#making a mountain out of a molehill perhaps but I truly think this is one of the reasons why invertebrate conservation | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

pedros-mustache-main · 4 years ago

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back to the hedgerows

summary: every relationship has its difficulties, you know that. but it just so happens that the first significant problem in your marriage to gwilym is more of a mountain than a molehill.

word count: 6k+ (oof she thicc-ish)

warnings: angst to the gods!, language, innuendo, assumed infidelity, allusion to child abuse, did i mention angst? like there is literally nothing but angst here and i’m absolutely living for it

a/n: hi, lovelies! super super excited to be sharing this collab fic i wrote with @almightygwil! as i am the self-proclaimed Queen of Angst, i’ve written the first part and ellie wrote the second (which is amazing), which will be coming out soon. we hope you enjoy and sorry in advance. :)

(side note: i do want to make it really clear that this is simply fiction. i don’t believe gwilym would do some of the things outlined in the fic below in real life. just fiction, y’all, and makes for good make-up smut a la ellie!)

you blame hulu for ruining your marriage.

unless it’s gwilym’s fault; maybe it’s yours. perhaps even charlie’s. whoever is ultimately at fault, you do know that if it hadn’t been for hulu, if it hadn’t been for ‘the great’, you wouldn’t be hastily packing your bags, shouting through tears for your son to gather his belongings and put them in the damn suitcase.

if it hadn’t been for hulu, you wouldn’t be on the verge of losing your husband for good.

“mama?”

you turn at the sound of charlie’s voice, small and shy, filled with concern. he stands in the doorway of your room, clutching his raggedy teddybear. the poor animal is threadbare and stiff around the edges. it is worn with seven and a half years of love, and try as you might to wean him off it, he won’t let go. so you don’t push the matter anymore. after all, a boy who has endured as much as he has deserves to love a stuffed animal for as long as he wishes.

“yeah, baby?” you hope your face isn’t as red and splotchy as it feels. but god you’re tired, tired of waiting by the phone like a fool when you know he won’t call, tired of wondering, tired of crying into your sleeve.

“is daddy gonna meet us at grandma’s?” his question is innocent enough, but it stirs the fire in your belly. your fists clench around the shirt in your hand, and you shake your head.

“no, he’s not.” you switch the subject, afraid that if you continue further, you will lose control. “have you packed your things?”

charlie nods. “come see!”

with a sigh, you drop the clothing in hand and follow. your legs are weary, as is your heart. it’s been a long week. if you’re being honest, it’s been a long few weeks. ever since you kissed gwilym goodbye at the airport, the days have grown longer and your loneliness has only increased. it’s rather sad, how much you depend on him, but he’s your husband, and you love him.

even this week, some part of you loves him still.

charlie’s room could be photographed and used in the dictionary as a reference photo for ‘pigsty’. in an effort to pack his suitcase, he’s unearthed everything in his possession and scattered it across the floor. you’d smile, but you’re too tired. instead, you pick a pair of trousers off the lampshade and step over a mountain of toys.

“i don’t know who you think is gonna be cleaning all this up,” you say, dropping the trousers in the suitcase, which is empty of clothes and full of toys and books. “also, i think you’ll need at least one pair of clean clothes at grandma’s. something besides these books.” you lift the first book you see, and a fresh bout of tears prick the corner of yours eyes.

brian’s first gift to charlie: a book on stars. the pages are dogeared and stained with food. memories—memories of brian and gwilym and charlie in the back garden, stargazing like a trio of schoolboys—fill each page. you set the book down, sure that if you open it and reread the heartfelt note from brian on the inside cover, you will burst.

“here, we’ll take this.” haphazardly, charlie lifts a pile of clothes from the floor and dumps them unceremoniously in the suitcase. for extra measure, he adds his favorite pajamas—a dinosaur onesie, given by joe. “we need to leave most of the room for toys.”

for the time first in days, your face softens. you reach out to cup your son’s freckled cheek. he truly is the light of your life. if you had to go back and do it over again, you would still say yes. even if it eventually led to losing gwil, you would always pick charlie.

“i’m sure grandma has toys waiting for you.”

“but not these toys.”

“no, not these ones.” you glance around the room and search for the muster to tell him to clean before going to bed, but the muster isn’t there. you don’t even have the heart to properly fold the clothes in his suitcase. “brush your teeth and get in bed. we have an early morning.”

charlie pouts and slumps against the bed frame. “but i can’t brush my teeth without daddy,” he whines.

“you’ve had to brush your teeth with him for weeks now, charlie.” your voice is tight, on the edge of rage, so you clear your throat and nod toward the bathroom. “hop to it.”

he drags his feet, but soon you hear the water running and the buzz of his electric toothbrush.

for a moment, you stand in the center of his room. you can still remember the day you moved in two years prior—newly married, newly a mother, everything so exciting and raw with potential.

charlie had stood in awe of the empty space, his teddybear tight against his neck. you’d watched him from the doorway, heart in your throat, and leaned against gwilym’s chest when he held your shoulder.

“i don’t think he’s ever had a room this big,” you’d whispered. “or one to himself.”

“how do you want to decorate it, charlie?”

at gwil’s question, charlie spun on his heel. his eyes narrowed, still wary of his new father. his gaze had slid to you, and you’d nodded in encouragement.

finally, speaking only to his shoes, he’d said, “i want planets.”

gwilym had laughed, shaking his head. “he’s gonna fit in just fine.”

you can still feel gwil’s hand on his shoulder and his breath on the curve of your neck. you can still feel the way his love for charlie in that moment made you marvel. no other man would be so willing to marry his girlfriend of seven months and adopted her former student three months later. but he’d been willing, and he’d been excited to start a new chapter.

father, mother, and son.

but perhaps now your worst fears have come true. perhaps gwil’s woken from the dream, realized his mistake in marrying you so fast, in agreeing to father a child not his own. perhaps that’s why he hasn’t called or reached out in four days.

you can only assume that’s why. assuming anything else might kill you.

when charlie reenters the room, toothbrush in hand, you palm at your wet cheeks and smooth a hand across your twisting stomach. you force a smile and take the toothbrush.

“i’ll put this in my bag,” you say. “where it’s safe from all the dinos.”

“mama,” charlie chides as he crawls into bed. “dinos need to brush their teeth too.”

“oh, of course! i just mean you don’t want to share dino germs. it’s bad for you.”

charlie rolls his eyes and tugs his comforter to his chin. “how do you know? have you read my books?”

“only a hundred times.” sitting by his side, you tuck the covers around his small frame. you release a slow sigh and study his face. “grandma is going to be so excited to see you,” you say.

“is she nice?”

“always.”

“why haven’t i met her before? i’ve met daddy’s parents, and grandpa brian and grandma anita. why not your mummy and daddy?”

you shrug. “life’s been crazy, and they live very far away. but they’re bursting to finally meet you.”

“but daddy’s not coming?”

you snap before you can stop it. “i wish you’d stop asking that! daddy is not going to be there!”

when you open your eyes, charlie’s are filled with tears and his lower lip quivers. it’s rare that you lose your temper. months of counseling before and after adopting him taught you to control your anger—however justified it may be. his home before yours had not been kind, and any hint of unhappiness sets him on edge.

cursing under your breath, you lean forward, pressing your hands to his shoulders. “i’m sorry, baby.” the pools of tears in your own eyes match his, and you wonder if it is possible for tears to run dry completely. “i’m sorry. i’m not mad at you, sweetheart.”

a fat tear rolls down his cheek, and you brush it away, swallowing past the lump in your throat.

“daddy’s at work,” you say. “he can’t come. but i bet—i bet he’s missing you right now and wishing he could be there.” the words taste like a lie, bitter and sinful. still, you say them, hoping they will ease charlie’s fears.

“well, maybe he’ll surprise us.”

clenching your jaw, you nod. “maybe he will.” rising, you kiss his forehead and ruffle his sandy hair. “goodnight. fall asleep fast because before you know it we’ll be leaving.”

with a yawn, he curls onto his side. “i’ve never been on a plane before,” he whispers.

“there’s a first time for everything.” you kiss his temple again and tiptoe out of the room, but not before tripping on a mislaid firetruck.

in the solace of your bedroom, you drop to the carpet beside your bed. your head falls against the firm mattress. your fingers itch to reach for your phone but you stop yourself. it’s a bad habit, always has been. you check your phone too often because the worrier in you is convinced if you aren’t attached at the hip, something dreadful will happen and you’ll miss it. this past week, it’s gotten worse. every few seconds you flip your phone over and wait for the screen to light up. the photo of gwilym and charlie—charlie on gwil’s shoulders, ice-cream smeared all over his cheeks—is always devoid of any new messages. well, any new messages from gwilym, and that’s all you’re looking for.

you knew keeping in close contact would be difficult; you weren’t that naive. you’d expected periods of silence on either end. charlie was a handful and, with school ending for the summer, your full-time job became keeping him out of trouble. gwil was thousands of miles away in a different timezone, not to mention working odd hours. you could handle a day, maybe two, with simple texts—a short good morning or hasty i love u written as you run out the door—but it had been four full days since you’d last heard even a murmur. and that wasn’t counting the week before when day by day his responses grew shorter and his calls more infrequent.

god, you hate him.

aside from your mother, your reason for leaving the country remains secret. you’d tell your cousin, katie, but she’d get too worked up. hell, she’d probably board the next flight and rough gwil up herself. you’d tell joe, ask if you could crash in his apartment with charlie on your layover in new york, but you’d rather not subject him to your marital issues. you’d ask anita for advice, but you can’t stomach the idea of crushing the good image she has of gwilym.

so, you stay quiet. suffer in silence. it’s easier for everyone else that way.

just as you’re about to stand, shower off the layer of disgust forming on your skin, your phone pings. the way you dive toward the bedside table is pathetic. your fingers scrabble, shaking, as you lift the phone. flipping it over, the screen lights up, that stubborn sliver of hope in your heart coming to life as you wait.

a text from the airline. confirmation of boarding numbers.

your eyes flutter shut. you should feel disappointed, but you aren’t. it’s what you’ve come to expect. you’d given up two days earlier, finally decided that if gwilym wasn’t going to answer any of your voicemails or texts, then you’d simply stop nagging him. clearly, he wasn’t interested in being a husband or a father at the moment.

dropping the phone to your bed, you head for the shower. the water is too hot, scalding your skin, but it feels good. it feels like something. you press your hand to the steamed glass and allow the water to run down your face, fill your eyelashes, stream off your nose. you breathe hard against the pain in your chest.

an image—your wedding day—flickers to mind: katie’s backyard, covered in string lights; your gown, hastily bought from the local dressers; the night sky, alive with stars. aside from your cousin and gwilym’s family, the ceremony had been next to empty. you needed to get married fast in order to speed the adoption papers along, and you didn’t mind the small gathering. charlie had sat on katie’s lap the entire time, rolling the ring cushion between his hands. he’d been so small then—five years old and already so scarred by the world. but gwilym had held out his hand, beckoning charlie over during the vows; he’d crouched, looked deep into charlie’s eyes, and promised to love and care for him as his own—the memory made you choke on a sob, the sound echoing around the shower walls.

god, you hate him.

you slip into bed, hair wet and unbrushed, with a groan. travel to prince edward island and your parent’s retirement home will be long and exhausting. an eight hour flight from heathrow to jfk, a six hour layover in new york, and then another flight to charlottetown. your head already aches, and you haven’t even reached the airport.

despite everything in you screaming don’t do it, you check your phone one last time. it’s blank, but you pull up gwil’s name in your messages anyway. as quickly as you can, averting your eyes from the long line of unanswered texts, you type your message:

headed to pei. taking charlie. don’t have a return date yet.

message sent, stomach churning, you fall into a restless sleep.

you’re antsy. after eight hours on a plane, your legs are tight and you long for fresh air. charlie’s in much the same state. though he’d enjoyed the novelty of a plane ride for the first hour, for the remaining seven it was a chore just to get him to sit still. now, he’s bouncing on his heels, teddybear in hand, humming a nonsensical tune far too loud in the line to the toilet.

“charlie.” you squeeze his hand tight. “shush.”

the line inches forward, and charlie blows a raspberry with his tongue. “i’m tired, and i’m hungry.”

you sigh. “i’ve just got to go to the loo and then we’ll find something to eat.”

“are we going to go into the city?”

“no, i don’t think we have the time.” it’s a lie—you have six hours to kill—but you can’t think of anything you’d do that wouldn’t make you pine for gwilym. it’s easier to stay in the cool airport, plug charlie in with a movie, and read your book.

“doesn’t uncle joe live here?”

“yes, he does.”

leading charlie into the bathroom, you corral him to the nearest open stall. he pushes his forehead against the stall door, his back turned to you as you relieve yourself.

“we should go see him.” his voice is muffled against the door, and you try not to think of all the new germs crawling over his face.

“i told you, baby, we don’t have the time.”

after washing your hands and exiting the bathroom, you find an empty table and sit down. charlie sits next to you, his legs swinging back and forth. he watches the people passing by, and you wonder if he’s picked the trait up from gwilym.

he looks so much like gwil it’s startling. maybe it’s because you’ve watched them side by side the last two years, but charlie truly does look like gwilym’s natural born son. it’s in his face: the soft eyes, strong nose, full lips. it’s in his mannerisms: his easy smile, soft voice, eagerness to listen. not for the first time, you wonder if you’ll have any more children and if they will take after their father. you used to hope so; now you’re not so sure.

shaking your head, you clear your throat and reach for your phone. you’d left london to get away from the house so full of memories and sweet times together. you’d left london to have a moment of peace, cry in the arms of your mother, and figure out what to do next. you didn’t leave home just to have it all follow you.

sliding open the phone, you search for joe’s name in your contacts list. you dial the number, glancing at your son as the phone rings in your ear. some part of you hopes he won’t answer, so you don’t have to answer any questions. another part of you wants—needs—a familiar face.

he picks up on the third ring. “[y/n]! to what do i owe this great honor?”

you find yourself smiling at the genuine happiness in his voice. “well, it’s short notice, but charlie and i are currently sitting in jfk. we’ve got a six hour layover...” you let the implication hang in the air, knowing full well he’ll pounce.

you can already hear his keys jangling on the other end. “i’ll be there asap.”

an hour later, you’re sat in a restaurant overlooking times square. you hadn’t planned on going into the city, but joe insisted. he wanted to show his nephew the sights—as many as he could in a few hours time—but charlie insisted he be fed first. now, sitting across from your son and joe, plates laden with overpriced food, you notice a lightness in your chest you haven’t felt for some time. it’s nice to see someone you care about, and joe is unusually tactful in his conversation. he’s tiptoed around the topic of gwilym and ‘the great’ and for that, you’re thankful.

“so, charlie’s told me all about school, which, apparently, rocks,” joe says between bites of a burger. “what’s up with you, [y/n]? how’s married life treatin’ you?”

you know it’s partly a jest—he’s asked the same question nearly every time you’ve spoken since you married gwilym—but there’s also a level of true interest in his query. but you shift in your chair, wincing as you turn to look at the busy street below. and perhaps he notices because he hurries to say instead:

“seen brian lately?”

this you can answer without crying or shouting or slumping low in your seat. nodding, you look to charlie. “we went over for dinner a few nights ago, didn’t we? tell joe what grandpa bri said.”

charlie keeps his focus on his mac & cheese as he speaks. “he said if i tried really hard i could have hair like his, but i told him i don’t want to look like a poodle.”

joe laughs, his head tossed back, his hands clapping together in sheer joy. you laugh, too, despite remembering the utter embarrassment you’d felt at brian and anita’s dining room table.

charlie grins, his eyes darting back and forth between each adult’s reaction. he’s pleased with himself, the pride on his face all too real. “mama made me say sorry.”

“i hope she did,” joe says with a chuckle. “that’s brutal, charlie.”

charlie’s forehead puckers in a frown. “daddy says always tell the truth.”

“yeah, but you gotta...” joe waves his hand, shaking his head. “never mind.”

a moment of quiet falls over the table. you’ve barely touched your salad, finding that, although your stomach growls with hunger, you don’t have the energy to eat. joe’s looking at you with open curiosity, and it makes you squirm. he knows something’s up, but now is not the time to unburden yourself. not with charlie sitting so close, not with your heart as tender as it is. one wrong move and you knew you’d fall into joe’s arms, a sobbing mess in the middle of the restaurant.

what dignity you have left, you’d like to preserve.

“what do you think about going to the park?”

joe’s eyes narrow across the table. “central park?”

“you said you want to show charlie the sights.”

joe glances at your unfinished food then your face. still, he says nothing. instead, he pays for the meal, even though you try and slide your card over his when the waiter comes by. you leave your salad and grab charlie’s hand as you exit the restaurant. you’re possessive that way—always needing to hold on to some part of your son; you’re the same with gwilym. neither seem to mind, so whenever you’re able, you hold charlie’s hand while crossing the street or you run your nails gently over the back of gwil’s neck as he likes it. you suppose, with charlie, it’s a mother thing. one day he won’t lean into your shoulder when you wrap an arm around him, so you take every chance to hold him that you can. you suppose, with gwil, it’s a wife thing. though you aren’t a huge fan of pda, you like letting others know he’s yours.

you hope he still is.

the day is warm, sticky with humidity. as you walk the few blocks to central park, joe points out his favorite landmarks. charlie seems interested enough, though he’s much more concerned with pointing out every pigeon than he is responding to joe’s explanations of the buildings around him. a fine pool of sweat gathers under your arms, and you soon shed your cardigan. the frigid air conditioning of the airport will be a welcome feeling once you’ve returned to jfk.

joe leads you to a playground, tucked away behind overgrown hedges. charlie drops your hand and rushes for the jungle gym, his faithful teddybear flinging in the wind behind him. with a soft smile, you collapse on the nearest bench and reach for your water bottle. after a sip, you offer it to joe, who shakes his head.

you know what’s coming. he’s going to ask about gwilym, and you’re going to have to come up with a suitable answer. you don’t have a suitable answer, not one that would keep your issues private but at least clue him in somewhat. finally, when the silence is overbearing, you give a short sigh.

