in which the wisdom of geology can be controlled, the finding of oil, it is calculated that the experts are proven right only about 10 percent of the time.1 Now if a man is wrong 90 percent of the time when he is glorying in the complete mastery of his specialty, how far should we trust the same man when he takes to pontificating on the mysteries? No scientific conclusion is to be trusted without testing—to the extent to which exact sciences are exact they are also experimental sciences; it is in the laboratory that the oracle must be consulted. But the archaeologist is denied access to the oracle. For him there is no neat and definitive demonstration; he is doomed to plod along, everlastingly protesting and fumbling, through a laborious, often rancorous running debate that never ends.

To make a significant discovery in physics or mathematics or philology, one must first know a good deal about the subject; but the greatest archaeological discoveries of recent years were made by ignorant peasants and illiterate shepherd boys. From that it follows, as the handbooks on archaeology never tire of pointing out, that the proper business of the archaeologist is not so much the finding of stuff as being able to recognize what one has found. Yet even there the specialist enjoys no monopoly. Dr. Joseph Saad, who directed the excavations at Khirbet Qumran, tells of many instances in which the local Arabs were able to explain findings that completely baffled the experts from the West, to the rage and chagrin of the latter. Hence Sir Mortimer Wheeler warns the archaeologist: “Do not ignore the opinion of the uninstructed. ‘Everyone knows as much as the savant. . . .’ Emerson said so and he was right.”2

With everybody getting into the act, it is not surprising that the history of archaeology is largely the story of bitter jealousies and frightful feuds. Archaeology mercilessly accentuates certain qualities characteristic of all research but often glosses over the exact sciences. The elements of uncertainty, surprise, and disappointment, and the pervasive role of speculation and imagination, with all the unconscious conditioning and prejudice that implies, are not merely regrettable defects in archaeology—they are the very stuff of which the picturesque discipline is composed. “What in fact is Archaeology?” asks Sir Mortimer, and answers, “I do not myself really know. . . . I do not even know whether Archaeology is to be described as an art or a science.” Even on the purely technical side, he points out, “There is no right way of digging, but there are many wrong ways.”3

Duel in the Dark

The idea of archaeology as the key to a man’s origin and destiny was introduced as a weapon of anti-clerical polemic in the revolutionary movements of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. Reimar’s “hate-filled pamphlet” on history and the New Testament launched the “scientific” attack on the Bible,4 and when Boucher de Perthes, a child of the French Revolution, found stone “hand-axes” among the flints of Abbeville he published them in five stately volumes entitled, with pontifical finality, “On the Creation.”5 These objects, whose use and origin are still disputed, were to be nothing less than the key to the creation. Such fantastic leaps of the mind reveal the fierce determination of the first modern archaeologists to “get something” on the Bible. It was inevitable that biblical archaeology should become little more than “an offshoot of Darwinism.”6 The great Lamarck, before he even came up with his explanation of the creation, was animated “by a severe . . . philosophical hostility, amounting to hatred, for the tradition of the Deluge and the Biblical creation story, indeed for everything which recalled the Christian theory of nature.”7 And Darwin writes of himself in his twenties: “I had gradually come, by this time, to see that the Old Testament from its manifestly false history of the world and from its attributing to God the feelings of a revengeful tyrant, was no more to be trusted than the sacred books of the Hindoos [sic], or the beliefs of any barbarian. . . . By further reflecting . . . that the more we know of the fixed laws of nature the more incredible do miracles become—that the men at that time were ignorant and credulous to a degree almost incomprehensible to us. . . . This disbelief crept over me at a very slow rate, but was at last complete. The rate was so slow that I felt no distress, and have never since doubted for a single second that my conclusion was correct.”8

