#mother infant live in relief camp

[rudrjobdesk]

इधर घर में घुसा बाढ़ का पानी, उधर महिला ने दिया बच्‍चे को जन्‍म; राहत शिविर में गुजर रहे दिन

इधर घर में घुसा बाढ़ का पानी, उधर महिला ने दिया बच्‍चे को जन्‍म; राहत शिविर में गुजर रहे दिन

पूर्णिया. बिहार के बाढ़ग्रस्‍त जिले ��ूर्णिया से एक अच्‍छी खबर सामने आई है. बाढ़ की त्रासदी के बीच एक महिला ने बच्‍चे को जन्‍म दिया है. जच्‍चा और बच्‍चा दोनों स्‍वस्‍थ हैं. फिलहाल वे दोनों बाढ़ राहत शिविर में रहने को मजबूर हैं. बताया जाता है कि गर्भवती महिला को अचानक से प्रसव पीड़ा होने लगी. आनन-फानन में उन्‍हें अस्‍पताल में भर्ती कराया गया, जहां उन्‍होंने बच्‍चे को जन्‍म दिया. जब वह वापस आईं तो…

[avalcnrp]

NAME. Tors Sigurdson AGE & BIRTH DATE. 37 & July 8th, 753 CE GENDER & PRONOUNS. Male & He/him RACE & CLASS. Werewolf OCCUPATION. General in Caerwyn’s Army FACE CLAIM. Jason Momoa

BIOGRAPHY

( tw: death, violence, childbirth, addiction, animal death, gore ) His existence in this world was intended to be brief, a waste of potential, a tiny flickering flame snuffed out by the hand of causality. His mother passed trying to birth the infant Tors, the strain on her body was too great and too much blood had been lost.  He was still inside her when she died, and was cut from her womb to ensure his survival. His father, Sigurd, was devastated when he learned that his wife had died.  The pain of his loss soon transformed into anger towards the infant, it should have been Orlaith that survived, not the child.  Sigurd was the leader of a band of sellswords, an amoral group of criminals and cut-throats that fought for whoever offered them the fattest purse of coins.  It was Orlaith’s wet nurse, a young woman named Saoirse, that took the role of maternal figure in Tors’ life.  She was the only one that showed love towards the boy in his early days, trying her best to shield him from the horrors of war.  Sigurd’s band lived a nomadic lifestyle, traversing Avalon in search of the next skirmish.  

A battlefield is no place for a child, yet some of his earliest formative memories come from there. He had no other options, he had to learn how to be a warrior or simply perish. He learned from an early age that the world didn't give a fuck about a boy playing soldier, no one would play the harp when he died. He was seven years old when he first tried to lift a sword. Saoirse had just passed from illness, it was time for him to begin pulling his own weight around the mercenary camp. It was too heavy, he struggled. Sigurd scoffed at him when he asked if they had any smaller swords for him to use. A child sized sword? They had no such thing. He was forced to train with a full sized sword from an early age, his body forced to adapt to the brutal lifestyle of a soldier. Adapt or die, there was no other way. 

He killed his first man when he was ten. A crossbow bolt aimed to the back of the neck, he had caught the man as he tried to flee from the battle.  Tors was ecstatic to tell his father of his first kill, expecting praise from the man. Instead his announcement was meant with harsh words that cut deeply. "Can't you see that my cup is empty, stupid boy? Bring me more wine! And where is the meat for my dog?" Sigurd loved the flea-ridden mutt sitting at his feet more than his only son. Whatever good nature he felt towards the boy died with Orlaith. After all, it was Tors' fault she had died in the first place. The kid was a bad omen, death followed him closely.  Everyone that got close to him, met a terrible fate.  

Time passed on. Tors continued to hone his skills in battle, aching for the approval from his father that never came. When he was thirteen their mercenary camp was raided, a surprise attack in the middle of the night. Tors managed to escape with his life, but the others were not so lucky. He ran as fast as his feet could carry him, tripping and falling into a river coursing through the bottom of a ravine.  The waters carried him away from the burning camp, nearly pulling him under and drowning him.  The water eventually calmed enough for the exhausted Tors to drag himself ashore.  He had to keep going, the men that killed his father and his troops would still be after him.  Tors collapsed on the pebble strewn beach, chest heaving as he released his iron grip on his sword.  As he lay there, staring up at the stars, he began to think how much easier it would be to just die.  Why must I keep fighting?  Why am I still alive?  A chorus of low growls ripped him from his thoughts, he glanced to his right to see a pack of feral dogs with their heads lowered, tongues licking drooling lips.  Tors let out a soft sigh of relief as he continued to lie there in the grass.  This is it...finally.  But even as his mind wished for death, he was instinctively pulling himself to his feet; fingers wrapping around the handle of his blade tightly.  His mind went blank as he swung his sword, there was room for nothing else. The sharp edge grazed one of the dogs as it tried to latch onto his right leg, slashing it across the shoulder.  The dog whimpered and leapt back, but the others persisted.  Tors was not alone in this moment, atop the hilltop a garrison of soldiers had stopped to watch him.  The boy continued to hack and slash at the dogs, staggering as he struggled to remain standing.  The soldiers had seen enough, they exchanged a knowing glance and advanced down the hill with blades drawn.  The charge of the horses spooked the dogs, the hungry beasts tucked tails and ran.

Tors soon learned that the group of soldiers that had found him that night flew the banners of house Caerwyn. The garrison journeyed to Tearmann, arriving at the castle within one moon. The boy's tenacity caught the eyes of the Caerwyn warriors, a perfect candidate to undergo berserker training. He trained with a sword for three years before he was allowed a taste of the berserker toxin. While the training was brutal, it did nothing to prepare him for the torture that came with ingesting the brew for the first time. The goal of the first dose of toxin was simple: transmute this poison that has entered your body before it kills you, turning it (and yourself) into a weapon. Agony pierced Tors like a blade still glowing red from the forge, engulfing his body and burning away weakness. His rage fed on the flame, growing stronger and suffocating all other feelings. He spent the entire night screaming and convulsing, straining against the iron chains that held him to his bed. Tors had lost consciousness late within the night, and awoke as sunlight pierced through the window. He watched as servants carried away the bodies of those who did not survive the night. He could smell the distinct scent of smoldering human flesh from the pyre that had been lit in the courtyard.  