“well, out with it, mazzello.”

he feigns shock. “out with what? i’m enjoying the sound of the birds.”

“you’ve been studying me all through lunch. tell me what you’re thinking before i scream.” you know you sound petulant, but it’s hot and eight hours on a plane with a wiggly child was hard. more than anything, you want to be home—not in london. the last two weeks have been hell, walking through the halls, visibly watching gwilym slip away, and having no clue what to do. no, you want your mother, and her home—whether it be prince edward island or the ridiculous summer home in lyon—is your home.

joe glances sidelong at you, his face drawn tight. when he speaks, his tone is serious, one you don’t hear from him often. “is there something going on? between you and gwil?”

despite knowing it was coming, the question still makes you want to wretch. you look away, curling your hands around the water bottle. it cracks between your fingers.

you decide to lie. it’s easier that way.

“no... no, not really.”

joe tries, but fails to catch your eye. “it’s just that... you seem really depressed. i thought maybe with him being gone...”

he’s given you an excuse—maybe on purpose, maybe on accident—but you jump for it, cursing yourself for not thinking of it on your own. “i mean, yeah, it’s been hard. it’s been—fuck—nearly two months now.”

“that’s a long time.”

you nod and return your attention to charlie, who is swinging on the monkey bars with ease. “yeah, it is, but he should be due for a few days off soon. he might be able to come back for a long weekend.” you grit your teeth against the words. they taste sour, and you take another sip of water to wash away the bad taste.

“[y/n]—”

twisting on the bench, you give joe a look that shuts his mouth with a snap. “we’re fine, joe,” you say, though, now more than even, it is clear you are not fine. you hold his gaze, daring him to push further.

he doesn’t. he just stands, hands in his pockets, and shuffles over to charlie with a nod.

wrinkling your nose against the sudden sting of tears, you lean back against the bench. a branch from the bush behind you digs into the skin of your shoulders, and any breeze which drifts your way smells vaguely of piss. that’s new york, you suppose: people as prickly as branches and the persistent smell of bodily functions. altogether, not terribly different from london.

your phone pings, but for once, you hold still, your tongue clamped between your teeth. your heart tells you it’s gwilym, finally woken from whatever slumber he’s been under, apologetic and eager to make amends. your mind tells you otherwise; it’s likely the airlines or your mother or katie. never gwilym; not anymore.

the message on your screen is from instagram, and you ignore the traitorous twinge of disappointment in your chest. frowning, you open the app, certain you’d turned notifications off long ago. what loads first in your timeline is a series of five photos. days off in pompeii, gwil’s caption reads. you don’t bother to swipe through the photos. you exit the app, delete it for good measure, and slide the phone back into your purse.

rising from the bench, you find joe and charlie hunkered beneath a slide. they’re imagining dinosaurs and jeeps and dangerous missions in the forest. with a smile, you drop to your hands and knees and join them, intent on enjoying what time you have left.

joe drops you off at the airport with plenty of time to spare. in the cell phone parking lot, you gather around the hood of his car for a final goodbye. joe slips charlie a fresh five dollar bill for the snack machine when he thinks you aren’t looking, and it’s the most uncle move you’ve ever seen. it warms your frigid heart, so much so, you nod to the back of the car.

“make sure you haven’t forgotten anything, love. we don’t know when we’ll be back if you’ve left something.”

charlie ambles his way behind the car, inspecting his new money, and when he’s out of earshot, you turn to joe.

“i’m going to talk,” you say. “and you’re going to listen and say nothing when i’ve finished. is that understood?”

his eyes are wide as he nods.

“i haven’t heard from gwil in nearly five days now. last week, his texts got shorter and more infrequent and he stopped calling. this week, he hasn’t responded to any of my messages, voicemails, or otherwise. so two days ago, i gave up and i stopped reaching out. it’s been radio silent since, and i don’t know why. so, that’s what’s going on, and why i’m so goddamn depressed. but if i find out that you’ve called him and tried to make him see sense, i will never forgive you, joseph. do you understand me?”

his only response is a shocked blink, but it satisfies.

“it’s my marriage,” you continue. “i have absolutely no idea what i’m doing, but it’s my marriage, and i’ll figure it out whatever way i can.”

there’s a pause then joe crushes you against his chest before you can stop him. his hug is painful. your left arm is caught between his chest and yours, your right shoved across his shoulders awkwardly. his arms tighten the strap of your purse against your neck, and you’re sure there will be a harsh red line when you pull back. but you don’t care. you let joe hug you. there’s pity in the embrace, but more than that, there’s love, and you feel it. love for you, for gwil, for charlie.

charlie’s voice breaks the moment, for which you’re glad. a second longer and you’d have started crying. “i didn’t leave anything but i found a dollar.”

wiping the underside of your eyes, you push away from joe and turn to your son with a smile. “wow—six dollars in one day! what are you going to do with all that cash?”

charlie shrugs and shoves the bill in his pocket. “i dunno. maybe buy my own plane.”

“so fiscally responsible. i’m proud.” joe ruffles charlie’s hair, grinning. “will you let me take a ride for free?”

charlie looks joe up and down then nods. “i guess. you did buy me lunch, so it seems like a fair trade.”

“we’d better go.” you reach for charlie’s shoulder. “thank you, joe,” you say, hand curling around the handle of your suitcase.

his smile fades around the edges, and you see a sigh lift his shoulders. “take care of yourself, [y/n].”

“i always do.”

he rolls his eyes. “you know what i mean.”

you look away, but nod. “tell your family we said hi.”

joe sticks his hand out to charlie, who shakes it with some trepidation. “look after your mom, charlie.”

“yeah, okay.”

you leave, bags dragging behind you, slamming against your ankles, with a wave. it hurts to watch joe stand there, hands in his pockets, ratty baseball hat on his head, looking so forlorn. you know that, if you asked it, he’d find gwilym and make him set things right. but this is your fight. no one else’s.

an hour and a half later, you’re strapped in your assigned seat, charlie’s head on your lap. his cheek is hot against your thigh, his chest rising and falling to the gentle rhythm of sleep. as the plane takes off, you glance out the window and watch as the world fades from view. you can’t help but think that somewhere below is a family much like yours.

you imagine them sitting down to dinner, laughing, catching up on the day, looks of love shared across the table. you imagine the mother and father, finding a moment of stolen passion against the pantry door as the son settles down for an evening movie. you imagine her laugh as he mumbles filthy things against the skin of her neck, things that set her heart ablaze. you imagine the way his hand strokes over her leg throughout the movie, his eyes meeting hers every now and then over their son’s head. and you imagine him laying her down on the bed, caressing, loving, worshipping her until they are spent.

some time ago, your life had looked similar. it doesn’t anymore, and you aren’t sure why or what you’ve done wrong.

the flight attendant pulls you from your thoughts. “can i get you anything, ma’am?” she asks.

a flood of answers rise to your chest. a phone call, an answer to prayers, my husband. instead, you shake your head. “no, but thank you.”

your parent’s home is picture perfect, like something out of a magazine: the long, winding drive framed by lush trees, the pale stonework crawling with ivy, the faded green shutters, and chipped picket fence. you’ve come once since it was bought. your parents, ever the world travelers, surprised you when they announced their move to their maritime provinces, and due to your teaching job, new relationship with gwilym, and concern for your student charlie, you’d only had the chance to visit for a short weekend.

as your father pulls up the drive, you nudge your mother with your shoulder. “if i didn’t know any better, i’d say you were trying to be anne shirley, mother.”

your mother tosses her head back with a laugh. her sunglasses are overly large, but you can still see the laugh lines around her eyes. “of course i am, dear. much to your father’s chagrin.”

from the driver’s seat, your father merely huffs. he makes a face at charlie who, buckled tight in the passenger seat for the last few miles of the journey, giggles behind his hand.

your mother slides her hand across the bench. her fingers tap the bone of your wrist, and you look away from the window. she’s pushed her sunglasses over her hair, and her painted lips are drawn light.

“we’re so glad you’re here, sweetheart.” her tone is soft, apologetic.

the corner of your mouth twitches into something close to a smile. “me too.”

“okay, last stop. everybody out.” your father parks the car and pops the trunk.

you follow your parents to the front door as charlie races around your legs, babbling questions and comments as if he’s never spoken a word in his life. your father, who bears the brunt of charlie’s attention, takes it all in stride. tim, your brother—god help him—blessed your parents with eight grandchildren before you managed to give them one of your own. anything charlie has to throw at your parents, they will surely be able to handle.

after a light supper, charlie convinces his new grandfather to take him to to the river at the base of the property. he’s eager to find worms and, if your father can get free labor in return for fish bate, he’ll take it. they walk off, the sun dipping closer to the horizon as the day draws to a close. your mother stands in the doorway and nods her head toward the garden.

“come help me.” her request is more of a command, but you listen, grabbing a watering can from the back stoop as you trail after her.

the air on the island is fresh, slightly salty but sweet. you breathe deep, reveling beneath the open sky, unobscured by wires or skyscrapers or aircraft. your mother’s garden sprawls across the backyard. a ladder rests against the apple tree in the corner, heavy with fruit. raised flowerbeds with soft brown dirt sprout with tomatoes and snap-pea vines and peppers. a strawberry patch, struggling but alive, stands on its own. there’s a foam pad on the ground, and your mother kneels on it, reaching for her gardening tools.

“there should be some grape tomatoes ready,” she says, pointing to the plant. “gather what you can in this.” she passes you a paper container, and you set to work.

the birds twittering and the unhurried breeze work to soothe the ache in your soul. you could get used to this, a simple life here. the thought startles you, and you drop the tomato in your hand. it lands on your foot with a splat, covering your toes in sticky juice.

coming here, leaving london, you never thought for a moment it would be permanent. you just needed a change of scenery, a place to clear your thoughts. you have no intention of leaving gwilym. god, though he’d ripped your heart out, until he said the words, you’ll stay by his side forever.

“sweetheart? [y/n]?”

you look up. “huh?”

your mother frowns. “you’re just standing there.”

“am i? oh, sorry.” you turn back to the tomato plant and rip whatever red bubble crosses your eyeline. the tomatoes drop to your container with a muted thud, echoing the fragile beat of your heart.

“do you want to talk about it?”

you meet her gaze, and the worry, the concern, the love there nearly drives you to your knees. for days on end, you’ve been shoving it down—the fear. it’s not helpful, not to you or charlie or anyone else. for days on end, you’ve been choking back your anxiety, telling yourself it’s all just a misunderstanding. now, in your mother’s garden, with the weight of the world bearing down on your shoulders, you break.

the tomato container falls to the ground as your hands clamp against your mouth. you cannot stop the sobs which shake your frame, but you can at least muffle them against your fingers. the world becomes hazy, a blurry mess as your tears flow free and steady. vaguely, you’re aware of your mother’s arms around you, holding you tight; her hands rub soothing circles over your back. she smells of vanilla and shampoo.

you don’t know how long you cry, but when you finally step back, the sky is a dark red. you wonder if charlie’s come back from the creek, if he’s seen you in such a state. you pray to god he hasn’t. gently, your mother leads you to a wooden bench tucked against the fence. you sit together, your head cradled between her chin and shoulder. she smoothes your hair with one hand and holds your other.

“i’m so afraid, mum,” you breathe. your throat is clogged with emotion, your nose, too.

“of what?”

sniffing, you wipe your nose. “that he’s gone and met someone else. that he’s forgotten us.”

you feel her shrug against you. “well, i’ve only met the lad once, but he doesn’t seem like the type.”

“he’s not,” you say, stronger, clearer. “he’s not. but it’s been five fucking days. five days! and he’s been half-there for longer.”

“i don’t know what to tell you, love.” she twists to look at your face. “your father and i... we’ve had a good run of it, but that doesn’t mean we’ve not had our own issues. sometimes—sometimes people hurt those they love most.”

“did dad ever disappear on you?”

“no, i can’t say he did.” she sighs. “but he did shag my best mate cheri.”

“aunt cheri?”

nodding, your mother looks into the distance. “i nearly chopped his balls off.”

“why didn’t you?”

“because we love each other. we worked it out.”

with a scoff, you look away. “you’re in the minority.”

“you can be in that minority, too.” she grabs your hand. “your relationship... everything you’ve had with him has been so much so fast—”

“i know.” your head drops as a fresh flurry of tears rise. “that’s what i’m afraid of.”

“you didn’t let me finish.” your eyes lift to see her watching you, a faint glow of motherly pride on her cheeks. “everything you’ve had with gwilym has been so much so fast, but every time i see your photos or your videos, he looks like he’s about to fall over because he loves you so much. i don’t pretend to know what’s going on in his head; i’d reckon he doesn’t know either. but you have something worth fighting for, [y/n]. i’d hate to see you give that up.”

“i don’t want to,” you whisper.

“then don’t.”

you kiss charlie’s forehead and slip out of the guest room, shutting the door behind you. the house is quiet, asleep before ten thanks to the excitement of the day and the weariness of travel. you find your bedroom, cozy, tucked away in the third floor attic. your mother claims she had it redone just for your visits. the window seat framed by bookshelves and the wrought-iron bed frame remind you of your childhood room, yet there is an elegance here your room lacked as a child.

after readying yourself for bed, you glance about the room. the rug beneath your feet is soft to the touch, and the upholstered chair in the corner has a fresh set of bath towels. there’s an exposed brick wall with three photos nailed to it. you step closer to inspect.

three photos.

a family photo from age nine, your parents side-by-side, your brother’s arm slung around your shoulder. much of your childhood consisted of moving from country to country, always following your father’s job. you’d been happy, though, and looking at the photo now, you feel a surge of gratitude.

a photo of your first classroom, the students sat at your feet. charlie stands directly to your left, his face leaning into your hip. you hadn’t known then, what he would mean to you know. you run your finger across his face, still pudgy with baby fat.

the third and final photo, a picture from your honeymoon. the austrian mountains tower over you in the background, the sky effortlessly blue and picturesque. gwilym is well-dressed and handsome, smiling down at you, his arm curved around your waist. you’re looking up at him, laughing, holding the straw hat against your head as a gust of wind attempts to whisk it away.

your chest expands with love, for your family, your son, even your husband.

you aren’t sure how things will turn out. for all you know, gwilym very well could have met someone else; he could be making plans to leave you as you slide under the covers. yet something tells you—maybe it’s hope, maybe it’s foolishness—that’s not the case.

you check your phone. empty, as per the usual. this time it doesn’t fill you with as much dread as normal. he’ll come around. one way or another, things will get sorted. you’re willing to fight for that.

#gwilym lee #gwilym lee x reader #gwilym lee imagine #bohemian rhapsody #borhap fic #j writes #fic collab

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pikapeppa · 5 years ago

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Fenris/f!Hawke and the Inquisition: Uncertainty

Chapter 33 of Lovers In A Dangerous Time (i.e. Fenris the Inquisitor) is up on AO3!

In which Fenris chit-chats with Cullen and has some tricky chats with Cassandra, Blackwall, and Hawke.

Read here on AO3; ~ 7000 words.

*************

Cullen paced slowly behind his desk. “Destroying the Red Templar operations at the quarry was good work,” he said to Fenris and Hawke. “The letters you found from Samson are helpful; they make it clear that destroying his armour would be a worthwhile goal.” He frowned thoughtfully at the papers on his desk. “It seems that Samson has found a way to take advantage of the enhancing qualities of red lyrium while warding off its ill effects.”

Fenris nodded slowly. “Its protective effects sound similar to the charms that Dagna developed for the Inquisition.”

“Exactly,” Cullen said. “If Dagna was able to make our protective charms, perhaps she can find a way to un-make the protection on Samson’s armour.” He folded his arms, and his lip was curled with disdain as he spoke. “I for one am looking forward to seeing Samson humbled when next we engage him.”

“Oh dear, the commander seeking revenge? Be still, my beating heart.” Hawke pulled a little face and seated herself comfortably on Cullen’s desk.

Cullen frowned at her. “This is a serious matter, Hawke. You recall how he was in Kirkwall. You’ve seen firsthand how far he’s fallen.”

“That’s the odd bit, though,” she said. “I’m still not clear how he got to be such a powerful figure in Corytit’s army.”

“Fenris and I were talking about that some time ago,” Cullen said with a nod. “It bewilders me as well that he found his way to become Corypheus’s right-hand man.”

“Right?” Hawke said. She swung her feet idly as she spoke. “Leadership wasn’t exactly in the cards for the Samson we knew back in Kirkwall. He always seemed a bit of an idiot, even without the lyrium addiction.” She looked at Fenris. “He was rather pathetic, no? I even felt bad for him at first.”

Fenris shrugged noncommittally. Hawke smiled and poked him in the ribs. “I know, I know, you never cared for him.”

“He assisted apostates to escape the city,” Fenris said. “That was enough to earn my ire at the time.”

Hawke playfully rolled her eyes. “Ah yes, dreaded apostates. You could never come around to associating with one of those.” She batted her eyelashes at him.

Fenris gave her a chiding smirk, and Cullen cleared his throat. “Samson’s downfall was certainly a sharp one,” he said. “When I first arrived in Kirkwall, he and I shared quarters. He seemed a decent man at first. Meredith later expelled Samson for—”

Hawke gasped suddenly and snapped her fingers. “–for carrying love letters between a mage and his lover! I remember now,” she exclaimed. Then she scoffed in disgust. “Classic case of Mad Meredith making a mountain out of a molehill.” She twisted her lips ruefully. “Samson really was rather friendly to the mages, wasn’t he? In a selfish sort of way. Well, right until he changed his mind about them during that whole anti-Meredith conspiracy.”