This is a very revealing statement, a rich compound of cliches, a testament of Victorian smugness: “manifestly false . . . revengeful tyrant . . . any barbarian . . . fixed laws of nature . . . never doubted for a single second.” Those are the words of a man who knows all the answers and is proud rather than ashamed of his unflinching loyalty to his adolescent prejudices. Just how much would a young English theology student in the 1820s know about the real history of the world, books of the Hindus, or “the beliefs of any barbarian”? Next to nothing, is putting it mildly, but it was enough to put the stamp of “complete disbelief” on Darwin’s thinking forever after. Students commonly assume that it was the gradual amassing of evidence that in time constrained such men to part company with the Bible. Exactly the opposite is the case: long before they had the evidence, they brought to their researches such an unshakable determination to discredit the book of Genesis that the discovery of the evidence was a foregone conclusion. It was Darwin’s bosom friend and spokesman who blurted out the real issue with characteristic bluntness: “Darwin himself avoided attacking the Bible, but for Huxley, his doughty champion against all comers,” writes J. C. Greene, “the battle against the doctrine of inspiration, whether plenary or otherwise, was the crucial engagement in the fight for evolution and for freedom of scientific enquiry.”9 The battle was against revelation, and evolution was the weapon forged for the conflict. We must not be misled by that inevitable tag about “freedom of scientific enquiry.” When a Tennessee high-school teacher was fired for teaching evolution in 1925, the whole civilized world was shocked and revolted at such barbaric restriction on freedom of thought; yet at the same time there was not an important college or even high school in the country that would hire a man who dared to preach against evolution. Freedom of thought indeed.

The great debate between “science” and “religion” has been a duel in the dark. How do things stand between the picture that “archaeology” gives us of the past and the picture that the scriptures give us? Take the biblical image first: the best efforts of the best artists back through the years to represent a clear picture of things described in the Bible look to us simply comical. Even the conscientious Flemish artists, using the best Oriental knowledge of their time, paint Solomon or Holofernes as boozy Landgraves at a fancy dress ball, while the masters of the Italian Renaissance show their prophets and apostles affecting the prescribed dress and stock gestures of traveling Sophists of the antique world. We are no better today, with our handsome “Bible Lands” books, based on diligent research, showing Jesus or Elijah in the garb of modern Bedouins or Ramallah peasants moving through the eroded terrain of modern Palestine or discoursing beneath arches and gates of Norman and Turkish design. The moral of this is that no matter where we get our information, our picture of the Bible is bound to be out of focus, for it will always be based on inadequate data, and it will always be of our own construction. And at no time did the Christian world have a more distorted picture of the Bible than in the nineteenth century. To the Victorians, creaking with culture and refinement, it was easy and pleasant to assign all other creatures their proper place and station in the world—for that is what evolution does. Their outspoken objection to Mormonism was that it was utterly barbaric, an intolerable affront to an enlightened and scientific age. Huxley declared with true scientific humility that the difference between a cultivated man of his own day and a native of the forest was as great as that between the native and a blade of grass. What possible understanding could these people have of the real Bible world? Taken at face value the Bible was a disgustingly primitive piece of goods—”poor stuff,” John Stuart Mill pronounced it; the work of people “ignorant and credulous to a degree almost incomprehensible to us,” as Darwin said, for this, of course, was the Bible that Darwin rejected: in it he was attacking an image that was the product of his own culture and nothing else.

The Mind’s Eye

Archaeology today “in our universities and schools,” according to Wheeler, “forms innocuous pools of somewhat colorless knowledge—mostly a refined Darwinism—in which our kindergartens are encouraged to paddle.”10 Again, everybody gets into the act. My own children, long before they could read, write, or count, could tell you exactly how things were upon the earth millions and millions of years ago. But did the little scholars really know? “What is our knowledge of the past and how do we obtain it?” asks the eminent archaeologist Stuart Piggott, and answers: “The past no longer exists for us, even the past of yesterday. . . . This means that we can never have direct knowledge of the past. We have only information or evidence from which we can construct a picture.”11 The fossil or potsherd or photograph that I hold in my hand may be called a fact—it is direct evidence, an immediate experience; but my interpretation of it is not a fact, it is entirely a picture of my own construction. I cannot experience ten thousand or forty million years—I can only imagine, and the fact that my picture is based on facts does not make it a fact, even when I think the evidence is so clear and unequivocal as to allow no other interpretation. Archaeology brings home this lesson every day, as Sir Flinders Petrie pointed out, for in no other field does interpretation count for so much.12 “The excavator,” writes Sir Leonard Woolley, “is constantly subject to impressions too subjective and too intangible to be communicated, and out of these, by no exact logical process, there arise theories which he can state, can perhaps support, but cannot prove. . . . They have their value as summing up experiences which no student of his objects and notes can ever share.”13 Yet what makes scientific knowledge scientific is that it can be shared. “There are fires,” writes a leading student of American archaeology, “which man may, or may not, have lit—animals he may, or may not, have killed—and crudely flaked stone objects, which those most qualified to judge think he did not make. By weight of numbers these finds have been built into an impression of probability, but the idol has feet of clay.”14 This is the normal state of things when we are dealing with the past: “If one certainty does emerge from this accumulation of uncertainties,” writes an eminent geologist, “it is the deep impression of the vastness of geologic time.”15 An “accumulation of uncertainties” leaves the student (“by weight of numbers”) with an “impression” which he thereupon labels a “certainty.”