Soon he began to crave the vile brew on a primal level. The mere sight and scent of the elixir was enough to make his mouth water, sending shivers down his spine. As he climbed the ranks of Caerwyn's military, his dependence on the substance increased. Tors' body became accustomed to the toxin, his senses becoming dull and muddled when not under its influence. His ears were filled with a constant ringing, sometimes the periphery of his visual field would simply fade away. Now in his thirties, decades spent on the battlefield were beginning to take its toll on his mortal frame. The pain was bone deep, a constant ebbing throb. The toxin did not ease the pain — no, he simply did not care about the pain — when under its influence. 

Four months ago, Tors' humanity was stolen from him. He was traveling with a small band of his closest comrades, fifteen men in total. These men were seasoned killers, handpicked by Tors himself to accompany him on a mission to put down some pirates that had been stealing goods from the Caerwyns. They had fought alongside Tors in many battles, had overcome seemingly impossible situations together and were a select few of individuals that Tors would call friends. As the sun was falling lower in the sky, it was time to stop for the night and set up camp. They chose a clearing at the base of the Gray Tops to rest for the night, the rocky slopes of the mountains would be too difficult to traverse on horseback in the darkness.  As the full moon ascended in the sky, the band of soldiers had gathered around the fire. The ale was flowing, the scent of cooking meat wafted through the air. Rhett, the aspiring bard, had brought his lute and began to clumsily pluck strings in an attempt at a song. Prys and Morgan had got up and began to dance around the fire, shoving at each other to try to push each other into the flames which elicited a roar of laughter from the group. The joyous cacophony of sounds drowned out the noises of something emerging from the underbrush. Wolves. A pack of werewolves that called the mountain foothills home, driven feral by the full moon, the scent of men and meat. 

  The wolves descended upon the men, attacking with a primal savagery that only animals knew. Tors hardly had time to grab his blade as a wolf sunk its teeth into his arm. The booze had made his reaction to the attack sloppy, another wolf had latched onto his other arm before he could raise his sword. Around him, his men were being slaughtered by the maddened beasts. Just as Tors began to give into his fate, pinned down by wolves and feeling fangs scrape against his throat, arrows reigned down from the sky. A patrol of rangers, clad in Fáelán colors, had come to their aid. The rangers had heard the dying screams of Tors’ men and decided they should investigate the disturbance.  Their silver-tipped arrows drove the werewolves away, leaving behind the dead and dying soldiers.  The last thing Tors remembers is being hoisted onto the back of a horse before he fell unconscious.  

  By the time he was brought to a druid and received a dosage of antidote, it was too late. His life was spared, but the damage was done. His body had begun to change. The wolf parasite had successfully overtaken its host without killing it. A selfish gene, its only purpose being propagation. 

  Since succumbing to lycanthropy, he has left the isle of Tearmann behind without so much as a goodbye. Hatred is consuming him, he must find the beast that bit him and cleave him in half with his sword. A desperate attempt to gain back his humanity, he will not stop until he is cured. Any soul who dares oppose his objective will be met with barbarous cruelty. The Caerwyn's mad dog has broken free from his chains, running wild and leaving a trail of mutilated corpses in his wake.  

PERSONALITY

+ strong-willed, resourceful, brave – volatile, solitary, vengeful

PLAYED BY CHLOE. CST. She/Her.

[corvus--rex]

This is the last of the abandoned wips for now. This one is a (much, much later) continuation of one of the chapters for Julance 2021 that's a rewrite of Crystal Venom with Altean Lance, and can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/32307130/chapters/80219737. It's another Omegaverse, so feel free to skip it :)

~*~*~*~

Looking out the window over the city, Keith seriously wondered why exactly this mission required both the Blades and Altean diplomacy. It felt like overkill to him. It was a slightly different kind of aid mission, in that they were going to be escorting a caravan of supply ships from the planet he was currently on, Elara, to their nearby colony on the moon of a gas giant in the next star system. But it didn’t at all need the presence of an Altean diplomat. Not that he really minded seeing his mate at work. And after this mission, he’d be seeing it a lot more often.

Keith was giving up command of the Blade of Marmora to Acxa to “retire” to Altea with Lance. He’d already fought his biology longer than he should have. It had been a major relief to go through his “proper” Galra puberty while in the Quantum Abyss with Krolia there to guide him through it, knowing what to expect and being able to answer whatever questions he had. He’d been through a severely watered-down version of human puberty already, having nominally presented as an Omega at 13. The changes he went through then were, as he put it, “gross and weird”, but it couldn’t hold a candle to Galra presentation.

Part of what that had meant was his Galra genes becoming more active and causing physical changes beyond his secondary sex. As it turned out, Krolia was one-fourth Altean, and that factored into Keith’s transformation as well. He didn’t remember much of the few days when it happened, mostly periods of intense pain and sleeping for hours on end. When it passed and he was finally awake, Krolia said not to be too upset by what had happened. He didn’t know what she meant at first, but then saw the barest hint of lavender in his pale skin. It also didn’t register at first how softly his mother was speaking. But as he listened to the world around him, such as it was on the back of a space whale, he realized that he could hear far more than he had before. His vision was sharper, able to pick out individual strands of fur on Kosmo’s sleeping form on the other side of their firepit. There was a sudden sound and he felt his ears twist toward it. It was an odd, disconcerting sensation, and when his hands went to where the sounds were being received, his fingertips were met with soft fur and not where he expected.

He had run for the small pool of fresh water not far from their camp, and that was where Krolia found him staring at his reflection. His human ears were gone, replaced by the very feline ones much higher on his head with fur as black as his hair. He had noticed by then that his fingers ended in semi-retractable claws, smaller than Krolia’s permanent ones. His violet eyes now had a sharply slitted pupil, and he found that he could control its dilation. The discovery of his claws had come with the discovery of his expressive tail which was covered in smooth, silky, jet black fur. Like his ears, the fur on his tail was fine and short with a texture like velvet. He also had tapered markings in a soft, dusty lavender much like Krolia’s, but horizontally along his cheekbones, the only visual remnant of their Altean heritage. The whole package was a lot to take in.