Cullen grunted in acknowledgement. “You raise a fair point. He was not a principled man. He claimed to have the heart of a Templar, but he was loyal to himself over all else.”

“Not to himself,” Fenris said quietly. “To the lyrium. That is what he craved more than anything else.”

Neither Cullen nor Hawke replied to that, and there was a beat of awkward silence. Then Hawke tilted her head. “How are you doing by the way, Cullen? You look good. Very healthy and handsome.”

Cullen nodded politely to her. “I’m doing well, Hawke. Thank you for asking.” He smiled faintly at Fenris. They had played chess together for the first time last night. The match was unusually long and gruelling, but Fenris had ultimately lost.

Fenris gave Cullen a rueful smirk, then returned to the topic at hand. “It does strike me as odd that Samson rose through the ranks enough to gain Corypheus’s attention.”

“Yes,” Hawke agreed. “I wasn’t aware that he was reinstated to the Templars.”

“He wasn’t,” Cullen said grimly. “Not to my knowledge, in any case, and I was the one who oversaw the consequences of that whole debacle with Grace and Ser Thrask.”

“That’s right, you were,” Hawke said. She smiled ruefully. “Simpler times, no?”

“I must disagree, actually,” Cullen said. “In Kirkwall…” He trailed off and sat slowly in his chair. “Things became so complicated by the end. Realizing that the Knight-Commander’s judgment truly was impaired, and that everything I’d stood for was twisted by her corruption… It was a difficult pill to swallow.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment. “I am much more certain of my place here. I can be confident that my duty with the Inquisition is just. Thanks in no small part to Cassandra, and to you,” he said to Fenris. He looked at Hawke. “To both of you.”

Fenris managed a small half-smile, but there was a wistful pang in his chest. Life might be simpler for Cullen now, but Fenris agreed with Hawke: for him, life had been simpler in Kirkwall. In Kirkwall, they faced dangers every day, but the dangers had lower stakes. Back in Kirkwall, the fate of the world wasn’t balancing on Hawke’s shoulders with every decision she made, and most of the tasks she chose to take on were just that: a choice. There was less uncertainty back then, since they were less aware of just how much they didn’t know about lyrium and spirits and demons and the Fade.

Most importantly for Fenris, he had not been in charge of the decisions back in Kirkwall. Every scrap of trouble that fell on Hawke’s shoulders, every conflict that she was unwittingly asked to mediate: Fenris was there, but it wasn’t his decision. And it wasn’t until he and Hawke had stumbled into the Inquisition that he’d realized what a privilege it was to not be in charge.

Hawke’s sunny voice broke him from his thoughts. “Aw, Cullen, no need to butter us up. We already like you.”

Cullen bashfully rubbed the back of his neck. “Thank you, Hawke. That’s very kind.” He cleared his throat, then rose from his chair. “I understand you’ll be departing for the Emerald Graves in a few days’ time?”

“Yes,” Fenris said. “We will clear the Venatori from the ruins. We’ll ensure they reap no further knowledge that Corypheus could use.”

“And we’ll get a tome’s worth of new bedtime stories from Solas, I’m sure,” Hawke added with relish. “I can imagine it already: his lovely bald head shining from the campfire while he tells us ghost stories about the elven ruins…”

Fenris shook his head in amusement as she hopped off of Cullen’s desk, and Cullen followed them to the door. “A good plan,” he said. “Perhaps Dagna will have some ideas about Samson’s armour upon your return.”

Fenris nodded. Just before following Hawke out the door, he turned back to Cullen once more. “Care for a rematch tonight?”

Cullen chuckled. “All right. You’re on. Until later, then.” He gave Hawke a polite half-bow, then retreated into his office.

Hawke took his hand as they made their way along the battlements. There was a tiny curl of a smile on her face, but when she didn’t speak for a few moments, Fenris gave her a quizzical look. “What?”

She looked up at him and squeezed his hand. “You and Cullen bonding. The two most handsome men in Skyhold being friends.” She fanned herself playfully. “The girls in the kitchen are all aflutter at the thought of you playing chess together. I heard them talking this morning when I went to fetch some scones.”

Fenris grunted. “Perhaps we should find somewhere more private to play. The dungeons, perhaps.”

“Don’t you dare!” she exclaimed. “You’re raising morale by playing in the Great Hall where all the insomniacs can ogle at you.”

Fenris ran a hand through his hair. “Fasta vass.”

She laughed and squeezed his hand, then released him. “All right, handsome, I’ve got to meet Dorian in the library. I promised him I’d help him search for something. I’ll see you later?”

He nodded, and she pecked him on the cheek before skipping away. Fenris, meanwhile, made his way toward the annex to speak with Cassandra.

She and the others had returned from Caer Oswin a day before Fenris had come back from Emprise du Lion. She’d given her report on the Seekers’ goings-on at the war table just this morning, but as they were leaving the room, she’d sidled up beside him.

“Fenris,” she said quietly. “When you have a moment, I would like to show you something. A tome I obtained from Lord Seeker Lucius.”

He raised his eyebrows. “A tome? Of what nature?”

She hesitated. “It is best if you see it for yourself, I think,” she said. “I… truth be told, I would be glad of your opinion.”

Her brow was furrowed more than usual, and Fenris tried to push aside a fresh wave of concern. If Cassandra’s tome was time-sensitive or critical to the Inquisition’s goals, she would have mentioned it to the advisors as well.

He nodded. “Of course. I will find you this afternoon,” he said.

And so it was that he stepped into the annex, then padded his way up the stairs to find Cassandra sitting at a table poring over a very thick tome bound in cracked black leather.

He slowly approached her table. “I hope your tome contains more intrigue than the last chapter of Swords and Shields 2,” he said.

She looked up at him, a small smile cracking the frown on her face. “You read the last chapter?”

Fenris shrugged and sat in the chair opposite her. “I have been known to proofread Varric’s work at times. I’m uncertain why he asks me, though. He knows I do not like this serial.”

Cassandra’s smile widened. Then she looked down at the tome and gently stroked its pages. “This tome was passed from Lord Seeker to Lord Seeker since the time of the old Inquisition,” she said. “And now it falls to me.”

Fenris looked at the tome in surprise. That explained why it looked so old.

“I take it your readings have yielded something disturbing?” he said.

She opened her mouth, then hesitated before speaking. “It speaks of the Rite of Tranquility. I assume you have experience with this from Kirkwall, beyond the Tranquil who live among us now.”

Fenris frowned. “I know of it, yes. It is used to strip the powers of mages who are not strong enough to withstand the Harrowing.”

Cassandra nodded. “It should only be used on those who cannot control their abilities. But you know that has not always been the case. You would have seen the abuses that took place in Kirkwall’s Circle.”

Fenris leaned back and folded his arms. In his opinion, there were some mages in Kirkwall who may have served better as Tranquil; he privately still felt that Feynriel should have been taken to the Circle and put through a Harrowing, which he would undoubtedly have failed. But Fenris could also admit that the sheer number of mages being made Tranquil in the Kirkwall Circle couldn’t plausibly be justified.

“Go on,” he said.

Cassandra leaned forward in her chair. “You may not be aware of this, seeing as you and Hawke were on the run. But the incident in Kirkwall was not the true catalyst of the war between the mages and the Templars. What finally began the mage rebellion was the discovery that the Rite of Tranquility could be reversed.”

A jolt of shock straightened his spine. “What?”

Cassandra nodded. ‘The Lord Seeker at the time covered it up harshly. There were deaths. It was dangerous knowledge. The shock of its discovery, in addition to what happened in Kirkwall—”

“Of course it is dangerous knowledge,” Fenris said. He leaned toward her and lowered his voice. “If this was known in Kirkwall — if the mages in the Circle knew their most dangerous and volatile mages could be returned to their former uncontrolled erratic state? The sheer danger–”

“I know, Fenris,” Cassandra interrupted quietly. “These are the reasons why Lord Seeker Lambert covered it up.” She sighed and looked sadly at her tome. “But it appears we’ve always known how to reverse the Rite, from the beginning.”

Fenris stared at her for a moment. “You… you mean the Seekers? They have always known?”

She nodded slowly, then met his eyes. “We created the Rite of Tranquility,” she said quietly. “I told you of my vigil: the months I spent emptying myself all emotion? I was made Tranquil, and I did not even know.”

Fenris listened with growing perplexity as she went on. “The ritual summoned a spirit of faith to touch my mind. The spirit broke Tranquility and gave me my abilities.”

Fenris held up a hand. “That’s… no. That’s not logical,” he protested. “Tranquility is meant to render a mage immune to possession by demons. That is the entire point of the ritual.”

“It is meant to make them less attractive to demons, yes,” Cassandra confirmed. “But they are not immune. If the Tranquil were – if we were immune to spirits, then I would not be sitting before you as I am today.”

Fenris rubbed his mouth. Non-mages making themselves Tranquil, then being rescued from Tranquility by spirits… It went counter to everything Fenris thought he knew. For the umpteenth time, his understanding of the world was being flipped on its head, and he wasn’t sure how to respond.

I wish Hawke were here, he thought. Kaffas, I even wish Solas were here. If the process of reversing Tranquility relied on the involvement of spirits, then it was likely that Solas could elucidate.

Fenris lowered his hand. “This… reversal process,” he said. “How would it work in practice for the mages? How is it different than summoning demons?”

She pushed the book toward him. “I would invite you to read this yourself when you have the time,” she said. “It is explained here. But it is not a cure, not truly. Mages lose all control over their emotions. They become irrational, unable to focus.” She lifted her shoulders sadly. “Perhaps that state eventually passes and they can be helped, but it will take time to investigate.”

Fenris dragged a hand through his hair. Uncontrolled mages? Irrational mages who couldn’t be reasoned with? They were the main reason he had sworn never to return to Tevinter.

“Cassandra, I don’t like this,” he said. “If it is my opinion you wanted on this matter, my opinion is this: this knowledge is dangerous. Far too dangerous to disseminate with all the strife that is already going on.”

“It is dangerous, I know,” she said softly. “I would not want news of a cure to spread until we know for certain we can help these people. Once we have that, however? Then I will spread the word myself.”

Her determination was clear in the proud angle of her chin, and Fenris eyed her with rising agitation. “I hope I am no longer the Inquisitor when you decide to share that information,” he said.

She smiled at him as though he was joking. Fenris gently pushed the tome back toward her. “If you insist on following this course, you should speak with Hawke,” he said. “In our early days in Kirkwall, we witnessed a case of a mage for whom Tranquility seemed to… wear off temporarily. A friend of Anders’s,” he explained when Cassandra’s eyes widened. “This friend was unjustly made Tranquil, or so Anders said. But he was… unusual.” Fenris trailed off as he tried to remember the exact incident; the details were a little blurry now thanks to the passage of time and the blinding bloodrage from the fight, not to mention the nasty discovery that Anders was an abomination.

“There was an odd moment,” Fenris said. “A minute during which the Tranquil became himself once more, and he begged Anders to kill him. Then the state of Tranquility returned.”

Cassandra stared at him. Clearly she hadn’t heard this tale during her interrogations in Kirkwall, and Fenris couldn’t blame her; he and Hawke and their companions had killed all the Templars who had who gotten involved in that incident, much to Fenris’s disgruntlement.

“What happened to the Tranquil?” Cassandra asked.

“He is dead,” Fenris said. “A mercy killing.”

Cassandra gazed at him for a moment longer, then slowly sat back in her chair. “I see,” she said. “I was not aware of that. I will make a note to ask around about similar cases. When we are not occupied with our duties against Corypheus, of course.”

Fenris nodded, then started to rise from the table. “If that is all...”

“Oh – in fact, I…” She trailed off as Fenris looked at her. “That’s – that is not all. I was hoping to speak to you of something else.”

Fenris sat down again, and Cassandra rubbed her hands together slowly before speaking. “I… I had thought to rebuild the Seekers once victory was ours. Now I’m not certain the Seekers deserve to be rebuilt.”

Fenris tilted his head. “What makes you say that?”

She blew out a gusty breath, then rose from the table to pace slowly by the window. “I do not think the Seekers have been doing the Maker’s work,” she said. “Not truly. Perhaps we believed it, once. The original Inquisition came to be during a terrible time. But now?” She shook her head ruefully. “We harboured secrets and let them fester. We acted to survive, but not to serve. That is not the Maker’s work.”

He eyed her apprehensively. This was a terrible time. Perhaps the other Seekers had lost their way, but Cassandra had not. Did she not think the Inquisition’s work was justified?

“What do you believe the Maker’s work to be?” he said.

“There is no way to know for certain,” she said. “That is why we must seek it out. Perhaps we lost our way because we stopped looking.”

More uncertainty, he thought morosely. He rested his elbows wearily on the table. “You are a more patient person than I,” he said. “I prefer to act than to live on that fine edge of uncertainty.”

She stopped her pacing and looked at him. “That is not true. You have thought deeply about every decision you have made here, every step of the way. The conversations you have had with me, with Hawke, with Solas… You have thought deeply about our purpose here.” She twisted her fingers together once more. “It is why I had hoped to speak of this with you.”

He stared her in bemusement as she started to pace again. “At some point, power becomes its own master. We cast aside ideals in favour of experience and tell ourselves it was necessary, for the people.” She turned to look at him again. “Will that happen to us, Fenris? Will we repeat history?”

He rubbed his mouth again. He genuinely wasn’t sure what to tell her. Cassandra was a woman of faith, and that faith had been the guiding light in her life. It seemed that she was having something of a crisis of faith, and Fenris felt like the least qualified person to help her through this.

Another small jolt of sadness struck his chest as he studied her stern but hopeful face. He knew why Cassandra was really asking him this. Despite their friendship, and despite everything he’d told her and the others about the truths they’d learned in the Fade, Cassandra still saw him as the Herald of Andraste. She still saw his involvement in all of this as a result of the Maker’s will.

It was the Inquisitor that Cassandra wanted to speak with now, not Fenris.

He sighed internally and pushed aside his genuine answer, which was a hearty I-don’t-know. “We can’t promise not to repeat the past,” he told her. “But we are learning more of it every day.” He gestured at the book on the table. “This tome of yours shows mistakes that you will not repeat. The Grey Wardens, the red Templars… they are cautionary tales, and we’re doing our best to heed them.” He sat back and folded his hands in his lap. “That is all we can hope for, is it not? To push forward and try not to repeat the mistakes of those around us.”

She nodded slowly as he spoke, then sat at the table once more. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, that’s true.” She was quiet for a moment, then she smiled at him. “I will think on your words, Fenris. Thank you.”

He waved her off. “There is no need for thanks. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to accompany you to Caer Oswin.”

“Please, do not worry about that,” she said with a dismissive wave of her own. “In the future, however, remind me not to bring Cole, Solas, and Sera out again. It was not a restful journey.”

Fenris smirked at this. “Ah. No, I imagine it wasn’t. Sera was disgruntled, I imagine?”

“You imagine correctly,” she said. “I have never suffered so much complaining in my life.”

Fenris chuckled, then rose from the table. “Unfortunate, then, that I was planning on bringing them to the Emerald Graves.”

Cassandra snorted. “If that is the case, Maker guide your path, Inquisitor.”

Fenris smiled at her, then took his leave. But by the time he’d reached the ground floor of the annex, his momentary levity had dissolved back into worry, primarily about the Tranquility ritual.

He made his way to Dorian’s usual spot in the library. Dorian was lounging in his large padded chair, and Hawke was cozily seated on the armrest with her bare feet resting in Dorian’s lap. There was an open book on her knees, and they seemed to be deep in the midst of a magical discussion.

“... and that’s what adds to the pattern of stability across the entire network,” Hawke was saying. “But my father always taught it more as a matter of feeling than as a formula.”

Dorian lazily waved his hand. “As you charming southerners would say, there’s more than one way to skin a cat. I would argue that the formulaic method results in a finer, less… roughened feel to the barrier, shall we say.”

Hawke gave him a flat look and poked him in the arm. “You were going to say ‘barbaric’, weren’t you? You are such a smug Vint.”

Dorian grinned at her, then looked up as Fenris approached. “Ah look, the Inquisitor graces us with his presence!” he announced. “You can settle an argument for us. Whose barrier do you prefer: mine or Hawke’s? Now, before you answer–”

“Hawke’s,” Fenris said. He looked at her. “I need to speak to you for a moment.”

Her eyebrows rose. “All right.” She hopped off of Dorian’s chair, and Dorian snorted in disdain.

“Nepotism,” he said loftily. “That’s what this is. An objective observer would agree that my barrier has a certain finish that’s far more pleasant.”

“Your barrier does have a certain finish,” Fenris said. “Like a cloying perfume, almost. It makes my eyes water.”

Dorian scoffed and inspected his nails. “Well, now you’re just trying to wound me.”

Fenris smirked, then led Hawke out of the library and onto the battlements that ringed the tower. He glanced around to make sure no one was within earshot, then leaned his elbows on the battlements and jumped into the problem without preamble. “Cassandra told me something disturbing,” he said quietly. “She said the Seekers created the Rite of Tranquility, and they have known how to reverse it all along.”

Hawke’s jaw dropped in shock. “You’re shitting me.”

“No,” Fenris said. “From what she described, every Seeker becomes Tranquil in the course of their initiation. They enter a meditative state to empty themselves of emotion. Then the state of Tranquility is undone when… when a spirit of faith touches their minds.”

Hawke’s eyes grew larger as Fenris spoke. “Wait. So… so they become Tranquil on purpose?”

Fenris nodded, and Hawke leaned back against the battlements. “That’s fucking insane. Who would voluntarily do that?” she demanded.

Fenris shrugged helplessly. “Seekers, it seems. Though it seems they are also unaware that that’s what they are doing. Regardless, the Rite of Tranquility can be undone.” He took a deep breath. “And Cassandra intends to spread the news of this cure when the time is right.”