Yet with examples gross as earth to exhort him, the archaeologist is constantly slipping into the normal occupational hazard of letting the theory rather than the facts call the tune. For years archaeologists always assumed that pieces could be chipped from the surface of stones merely by exposure to the burning sun—they never bothered to put their theory to the test, though no one ever was present when the sun did its chipping.16 From Breasted’s Ancient Times, millions of high-school students have learned how primitive man woke one morning in his camp in the Sinai Peninsula to find that bright copper beads had issued from the greenish rocks with which he banked his fire that night. It was not until 1939 that a scientist at Cambridge actually went to the trouble to see if copper could be smelted from an open fire, and discovered that it was absolutely impossible. 17 Nobody had bothered to check up on these simple things—like the Aristotelians who opposed the experimenting of Galileo, the men of science felt no need to question the obvious. If man had been on the earth for, say, 100,000 years, scattered everywhere in tiny groups subsisting on a near-animal level, could we possibly find the cultural and linguistic patterns we do in the world today? After fifty thousand years of local isolation, is it conceivable that languages at opposite ends of the earth should be recognizably related? Only in our day are such elementary questions beginning to be asked—often with surprising and disturbing results. But however vast the accumulation of facts may become, our picture of the past and the future will always be, not partly but wholly, the child of our own trained and conditioned imaginations. “The world will always be different from any statement that science can give of it,” a philosopher of science writes, and he explains: “that is, we are looking for an opportunity to restate any statement which we can give of the world. . . . We are always restating our statement of the world.”18 Scholarship is also an age-old, open-ended discussion in which the important thing is not to be right at a given moment but to be able to enter seriously into the discussion. That I cannot do if I must depend on the opinion of others, standing helplessly by until someone else pronounces a verdict, and then cheering loudly to show that I too am a scholar.

Because interpretation plays an all-important role in it, archaeology has been carried on against a background of ceaseless and acrimonious controversy, with theory and authority usually leading fact around by the nose. If the great Sir Arthur Evans decided eighty years ago that the Minoans and Mycenaeans were not Greeks, then evidence discovered today must be discounted if it shows they were Greeks; if it was concluded long ago that the Jews did not write in Hebrew at the time of Christ, then Hebrew documents from that time if they are discovered today must be forgeries. “Does our time scale, then, partake of natural law?” a geologist wonders. “No. . . . I wonder how many of us realize that the time scale was frozen in essentially its present form by 1840 . . . ? The followers of the founding fathers went forth across the earth and in Procrustean fashion made it fit the sections they found even in places where the actual evidence literally proclaimed denial. So flexible and accommodating are the ‘facts’ of geology.”19 “Science,” said Whitehead, “is our modern-day dogmatism.” There is something cozy and old-fashioned, almost nostalgic, in the archaeology of forty years ago with its invincible meliorism and romantic faith in man’s slow, steady, inevitable onward and upward march. But archaeology is the science of surprises, and the most desperate efforts of accommodation have not been able to discredit the sensational changes of our day.

“One of the most exciting results of the radio-carbon dating,” writes Piggott, ” . . . has been to emphasize how rapidly and severely the environment was modified.”20Extreme and rapid changes of environment have long been anathema to science. “Darwin’s secret, learned from Lyell,”21 according to H. F. Osborn, was (in Lyell’s own words) that “all theories are rejecting that which involves the assumption of sudden and violent catastrophies.”22 In a world of nuclear explosions this seems downright funny, but it “was a perfect expression,” as Egon Friedell has written, “of the English temperament and comfortable middleclass view of the world that refused to believe in sudden and violent metamorphoses, world uprising, and world calamities.” 23 One of the most militant evolutionists of our day says that “it remains true, as every paleontologist knows, that most new species, genera, and families, and nearly all categories above the level of families, appear in the record suddenly, and are not led up to by known, gradual, completely continuous transitional sequences.”24 One wonders why if most species appear on the scene suddenly without millions of years of evolutionary preparation leading up to them, the human race cannot have done the same. “Because it didn’t,” we are told. For a hundred years, thousands of scientists have devoted their lives to proving that it didn’t; yet all they have to offer us as proof to date is a large and cluttered science fair of bizarre and competing models, interesting but mutually damaging.