But now, as he sat in the honored guests’ suite in the Elaran capitol, it was like his body had never been any different. He didn’t move, only one ear twisting to listen when he heard the door open. He was expecting Lance to be coming back from his meeting with the Elaran Chancellor. But it wasn’t his Alpha coming in. The unexpected guest was Elaran. Like the rest of their feline race, the Beta that walked in was covered in a fine coat of fur, this one a dark rusty brown. Their hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and Keith could not figure out how they fit into the Elaran governmental hierarchy.

When they approached, their steps were crisp and quiet, their hands clasped behind their back. Their uniform was a form-fitting deep charcoal grey bodysuit with no distinguishing markings. “I apologize for the intrusion, Blade Commander. I am Commander Dysserra of the Shadow Blades. I expect you’ve been wondering about the escort mission and Altea’s involvement. The truth is that our request for Altean involvement was only for appearances. Something to show our people that we are dedicated to the Alliance. However, we find ourselves with a situation that you may be able to assist us with.”

“What kind of situation?” Keith asked cautiously.

“One that has arisen overnight. Our planet may be unified under the Chancellorship, but many of our former nations retain their royal houses even without any political power. A matter or tradition, you understand. There has been some unrest in one of those nations, and family infighting erupted in the night. The heads of the family were killed and their infant daughter abducted. We can only wait for the dust to settle before we know which branch of the family will attempt to claim the throne, but we need to find the princess. As the sole heir to her parents’ line, she could be used as a bargaining chip between the different branches of the family, or possibly killed to completely end the line.”

He wasn’t sure how much the Elarans knew about him, but this information fed directly into why Keith was leaving the Blade for Altea and living permanently with Lance. After their first heat, Galra Omegas had an intense drive to procreate beyond the usual need of a heat. It was a physical need, and one that could cause damage to their reproductive system if left for too long. Keith was reaching the limits of his body and needed to be with Lance for his next heat, and they needed to take every precaution to ensure he got pregnant if they wanted the possibility of kits in the future. Hearing that a helpless, innocent infant was in the hands of people who didn’t care about her at best and wanted her dead at worst made his already sensitive Omega instincts flare.

“Do you have any leads as to where she might be?”

~*~*~*~

Links to the rest of the series:

1 | 2 | 3* | 4 | 5* | 6* | 7 | 8 | 9* | 10 | 11 | 12* | 13 | 14 | 15* | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19* | 20* | 21* | 22* | 23*

[rosepetals-flyingbirds]

Pain.

With: Finan x Reader.

Words: 1.982 

Warnings: Violence, pain, abortion.

Finan has known pain. 

He has lost his mother when he was five years old to the plague, watched his dad sell him to a slaver buyer. Have been pulling boat rowings ever since he was seven. Watched his best friend, Joshua, been taking away from him when he was bold enough to speak up against the whipping Finan received for crying.

He felt pain in the calluses on his hands, in his back after resting in the hardwood floor, in his lungs when it was so cold that he felt he was drowning. Felt pain in his stomach, the pain of being famished.

Pain every time he was taken out of a boat, watched by others, and dragged back in to suffer and cry every night regretting his mere existence.

The pain he saw when a young priest was beaten to death inside a cage the slave-seller had, the excruciating yell the young holly man shout when a knife pierced his chest. Finan prayed for the man, he was three years younger but seemed wiser. Brave to say his faith and not lower his head to abusive men that believe beings could be sold.

The crucifix that laid in his chest, held around his neck by a simplistic rope used to be the young priest's. Finan didn't believe in God before, but when he argued with the holly man discussing where God was while he suffered in monsters' hands, the reverend simply responded: "He sent me to you, to show you his plan, and to tell you to not give up hope. Because one day you'll be freed of it all, and will live a great adventurous life." So even when the man went to God's side, Finan held the cross and used it under the traps that covered his body. The traps who did so little to warm his body when cold, but did so much to agonize him when it was a blazing hot day.

But after the nighamares, he saw hope, hope when Uhtred ran away with him, hope when Norsemen appeared in horses killing the slave-traders. He felt the vengeance when a sword entered the disgusting coward that hurt him and so many innocent before. "Pull." He said, years and years of hearing the demand graved on his thoughts.

                …

While he laid in the made-up camp watching the way Ragnar and abess spoke to his friend-and-now-brother Uhtred, he thought he has finally met happiness. Even while he would rest his eyes afraid of opening them again and find himself submerged by slave bodies. 

Each night he held the cross and prayed, thanked for the freedom, and begged to not be thrown apart again.

Time passed, he followed Uhtred and found his family in Uhtred, Sihtric, Osferth. The brothers he loved and did all in his power to protect.

He watched as king Alfred was naive enough to despise Uthred, watched Uhtred’s pain when Gisela was taken away from him.

He felt it when he was on the roads, forsaken from the safety he finally found back in Cookham.

But of all the emotions he felt, he never experienced the true happiness he did when he looked at you. He was in love, so much he searched for a priest he could trust to marry you two to bond your bodies and souls.

He has hit climax before, had a few women, but when he laid with you was heaven on Earth, how your soft walls held his length inside you while you looked deep in his eyes and moaned his name. He glowed love.

                …

The day you entered the small hall with a simple white dress and spoke to him the promises he knew you would succeed, he cried. Finan, the Irish warrior, the best friend of the great Uhtred Ragnarsson, the same Finan that was called 'The Agile' by the Danes since he was a skilled warrior... He cried happy tears while he gazed at the love of his life promising him your unconditional love.

He cried when you lost your first baby, you were terrified when the healer told you about the infant... but even as scared as you were, you accepted the archangel that would have yours and Finan's love. But when blood dripped from your legs as agonizing pain touch your muscles... you cried for your child, and how helpless Finan felt was unbearable.

Tears streamed down his face too when you shut down the world, when you said that it was your fault, that you didn't take care of his son. He knew pain, but fuck, how it hurt when he listened to your sobs. He would sell his soul just to see you happy.