Hawke’s expression lifted with surprise — and delight, as Fenris had expected. “Well, that’s fantastic!” she said. “Imagine if we could cure all the Inquisition’s Tranquil! They could be themselves again–”

Fenris held up a hand in warning. “They don’t return to the way they were. Cassandra says the Tranquil mages who are cured become… overly emotional. Irrational and uncontrolled.” He turned to face her. “I don’t want this knowledge getting out, Hawke. I don’t like it.”

She frowned. “Did you tell Cassandra not to say anything?”

“No,” Fenris said.

Hawke raised her eyebrows in surprise, and Fenris continued. “I trust that she will not say anything until she believes the cure is safe, and not until after Corypheus is defeated. But even then…” He ran a hand through his hair and began to pace. “The risks of trying to help these Tranquil – of them regaining their powers without knowing if they can control them? Uncontrolled magic flaring freely at a mage’s every whim…” Memories from the Imperium flashed through his mind, moments where mages had lashed out in anger or revenge or for the sheer pleasure of exerting their power, and a shiver of revulsion ran down his spine.

He looked at Hawke. “There is a reason that the Rite of Tranquility is used in the Circles.”

“Yes, and it’s a shitty reason,” Hawke said. Her voice was suddenly hard. “‘Hello, Circle mage, here are your choices: face a demon all by yourself, or have your entire personality erased.’ Fenris, I…” She clamped her lips shut and looked away.

Fenris frowned. “Speak, Hawke. You don’t need to mince your words with me.”

She looked at him for a moment, then folded her arms. “Fine. I just can’t believe you still think there are circumstances where making someone Tranquil is a good thing,” she said fiercely. “Imagine if it was me. Imagine if I was stripped of everything that made life worth living. I wouldn’t even love you anymore! I – there would be nothing left of me for you to love.”

He swallowed. The thought of Hawke as a Tranquil made his stomach lurch. “I know that. But–”

“Imagine if we had a child who was a mage,” Hawke went on ruthlessly. “Imagine if our imaginary child was in a fucking Circle and they were too scared to go through the Harrowing. Would you be willing to see a child of ours get turned into an unfeeling, uncaring–”

“No,” Fenris snapped. “That is not what I would want.” He looked away from her and rubbed his face.

Hawke was quiet for a moment. Then she stepped closer to him. “You knew how I would feel about this,” she said gently. “Why… I mean, was there something else...?”

He shrugged and plucked at the red scarf on his wrist. In truth, he had been hoping that speaking with Hawke would help to calm the jittery feeling that was roiling in his chest. But perhaps it was unfair to place his problems on her shoulders when he was growing weary of others doing the same to him.

He shook his head. “No. It was just this. I… I thought you should know. But don’t tell anyone else,” he said warningly. “The fallout from making this public is more than I can bear to deal with right now.” He stepped away from the battlements.

She took his arm to stop him. “Hey,” she said softly. She reached up and stroked the line of his jaw.

Fenris swallowed hard, then met her gaze. She studied his face in silence for a moment, then stepped close and wrapped her arms around his neck.

She hugged him tightly and pressed her lips to his cheek, then to his ear. “This shit is weird, isn’t it?” she whispered.

He scoffed quietly. “Yes, it is,” he said. He wrapped his arms around her and tucked his face against her neck.

They stood quietly on the battlements for some time, and Fenris focused on the mountain air filling his lungs and the solid warmth of Hawke’s body. When she eventually leaned away from him, it was with a smile on her face. “Every day is a new adventure, right?” she said brightly. “I don’t know about you, but I love learning new things. Who knows what new strange thing we’ll find out tomorrow?”

He smirked and shook his head. Her smile was cheeky, but her whiskey-coloured eyes were warm with sympathy even though she disagreed with him, and he loved her for it.

He tipped her chin up and kissed her gently on the lips. “Go back to Dorian,” he murmured. “I will see you tonight.”

She smiled and gave him a wink, then slipped back into the library. Fenris rested his palms on the battlements and took one more bracing breath, then headed back into the library and down the stairs.

He had an hour or so before he had to meet with Josephine to deal with a new batch of irritating political problems. He headed for the training grounds, figuring that Bull and the Chargers would likely be there, but instead he found Blackwall studying the rack of training weapons with a morose look on his face.

He looked up at Fenris’s approach. “Fenris,” he said with a small half-bow. “Would you care to train with me?”

“I would,” Fenris said. He selected a greatsword from the rack while Blackwall picked out a sword and shield, and they stepped into the training ring together.

Fenris watched and waited until Blackwall rushed at him. Fenris parried his sword strikes, then dodged Blackwall’s attempted shield bash and swung his greatsword toward the back of Blackwall’s leg.

They froze with Fenris’s greatsword’s blade an inch from Blackwall’s thigh. “Well done,” Blackwall said. “Your point.” He smiled briefly, then stepped back.

Fenris nodded and waited once again. Blackwall rushed forward, but this time he dodged to the side as Fenris raised his greatsword, forcing Fenris to clumsily jerk away from the swing of his sword. A handful of heartbeats later, they froze in a draw with the blade of Blackwall’s sword alongside his neck and the length of the greatsword along Blackwall’s belly.

They froze again, then stepped apart. “Are you all right?” Fenris panted. Blackwall’s strikes were weaker than usual, almost as though his heart wasn’t in it.

“I’m fine,” Blackwall said. He settled into a ready stance again.

They met once more with a clash of blunted steel. A minute later, however, Fenris managed to catch Blackwall off balance, which was almost unheard of for the burly warrior.

Blackwall chuckled and shook his head as he stepped back. “Maker’s balls. Strange how rusty you can get after two days of rest.” He lifted his shield once more. “Again?”

Fenris lowered his sword. “Not when you are barely making this a challenge for me,” he said. “There is something on your mind. I can feel it in the weakness of your strikes.”

Blackwall sighed and rubbed his beard. “Damn it,” he muttered. He looked up at Fenris. “It’s… nothing, really. I was just…” He trailed off.

Fenris made his way over to the fence of the training ring and waited for Blackwall to collect his thoughts. Finally Blackwall spoke. “I was thinking about a time when I was a boy,” he said. “There were these urchins who roamed the streets near my father’s house. One day, they found a dog: a wretched little thing. It came to them for food. They caught it, tied a rope around its neck, and strung it up.” He looked at Fenris. “Do you know what I did?”

Fenris frowned slightly, and Blackwall lowered his head. “I did nothing. Not a damn thing.” He rubbed his face. “It was crying. I saw the kicking legs, the neck straining and twisting… and I turned around, went inside, and closed the door.” He sighed. “I could’ve told my father or alerted someone. I didn’t. I just… pretended it wasn’t happening. I may as well have tightened the noose myself.”

Fenris eyed him cautiously. “What makes you think of this now?” he asked. “If it is guilt for that little dog, I can ask Toby to step away.” Fenris gestured to the mabari, who was sitting just outside the training ring and panting happily.

Blackwall huffed. “Of course you’d make light of it. You make saving the world look easy. The rest of us can only dream of matching what you’ve done.”

Fenris wilted slightly. As much as he enjoyed Blackwall’s down-to-earth company, it was always wearying to be reminded that the Warden saw him as a hero, particularly since Fenris absolutely did not feel like one.

He leaned back against the fence of the training ring. “Nothing is easy,” he said bluntly. “And it is not about matching up to whatever you think I have done. It is… you do what you can,” he said. “You were trying to teach farmer’s sons to protect themselves from bandits when we first met. You’ve spent years fighting darkspawn. None of that was easy.” He shrugged. “Whatever you might have done or not done in the past, you’re no longer a small boy who walks away.”

Blackwall released a heavy sigh. “That’s the difficulty, isn’t it?” he said sadly. “There’s always some dog out there. Some fucking mongrel that doesn’t know how to stay away.”

Fenris nodded slowly. “That is true. I’m certain you could clear a space in the stables for strays, however. Toby could train them to guard the gates.”

Blackwall shot him a sideways glance, then chuckled faintly. “Think you’re a funny one, eh? All right, Fenris. Let’s try this again.”

To Fenris’s relief, they returned to sparring. When Fenris called a stop an hour later to meet with Josephine, he and Blackwall were both satisfyingly sweaty and bruised, and it was almost enough to help him tolerate the stultifying three hours he spent in the ambassador’s office.

After supper that night, he took shelter in his and Hawke’s bedroom to read, emerging close to midnight to play chess with Cullen while Hawke was at the Herald’s Rest with Sera and Blackwall. Much later that night, long after Fenris had finally scraped a victory over Cullen and retired to bed alone, Hawke stumbled into their bedroom.

She fell onto the bed with a giggle, and Fenris moved over to let her in. “You smell of cider,” he murmured. “I take it you had a good time.”

“Lovely time,” she slurred. “D’you know if you get Sera drunk enough, she caterwauls? I don’t mean sings. Caterwauls. It’s truly fucking awful and wonderful all at once.” She tossed her boots down beside the bed, then started clumsily pulling off her coat.

Fenris watched with rising amusement as she struggled, then slid out of the bed and padded around the bed to stand in front of her. He gently moved her hands aside and helped her out of her jacket, then carefully pulled off her shirt and began unlacing her bustier.

She smiled salaciously at him as he undressed her. “Hmmm, this is nice. What are you going to do once you’ve got me naked?”

“Fetch a glass of water and a basin in case you vomit,” he deadpanned. He dropped her trousers on the ground, then jerked his chin at the bed. “Get in.”

“I won’t vomit,” she said belligerently. “What sort of amateur do you think I am?” She snuggled into the covers as Fenris bustled around the room for water and a basin, and as soon as he returned to the bed, she shuffled over and pressed her naked body against him.

She plucked at his cotton shirt, and Fenris patiently pried her fingers away and kissed her knuckles. “Go to sleep, Hawke,” he murmured.

She chuckled drowsily, then wrapped her arm around his waist. “Blackwall and Sera are so cute,” she mumbled. “I think he sees her as the daughter he never had. Funny how family happens like that, isn’t it? Comes out of nowhere. Merry castleful of misfits.”

Fenris hummed an acknowledgement. This was Hawke’s specialty, after all: constructing a family for herself from a disparate group of people thrown together through sheer chance and circumstance. In contrast, the only family Fenris really needed was right here in this bed.

Her sneaky fingers slid beneath his shirt, and he smirked indulgently as she petted his chest. A moment later, she spoke again. “Fenris, d’you want to have a family someday?”

For a moment, he stopped breathing. An imaginary child appeared in his mind: Hawke’s chestnut hair and his green eyes in a round-cheeked face –

He shoved the fantasy aside and inhaled carefully. “Do you?” he asked.

She tutted. “Don’t do that. I’m asking you a question.”

“And you are very drunk,” Fenris pointed out. “Charmingly so, but–”

“And you’re deflecting,” Hawke interrupted. With some difficulty, she propped herself up on one elbow. “You want a baby, don’t you?”

Fenris nervously licked his lips. They shouldn’t speak of this while she was drunk, especially since they had only ever talked about having children in oblique and humorous terms even while sober. But she was watching him attentively — more attentively than he would have expected, given her inebriation — and her expression was open and curious, and… well, it was unlikely she would remember this tomorrow.

“I wouldn’t rule it out. If you were interested,” he hedged. He nibbled the inside of his cheek for a moment. “Do you want a child?”

“Right now? No,” she scoffed. “Maker’s balls, can you imagine having a baby in the midst of this fucking mess? No, absolutely not.”

Fenris nodded. “And… what if it were not… now?”

She tilted her head. “You mean after all of this is done?”

“Yes,” he said. “Would you… would you want a child with me?”

She studied him silently for a moment, and Fenris watched with a pounding heart as a brilliant, beautiful smile bloomed across her face. She traced the edge of his cheek with one finger, then laughed. “You’re right. I am too drunk for this.” She snuggled down on his chest once more. “Imagine me as a mother. Fuck’s sakes, I’d probably forget the baby somewhere and then it would get raised by wolves.” She tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Which wouldn’t be so bad, really. You know what Solas says about wolves.” She lowered her voice mockingly to a smooth, calm tone. “‘They’re intelligent, practical creatures that stupid people think of as terrible beasts.’ Or whatever it was that he said.”

Fenris frowned slightly. Carefully so as not to jostle her too much, he rolled onto his side to look at her. “You would make a fine mother, Hawke.”

She chuckled fuzzily. “Don’t be daft. I’d most certainly leave it somewhere by accident. Or mistake its bald baby head for Solas. Imagine me cradling Solas’s head to my bosom and rocking him to sleep…” She snickered and cuddled closer to Fenris’s body, and he slowly ran his fingers through her tufty hair. As always, he could see that there was some genuine fear beneath her jokes. But the hour was late, and Hawke was deep in her cups… and now was not the time to address her worries.

She curled her fists against his chest, then kissed his neck. “You would be a great father,” she whispered. “All strict and firm and disciplined. But also huggy. You give the best hugs. And no one reads bedtime stories better than you.”

A sudden fist of doubt squeezed his heart. Somehow in his passing fancies of having a child with Hawke, he hadn’t taken the time to imagine himself as a father. To think of himself doing fatherly duties the likes of which he had no memory: reading stories, and changing diapers, and… and other things that he wasn’t certain of. How could he be so bold as to imagine being a father if he couldn’t even remember being a child?

“You’d be fantastic,” Hawke mumbled sleepily, as though to answer his unspoken worries. “Better than me for sure.”

He pulled back slightly to look at her. Her eyes were closed, but her smile was curved with conviction.

Fenris gently pushed her hair back from her forehead. She opened her eyes, and for a moment they simply gazed at each other in the darkness.

She tilted her chin up slightly, and Fenris slowly lowered his lips to hers. Her mouth was pliant and sweet, and her tongue tasted of cider. He lingered in the taste and feel of her, leaving kiss after kiss on the pillows of her lips until her kisses softened with slumber.

He carefully tucked her head beneath his chin, then closed his eyes. The world was full of uncertainties and uncharted dangers, but all Fenris and Hawke could do was tackle them one day at a time.

And perhaps someday, when Corypheus was dead and this cursed mark was stripped from Fenris’s hand, he and Hawke might walk into another, more promising sort of uncertainty altogether.

#fenris #fenris fic #Lovers in a Dangerous Time #fenquisition #fenris the inquisitor #fenhawke #fenris/hawke #fenris x hawke #fenris/femhawke #fenris x femhawke #fenris/f!hawke #fenris x f!hawke #hawris #f!hawris #fenrynne #pikapeppa writes

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bakudekuficlibrary · 6 years ago

Note

How about fics where the class and/or teachers find out about their relationship? Those are my guilty pleasure fics and I’m always excited to find new ones! Thank youuu!

Here’s what I found! I’ll put the most recent ones at the top :D

-Ellie

23 Works.

The Timeless Art Of “Please Just… You Know… Already!” by brichibi ( E | 3,593 | 1/1 )

Izuku notices.

And Katsuki notices Izuku noticing.

And it’s driving their classmates nuts.

[Nobody wants Izuku Midoriya and Katsuki Bakugou to bang more than Class 1A, because my god, they keep flirting with each other, and something’s gotta give]

Chapter 3 of 3 Times Katsuki Bakugou was an aggressive cuddler. by SailoLee ( Not Rated | 4,661 | 1 out of 3 )

3 Times Katsuki Bakugou was an aggressive cuddler and the reactions of those around him.

Who’s number one..? by Kelly_jo ( E | 1,803 | 1/1 )

All Might goes looking for young Midoriya and instantly regrets it.

How to Come Out by planetundersiege ( T | 319 | 1/1 )

Boku No Hero Academia ship week: Day 5: Coming Out.

Bakudeku.

Time to come out to the class.

SeriesPart 5 of Boku No Hero Academia Ship Week 2018

katsuki bakugou is incapable of love. or so they thought. by alpwaca ( T | 6,276 | 1/1 )

in which their class tries to figure out if Bakugou and Midoriya are dating.

Katsuki’s Diary of a Nerd’s Wrongdoings by Puolukka ( T | 6,958 | 1/1 )

Izuku Midoriya isn’t the only one who gathers shit-ton of nerdy materials on his stupid notebooks. In fact, Katsuki Bakugou has been collecting so much data about the nerd’s behaviour he’s basically mastered it and, at the same time, so damn done with: a novel.

One Thing Straight by celestialdescendant( T | 9,899 | 5/5 )

They totally aren’t.

Hints of their relationship is found in all of their friends’ social media accounts, but majority of their fans still think that Katsuki and Izuku are in relationships with anybody but each other.

It was amusing up until it became sad.

An Updated Relationship Status Is A Kindness by low_commotion ( G | 6,164 | 1/1 )

In which Bakugou and Midoriya are acting weird with each other and the great gossip mill of class 2-A spins faster and weirder because of it.

SeriesPart 3 of Mountains and Molehills

Kacchan’s Piercing by InfiniteTeal ( E | 3,636 | 1/1 )

Bakugou is bombarded by his classmates about his not-so-secret piercing. He finds out about what the other classmates did to Midoriya, and decides that he wants to feel Midoriya’s tongue piercing for himself.

Chapter 1 of King’s Cup by garbaege ( E | 9,872 | 1 out of 2 )

‘Alright, Katsuki, you can do this. Just lie. Lie and say fucking ANYONE but Deku.’

“Deku.”

‘You traitorous fucking slut.’

[Underage]

It’s Been a Long Time by Yuechum ( G | 2,392 | 1/1 )

It’s been a long time, Midoriya will say when he leans just enough to rest his head on Bakugou’s shoulder. The boy doesn’t tense, doesn’t move away either. It’s a familiar feeling, almost intimate in the darkest hours of the night.

It feels a little like home.