The New Uniformity

Through the years the writer, who is no archaeologist, has had to keep pretty well abreast of the journals and consult occasionally with archaeologists in order to carry on his own varied projects. Anyone who has any contact at all with what is going on is aware that the significant trend since World War II has been the steady drawing together of far-flung peoples and cultures of antiquity into a single surprisingly close-knit fabric. Early in the present century an “Egyptologist” could make fun of the “amusing ignorance” of the Pearl of Great Price, in which “Chaldeans and Egyptians are hopelessly mixed together, although as dissimilar and remote in language, religion, and locality as are today’s American Indians and Chinese.”25 Today a ten-year-old would be reprimanded for such a statement, since now we know that Chaldeans and Egyptians were “hopelessly mixed together” from the very beginning of history. Even as late as the 1930s so eminent a scholar as T. E. Peet had to exercise extreme caution—suggesting that there might be any resemblance between the literatures of Babylonia, Palestine, Egypt, and Greece.26 Today we know better, as every month establishes more widely and more firmly the common ties that knit all the civilizations of the ancient world together.

A hundred years ago, investigators of prehistory already sensed “the essential unity of the earlier Stone Age cultures throughout the Old World.” From the very beginning of the race “at a given period in the Pleistocene,” writes Piggott, “one can take, almost without selection, tools from South India, Africa and South England which show identical techniques of manufacture and form. . . . What happened at one end of the area seems to be happening more or less simultaneously at the other.”27 I have never seen any attempt to account for this astounding worldwide coordination in the industries of primitive beings who supposedly could communicate to their nearest neighbors only by squeals and grunts. In the mid-nineteenth century the folklorists were beginning to notice that the same myths and legends turned up everywhere in the Old and New Worlds, and philologists were discovering the same thing about languages; today Hockett and Asher are bemused by the “striking lack of diversity in certain features of language” and make the astounding announcement that “phonological systems [of all the languages of the world] show much less variety than could easily be invented by any linguist working with pencil and paper.”28 The same authorities note that “man shows an amazingly small amount of racial diversity,” and pardonably wonder “why human racial diversity is so slight, and . . . why the languages and cultures of all communities, no matter how diverse, are elaborations of a single inherited ‘common denominator.'” 29 With a million years of savagery and hostility, ignorance, isolation, and bestial suspicion to keep them divided, it seems that men should have had plenty of time to develop a vast number of separate “denominators” of language, legend, race, and culture. But that is not the picture we get at all.30

In religion it is the same. It was not until 1930 that a group of researchers at Cambridge cautiously presented evidence for the prevalence through the ancient world of a single pattern of kingship, an elaborate religious-economic-political structure that could not possibly have been invented independently in many places. We do not find, as we have every right to expect, an infinite variety of exotic religious rites and concepts; instead we find a single overall pattern, but one so peculiar and elaborate that it cannot have been the spontaneous production of primitive minds operating in isolation from each other.31

When history begins, “let us say c. 5000 B.C.,” to follow J. Mellaart, “we find throughout the greater part of the Near East . . . villages, market towns . . . and castles of local rulers” widely in touch with each other as “goods and raw materials were traded over great distances.”32 It is essentially the same picture we find right down to the present; and we find it everywhere—if we go to distant China “the life of the Shang [the oldest known] population can have differed little in essentials from that of the populous citystates of the Bronze Age Mesopotamia,”33 or from that of the peasants of the Danube or of “the earliest English farming culture.”34 This is what has come out since World War II. Before that, archaeology had made us progressively aware of the oneness of our world with successive discoveries of Amarna, Ugarit, Boghazkeui, Nuzi, and so on, each one tying all the great Near Eastern civilizations closer and closer together while revealing the heretofore unsuspected presence of great nations and empires as active and intimate participants in a single drama. And the Bible is right in the center of it: the patriarchs who had been reduced to solar myths by the higher critics suddenly turned out to be flesh-and-blood people; odd words, concepts and expressions, and institutions of the Bible started turning up in records of great antiquity; the Hittites, believed to be a myth by Bible scholars until 1926, suddenly emerged as one of the greatest civilizations the world has ever seen. Since then a dozen almost equally great empires have been discovered, and the preliminary studies of each of them have shown in every case that they had more or less intimate ties with the great Classical and Middle Eastern civilizations.35 The picture of ancient civilization as a whole has become steadily broader and at the same time more uniform, so that the growing impression is one of monotony bordering on drabness. Seton Lloyd is depressed by “the drab impersonality of the ‘archaeological ages.'”36 Archaeology gives us, as M. P. Nilsson puts it, “a picture-book without a text”;37 or, in the words of Sir Mortimer, “the archaeologist may find the tub but altogether miss Diogenes.”38 The eager visitor to a hundred recent diggings is fated to discover that people once lived in stone or brick or wooden houses, cooked their food (for they ate food) in pots of clay or metal over fires, hunted, farmed, fished, had children, died, and were buried. Wherever we go, it is just more of the same—all of which we could have assumed in the first place. The romance of archaeology has always resided not in the known but in the unknown, and enough is known today to suggest the terrifying verdict that a great Cambridge scientist pronounced on the physical sciences a generation ago: “The end is in sight.”