But he hugged happiness again when you hugged him at night, when you smiled at his silly jokes and teased him of his new hairstyle. Happiness when your belly grew, further than it did before. 

Happiness as he built his chambers inside Bebbanburg, as he built a small wooden cradle for Archie or Darcy. He didn't have a preference for a son or a daughter, as long as they have your heart he knew they would be perfect.

But while he smiled and had his arm around your neck in a feast Uhtred threw in his manor, he felt something at the tip of his stomach, something aching and telling him to be aware. Uhtred's uncle and a cousin have died, but foreigns claiming they had business with Uhtred's late uncle were in the palace. They landed requiring gold, demanding recomposition form from the years and years of aid they offered to Bebbanburg. But that was his problem, Uhtred suffered enough to get the land back already.

But as happy he was, Uhtred invited them in for a stay, even made a banquet to diplomatically discuss with them how of a different lord he is comparing to his ambitious deceased uncle.

Finan kept his sword near. His eyes wandered to Sihtric while they silently agreed to attack if anything occurred.

The moment the foreigners said they were close to Bloodhair and not affiliated to the estate at all, Uhtred knew they were up for nod good. "I own nothing." He stated.

But even after all has happened and Danes were a far issue in their mind, Bloodhair kept his rage for Uhtred, Skade promised him the head of Alfred, but the dane slayer stole his seer. 

"Is better to leave, before we have problems." Finan warned them, but the tattooed man only smiled. 

The food that lay on your stomach got back to your throat and you coughed in your plate, blood droplets painted it red and your muscles seemed to go numb. 

Osferth mumbled a low 'lord' and Uhtred got on his feet looking at how bloodshot the baby monk's eyes were. "What is this?"

Finan held your face in his hands and looked around the table as if he could find something to cure you. Anything.

"Bloodhair is marching, Edward's kingdom is vulnerable, he is not his father. And you will pay for taking what Ragnar promised us."

Sihtric jumped on his feet and pulled his sword touching it at the man's neck. He didn't kill the man afraid to do something that would lack info for his lord, but even the Kjartansson felt panic while you shrieked and pleaded for relief.

"Finan, Finan, everything is burning, the baby, our baby. Finan." You whimpered.

Finan has known pain, has felt it over and over. But nothing, not even hungry, or whipping, losing his friend, being searched by all Saxons and Danes... nothing hurt him in the way it did when you suffered, when you looked at the panic in his eyes, when you glanced at Osferth laying dead in the floor while blood gushed from his mouth.

"No, no, no no no-no-no. Lord, no. Save her, save her." He touched your belly and kissed your face hoping the angels would see how much you meant to him. 

Uhtred left Osferth's purple face and ran to the man who spoke of Bloodhair. "What is this? WHAT IS THIS?" He pulled his sword and impelled it in the man's leg. Sihtric threw an axe at the one near the door and pointed his sword to the other foreign.

Finan's sobs and gasps hunted Uhtred's heart, he watched his best friend losing the most important person of his life, the two most important ones.

"Treat from the Mediterranean, Bloodhair would not kill you by a drink, he will have your head and take it back home. He told us to kill two important people to you. Since your kids are out, these two were easier." Tears streamed down Uhtred's face and before he could get his sword inside the man's organs Finan called to stop. 

"He is mine to kill." The men near the entrance grabbed the bleeding man and took him to the grottoes. Sihtric kills the other man and Uhtred cried while his gaze went to Osferth and to you.

"Finan, i am sorry." He knew Finan was a great partner, but losing you worried Uhtred's mind, a whole lot.

The Irish man kept his eyes downcast, afraid of peering behind his shoulders and discovering that the pain he was feeling denoted real.

He seemed frozen but the sob that hit him was louder than before when Sihtric tugged Osferth's body up. Finan rushed to you and pulled your chair back, placing your head back slowly so he could see you. But it wasn't you any longer, the venom made the veins in your body erupt, your eyes were open, and even if only torturous breaths went away it looked like your eyes lost color days ago. His hand touched your belly, but for his utter pain it wasn't as firm as before, it seemed moveable, the poison hurt his family, it hurt him.

It killed you and little Darcy, little Archie.

It killed him!

Sihtric cried while approached you slowly, the skilled viking loved you like a sister, have smiled brightly when you asked him to be the godfather of your child. Touching Finan's shoulder he was embraced tightly by his friend's hug, sobs moving his body and Sihtric's tears got heavier while his gaze kept on your face.

It shouldn't be like that.

Minutes passed and Finan kept holding your cold hand, he would bury you, in the field near there where wildflowers kissed the place. Uhtred approached his friend and spoke about the prisoner. "They sealed his leg's cut, he is yours to kill."

Finan didn't thank his lord for the help, he wouldn't say "thank you" since it was hardly that.

And after he took each finger off of the man, after he cut each member off him and watched the monster die... he didn't have the feeling he sought, the one of revenge. The one where would calm his mind. Easy his pain.

The burial was calm, Beocca spoke a few words but all of them knew Finan desired to be left alone. 

So after all, he didn't know pain, he knew now. For nothing has hurt him as more than that.

Sihtric lost count of how many times he had to go at the field searching for Finan, only to find the man embracing a dress of yours and sleeping above your grave. No one could stop Finan to visit you, so after trials, Sihtric decided to support him no matter what, so he took blankets and a pillow for his friend, your pillow, every night he went to the field so Finan wouldn't be cold.

No one saw the charismatic man smile for years, not even when ale poured off his pores. And to leave and sail to fight Bloodhair was only accomplished because he needed to bleed the man that ordered to take you away from him.

So after all he witnessed, all he felt, all he was tortured by. He hasn't known pain, for pain its to live without you.

            …

U1? 

[cela-astral-projection]

I believe this time Begging for sweet relief A blessing in disguise

Night gave way to morning. Muriel had woken first and prepared a simple breakfast. Eggs, toast, coffee, and tea. Julian was up with the smell of coffee. Asra and Celeste weren't long behind. 

Celeste only taking tea, well sugared, not quite able to stomach the idea of food. Julian did put up a small protest, that she needed to have her strength up, but she insisted that she couldn't possibly eat. For the most part, they sat in groggy, early morning quiet. Asra cleared the table when they had finished.