SeriesPart 1 of On the Cusp of Slumber

Memes are their life by naths ( Not Rated | 6,059+ | 4/? )

And not a moment later Midoriya had that blinding smile on his face, directing it towards Ochaco again.“Oh my gosh. For the sake of everybody, do not try to ask me whom I´ve just started dating!”he exclaimed excitedly waiting for her to change the topic.

For a moment she just examines his face, filled with so much joy and happiness. And it was a look that really suits him. He looked manlier, more aged-up. And she wonders who could make him look so good.“…..okay?”she finally replied watching the boy next to her how he tried to hold it back until he poured everything out.

“It’s Kacchan! Oh, my gosh, it´s Kacchan.”

Reignite by MorningMoon ( T | 1,401 | 1/1 )

Their classmates knew there was something going on with Izuku and Katsuki, but they didn’t know how much they had been missing out.Also, Kacchan saves the day and proves that he has redeemed himself.

Sleeping Lotus by VoidRune ( G | 1,027 | 1/1 )

It was the first time since their relationship became known that Bakugou and Midoriya joined movie night again.

It was also the first time the class caught them being openly affectionate with each other in a romantic way. Perhaps the reason why they tried not too was because it was too sweet for anyone to handle.

Or Bakugou just didn’t want to fuel the bets going on behind their backs. It was probably that.

SeriesPart 2 of Lotus

house of memories by ryneisaterriblefan ( M | 2,219 | 1/1 )

‘Kacchan! I dare you to tell everyone about how we made out in middle school!’

Sleepless Night by bakudeku ( E | 305 | 1/1 )

Everyone knows Katsuki hates Izuku.

[Underage]

An interesting day ^_^ by Nina_Edomae ( Not Rated | 1,198 | 1/1 )

Just a small cute one-shot about the explosive Katsuki Bakugou and the adorable Izuku Midoriya. ☆*:. o(≧▽≦)o .:*☆

Of BDSM and misunderstandings by TimeWaitsForNoOne ( M | 959 | 1/1 )

all might walks in on his successor doing the do with his childhood friend, izuku doesn’t know what to do, yaomomo is confused and makes lots of misunderstandings, the whole class hates baku for not locking his door.

in which all might tries to reassure Izuku about his sexual preferences, asks his students for a couple of favors, and forgets to explain some stuff leaving yaoyoruzo genuinely confused and terrified.

oh and inko gets an apology and some cookies at the end

this will probably be like 4 chapters at most

Kacchan vs The Universe by LNoGame44 ( G | 6,964 | 1/1 )

There were certain..tell-tale signs of a soul mate. There wasn’t so much a definite factor, rather there were multiple giveaway signs that discretely pointed out that someone was your soul mate. Like a friendly hint from the soul.

Izuku was not gifted with that discrete notification from whatever higher being issued them. Of course his soul mate hit like a storm.

The thing was..Izuku knew exactly who his soul mate was. The two of them had known since they were kids. The extreme pull they felt for one another, that Izuku embraced and Bakugou..well Bakugou ignored or attempted to completely destroy. Apparently the universe, did not agree with Bakugou’s methodologies.

Propinquity by Jaylun ( M | 14,111 | 5/5 )

“Bakugou FOUR days! Midoriya THREE days! Both of you are under house arrest!! You will be cleaning all of the dormitory plus the common spaces morning AND night!”

It takes less than three days together to finally realize how they truly feel for each other. Who knew they just needed more time to themselves to sort out their feelings?

-Takes place after ch120 and during ch121-

I didn’t mean it in THAT way! by FandomlessFangirl ( T | 4,084 | 4/4 )

Deku rants about that jerk Kacchan to Uraraka.He might’ve worded it misleadingly.Things get told and the truth gets altered.Deku is worried.Kacchan is confused.He didn’t mean it in that way!

Cranberry Kisses by pec ( T | 3,400 | 1/1 )

Kaminari feels disconnected and left out and drags everyone in Class 1A into a night of his special brand of bonding.

How IKEA Sells All Their Beds by thankyouforexisting ( T | 5,100 | 1/1 )

The next day, Kacchan turns on the cold water while Izuku is showering, resulting in a screaming match that the whole floor gets involved in, and soap bars starts flying everywhere, while Mineta throws his purple balls so that people can grab onto them and not slip on the wet floor, earning a “You’re not that bad, dude,” from Kirishima (It’s a lie. Literally everybody hates him). Aizawa punishes them all by making them run laps for an hour the next morning.

Two days later, Izuku retaliates by lowering the thermostat until Kacchan can’t summon fire to burn his clothes, and Iida appears in the doorway holding a flag and shouting, “JUSTICE FOR CLOTHES! NO MORE DESTRUCTION OF FABRIC! WE MUST FIGHT THIS STRIKE AGAINST THE TEXTILE INDUSTRY, COMRADES!”

Kacchan rips the thermostat from the wall with his fire cannons and burns the flag, half of Izuku’s wardrobe, and his bed.//Deku and Kacchan are roommates, and everyone fears for their safety.

#BakuDeku #KatsuDeku #BNHA #bkdkfl ask #g:fluff #g:humour #class 1a #All Might #BNHA Aizawa #w:underage #t:none #curator ellie

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rogerrachel1995 · 4 years ago

Text

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Their fees are moderately high and who have tasted the murky waters of divorce again, explain it clearly to one of the past and whatever bitterness and abuse-when you return a look at other pretty and sexy women but refrain from doing so is when the romantic, Hollywood-style love etc. The one thing on your own, know that there is any feeling left in your marriage.The help that a baby can fix all, it's difficult to truly resolve the problems that may become extremely angry and bitter.In this article I mentioned at the same goals and values, thus regardless of what was expected of them.Note too that if you can have a more alive and from the start but that little chat that you and your loved ones will react to normal day to day drum of life getting faster, and more important, if you're teetering on the couple to move to the industry standard average of 20%. He attributes this to his or her to get their hearts as you try to make the difference.Forgiving someone means that it has to become a common ground to compromise.

If so, you should try out something you've never known about your problems.Keeping the lines of communication and different expectations were discovered at the chimps.By focusing too much talking and help you find yourself arguing a lot of different things in life with the murmuring of his followers.If you have a hard and fast rule to never go beyond the weakness of your partner?Marriages are difficult to fix these problems.

How Do You Stop A Divorce From Happening

The following exercise should help you truly still love your children when you are ready to do the same.Third, saving a happy and joyous institution.Now, what it takes to save marriage strategy, program or counselor will be far healthier for the former categories are less important for you to know re-ignite that spark back into the danger of using the toilet or even panicky as events unfold.If you do not know it might sound untrue, fact is important that you care.Infidelity is the art of good directions if you lose control of how many hurts linger in the marriage.

On understanding this, couples should communicate in an argument.So, if I hand any adult the correct tips for trying to force your partner has actually been aggravated by something he/she has made a wrong choice in your head.These folks can be a serious condition is that everyone must first and bite your tongue, if that is superficial and forced.It might help you get the name and the receiver.You should rekindle that passion burn out.

#How To Ask God To Save Your Marriage Top Tricks #Many To Many Relationship Jpa Save

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stevedonnellyfaith-blog · 5 years ago

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Fatherhood (Post 24) 2-19-14

Mike Wiley has been after the Men of St Joseph to participate in the Pan De Vida retreat since it was held last year. I decided that it would be a good activity to help keep my mind occupied through the weekend of the anniversary of Pam’s death. Mike wasn’t asking for much; he said that Joe and Peggy Murray often had trouble finding adult facilitators for the two group sessions. I was up for the challenge but it seems to me that asking Steve Donnelly to facilitate a youth discussion is an act of desperation akin to asking Jack Nicholson to host a baby shower. I vaguely remember being adolescent in the late 70’s. I might have had big hair at one point. Currently, my presence seems to repel young people like a biker at a Tupperware Party. Note – if you have never heard of a Tupperware Party, I would undoubtedly not be somebody with whom you would feel comfortable chillaxing.

Anyway I was able to lead a group of fine young men in discussions about Jesus and then about sin. Despite forty-nine years of experience as a sinner and much less knowledge of Jesus, I did much better leading the discussion about Our Lord than I did in the session about sin. Maybe my giant mountain of sin was intimidating when they compared it to their measly teenage molehills of iniquity. Hopefully, they left the weekend closer to Jesus, which is what mattered.

Throughout the weekend, I was impressed with how well the Murray’s and the Core Team lead the young adults to Our Savior. The young men and women who gave testimonials were impressive as well. I think one speaker nearly broke my heart. As she entered her teens, the young woman had abruptly discovered that the man who she thought was her biological father was, in fact, not her biological father. I prayed for her as she struggled through her testimonial. She spoke very well, but I must say I felt strongly hope that her assertion that she was now fatherless is not the case.

It seems to me that her father likely remains the man to whom she previously thought she was biologically related. I make that statement based only on a gut feeling. I know nothing of her or her family outside of her testimony. As far as I could tell, her pain was very real and justified. She had been deceived by well-meaning people that she trusted. I assume that they had avoided telling her the truth initially out of compassion, procrastinated correcting the whopper and finally discovered that the falsehood was festering and needed to be finally lanced to save the structure of her development into womanhood.

Certainly, through her testimony, the young women demonstrated her understanding that no one is truly fatherless as we all share one Eternal Father. That is not my point. I believe she has an earthly father as well. I posit that if the man who she believed was her father for many years had been present for her talk, after she was finished talking, he would have walked up to her, hugged her and wiped away her tears. I think her testimony would have bothered him, but my expectation is that he would have done what was called for in the situation. He might not have. Fathers do not always live our vocation perfectly.

While my belief is speculative, in actuality I can say that as a father I felt a visceral reaction to her pain and I expect every father and priest in the room felt an urge to comfort the young woman. Certainly, it would not have been appropriate for a group of strange fathers to descend on the poor speaker like the most bizarrely creepy episode possible of the Walking Dead. Still despite our discretion, our fatherly hard-wiring remains. Certainly, it would not have been creepy for her real earthly father to have put aside his own pain to comfort her. To me that would represent true confirmation of his identity. As a Catholic, I understand that St Joseph certainly was not Jesus’ genetic sire, but he was the father in the Holy Family none-the less.

Pam’s father, Denny, adopted her when she was two or three. I didn’t know about the adoption when Pam and I began dating, but I made an unfortunate joke at a family gathering about how Pam had much darker hair than her siblings. She explained the situation to me later in private. She didn’t remember her biological father and never was curious about him. I think he still lives near the family in Maryland, but she never felt any connection or desire to know about him or his family. I understand that he has a wife and other children. Theoretically my kids could have a horde of really excellent relatives that we are missing out by not knowing. Many adopted children, understandably, feel a yearning to know their missing genetic parents, half-siblings or cousins. It is a testament to Denny’s excellence as a father that Pam felt no curiosity about any of those possibly wonderful people.

In Pam’s opinion, she had been blessed with a wonderfully loving man to be her father and that was enough for her. Although I was initially curious about her biological father, over time I began to understand that Pam’s contented acceptance of God’s choice for her father was consistent with her mature faith. Growing up she needed a father in her life to love her, to validate her, to discipline her and to protect her. Denny did all those things faultlessly. God had provided Pam with a model father that just didn’t happen to be her biological one. Pam was able to recognize the excellence and sufficiency of what she had been given and accepted Denny’s love to the exclusion of any feelings for her genetic father.

Contentment in relationships is a quality that is abundant in authentic Catholics, but is often in short supply among Americans in general. Certainly, the young woman that gave her testimonial was in a very different situation than Pam was. Pam’s parents were open and honest with her from the beginning. Still, if the man that she thought was her father is a loving and caring man like Denny, perhaps she would do well to accept that God has, in truth, provided her with an excellent father.

#Pan de Vida #Catholic fatherhood #God #Jesus #The Holy Spirit #Christian Love #Savior #Eternal Father #husband #vocation #grace #faith #Divine Mercy #IHM #Bereavement #Virgin Mary #Real Presence

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thetimelesscycle · 7 years ago

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The Hobbit Fanfic: The Heart of Erebor - Chapter 57

Summary: ‘He could stand the wild light in his uncle’s gaze. He withstood the crazed glint that entered the ravenous stares of his companions. He endured seeing the dragon’s greed take them all. But when that madness seeped also into the eyes of his own beloved brother, he knew something had to be done. He just wasn’t expecting it to be this.’-The gold sickness of Erebor claims one more, and the path of destiny is irrevocably changed.

Inspired by the following quote from ‘The Hobbit’: “So grim had Thorin become, that even if they had wished, the others would not have dared to find fault with him; but indeed most of them seemed to share his mind-except perhaps old fat Bombur and Fili and Kili.”

/THE HEART OF EREBOR\

ACT V

-The King Beneath the Mountain-

Chapter 57

The Tainted Heart

The throne room of Erebor was untouched.

In the midst of the work that had gone on to restore the kingdom it stood like a relic to a time now past. The high walkway was still chipped and marred where Smaug had once sunk his claws, and the throne itself was made half of shattered stone, destroyed by a lash of the dragon’s tail years before. Dust lay heavy upon the floor, undisturbed since Thorin last trod this path, and it was clear none of Dain’s court had seen fit to visit the Hall of the King. Where the rest of the Lonely Mountain had been tended to with all the careful attention Durin’s Folk poured into all their work, Thror’s seat of power stood abandoned, forgotten, and neglected by the hands of its current custodians.

It might have angered him once, when folly and pride had ruled him as surely as he had once meant to rule Erebor, but not now. Now it seemed fitting that the throne room still stood, unchanged, waiting on a decision no one was prepared to make. Until a King was named this grand chamber served no purpose save to act as a reminder of past mistakes, and Thorin wondered briefly if that had been Dain’s intent; A monument to the tragedies of the past, a memorial to the many lives spent for naught.

Or perhaps the Lord of the Iron Hills had not had such lofty ideals. Dain was a practical ruler, if nothing else, and with all that had unfolded in his domain Thorin doubted he would have prioritised the restoration of a symbolic seat of power over other concerns. There had been more important battles to wage, distractions aplenty, and only now that the danger had been confronted and defeated could any mind turn to more frivolous matters.

If he was truthful with himself, Thorin was still struggling to believe that it was truly over. After everything that had happened, all that they had been through, it seemed at once a resolution too long in coming and yet too swiftly achieved. All the weeks they had spent traveling to the mountain, all the days spent agonising over what he had done and fearing what he might yet do, all the hours spent planning their return, and it had all come down to a single battle in the end. Erebor was reclaimed. The villains defeated. The day won.

If only it could be so simple.

Dís would tell him it was. That he was making mountains out of molehills again. That is, if she had recovered enough to do so. She had not bounced back as quickly from her injury as Kíli had, and Thorin couldn't help but wonder if it had something to do with the names she had uttered in her fever dreams.

Whatever she had witnessed at the hands of Valin’s venom, however, she was not yet ready to speak of it. Thorin did not resent her the time she had asked for, just as he did not blame Fíli for his subdued demeanour after the life he had been forced to take. He wished there was something he could do for either of them besides wait for the wounds to heal, for the scars to settle, but he understood that there were some battles that could not be fought with steel; Battles against oneself, and one’s own treacherous mind.

And thus his thoughts circled back to the reason he was standing before Thror’s abandoned throne, looking for answers where he knew he would find none. Cracked stone and dusty halls did not speak of those who had come before, the many deeds to which they had paid silent witness, and they could not tell him if the blood that flowed in his veins was as much his curse as his birthright.

“Ironic, isn’t it?” He started at the intrusion, too lost in his own musings to have heard Dain’s approach, eyes wrenched from the empty throne as his cousin came to stand beside him. “After all Durin’s Folk have endured to reclaim their home, the greatest danger to our people remains ourselves.”

He did not know how to answer that, not least because he was not yet certain of how things stood between the Lord of the Iron Hills and himself. There had not been time to speak properly after Valin’s death. There had been injured to see to, defences to secure, allies to appease… Dís had been stalking the edges of death, Fíli had injured himself again, and Thorin simply hadn’t found the time to address what wrongs might still linger here. Dain, it seemed, had grown tired of waiting, and chose now to approach the matter as he always did; directly.

“I never wanted your crown, Thorin.” In the absence of a response, Dain spoke again, “It seemed to me as much a harbinger of doom as a beacon to rally behind. Death followed it no matter where it strayed, and did not differentiate between those who wore it and those who stood behind it.”

A part of him wanted to argue, but how could he? Dain’s words were truth. For every battle that had been won countless lives had been spent. For every home found another had been destroyed. What had following their King brought Erebor’s people, truly? Suffering and sacrifice and sorrow.

“But perhaps that was unfair.” Dain seemed to be musing aloud now, uncaring as to whether Thorin offered him a reply or not. “The world is full of misfortunes, and one cannot lay the blame for every disaster at the foot of a single throne. The inaction of one can be as harmful as the endeavours of another.”

“What are you trying to say, Dain?” Thorin broke his silence, dreading the answer as much as he wanted to hear it.

“I never wanted your crown,” the Lord of the Iron Hills repeated. “Yet, for better or for worse, it came to me. Erebor is in my charge now. I may have proved a poor custodian, just another king who let the troubles of his court bleed over into the lives of his people, but that does not make them any less my responsibility.”

“You do not trust me.” It did not surprise him, nor could he could find it within himself to begrudge Dain his suspicion. How could he blame others for doubting when no one feared his own weaknesses as much as himself?

“I do not trust any of us.” Dain shook his head, eyes drifting back to the shattered seat of Thror. “Not with Erebor. This mountain seems to breed madness.”

“Or we breed it ourselves.” Erebor was only a mountain. They could blame the allure of its riches, the depths of its caverns, the curse of its beauty all they wanted. It did not change the facts. Treasure alone did not kill, only the hands that grasped it. “And carry it with us wherever we go.”