And now we come to the crux of the matter. As the tub without Diogenes has nothing to do with philosophy, so archaeology without the prophets has nothing to do with religion. “You cannot,” says Piggott, “from archaeological evidence, inform yourself on man’s ideas, beliefs, fears or aspirations. You cannot understand what his works of art or craftsmanship signified to him.”39 The ancient patriarchs and prophets ate out of ordinary dishes, sat on ordinary chairs, wore ordinary clothes, spoke the vernacular, wrote on ordinary paper and skins, and were buried in ordinary graves. The illusion of the pilgrims to the holy land, Christian, Moslem and Jewish, that this is not so—that is, that contact with such objects by holy men rendered them holy—gave rise to Biblical archaeology at an early time. The Palestine pilgrims from Origen and Gregory to Robinson and Schaff had all been looking for extra-special things, for miraculous or at least wonderful objects. Men who viewed the idea of livingprophets as a base superstition turned to the dead stones of the “Holy Land” for heavenly consolation, and enlisted archaeology in the cause of faith.40 But though archaeology may conceivably confirm the existence of a prophet (though it has never yet done so), it can never prove or disprove the visions that make the prophet a significant figure. Former attempts to explain the scriptures in terms of nature-myths, animism, and psychology had nothing to do with reality.41 What can archaeology tell me about the council in heaven? Nothing, of course—that all happened in another world. The same holds for the creation, taking place as it did at a time and place and in a manner that we cannot even imagine. Then comes the garden of Eden—a paradise and another world beyond our ken. It is only when Adam and Eve enter this world that they come down to our level. Strangely enough, the biblical image is not that of our first parents entering a wonderful new world, but leaving such to find themselves in a decidedly dreary place of toil and tears. Before long the children of Adam are building cities and are completely launched on the familiar and drab routines of civilized living: “dreary” suggests old and tired, and there is nothing fresh or new about the Adamic Age.

On the archaeological side we have Jericho, by general consensus (as of the moment) the oldest city in the world. It emerges abruptly full-blown, with a sophisticated and stereotyped architecture that remains unchanged for twenty-one successive town-levels, and from the first it displays a way of life substantially the same as that carried on by the inhabitants of the nearby towns right down to the present day. This has come as a great surprise; it is not at all consistent with the official model of the onward and upward march of civilization that we all learned about at school. When the civilization of China was rediscovered by European missionaries in the seventeenth century, skeptics and atheists saw in it a crushing refutation of the Bible—here was a great civilization thousands of years older and far richer, wiser, and more splendid than anything Western man had imagined, thriving in complete unawareness of God’s plan of salvation. It was the discovery of such other worlds, such island universes, that was once the concern of archaeology, ever seeking the strange, the marvelous, and the exotic. But now archaeology has found too much; the worlds are there, but they are not isolated—not even China; they are all members of a single community, and by far the best handbook guide to the nature and identity of that community remains the Bible.

NOTES

* “Archaeology and Our Religion,” accompanied by two cover letters dated September 16, 1965, was originally intended to be included in the “I Believe” series in the Instructor.

1. Sloan, Raymond D., “The Future of the Exploration Geologist—Can He Meet the Challenge?” Geotimes 3, no. 1 (1958), p. 6. “Only one wildcat well in nine discovers oil or gas: only one in forty-four is profitable.” In spite of scientific methods, “the high risks . . . are unusual in the business world.” (Sloan, pp. 6, 7.)

2. Wheeler, Sir Robert Eric Mortimer, Archaeology from the Earth (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1954), p. 50.

3. Wheeler, p. 2.

4. Jeremias, Joachim, “The Present Position in the Controversy Concerning the Problem of the Historical Jesus,” Expository Times 69 (1958): 333.

5. Rapport, Samuel, and Helen Wright, eds., Archaeology (New York: New York University Library of Science, 1963), pp. 18—20.