Julian stood and put his hand on Celeste's shoulder. She placed her hand over his, and they locked eyes. She nodded, not needing words. He helped her up and to the bedroom.  Asra was busy at the washbasin, but Muriel watched them go together, scowling.

"Stop," Asra said, quiet. Not turning from his task.

"Stop what?" Muriel replied, not bothering to veil his contempt.

"Acting like Julian is your enemy in some way. He cares about her just as much as we do. Knock it off." He said, plainly.

Muriel turned to stare at Asra, incredulous. "That's the reason why. And you know it is."

Asra paused and took a deep breath. He stared at the wall for a moment, then reached to grab a clean cloth to dry his hands, turning around, his eyes meeting Muriel's. "No. The reason why is that you don't trust them together."

Muriel bristled, opening his mouth. Asra put his hand up, not finished.

"Even on the day she is going to give birth to your child. Our children. You can't allow yourself to just believe that she's picked us? It should be one of the best days of your life. I know it's one of the happiest days of mine. She chooses us every day. This is the ultimate act of commitment. Forget the wedding. Forget the years we've lived in the same house. Forget the traveling and the battling and the actual Devil. She has put us first most every time." He took a seat next to Muriel, putting his hand on his arm. "You have to make peace with Julian. You don't have to love him or even like him, but he's not going anywhere. And he's a good ally to have. Maybe not in the past, but he is now."

Muriel sighed, still tense. "I'll..try." He couldn't quite meet Asra's intense stare any longer, thoroughly chastened.

"Oh, you'll do better than try. You're going to put on the best act of your life today. For her. This is going to be intense, and stressful, and painful, and she needs to know that you're all in for her."

"I'm always all in for her." His eyes flashed, offended at the insinuation.

"Great. Then we won't have any problems." Asra said, a slight lilt in his voice. He slung the dishrag over his shoulder and stood, turning back to the washbasin.

After a few minutes, Julian emerged, coming to sit across from Muriel at the table. "Good news, it looks like things are on the move. She's about five centimeters, so...more or less halfway there. I look for contractions to pick up over the next couple of hours. They're frequent enough now, but not terribly intense."

"How long?" Muriel said, standing.

"I wish I had an exact answer for you. It could be just a few hours, could be longer." He shrugged. "She's getting washed up and changed if you want to help her. I think it would be safe for her to get out and breathe the fresh air. Don't go far, of course. Just..." He trailed off. "...I think movement might move things along. I really don't want her to go into the night if we can avoid it. Not with twins."

Muriel nodded silently. "Thanks." He said, low. Julian gave him a half-smile. Muriel closed his eyes, resigned. Then, went to Celeste.

The hours passed slowly. The three of them taking turns, walking the cabin's perimeter. Keeping her plied with tea and ginger to fight nausea.

Morning gave way to the afternoon. And things were picking up.

Longer, more intense contractions. She would cling to them, her brow slick with sweat, moaning as waves of pain rolled over her. Soon, walking was an impossibility. 

She and Muriel in the front yard. She was bent forward at an awkward angle, her hands on Muriel's shoulders, swaying back and forth involuntarily, knees wide apart. He ran his hands up and down her arms, trying to soothe her. "It's okay, it's okay." He said, a whisper. Possibly more for himself than her.

Julian stood on the porch, watching, leaning against a post. "I think it's time to go set up camp in the bedroom, Lovely." He came to meet them. "We'll wait till this passes." He stood beside, her running his hand up her spine. Every muscle was taut, caught in spasm. "Poor chick," he said with a sigh.

When the contraction subsided, she stood, trying to catch her breath. Julian pulled her arm around his shoulder, and Muriel crouched, taking the other side. They lead her into the house, moving slowly.

Asra was preparing the bedroom, ready to take her in. They sat her at the end of the bed, and Muriel moved in behind her, pulling her back into his chest.

Asra knelt at her side, taking the hem of her skirt in his hands, pulling the loose dress up. Celeste weakly lifted her arms, allowing him to undress her. Julian stood at the washbasin at the side, scrubbing in. "Asra, generally I'd ask your wife, but, as she's...rather indisposed. I wonder if you might help me with my gloves and jacket?" He said, jerking his head towards his bag.

"Sterile?" Celeste said, dreamy, far away.

Julian laughed. "I believe you're the one who saw to that personally. You've had your very own delivery bag packed for weeks. But, we're on top of things, now. Don't worry."

Asra scrubbed and helped Julian dress, fastening the buttons of the jacket up to his throat, pulling the gloves on for him. They looked at each other in the eyes, steeling themselves for what was to come.

Another contraction hit, and Celeste hissed, pressing back into Muriel's chest. Asra was at their side, And Julian was between her knees. "Oh, you clever girl. It won't be long now."

And it wasn't.

A few strong pushes later, she was delivered of a small, pink daughter. Her tiny, pudgy folds smudged with pale vernix. Sparse hair was so light it was transparent. Tiny fists and eyes clenched and wailing from the start. Julian reached up to lay the babe on her chest. She laughed, tears rolling down her cheeks. Arms encircling the tiny, screaming mass. Nobody was quite immune to the tears. Asra's girl.

Muriel kissed Celeste's temple, one long arm drawing Asra into their side, the other rested over Celeste's arms. Asra ran his arm along Muriel's, his head on Celeste's shoulder, enraptured by her. Their daughter.

It took only a few minutes for her to settle, and Celeste passed the baby into Asra's arms after Julian clamped and cut the cord. Her mouth opened and closed, tiny pink tongue flicking out, her eyes fluttering. Still that deep, dark, newborn blue. He pressed his lips against her forehead. So small, precious, and fragile.

Julian, meanwhile, was palpating Celeste's stomach. Still breech. He sighed to himself, quiet. Of course, Muriel's child would be stubborn. "Doesn't seem to want to turn for us, Lovely." He said. "Generally, you take the reigns, here. What do you think?"

She ran her hand over her belly, focusing her magic. "Footling presentation. It...will not be pleasant. But it's manageable. I'm only afraid of cord prolapse. If that's the case...do what you have to. I'm going to try to ease things along with...whatever magic I can manage safely."