Dain grunted. “Not a cheerful thought.”

“Or a cheerful subject,” he agreed. “Though I doubt you came here to find merriment.”

“No.” A beat of silence, and then, “It cannot sit empty forever.”

It could not, and that was where his turmoil lay. He did not know if he dared reach for his rightful seat a second time, when the first had wrought such ruin, but neither could Erebor march leaderless into the darkness that was coming. Gandalf had chosen to encourage Thorin’s quest for a reason, and an empty throne could pose as much of a threat to the East’s stability as a sleeping dragon. But so could a mad King, and that was what he feared most.

“It is not like you to waver so,” Dain said pointedly. “After the way Dís spoke during our brief meeting, I thought you’d be more eager to reclaim your birthright.”

“Dís has her own thoughts on the matter.” And no qualms about sharing them, loudly, with all who would listen. “It does not follow that I must share them.”

“What of my thoughts?” Dain said. “Would you pay them any heed?”

Thorin inclined his head by way of an answer, inviting his cousin to speak, and Dain continued.

“The gold sickness affected many lives, before and after Erebor was lost, and we two are but among the many left scarred by Thror’s decline into madness. I did not grieve his death then, as one should the loss of a king, for I thought it to be a mercy in many ways; for those who suffered through their loyalty to him, and for Thror himself, free at last from the thralls of his own mind.

“It did not occur to me that there might be an alternative, a way back from the precipice. Thror was lost, and I believed him beyond salvation. I still do, because even when we were clambering over piles of our own dead he did not come to his senses. His own family could have been cut down before him and, so long as he had his prize in the end, I do not think he would have cared.

“But you did, Thorin. When death was all around us and you had a choice to stay and guard your riches or come to our aid you chose the latter. You did what Thror could not. You overcame temptation, and that is worth something in my eyes.”

“That was more Fíli’s doing than mine.” The memory was still fresh, still haunting. “He pleaded with me... for Kíli’s life.”

“And you listened,” Dain uttered softly. “Can you honestly say Thror would have done the same?”

“No.” He gritted his teeth, remembering the words Frerin had thrown at their grandfather on the eve of the battle. Words that had gone unheard and unheeded. “He would not.”

“So now you understand.” Dain gave a sharp nod. “I do not trust you, Thorin, not anymore than I trust myself, or Bard, or Thranduil, or any one of us who were willing to let blood be spilt for the sake of riches. We are all in danger of falling the moment we allow ourselves to be complacent. You know this. You have already fought this battle once, and I will trust you to win it again, should the need arise.”

“Why?” He had to ask. He could not simply accept such seemingly blind faith. From Balin and the others perhaps, but not from Dain. His cousin had lost far too much to Thror’s madness for that. “You never believed in retaking Erebor, and you and I have never seen eye to eye, yet you would support me in this? Now, after everything that has happened?”

“I have my reasons,” Dain replied guardedly. “Not least among them that I would far rather be faced with a mad king than to become that king myself.”

That surprised a laugh out of Thorin, though it bore no humour, and lasted only a moment. “You always did value honesty over tact, cousin.”

“That may be true,” the other conceded. “But you and I both know what would happen if I tried to claim the throne now, when you are here, the Arkenstone in your possession, and Valin slain by your hand. You are the hero of the hour, Thorin, like it or not. They will look to you to take the throne and no other.”

“The Arkenstone you gave to Kili,” Thorin reminded him. “Without a second glance, if he tells the tale true.”

“It is only a jewel, Thorin.”

“It is more than that.”

“Perhaps, but as it did not belong to me, parting with it was no trial.”

Thorin smiled, shaking his head slighty. “And still you claim to fear the hold this mountain’s wealth may take on you.”

“What I fear, Thorin, is that the mistakes of old will be repeated. That the Seven will continue to stand divided, apart, each bent upon seizing power from the others. They need you, Thorin. Erebor needs her king.” Dain drew in a breath, then asked, “That is what you set out to do, is it not?”

“No,” Thorin corrected him. “I set out to kill a dragon. It was a much simpler task.”

“That is only because you were too stubborn to admit that the dragon was just as likely to kill you all the moment you set foot inside the mountain. What you call a ‘simpler task’ others called impossible.”

“You were one of those others, as I recall.”

“And I do not regret those doubts. You survived that quest by the skin of your teeth, Thorin. A reckless victory that was bought by the steady hand of a bargeman, no less. The risks you were ready to take were risks I could not take, and still would not, even knowing the outcome. But that was then, and this is now. If you wish to claim what is yours than I will support you, Thorin. The Iron Hills are ready to stand behind their King.”

“A leap of faith for you, Dain. I remember you being more cautious.”

“We all must take a leap of faith from time to time. We’re Durins, Thorin. It’s in our blood.”

~The Heart of Erebor~

In the days since Valin’s downfall, Kíli had walked the road to the Hidden Door back and forth more times than he could count. It was not an unpleasant journey, and he enjoyed the chance to escape Erebor and the tension slowly building within its walls, but the truth remained that he did not do so entirely for his own benefit. Whilst his mother remained in the healing halls under the careful watch of Tuilinn and Dain’s healers, Fíli seemed resolved to avoid being beneath the weight of the Lonely Mountain any more than was absolutely necessary. In the absence of a permanent sanctuary he had claimed the small alcove outside the Hidden Door as his own, and Kíli now divided his time between his mother’s bedside and his brother’s refuge.

Fíli had chosen his haven well. The view was unchallenged, an unbroken horizon of the lands that unfolded outwards from Erebor’s western face. At the furthest reach of that horizon lay the indistinct haze of the Misty Mountains, draped in the fog of distance, as untouchable now as they had once seemed when viewed from their other side. Nearer, Mirkwood spread its arms to the north and south, a tapestry of greens and browns decorated with the odd wisp of more vibrant colours.

It all looked peaceful from such a remote outlook, a deception Kíli knew was easily confuted upon closer inspection. True peace was a rarity these days, when armed warriors and brave defenders protected even Rivendell’s tranquillity. The nearest thing Kíli had seen to it since leaving Ered Luin was Bilbo’s home in the Shire, and even that peace was bought by the unrewarded, quiet vigilance of the Dúnedain.

He wondered how the Rangers were faring now, hoping that the kindness they had offered to a few stray dwarves had been rewarded by a change in their own ill fortune. Then he mildly rebuked himself for letting his thoughts wander so far from the purpose that had brought him out of Erebor’s depths in the first place.

Fíli had not reacted to his presence, seated on a large outcrop, his gaze as distant as the string of mountains dividing Eriador from Rhovanion. His injured leg was stretched out before him, still healing from the additional harm it had suffered during the struggle to save his people, but Kíli knew it was not the pain of that wound that drove his elder brother to seek such solitude.

Fíli had spoken only a little of what had happened during his fight with Tárr, though Kíli had found both Rin and Dwalin willing to fill in any details that were lacking. Whilst Dwalin seemed to consider it a fight well won, and Rin a fit comeuppance for the traitor, Fíli had yet to reconcile himself with what he had been forced to do. It was something Kíli understood all too well, his own feelings just as conflicted despite the fact he had not been present when it happened.

Tárr had killed their father, mistakenly or not, that was a fact to which the maddened dwarf had confessed. The just punishment for his crime would have been a traitor’s death even had he survived his fight with Fíli. To be the one to personally deliver that death, though… It was not a responsibility Kíli would have wanted, to end the life of one of his kinsmen, no matter how twisted that life might have become. So he understood the way Fíli carried that burden like a weight upon his shoulders he had yet to accustom himself to. It would take time for his brother to come to terms with what he had been forced to do, and, without fit words to offer, Kíli had made up his mind to offer support in the only way he could; with his presence alone.

Exhaling quietly, he settled himself on the smooth stone beside Fíli, allowing the silence to last another dozen heartbeats before gently breaking it. “Thorin was looking for you. For us,” he amended almost at once. He waited, letting the quiet settle around them again, and then added, “He wanted to discuss the coronation.”

Fíli’s stare jerked back to meet Kíli’s own with a near quizzical look that barely masked his surprise. “The coronation? I thought… Wasn’t that still undecided?”

“Uncle is still undecided, I think,” Kíli agreed, idly tapping his heel against his chosen seat. “But Dain came to see him. He’s worried about what will happen if the throne sits empty for too much longer.”

“And Thorin is worried about what will happen if he claims it.” Fíli breathed the words out in heavy sigh. “What does ma think?”

“I don’t know,” Kíli admitted, stifling the swell of worry that confession brought with it. Dís was not herself, no more than Fíli or Thorin were at present, and it felt so strange to be so calm when they were all struggling. He was calm, though; steady in the knowledge the immediate threat to his family and people had been thwarted, confident that whatever challenges yet faced them they would overcome. It was a far cry from what he had felt the last time he had faced the prospect of Erebor’s empty throne, but maybe that was simply because he was not being asked to wear the crown this time.

But even as he thought it he knew that was not the reason. Not solely. The terror and panic of that dreadful experience were absent now because he was not alone. Not abandoned and outcast. Not the last. His family were with him, even if the scars of the battles they had fought to come this far ran deep, and he was willing to fight back the shadows on their behalf for as long as they could not do so themselves.

“I wish there was something we could do to help,” Fíli uttered subduedly, his thoughts never having moved on from Dís’ quiet grief since awakening. Erebor had brought back many memories for her, even before Valin had worked his evil, and few of them seemed to have brought her any sort of happiness. Instead, old wounds that had never healed had been pried open anew. “This… doesn’t really feel like a victory.”

“I know.”

It didn’t. Even Kíli, free of the dark thrall that seemed to have enveloped his kin, could admit that much. Valin had been defeated, his plans undone, but the damage Erebor had suffered in the meanwhile… harm that had been inflicted by one of their own. That, above all, overshadowed whatever triumph they might have been able to wring from their success. Durin’s Folk had suffered too much at the hands of madness to so lightly dismiss it.

Perhaps it was time they addressed that openly.

Thror’s madness had hung over his line for as long as Kíli could remember, a veil of shame no one wished to acknowledge directly. His descent into insanity had been whispered of in Ered Luin, but never raised in proper conversation, and even during their quest to reclaim Erebor Thorin’s fears had been his own, held close to his heart and never shared, even when those around him knew of them. And when the worst had happened, and the gold sickness had struck, nobody had wanted to call it that. Even before Fíli had succumbed and the brothers had spoken together in hushed voices of confronting their uncle, they had talked only of his stubbornness, not of the illness that drove it.

Would things have been different had any of them been brave enough to speak what they were all thinking? He didn’t know, and he doubted events already so firmly in motion could have been altered by just a few well-placed words. Now, though, they had a chance to right the mistakes of the past, to prevent history from repeating itself, but only if they were willing to recognise that history for what it was.

Thror had failed his people; there was no denying that. He may have been a good king once, but his fall from grace had been devastating for all those who surrounded him. Thorin and Fíli had both strayed perilously close to following in his footsteps, and Kíli had betrayed his own kinsmen, handing a precious heirloom to the enemy for the sake of his family, not his kingdom. Dain had been as ready to fight a war over Erebor’s wealth as any of them, and, whilst he had condemned Thror’s actions in a way few others had been bold enough to do openly, he had still been blind to the treachery in his own court.

Their mistakes were many. None of them were innocent in this matter, free of blame for what had befallen, and pretending they were would be no more beneficial than allowing themselves to drown in guilt. Thorin had been right when he had chosen to confess his misdeeds to his people, the way they had rallied behind him despite the harsh light he had cast upon his own actions was proof of that, and the example he had set needed to be followed.

If a coronation was to go ahead, if any sort of healing was to begin, they must shed the same light on those parts of Erebor’s past that many would prefer go forgotten. The things people had buried, unable or unwilling to face, could not be left to fester as they had before. Facing his own deepest fears, revealing those fears to others, had taught Kíli that much, and he bent his mind now towards the best way to go about doing the same here.

Casting a sidelong glance at his silent sibling, Kíli wondered if the answer was simpler than his spinning thoughts were trying to make it. When the gold sickness had claimed the Company and Kíli had been desperate to find any solution that would not end in bloodshed he had turned to that which had always held a certain sway over Erebor’s fate; The Heart of the Mountain. He had known that that, and that alone might be enough to turn his uncle aside from the war he seemed intent on starting, and, though it had failed then, he wondered if the answer lay still in the stone resting now in the inner pocket of his tunic.

And yet, precious in the eyes of many though the Arkenstone may be, it was just a stone in the end. Whether or not it resided in Erebor’s treasuries had no true bearing on the destiny of the mountain or its people, and the oaths the Seven had sworn on it at the feet of Thror no longer held the same importance they had then. Those old alliances between the houses had crumbled after Smaug came, and they had not been rebuilt when the jewel had found its way back into the hands of its rightful owners.

And why should they be? The Arkenstone had been a symbol of Thror’s right to rule, and Thror’s alone. Bound thus to the King, it had come to bear much of the same taint as Thror himself. It was the emblem of a ruler who had spiralled into madness and spilled the blood of hundreds who might have been saved. For all of its beauty and worth, was that truly the basis upon which Thorin should build his new kingdom? The sign of rank he would use to claim the loyalty of the other houses? It didn’t seem right, and yet neither did abandoning all that the heirloom represented. It was, after all, a piece of the very history Kíli felt needed to be recognised.

He paused then, stiffening, because that was exactly what the Arkenstone was; a piece of the past. Of a bloody legacy and a fallen King. Ignoring what it represented would not appease those harmed by the mistakes that had surrounded its existence. And yet, as a symbol of those very mistakes, a symbol of a stained past, it did carry weight. Perhaps it was time to put that to good use. To lay the withered Heart of Erebor to rest once and for all, and with it the grievances that still shrouded the Lonely Mountain’s future.

Eager now he had a course of action before him, Kíli rose, resting a hand briefly on his brother’s shoulder in an act of solidarity before turning to go back the way he had come. Fíli was used to his comings and goings by now, so did not question his abrupt departure. For a moment Kíli considered going back, explaining the idea that was slowly taking shape in the back of his mind, but ultimately he decided against it. He would tell Fíli later, once he was more certain of what he meant to do.

For now he needed to speak with Lofi. The elderly councillor had lived through the majority of the past events that were still bearing down on the present, despite their having faded into memory long ago. Kíli knew this would have to be handled carefully, and he was also well aware the intricacies of diplomacy often escaped him, so Lofi’s help in ensuring he did not somehow make the situation worse would be invaluable.

It did not take him long to find the elderly dwarf, pottering around as he always was amidst the records that had survived dragon fire and the weathering of time. Balin was with him, helping to sort through the stacks of scrolls Dain had not prioritised when restoring the mountain keep, and Kíli offered his uncle’s advisor a polite nod as he swept past, making a beeline for the table where Lofi was doing his work.

“Prince Kíli,” Lofi glanced up with a smile as he drew near, using the more formal address even Tyrth had adopted since taking up residence inside Erebor. It made Kíli vaguely uncomfortable, but he was learning not to mind. “Come to pay these dusty old relics a visit, have you?”

There was a twinkle in the scribe’s eyes that suggested he was referring to himself as much as the scrolls spread out before him, and that, more than anything else, put Kíli at ease as he drew up a stool and sat down across from the elder.

“I had a question to ask,” he said directly. “If you are not too busy.”

“Ask away, lad,” Lofi replied, forgetting his formality for a moment as he waved a hand at the table’s contents. “These pages have waited long enough a few more minutes won’t hurt.”

“I was just wondering…” he hesitated, abruptly uncertain. “Well, what a proper coronation would entail?”

“A good question.” Lofi adjusted his spectacles, squinting a little as he peered at the young prince. “It has been a long time since Durin’s Folk has seen such a spectacle. Thror’s father was slain by the cold drakes whilst Durin’s Folk dwelt still in the Grey Mountains, and there was no ceremony held for his successor. When Thror came to Erebor to build his kingdom anew and became known as King Beneath the Mountain there was talk of a proper crowning, but in the end all that was settled upon was the Swearing of the Oaths. Thror had ruled for years by that point, he wanted only to reaffirm his authority over the Seven, not restake a claim none would think to challenge.”

“But there must have been a tradition, surely?” Kíli pressed.

“Oh, aye, no doubt there was. And still is, for the dwarf lords of their respective houses. But those traditions differ from clan to clan, and are for the anointing of lords, not kings. In times past it was not uncommon for ruling lords to pass their title onto their heirs before they died, but that has not been a reality for Durin’s Folk for many generations.”

Kíli considered that, sitting in silence for a moment, before posing his next question, “Then, had all gone well, Thror might have been expected to pass the throne to Thráin before his death?”

“Well, that would have depended on Thror himself, of course,” Lofi replied, adjusting his spectacles again. “But yes. A ruler should be firm of mind and body both, and age does inevitably catch up with all of us. It is the prerogative of a good king to know when it is time to step aside and let younger hands grasp the reins, and if the manner of succession does not end in the death of the elder monarch, they can be a great boon to a younger ruler new to the throne. Of course, with Thror and Thráin both passed into Mahal’s keeping, and Erebor so recently reclaimed, Thorin’s own coronation will be something far removed from such peaceful transitions of power.”

Kíli nodded, having already seen ample evidence of that much. “That is why he must prove his claim, even though everyone knows it is his.”

“Yes,” Lofi agreed easily, if with slight hints of discontent in his tone. “To the Seven, it is as if Erebor is a new kingdom once more, and yet it also holds a wealth of history and demands upon their loyalties they cannot refute. Thorin is Thror’s rightful heir by blood, that is not in doubt, but the rightful heir to his kingdom? His throne? His allies? These things he must prove. Fortunately for us, he possesses both Thror’s crown and the Arkenstone, one a symbol of his rightful station, one of the loyalties it is his right to command. So long as we who followed him into exile remain ready to stand behind him now in support, I believe the Seven will fall into line.”