6. Gall, August Freiherrn von, Basileia tou Theou (Heidelberg: Winter, 1926), p. 12, discussing the Wellhausen school.

7. Gillespie, Charles Coulston, “Lamarck and Darwin in the History of Science,” American Scientist 46 (Dec. 1958): 397.

8. Darwin, Charles, Autobiography (New York: Harcourt, Brace, 1959), describing the period between 1836 and 1839. Darwin was born in 1809.

9. Green, John C., “Darwin and Religion,” Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 103 (1959): 717.

10. Wheeler, p. 23.

11. Piggott, Stuart, ed., The Dawn of Civilization (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1961), p. 11.

12. Petrie, William Matthew Flinders, Social Life in Ancient Egypt (1923), part 3, pp. 80, 81.

13. Woolley, Leonard, Digging Up the Past (New York: Crowell, 1954), p. 119.

14. Bushnell, G.H.S., “The Birth and Growth of New World Civilization,” in Piggott, p. 377.

15. Swinnerton, Henry Hurd, The Earth Beneath Us (Boston: Little-Brown, 1955), p. 15.

16. Morgan, Jacques Jean Marie de, La Prehistoire Orientale (Paris: Paul Geuthner, 1925), II, pp. 4ff., discusses this phenomenon, with pictures of “hatchet-shaped seile chipped by the heat of the sun.” (Fig. 2.)

17. Coghlan, H. H., “Some Experiments on the Origin of Early Copper,” Man 39 (1939): 106—8.

18. Mead, George H., Movements of Thought in the 19th Century (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1936), p. 508, discussing Bergson.

19. Spieker, Edmund M., “Mountain-Building Chronology and Nature of Geologic Time Scale,” Bulletin of the American Association of Petroleum Geologists 40 (August 1956): 1803; cf. Norman D. Newell, Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 103 (1959): 265.

20. Piggott, p. 40.

21. Osborn, Henry Fairfield, The Origin and Evolution of Life (New York: Scribner’s, 1918), p. 24.

22. Lyell, Charles, Principles of Geology (New York: John Murray, 1872) 1:318.

23. Friedell, Egon, Kulturgeschichte Aegyptens und des alten Orients (München: C.H. Beck, 1953), p. 105.

24. Simpson, George Gaylord, The Major Features of Evolution (New York: Columbia University Press, 1953), p. 360.

25. Peters, John, in Rev. Franklin S. Spalding, Joseph Smith as a Translator (Salt Lake City: Arrow Press, 1912), p. 28.

26. Peet, Thomas Eric, A Comparative Study of the Literatures of Egypt, Palestine and Mesopotamia (London: British Academy, 1931), pp. 52f., 96f., 127—29, 113—16.

27. Piggott, Stuart, Prehistoric India (London: Cassell, 1950), p. 26.

28. Hockett, Charles F., and Robert Ascher, “The Human Revolution,” American Scientist 52 (1964): 90.

29. Hockett, p. 90.

30. Hockett and Ascher insist not only that man had already achieved the essence of language and culture at least a million years ago (p. 89), but that “the crucial developments must have taken place once, and then spread” by that time, since “true diversity is found in more superficial aspects of language” but not in the fundamental aspect (p. 90). That is, all the languages of the world have retained recognizable ties to a parent language from which they separated over a million years ago! Since C. S. Coon puts the age of the human race at about 50,000 years, this is quite a thing.

31. Lord Raglan, The Origins of Religion (London: Watts and Co., 1949).

32. Mellaart, James, “The Beginning of Village and Urban Life,” in Piggott, Dawn of Civilization, p. 62.

33. Watson, William, in Piggott, p. 271.

34. Sieveking, Gale, “China: The Civilization of a Single People,” in Edward Bacon, Vanished Civilizations of the Ancient World (New York: McGraw-Hill, 1963), this being the Windmill Hill site of 2750 B.C.

35. For a good survey, see Sieveking’s paper in the preceding footnote, which deals in major civilizations of which we have virtually no history but all of which are definitely tied to the great civilizations of antiquity.

36. Seton, Lloyd, “The Early Settlement of Anatolia,” in Piggott, p. 185.

37. Nilsson, Martin Persson, Minoan and Mycenaean Religion (Lund: C. W. K. Gleerup, 1950), p. 7.

38. Wheeler, p. 214.

39. Piggott, p. 15.

40. We have discussed this in the Jewish Quarterly Review 50 (1959): 99ff., 109ff.

41. Lord Raglan, p. 38.