Muriel shook his head. "Do you have enough energy for that? Asra is here...he can take care of it."

She sighed. "He may have to, but...I want to try my magic first. I promise to stop if things look dangerous. Trust me."

Muriel drew a deep breath. "Okay. I trust you. Both of you." He said, his eyes falling on Julian. An entreaty, and a warning. Julian nodded, understanding the meaning. 

A few minutes later, contractions overtook her. She ran her hands over the mound of her stomach rhythmically, breathing sharply in and out, pressing back into Muriel's chest. Asra stood to the side, rocking the first baby back and forth, looking on, nervous.

The feet were born first, and the legs swiftly after.  Julian gave a laugh. "She's a long shank."

"She?" Muriel said, smiling. "Another girl?"

Julian nodded, pulling a soft cloth around the little body. Cord prolapse was one thing. But if she got cold, and gasped, it could be equally catastrophic. "Lovely, I'm going in for her arms now. Little breaths." Celeste nodded, gritting her teeth. She cried out when he slipped his fingers in, hooking them around the baby's arms, drawing them down. Muriel gripped her tight until he had finished. "Nearly there. We can let gravity do the rest," he said, his hands loosely on the infant's torso, head still engaged in the birth canal. "Don't push, don't push." He said, low. Steadily, but slowly, the child emerged. There it was, the hairline. He reached back in, finding her mouth. Celeste bit her lip, trying not to jerk. Julian applied gentle traction. And then, she was delivered. Darker skin, and deeply red. And much, much longer than her sister. All legs and arms. Thick, dark hair atop her head.

And utterly silent.

Muriel tensed, and Celeste made a strangled noise. Julian gathered her into his chest, running his hand up her back. "Come on, little one. It's your birthday."

Nothing, no noise. He tilted her back, looking her in her face. Breathing. Steadily. He flicked her foot, and she jerked. Reaction to painful stimuli.

The baby blinked at him, looking...annoyed, her tiny mouth puckered. Julian laughed. "Well. I see that expression is genetic." He looked her over. Good color. Muscle tone. He smiled up at Celeste. "She's fine, she's just all attitude."

Muriel laughed, reaching his arms out. Julian lifted her into their embrace. Once she was cradled in the crook of his arm, laying at her mother's breast, she squinched her face and gave a loud, piercing shriek, leaving no question to her wellbeing. Asra rejoined them, placing their other child at her other breast, helping Celeste support her.

"I'm so tired I only want to sleep, and I don't care if I never sleep again." She said, breathy, raining kisses on both of their tiny heads. Muriel's hands moved into her hair, pressing his lips against her forehead. Asra mirrored him. Love overflowing.

As evening fell, everything had been put back to rights. Celeste laid in a nest of pillows and furs, flanked on each side by Muriel and Asra, and Julian sat at the foot of the bed. They passed the sleeping newborns between the four of them. Counting fingers, toes. So soft, and so small. Heavy, and yet impossibly light.

"I might be partial, but I think they're the most beautiful babies I've ever seen." Celeste cooed, running her fingers over the blonde wisps of the baby in Muriel's arms.

"I'd say you're an authority on the subject, and I'll second it," Julian said, rocking the other girl from side to side gently, swaying.

Asra's chin rested on Celeste's shoulder, looking blissful.

Julian looked up. "Names?"

Asra shook his head. "We'll have a naming ceremony later. My parents wanted to be here for it. And we wanted to see them before we made any firm decisions."

Muriel nodded his agreement. "I'm not known for my naming talents. Ask the chickens."

Celeste scoffed and Asra laughed.

They sat in silence for a while, then Celeste nudged Julian with her foot, arms outstretched. "Going to try another round of feeding. See if I can keep their interest for a while longer."

Julian leaned in, passing the baby into her arms. "Sounds like a plan. I'll try to find something for us all to eat in the meantime." He said as he moved to stand. "Any requests?"

"Anything you want to make is fine," Muriel said, giving him a weak half-smile. "Thanks."

The corner of Asra's mouth turned up. Good enough. It was a start.

[stillwatcr]

i’m a lazy bastard and didn’t want to make multiple posts, so you get this massive post. some important links: their long form bios (x), their connection page (x), and for funsies, the pinterest board i’ve made (x). all are wips and i’ll improve/change things as we go! buckle up, y’all are going on a feels ride with my boys. trigger warnings are contained at the beginning of each of their intros. if you make it to the end, i’ll give you a hug.

( oliver jackson-cohen, cis male, he/him, muse 39 ) i saw benjamin goldman at the docks doing sketches of the boats. it’s good to see them, i heard they’ve been living in redwater for his entire life making a living as a lumberyard worker. did you know their birthday just passed ? that makes them 33 years old and a pisces, which makes sense to me considering they’re shy and tolerant. i heard they’re thinking about becoming a full time artist. i hope it works out. 

tw: death

the youngest in a family of immigrants, benjamin was the only child born in the us. this sense of displacement has been in his bones since he was born, never quite comfortable wherever he is.

his family came to washington to work in the lumber industry. it was a hard adjustment but his father was enchanted with the lush forests he saw in a postcard when they landed in america. while the reality didn’t match the dream, the goldmans didn’t have the money to go anywhere else.

benjamin has never known anywhere else, growing up and living in the logging camps around petersen’s. while one might think he would be comfortable in the forest, benjamin had a terrifying experience with the forest when he was just a young boy.

benjamin wandered away from the camp while playing and became lost at age 8. he wandered through the forest; crying, running from any noise in fear of bears, and sleeping under fallen tree limbs. His ordeal lasted for 14 days. he was picked up on the other side of the island by a passing charcoal burner, and returned to overjoyed parents, but the damage was already done. he had a deep set fear of being lost in the forest, and never wanted to go into it alone again. 

while the incident made him fearful and withdrawn, it connected benjamin with his inner mind, and made him an astute observer of the world. in his recovery, one of the secretaries from the mill gifted him a pencil set and benjamin learned how to draw. it’s always been a secret love of his, but he hardly shows any of his sketches to anyone.

when war came calling, benjamin was called on, quite against his will. he would have been content to live and die in the woods of redwater, but uncle sam had other plans. benjamin was drafted into the us army and to his surprise, became quite versatile with a rifle, owing to him growing up hunting.  

while overseas, he ran into one of the most charismatic members of his platoon, jack adler. benjamin was surprised when one night, jack revealed he was from redwater, benjamin’s hometown. they struck up a conversation, and became fast friends. jack enjoyed his sketches and encouraged him to become an artist after the war, and benjamin let himself dream that it was possible.

of course, every soldier has a tragedy and jack adler became benjamin’s. jack was killed, and benjamin was the one to hold him through it. he was the one to remove jack’s identification tag and his family’s letter, the one to write peggy, the little sister jack talked about on the nights he missed home.

benjamin escaped the war unscathed (though is anyone ever really unscathed?) and came home to redwater, to resume his position as a lumberyard worker. now benjamin is helping the company define its border, and he’s trying to find his own again. benjamin is trying to come back to himself. 