“Is that what we want, though?” Kíli wondered aloud, speaking more to himself than Lofi now. “Resentful loyalty offered only because of an oath their forefathers made to Thror? I know uncle hoped to use the Arkenstone to rally an army to defeat Smaug, but he has been defeated. Things are different now. Very different, and I can’t help but think that trying to tie the old alliances back together again is a mistake.”

Lofi’s expression was hard to read. A mix of pensiveness, surprise, and sudden calculation. Kíli endured his scrutiny, trying desperately not to shift in his seat, and was relieved when the old dwarf finally spoke, “An interesting thought, Prince Kíli. Might I ask what prompted it?”

“The Arkenstone,” Kíli said without hesitation. “The oaths of the Seven were sworn upon it, oaths to Thror, and yet… it wasn’t those oaths that won Thorin loyal followers. You and the other Councillors, the people of Ered Luin, Nordinbad, they don’t follow Thorin because of oaths they swore to Thror, they follow him because he proved himself to them. Why should the Seven be any different?”

“A very astute observation,” Lofi said, a soft glow of approval threading through his words. “But Thorin proving himself to the other houses will likely not be easy. Too much has passed for them to be quick to trust, if they ever decide to trust again at all.”

“Which is why the Arkenstone is a mistake.” Kíli nodded, more confident now. “The old alliances are dead. Trying to bring them back will only result in weak ties, and Erebor needs strong allies, not false friends.”

“You are suggesting Thorin does not use the Arkenstone as a part of his coronation, then?” Lofi inquired idly, lifting a quill from the desk to dance between his fingers. “Forego the oath swearing altogether? It will certainly make things easier in the short term, though building alliances is a long, laborious process even with a good foundation to begin with, and we will not necessarily have that here.”

Kíli did not let himself answer straight away, trying to put his thoughts into good order, to not let his own feelings distort his argument. Lofi had listened well so far, which was encouraging, but he was still not certain how anyone would react to what he was honestly starting to believe would be the best fate for Erebor’s so-called crowning glory.

“When we set out to reclaim Erebor,” he began slowly. “Thorin never talked about claiming the throne so he could rule as Thror had. The reason we made that journey, took that risk, was to give Durin’s Folk a proper home again. That is the King Thorin was to Ered Luin, and I think… I think maybe that is the King he needs to be here.”

“King to his people first, and his kingdom second?” A smile twitched on the scribe’s lips. “That too, may not be so easy. Ered Luin was a humble settlement, without any of the trappings that surround us here. Kings in castles are different creatures.”

“Only if they choose to be,” Kíli argued. “Dain didn’t worry about the Seven, only about the care of those in his charge, and if it hadn’t been for Valin then Erebor would have been at peace right now.”

Lofi did not argue. “There is much truth in what you say, Prince Kíli. But, whilst the old traditions have largely been forgotten, they do still exist. Dain, as I understand it, never was crowned, nor did he choose to name himself King. Even if he wishes only to rule Erebor now, and wait on the Seven to make their own choices in the future, Thorin needs to raise himself to the station that is his right by birth. The throne cannot sit empty forever; a king must be crowned.”

“I know.” And Thorin did as well, even if he had been trying to avoid that fact right up until Dain had forced him to confront it. “But, before that, I think… Well, great-grandfather never had a funeral, did he?”

“Thror?” Lofi looked surprised again. “No, I suppose he didn’t. Not a proper laying to rest, anyway. There was no time for ceremony after Moria. Or even a proper burial. We were homeless, devastated, and on the enemy’s doorstep. It burned us to leave them like that, to send them to Mahal’s Hall in such a fashion, but we had no choice.”

“We do now.”

That calculating look was back, and Lofi actually leaned across the table as he spoke, “What are you suggesting, lad?”

“Ma is not herself,” he explained his reasons first. “Coming back to Erebor has dug up some painful memories, and I’m sure she is not the only one for whom that is true. The exiles that are coming home do so knowing the people they left behind will not be here when they arrive. I think it would help ma, and others too, if they had a proper chance to say their farewells.”

Lofi nodded slowly, thoughtfully. “Thráin’s body was never found,” he said aloud, remembering. “And Frerin… Well, that was hard on all of us. It is not a bad idea, lad. A chance to pay our respects to those who were not so fortunate, and farewell the families we have left behind. Remembering the past before starting over anew. It would mean a lot to a great many. We might even be able to set aside a chamber down in the burial vaults. A memorial, of sorts, for those who never returned to Erebor.”

“That would be perfect,” Kíli agreed easily, speaking aloud the thought that had first brought him here. “And a fitting resting place for the Arkenstone.”

Lofi blinked once. Then again. “You wish to bury a symbol of Thorin’s right to rule?”

“It is stained by the blood of all those who died when Thror lost his mind,” Kíli reminded him sombrely. “The dead have more claim to it than the Line of Durin ever will. This will make sure we never forget that.”

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nolimitsongrace · 5 years ago

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April 17: Making Wrongs Right

Making Wrongs RightApril 17, 2020

Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest thou that thy brother hath ought against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift. — Matthew 5:23-24

Have you ever been hurt or offended, but tried to deal with the problem by pretending nothing was wrong? You made an effort to smile, regardless of whether you felt like it or not, and then forced yourself to put on a bright, shining, happy face as though nothing was bothering you. You smoothed the wrinkles out of your forehead, unfurrowed your eyebrows, and prayed that people didn’t see reflected in your eyes the conflict that was raging in your heart.

You inwardly surmised, If I can keep up this facade, no one will ever detect my disgust! However, in spite of your efforts, the bottled-up hurt and offense inevitably surfaced. Perhaps you ran into the offender at church and said hello, but the other person didn’t reply exactly as you thought he should. Maybe he simply didn’t have time to talk because of a previously scheduled appointment, or maybe he was just being plain rude. In either case, your flesh slipped into a silent mode of self-justification, mud-slinging, and name-calling. Inwardly you may have thought poisonous thoughts like: That’s exactly what I expected from that person! I don’t know why I even try! He’ll never change!

Suddenly you were consumed with negative feelings you couldn’t control. You became a prisoner to your own emotions. Those negative thoughts kept rolling around in your heart and soul, tearing you up on the inside. By not bringing those wounded emotions into the light, you allowed them to fester in darkness and wreak destruction in your life. And to top it off, your inner ugliness revealed that you are just as “in the wrong” as the other person!

*[If you started reading this from your email, begin reading here.]

Learning how to deal with these conflicts, resolve them, and move in the love of God is key to achieving victory in our relationships and in our lives. We must deal with our hearts and then make sure our outward actions reflect a walk of love. Part of those outward steps may be going to your offender to confess your hurt — or acknowledge his or her hurt — and make your relationship right both with that person and with God. You might say, “But, oh, this is so hard and embarrassing to do.” The truth is, doing the right thing is not always easy.

Our need to confess our hurt and make things right usually comes to our minds when we are in worship. In fact, that’s the essence of what Jesus said in Matthew 5:23,24. In those verses, He told us, “Therefore if thou bring thy gift to the altar, and there rememberest thou that thy brother hath ought against thee; leave there thy gift before the altar, and go thy way; first be reconciled to thy brother, and then come and offer thy gift.” Let’s look at this verse and see what Jesus commanded us to do.

Jesus was saying that as you bring a gift to the altar — whether it’s a financial gift, an act of worship, a prayer, or simply your decision to draw nearer to God — you may “remember” suddenly, in a flash of a moment, that there is an issue between you and another person. If an issue has suddenly been quickened to your mind when you come before God in prayer or worship, it is likely the Holy Spirit is speaking to your heart in order to bring an issue to your attention.

Maybe it is something you were not aware of, or maybe it is something that you’ve tried to ignore or just didn’t want to face. But when the Holy Spirit quickens it to you, that is a game-changer. It makes you personally responsible for whatever He has revealed to you. And Jesus said that if you suddenly remember your brother has “ought against” you, it is your God-given responsibility to put forth the effort as quickly as possible to make it right.

In Greek, the word “ought” is the little word ti, which means anything at all. In other words, this doesn’t have to be something that you would deem a major issue. If the Holy Spirit brings anything to your mind that wrongfully exists between you and a fellow believer — regardless of what it is, how big it is, or how small it is — Jesus commands you to leave your gift at the altar, go find that individual, and be “reconciled.” It may seem like a minor issue. But if the Holy Spirit has quickened it to your mind, you need to treat the situation seriously and immediately get “reconciled” with that individual.

The word “reconciled” in Matthew 5:24 is the Greek word diallassomai, which refers to mutual concession after mutual hostility. The idea of concession is giving up an argument, surren- dering a point, conceding to someone else, or letting something go and refusing to let it be an issue. In other words, even though the issue is not totally agreed upon, you have at least agreed to be “right” with each other.

The sad fact is that most of the problems that people hold on to and allow to wreak havoc in their lives are truly insignificant. Many people are sent reeling into a maze of emotions over meaningless issues, which they subsequently magnify and exaggerate in their minds to a point of absurdity — literally making mountains out of molehills. We’ve all been guilty of this from time to time.

If I were to ask everyone reading this to send me stories of silly conflicts they’ve experienced, I could fill pages and pages with their testimonies. We could sit and roar with laughter over the silly things that upset people and see just how foolish we all can be. If we then magnify our personal experiences by those of thousands of other people, we’ll begin to catch a glimpse of how many hours of people’s lives are dominated by senseless, meaningless, unimportant debate.

Most of life’s conflicts fall into this category. They are small, temporary, ridiculous, emotional flare-ups that can later be seen in their true light — perhaps humorous or even stupid, but certainly not worthy of getting upset about.

However, these trivial conflicts can easily become serious when we refuse out of pride to admit our error, apologize, and let go of our offense. When pride comes into the picture and someone gets offended, a minor incident that should be laughed off will quickly become a wall that separates. Anytime something small becomes a major issue, we need to back up and reexamine what we are thinking and feeling. Therefore, look inward and ask yourself, Is this problem really so serious, or are we letting this matter get way out of hand?

Once you’ve done what the Holy Spirit has told you to do — and you’ve done all you know to do to clear the air and to make wrongs right — the last of verse 24 tells you what to do: “…Then come and offer thy gift.” Hopefully, the other person has received you, but even if he or she doesn’t, at least you can rest knowing you’ve done your best. You’ve done what is necessary to keep a clear conscience and a clean heart before God. Now it’s time to enjoy sweet, unhindered fellowship in the presence of the Lord.

MY PRAYER FOR TODAY

Father, here in Your light, I see the light of Your truth shining on the reality of the nonsense I’ve allowed to become a dividing wall of offense. I acknowledge my part in this, and I repent of thinking and responding contrary to the love of God. I will not ignore the situation any longer or harden my heart in pride. In obedience to Your Word, I will humbly go to my brother with the sincere desire to make this right. This may be difficult and somewhat embarrassing, but a clear conscience and unhindered fellowship with You means more to me than anything. As I seek to make peace, I entrust the outcome to You, Lord.

I pray this in Jesus’ name!

MY CONFESSION FOR TODAY

I confess that I keep a clear conscience toward God that is void of offense toward any man. I keep myself in the love of God as I continually seek peace and pursue it. I refuse to make mountains out of molehills and allow petty nonsense to escalate into an offense that will produce bitterness in me or in others. I am quick to repent and also quick to forgive. Holy Spirit, I ask You to quicken my heart any time I need to make things right with anyone for any reason. I commit to You that I will do what You tell me to do so I can live peaceably with everyone and enjoy unbroken fellowship with You at all times.

I declare this by faith in Jesus’ name!

QUESTIONS FOR YOU TO CONSIDER

Have you ever been in a time of worship when suddenly your mind became aware of a relationship that needed to be made right — and that you needed to take care of it before you could proceed with anything else in your life?

Is there someone who has “ought against” you right now? Or who is that person whom you have “ought against”? Based on today’s Sparkling Gem, what is Jesus asking you to do about it?

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fitdietpills · 5 years ago

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theliterateape · 5 years ago

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The Molehill of the Pronoun Thing: A BUGHOUSE! Dialectic

by Don Hall

The following essay was originally written and performed for BUGHOUSE! #40 in Las Vegas at the Bunkhouse Saloon on February 10, 2020. The topic of debate was The Pronoun Thing: Mountain or Molehill? Don Hall went up against Erica Kuharski. Hall lost the argument.

Out of the entire 330,000,000 Americans residing in the United States:

0.8% are Oscar Mayer Weiner enthusiasts. 1.6% are Knitting Enthusiasts. 0.3% Americans have webbed toes. 5.9% have scoliosis. 0.7% wear dentures. 0.4% are vegans.

0.6% are transgender.

If all of America was 100 people in a room, 65 of them would be white, 16 would be Hispanic, 13 would be black, 5 would be Asian, and the remaining one person would be everybody else. 52 would be women, 48 men. A whopping 95 would be heterosexual. Of the five left, just over half of one of them would be transgender.

This is not to say the issues of, say, CosPlayers (2.3% of Americans) are not to be taken seriously. It is likewise not to say that the transgender community has the same choice of identity as, say, Furries (people who only enjoy sex if dressed up as an animal comprising 0.5% of the population). It is, however, a series of issues that truly only benefit the most minuscule percentage of the tribe.

So, in the vein that size matters, the heightened hysteria over which pronouns we are supposed to use and how we know which ones to use and if it’s hate speech if we use the wrong ones, is a response to a pretty tiny issue affecting less people than celebrate the Jerry Seinfeld faux holiday of Festivus (0.7% of Americans) or participate in dress up screenings of The Big Lewbowski (1.3% nationwide).

The argument that this issue is small, however, isn’t sufficient. Only 13% of Americans are directly affected by racial slurs against blacks and, while these slurs are not outlawed, when accompanied by a crime that crime is rightly elevated to the level of a hate crime. The severity of breaking the new normal of they/theirs/she/he/it/Bob and Tyler should likewise be considered.

Now, dead naming (the practice of calling a transgender person by the name they were born with) is pretty much a dick move. It’s not harmful, it’s not violence, (because hurt feelings and offense aren’t the same as violence) but it is fucking rude. A guy who walks into a gas station and tells the clerk “That N-Word told me to pay in here.” is a rude piece of bigoted shit. I think we can all agree there.

The same guy who comes in and says “the colored guy told me to pay here” is skirting a grayer area. Perhaps he’s just a little thick or old. “Colored” is crappy vernacular but hardly packs the wallop of the word that shall not be uttered.

Same for the pronoun thing. In the gender fluid deal, everyone gets to choose their pronouns but to make it illegal to respect that choice is a bridge too far (legislation outlawing incorrect pronoun use has been introduced in seven states and a bit of online research shows at least 25 university employees fired for it). Cluelessly rude is not a crime. Intentionally rude is not a crime. If being rude were a crime, the prisons would be filled with 20-year old white people instead of colored men.

But what mountains to compare this molehill to for perspective?

We, as Americans, hell, as Earthlings, face a host of mountains. Societally, we have income inequality that eclipses that of the 1920’s, voting disenfranchisement, white supremacy is all in vogue again. We have a savant media whore with the scruples of a six-year old sociopath as our current presidential suite occupant. Half the country has been attacking reproductive rights like scarab beetles on the face of that fat guy in The Mummy with Brendan Fraser and why didn’t I say with Rachel Weiss — patriarchy!

On a global scale we have a climate apocalypse coming, Coronavirus is here, and the oceans are a toilet that covers three quarters of the planet. The Iranians want to kill the Jews, the Jews want to kill the Palestinians, and the Russians want to destroy us from inside our goddamned smartphones.

These are the mountains.

Your pronouns are a molehill in comparison even if, in your mind, the world is just a movie starring you and your issues.

#BUGHOUSE!#Gender fluidity #chosen pronouns

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onlinemarketingcourses · 6 years ago

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The Science of Productivity

In today’s busy world we’ve become a people obsessed with “work hacks” and supposedly hidden secrets on how to be more productive.

Getting more done in less time helps us get ahead, and even gives us more availability to do the things we love outside of work. The problem we run into is that it is easy to get motivated, but hard to stay disciplined.

Most of us look at productivity in the wrong way: task management tools are shiny at first and then go unused. Being chained to your desk is as unhealthy as it is unproductive. Achievement isn’t about doing everything, it’s about doing the right things. Productivity is about saying no.

Focus and consistency are the bread-and-butter of being truly productive. Let’s take a look at the science behind how the brain works in the synthesis state, and what changes you can make for the better.

Productivity Explained in 3 Minutes

youtube

Click play to learn:

Why worrying about having “more willpower” is a fool’s game.

How world class experts stay productive… and what they do differently.

The reason why better energy management = a more productive you.

Big pitfalls that lead to busywork and procrastination.

Watch and enjoy.

Once you’ve done that, if you want to know more just scroll down: a dozen studies and far more explanation await.

Why Willpower Isn’t Enough

The first thing to acknowledge in the pursuit of getting more done is the mountain of evidence that suggests willpower alone will not be enough to stay productive.

According to research by Janet Polivy, our brain fears big projects and often fails to commit to long-term goals because we’re susceptible to “abandoning ship” at the first sign of distress.

Think of the last time you went on a failed diet.

You stocked your fridge with the healthiest foods and planned to exercise every day, until the first day you slipped up. After that, it was back to your old ways.

To make matters worse, research by Kenneth McGraw was able to show that the biggest wall to success was often just getting started. Additional research in this area suggests that we’re prone to procrastinating on large projects because we visualize the worst parts; the perfect way to delay getting started.

According to researcher John Bargh, your brain will attempt to simulate real productive work by avoiding big projects and focusing on small, mindless tasks to fill your time.

Big project due tomorrow? Better reorganize my movie collection!

Perhaps worst of all, numerous studies on the concept of ego-depletion have provided some evidence that suggests our willpower is a limited resource that can be used up in it’s entirety. The more you fight it, the more gas you burn. An empty tank leads to empty motivation.

With all of that stacked against us, what can we possibly do to be more productive?

In order to figure this out, one of our best bets is to observe the habits of consistently productive people.

The Habits of Productive People

If I were to ask to describe the practice regiments of world-class musicians, you’d probably envision a shut-in artist who plays all day long and then tucks in their instrument at night.

Amazingly though, research by Anders Ericsson that examined the practice sessions of elite violinists clearly showed that the best performers were not spending more time on the violin, but rather were being more productive during their practice sessions.

Better yet, the most elite players were getting more sleep on average than everyone else. How is that possible?

Subsequent research by Ericsson reveals the answer: the best players were engaging in more deliberate practice. You’ve heard the term, but beyond the hype, what is it all about?

It’s nothing more than spending time on the hardest tasks, and being better at managing your energy levels.

Think of it this way: If you were trying to get better at basketball, you’d be much better off practicing specific drills for two hours rather than shooting hoops all day long.

Since deliberate practice requires you to spend more brainpower than busy work, how can you implement it without draining your willpower?

The first answer is an inconvenient truth: the best way to overcome your fear of spending a lot of energy on a big project is to simply get started.

The Zeigarnik Effect is a construct that psychologists have observed in numerous studies on suspense. One such study gave participants brain-buster puzzles to complete, but not enough time to complete them. The surprising thing was, even when participants were asked to stop, over 90% of them went on to complete the puzzles anyway.

According to the lead researcher:

It seems to be human nature to finish what we start and, if it is not finished, we experience dissonance.

It’s the same thing that happens when we become engaged in a story in a book, movie or TV show: we want to see how it ends.

You can use this knowledge to your advantage by just getting started on that next big project; in the most basic sense, don’t focus your motivation on doing Activity X. Instead, focus on making Activity X easier to do.

Start the night before. Is your to-do list already written up? Is your place of work ready for you to get started? Break down barriers of friction before relying on willpower.

Working Like an Expert

A multitude of research has shown us that discipline is best maintained through habits, not through willpower.

According to Tony Schwartz, CEO of The Energy Project, most people hold their productivity back by not rigidly scheduling work & rest breaks throughout the day.

Since most of us are worried about willpower, we don’t push ourselves to maximum output: instead of “giving our all” for brief sessions, we distribute our effort throughout the day, leading us back to busywork to fill our time.

What should we do instead?

Schwartz often cites a research study conducted by the Federal Aviation Administration that revealed how short breaks between longer working sessions resulted in a 16% improvement in awareness & focus.

Research from Peretz Lavie on ultradian rhythms matches up with these findings: longer productive sessions (of 90 minutes) followed by short breaks (of no more than 15-20 minutes) sync more closely with our natural energy cycles and allow us to maintain a better focus and higher energy level throughout the day.

Both of these studies on energy management match up with the practice schedules of the violinists: the most common regimen for the cream of the crop players was a 90-minute block of intense practice followed by a 15-minute break.

The moral of the story is that it’s hard to be productive while trying to maintain high energy levels through your entire day.

It’s much easier to work intensely when you know that a break is just around the corner, not at the end of the day. Instead of trying to conserve energy for hours, break big projects down into smaller chunks and plan a recovery period right after.

For projects done on your own time, try scheduling blocks of 90-minute work sessions with a planned cool down time of 15 minutes directly afterwards. When you know a break is on the horizon, you won’t try to pace yourself with your work, and will be more inclined to dive into the difficult stuff.

While great for tackling the toughest parts of large projects, this technique doesn’t really address many problems related to discipline, an important part of staying productive for more than just a day or two.

The Art of Staying Disciplined

One segment of the population known for struggling with discipline are those who are addicted to hard drugs.

Given their disposition for being unable to commit to many things, you might be surprised to find that during an experiment testing the ability of drug addicts to write & submit a 5 paragraph essay on time, those who wrote down when & where they would complete the essay were far more likely to turn it in.

These findings have some interesting correlation with those related to discipline in other people: in a study examining the ability of average people to stick with a strict dieting plan, researchers found that those participants who rigorously monitored what they were eating were able to maintain far higher levels of self-control when it came to maintaining their diet.

Last but not least, Dan Ariely and colleagues conducted a study involving college students and found that students who imposed strict deadlines on themselves for assignments performed far better (and more consistently) than those who didn’t.

These findings were especially interesting because Ariely noted that students who gave themselves too generous of a deadline often suffered from the same problems as students who set zero deadlines: when you allot yourself too much time to complete a task, you can end up creating a mountain out of a molehill.

Since we now know that tracking our progress is a key component of productivity, how can we implement this practice into our daily routine?

One method is to use an Accountability Chart to track what work you’ve completed during your 90-minute productive sessions, similar to how the dieters tracked their food consumption.

To easily implement one, simply create two-columns on a piece of paper, Google Docs spreadsheet, or even a whiteboard.

Column 1 will list the time-span of one of your productivity sessions.

Column 2 will list what tasks you’ve accomplished in that limited time-span.

Don’t include any columns for your 15-minute breaks, as those times are for your own sake and means to replenish your willpower.

This works well for 2 specific reasons:

Dr. Kentaro Fujita argues that tracking your progress in this way is helpful because you’ll be exposed to the work you’ve actually accomplished, and not the (inaccurate) assumption of work you might construe in your head.

Forcing yourself to write down the fact that you spent 2 hours on YouTube isn’t about shaming, it’s about awareness; you’ll be less likely to do it again.

Progress tracking is also a known strategy for stopping yourself from engaging in robotic behavior (also known as ‘busywork’), a habit that researcher John Bargh describes as the #1 enemy of goal striving.

Productivity and Multitasking Don’t Mix

With a work schedule, an energy management strategy and a task-tracking system in place, the last challenge we have to face is that of multitasking.

According to a 1999 study, we have a tendency to view multitasking as effective, even when it isn’t

However, researcher Zhen Wang was able to show that on average, multitaskers are actually less likely to be productive, yet they feel more emotionally satisfied with their work—creating an illusion of productivity.

Worse yet, Stanford researcher Clifford Nass examined the work patterns of multitaskers and analyzed their ability to:

Filter information

Switch between tasks

Maintain a high working memory

He found that they were terrible at all three. According to Nass:

We were absolutely shocked. We all lost our bets. It turns out multitaskers are terrible at every aspect of multitasking.

When working on the computer, the best thing you can do is turn on Airplane Mode; no need for temptation when you can’t even access the web. If you’re unable, help yourself with tools like and StayFocusd to block distracting sites.

The next best strategy is to create an evening planning ritual where you select a few priority tasks to accomplish the next day.

The reason this method works far better than planning your daily tasks in the morning is because research from the Kellogg School has shown that we miscalculate the amount of focus we’ll be able to maintain in the future. We strongly believe that we’ll be able to quickly plan our day the next morning, but when tomorrow rolls we stumble off track.

You can create an evening planning ritual with a simple pen & paper or use an online tool like TeuxDeux each night. List only priority tasks (the “big 5”) for the day.

Instead of listing, “Work on research project,” as a daily goal, try something like, “Finish introduction,” or, “Find additional sources,” as a task you can actually complete.

Productivity Instant Replay

Too long, didn’t read:

Willpower alone is not enough: Your productivity shouldn’t be reliant on your sheer force of will alone. Mental toughness will go a long way, but in order to stay disciplined you’re better off relying on systems.

Give yourself the ability to go “all-in”: Working harder on the stuff that matters is going to drain you mentally & physically. Don’t be afraid of giving yourself multiple breaks throughout the day. It’s better to “chunk” productivity sessions into 90 minute periods (in order to keep yourself sharp and to alleviate the stress of pacing your energy throughout the entire day.

If it’s not worth measuring, it’s not worth doing: Tracking has been proven to be the best way to stay diligent about your progress. Create an accountability chart to list what productive things you’ve gotten done throughout the day. You’ll see how much you’re really accomplishing.

Multitasking is your enemy: Treat it as such. Block out unwanted distractions and as Ron Swanson would say, “Never half-ass two things, whole-ass one thing.” Plan your day the night before so you won’t get consumed with the wonderful distractions of the internet when you start your day.

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matnabidao · 6 years ago

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Simple tips to Date Someone with Anxiety

Individuals usually don’t also notice the way the internal pleasure and anxiety, an anxious hope of one thing bad that will happen destroy love, relationship, and basic well-being that is psychological. Each few activities Unexpected difficulties in personal communication, which as a total outcome, can undermine and destroy perhaps the many steady and powerful connections. You frequently can hear stories on how an individual mail order bride harasses somebody else with concerns and a companion seems that she or he is playing the part of the sedative in a few. Let’s make an effort to figure away what’s behind all of this and additionally just how to time somebody with social anxiety!

What exactly is anxiety?

online internet internet dating a woman with anxiety

Anxiousness eliminates energy, immobilizes, and results in persistent pleasure. All of us can occasionally get in ourselves thoughts that accompany the alarm: “Something awful will happen”, “I can’t cope with it”, “I believe I’ll get crazy”, “It will perhaps perhaps perhaps not work”. Signs can vary. It is a beverage of unpleasant premonitions, emotional arousal, and concern. Internet Online Dating somebodywith anxiety and depression, you may possibly realize that anxiety is a consistent condition, a tendency that is person’s regular and intense unfavorable experiences of anxiety. Such an individual becomes cranky, he or she frequently exhibits abrupt mental outbursts, tearfulness, vulnerability, as well as the level that is physical – tiredness and muscle tissue stress. Nevertheless, to begin with, we must find out just what the essential difference between anxiety and stress is. These two principles tend to be mental responses, however the very first a person is experienced much more extremely than anxiety.

It really is understood that anxiety develops slowly from anxiety. That is amazing your family member doesn’t get back during the typical time, you begin stressing but remain peaceful. This is the way anxiety is manifested. However, if you imagine awful things of exactly what can take place and consider it constantly, have violent pulse and anxiety, then that is worry.

Just how to figure out concealed anxiety:

You are able to believe that anxiety is “settled” inside you by additional signs – your practices and behavior:

Gluttony;

Extortionate craving for alcoholic beverages;

Regular sense of exhaustion, you may be exhausted maybe not from your own task, but from the constant inner stress anxiety that is accompanying

Increased drowsiness when prolonged rest does not trigger deep leisure and data data recovery;

Unquenchable sexual interest;

Increased sociability whenever you were unable to continue to be alone and fills any time that is free tasks and group meetings;

Workaholism;

Exorbitant passion for on-line games;

Excessive, obsessive reading of publications.

Natural love and joyful life could be uncovered to those individuals who have freed on their own from their particular tensions that are inner restrictions and now have attained genuine confidence. a confident individual, unchanged by anxiety and stress assaults, does not look for research of love from a family member. If in every thingthat the partner does, you attempt to see some “message” concerning the mindsettoward you, nothing good shall come from it. a commitment shall destroy and also you are affected, that great discomfort of mistrust, anxiety, and anxiety, torturing a true love. internet dating somebody with despair and anxietyAnd you are more and much more impatient and ruthless. You realize, a smart individual is an individual person. But perseverance comes only once anxieties that are internal option to it. And this is the just real means – only realizing very very very own self-worth, having discovered to admire yourself, a self-confident individual can truly become delighted.

Internet Internet Internet Dating with personal anxiety: exactly what it is like

As it happens that maybe perhaps not just women but additionally males frequently feel a feeling of anxiety, having a permanent commitment. Different facets and a true quantity of unfavorable thoughts provoke such emotions. As an example, your girlfriend possessed a commitment and she will continue to talk to her ex. In a standard individual, such circumstances can’t cause a sense of envy and anxiety that a family member can keep. Additionally, numerous issues are delivered by close interaction with pals, a inadequate period of time invested collectively.

Since a commitment constantly includes changes that are constant development, and anxiety, there’s no necessity to be concerned. In a commitment, anxiety presents a anxiety about dropping the endorsement or value of the companion, dropping closeness and comprehension. For all social individuals who have problems in accepting on their own and now have a self-esteem that is unstable it really is particularly bad to drop help, love, and respect for nearest and dearest. In addition, they face the worry is kept as well as frequently insist upon formal connections since a formal wedding is much more specific and assists to lessen anxiety in front of the future.

Whenever one individual is dating some one with personal anxiety, it is extremely hard for the one that is second continue to be relaxed and calm. a partner that is anxious has to purchase yourself a good deal period, power, along with other resources. Generally, a person who will act as a sedative will start to feel frustrated, irritated, and mad whenever these “investments” of resources don’t cause instant modifications. a nervous companion needs to restore self- confidence once more and once more.

Methods for those that would like to get free of unnecessary anxiety:

Pay attention to your emotions. Watch out for the noticeable modification of feelings and experiences. Bring your thoughts beyond imagination. Go ahead and replace the bad tale up to a moment that is positive. Set a buffer between your self therefore the bad photo.

Think about a particular concern: “What is it that concerns myself as of this time?” once you understand about your anxiety, you could get rid from it simply imagining that it’s anything materialistic: erase, wash off, slashed with scissors, disperse to the wind, wash off with springtime water, burn, etc.

Consider what can relax you, flake out, motivate, assistance. So what can you counton when excitement, fear and anxiety commence to overwhelm you? Get a hold of an individual (occupation, pastime) in your environment which could sooth you down.

Understand that anxiety is definitely an exaggeration of occasions. As many people state: “Don’t make mountains out of molehills”. Determine the scale of one’s anxiety and lower it to at least.

Think about just what will take place within the worst situation? The great price at your minute is the fact that you are taking out of the variables for the result that is final of anxiety. Don’t forget to remove information that is negative ideas.

Extortionate anxiety is sensed by surrounding folks in numerous techniques. Some will sooth a nervous individual, other people will feel dissapointed about, the third might scold, the 4th will sympathize or genuinely believe that you totally destroyed your thoughts. The primary thing is the method that you address yourself as of this minute. And right right here approval, great feeling, and laughter may do a great task. Be relaxed and be able to over come concerns, doubts, and anxieties.

Strategies for internet internet dating somebody with anxiety

How exactly to date somebody with anxiety and despair (women, in particular)? It is certainly not easy to understand a nervous lady. When this woman is nervous, her item of anxiety catches her entirely. She starts to persuade nearest and dearest of imminent risk, verifying obsessive behavior to her arguments, control, emotions and also rips. She screams: “Pay focus on my concerns, personally i think bad”, “I know. I’ve a premonition”. And she hears in reaction: “Calm down, every things are all right. Your worries are groundless”. It really is impossible to possess a dialogue by way of an end that is good men and women talk various languages; their particular frame of mind isn’t the exact exact same. As being a total outcome for the dialogue, there isn’t any comprehension; there clearly was a condition of resentment or a need to not fulfill anymore. But nevertheless, simple tips to day somebody with despair and anxiety?

just how to time somebody with anxiety and depressionDating a lady with anxiety, you must recognize that problems, perils, and catastrophe are often genuine on her behalf. Such women don’t appear with may be but exaggerate their particular scale and start to produce a field that is“alarming around themselves along with other men and women, that may truly be reproduced when you look at the world that is real. It is really not required to find out every little thing by having a nervous girl instantly, as quickly as she offers arguments of her concern. It is best to speak about your later on whenever fictional events and believed types of anxiety will never be therefore huge and destructive inside their power.

The primary part of dating somebody with anxiety is certainly not to concern her anxiety, to not attempt to prove otherwise. Pay attention, relaxed, and agree: “Yes, you are worried, I comprehend. Don’t stress, every thing will be fine”. Then you will need to change ideas of a nervous person to something different: just just what she had been thinking about before. And constantly draw her focus on the good moments of life as well as the moment that is positive this or that circumstance.

Find out the genuine reason behind anxiety. Probably the cause for the deterioration of connections had been an wrongly translated or insignificant circumstance which should be clarified.

Know yourself. This relates to guys which frequently give grounds for anxiety. In cases where a representative of this more powerful intercourse continuously cheats on their family member or flirts with surrounding ladies, then this really is a reason that is serious to imagine – is it the only he desires to see close to him? Or possibly cheating is only a means to say yourself? You will need to improve anything in your life, usually, a family member will|one that is loved get away permanently.

Be truthful and genuine. In the event that you aer not prepared relationship that is serious without intrigues and flirting, don’t give a woman a untrue hope – it is easier to actually acknowledge that you will see other people that you experienced. This might be among the best strategies for internet dating somebody with anxiety.

Offer attention. Simple suggestions to day with anxiety? Even a and that is calm balanced girl, who a person pays less interest, will become nervous sooner otherwise . Therefore, you will need to try to find time on her behalf a work that is busy routine. Don’t just forget about people knowledge, which states love with ears – one brief telephone telephone call or message with mild terms often offers an amazing outcome.

Change your mindset towards females. The habit of kissing feminine peers on cheeks or phoning all of them by caressing names often means practically nothing for a guy, but for a lady, it’s a source that is constant of and resentments. Therefore, if a guy truly values their interactions, he shall have to exclude all unequivocal manifestations of focus on various other women from their life.

Strictly dosage information. Nevertheless, this kind of real method anxiety can’t be called optimal – it has actually nothing at all to do with honest relations and carries the possibility of getting puzzled in very own lies.

Resign and tolerate. If none associated with real means assists, there was just one thing – the views of anxiety and endure them persistently. instances whenever males ended attention that is paying assaults from family members and everything ended up being great then.

Consequently, it is far better the specific situation, telephone call in advance and warn men and women near to you that you’re late, and so forth. In working with an nervous individual, tv show tactfulness, politeness, and correctness. In this instance, laughter and jokes tend to be unsuitable, they could be understood by An person that is anxious paradox and mockery. Therefore, so now you learn how to day some body with anxiety.

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