( tom payne, agender, he/him, muse 41 ) i saw peter lamb at roger’s diner getting a bite to eat. it’s good to see them, i heard they’ve been living in redwater for their entire life making a living as a manger at langberg’s. did you know their birthday just passed ? that makes them 37 years old and a virgo, which makes sense to me considering they’re critical and loyal. i heard they’re thinking about becoming a lawyer. i hope it works out.

tw: implied abuse, death mention. 

peter lamb was the only child of a happy couple of redwater. his father and mother had grown up in redwater and lived there their entire lives and as far as they were concerned, so would their son. they saw themselves as being on the brink of being legacies, and their son would be the start of it.

peter was raised like he was a king of his household. they spoiled him, and told him to reach for the stars. yet somehow, peter didn’t let it go to his head. peter would say it was because he saw how a doctor saved his mother’s life when she was in a car crash with him at age 10 (the event made him want to become a doctor), but he knew deep down it was because he was inescapably lonely.

peter had no siblings, no close friends, and he felt different. he didn’t see himself in the casual violence and anger expressed by his father, nor in the soft surrenders of his mother, he didn’t feel like either of them. and when he played with the children on his street, he thought each one of them felt like him, because how couldn’t they? if he was the only one to feel like this... peter couldn’t stand the thought of that, so he ignored it.  

when peter was 15, he got a part time job as a clerk in langberg’s, in the men’s department. it was there that peter fully realized he was different. other men didn’t look at each other like he looked at them, they were confident and knew their masculine side. peter didn’t feel like he had one, like he was entirely separate from gender. he wrote about it in a doeskin journal his mother got him, and hid it behind the baseboard, never to talk about what he felt. 

?????

he worked again in langberg’s, this time as the department manager. but it was the nuremberg trials, the proceedings that laid the blame somewhere, that gave peter the inspiration to follow again. peter knew he wanted to be a lawyer, to hold criminals to account and help victims seek justice. now the big question is just how to get there?  

( sebastian stan, cis male, he/him, muse 1 ) i saw abraham hartley at the uptown waterfront doing net repairs for his fishing boat. it’s good to see them, i heard they’ve been living in redwater for his entire life making a living as a fisherman. did you know their birthday just passed ? that makes them 37 years old and a cancer, which makes sense to me considering they’re insecure and sympathetic. i heard they’re thinking about starting a family. i hope it works out.

tw: alcoholism, child abuse, death, death during birth

abraham was born to a family already a memory. his father was half out the door always, his mother trying to disappear, the house almost slipping out of their grasp every week. abraham never knew plenty, only knew less.

and then, against the odds, a baby. but then elijah came screaming into the world and his mother did her great disappearing act for good. four year old abraham was left hollow eyed in the corner of the room, holding a bloodied infant, and his father gone to a bar to drink, his mother cooling on the table. that less had finally turned into loss.

his father turned his back on elijah and abraham had to beg from door to door to get milk, had to take his father’s boots off when he collapsed on the floor every night. abraham had always thought he had taken after his mother more, but as it turned out, he had to become her. he had to take care of her husband and her child, and became the heart of the hartleys. 

and yet when it counted the most, that heart failed him. a murmur, a murmuring heart, held him back from the jaws of war, and from following his brother to the great battlefield. but abraham had his own battlefield to contend with at home, taking care of his father, whose hard drinking had caught up with him. he had to take over their fishing boat, had to get up before the sun to set out on the water. 

and while abraham had his own fears and struggles to deal with at home, he worried about his brother, unable to protect him like he always had. he feared the war board coming to his door, being handed a folded flag. but it never came, and ve day did, and he could breathe a sigh of relief. 

and then scarce a week later, his father died. abraham had no money, not even for a potter’s grave, so he stole out of his house one night and wrapped his father in a length of canvas, rocks in the lining. his father slipped into the sound, and abraham felt a burden lift. he could move on now, no longer be that frightened little boy in the corner of the room.

and eventually, eli came back. he stole into their house like a stranger and when abraham looks at him, he can scarcely see the boy he raised. he’s not sure if they can ever get to be what they were but he’ll be here for whatever they are now.

[this-writers-dream]

The Silent Coup

Hi all, this is the first actual original story that I’m posting to this blog, which has been its intended purpose all along. But hey, what’s a few year’s worth of delay to build some necessary anticipation! ...Right?

--

Title: The Silent Coup Words: 3120 Genre: Dystopian alternate history and humor

About: The fate of a nation rests in the hands of a wistful daydreamer with an unlikely power, who plays an important role in the rebellion against a powerful tyrant.

I’m going to tag some blogs because I’m not quite sure how this is done. :) Thanks!

@writing-prompt-s @writerswritecompany @ruinedchildhood @awed-frog @writeworld @liamdryden @moonlit-imagines @yeahwrite @scrawl-your-heart-out @prompts-and-circumstance @dialogue-prompts @justsomewritingprompts @thewritewire @the-modern-typewriter @daily-prompts @ilivetowriteandinspire 

Enjoy!

~

My stomach growled as I made my way down the long corridor with about thirty other Freedom Fighters, the elite forces of the resistance, or what was left of them us anyway. I hoped no one had heard - how embarrassing - and quickly looked down, pretending to fix my shirt so I could take a quick peek at the expressions of those nearest to me. Phew. I breathed a sigh of relief, everyone seemed to be lost in either their own worlds or deep in conversation. We were all headed toward the very back of the base where Stoakes would give her final debriefing in the large lecture hall.

As everything would begin in only a few hours, Stoakes would review the plan a final time and rally everyone together before it was set into motion. Most of the older rebels had been waiting decades for this moment, forced to sit back and watch the world rot around them while holding on to hope that their time would come to make a difference. Well, their time had finally arrived. I could almost feel a buzz in the air, excitement mixed with nervousness tinged with fear, but an undertone of hope surrounded us all like a tender embrace. Or like the hundreds of thousands of pounds of pressure pushing in on us from all sides, what with us being god knows how deep underground, I thought as I straightened and my gaze once more took in the unnatural and massive semi-circular shape of the Rebellion Base. I quickly focused on my feet instead. From the moment I'd arrived at the base about a year ago and the elevator travelled rapidly downward instead of up, I resolved denial would be the best method to handle underground bases. My decision is made, I thought sternly, Hope surrounds us like a tender embrace and nothing more. It was as if Stoakes' firm hand lay on each of our shoulders, urging us forward to a brighter future. It was her plan, after all, that had given everyone this hope. Neither the tyrant nor the government would see it coming, no one ever did. The only problem was that the whole thing relied on me using my special ability. Apparently, my time had come too. I gulped and my stomach complained nervously.

The walk to the debriefing room at the end of the corridor was long and I shuffled forward silently beside the others, favoring the comfort of my own thoughts to the inevitable speculative conversations about whether I felt up to the dizzying task ahead of me. Other than the - my eyes darted up to the ceiling - daunting pressure I felt with all the responsibility placed on me for the plan to succeed, and despite being imprisoned by tons of rock, concrete, and who knew what else, I felt freer among the resistance than I ever did in the Camps. Besides, it seemed to be mostly the same pretty much everywhere; shackles of labor in Juvenile Facilities or Adult Work Camps, or imprisonment in Detention Camps. The tyrant stood by the Equalist belief, "Separate but equal", which ultimately resulted only in many different forms of prison cells. At least my current cell is a Rebel Cell of Freedom Fighters, working to make a difference for the people.

I might have even preferred my assigned work at the Cellular Citizenship Identification Center (CCIC) above ground, but I'd only been granted admission to such a laidback, high-level facility because Stoakes cleared my criminal record before I'd even been born and assigned renegade hackers to track and alter my juvie test records so my work assignment would eventually land me at CCIC, where she she was assigned as an Executive, with the ability to aide my escape to the resistance. I owed her everything. If my mother's Criminal status had been passed on to me, upon birth my infant body would have been 'donated to the pursuit of scientific achievement and advancement'. Instead, I had been granted not only a life, but a purpose along with the means to accomplish it.

My eyes steeled as I arrived at the main doors to the debriefing room behind which a short walkway curved downward toward an impressive oak podium at the center of the stage below. Seats filled quickly as I made my way past rows of staggered seating toward a table with three chairs positioned beside the podium. As my stomach twisted in knots, I regretted my earlier decision to forego breakfast and hoped it wouldn't growl again. I thankfully downed the glass of water that had been provided as I took the seat directly to the left of the podium. It might be enough to quiet my hunger for now. By the time the glass was back on the table, the few seats that remained vacant weren't for much longer and the remaining two seats beside me had been occupied by additional resistance leadership. My heart raced, but I bowed my head and smiled at them in greeting as we awaited Stoakes. I was grateful the wait wasn't long.

She commanded such a strong presence nothing more than her arrival into the room was necessary for everyone to fall silent and listen. Stoakes wasn't physically large, a woman in her late sixties, she stood at a short five feet but her aura was fierce and she knew it. Lively green eyes shone intelligently beneath platinum blond hair cropped short to fall just over her ears as she stepped behind the podium and smiled out at the audience who'd begun clapping vigorously. Of course, her being an Executive Citizen also commanded a certain degree of awe. Although wrinkled with age, Stoakes had been the very first person with porcelain white skin I had ever seen. I imagined she must have been the first for many others in the resistance too, since the majority were like me, or darker.

"Renegades!" She began, her strong voice reverberating across the room. Positive murmurs traveled across the audience. "Rebels!" The murmurs grew in volume and assent. "Freedom Fighters!" The audience cheered loudly and Stoakes allowed them a moment before raising her hands for silence. As they quieted down, she continued, "The time for the Silent Coup has finally arrived!" More cheers. "We've been working toward this moment for many years," she paused briefly. "Decades! We have planned, we have trained, and we are ready!" Eruptions of cheers escalated after each delayed inflection. It was as if the audience was a finely tuned instrument in the hands of a professional.

I felt immune to whatever spell the rest of them seemed to be under. Perhaps because I felt the weight of the world on my shoulders, Not to mention the weight of the rocks pushing down on us all! Cheers continued washing over the stage in waves but I no longer focused on the speech. The words Stoakes spoke became distorted and distant until I could ignore them entirely. I wasn't so certain I was as ready as everyone else seemed to be. It had been years since I had any need to use my ability before I met Stoakes, and while four years passed since then and I'd been training intensely, I couldn't help but doubt my ability to perform under such stress. My attention snapped back to reality as Stoakes clapped a hand against my back.

"...which will all be handled by our very own, Carver," she finished, directing her beaming smile at me and the crowd. More cheers rose up to meet her and my heart pounded in my ears. "At this stage of our plan, it will be inevitable that he," Stoakes almost spat the word, "the despot, the tyrannous President-turned-Dictator, will be de-shtooned!" Silence met Stoakes for a moment before a giggle broke out in the crowd. Her brows furrowed in confusion before she turned quickly to face me. The giggle gave rise to laughter but Stoakes barely missed a beat, acting as if it had been a part of her speech all along. "He will be DETHRONED," she bellowed and the laughter died down. Stoakes smiled and her hand found its way to my shoulder. "Just a glimpse of the power we have at our disposal to help us achieve our goals. Now, amplify this example a thousand-fold to the large scale relentless attack we have planned," she paused for dramatic affect, "and we will have our victory!" Thunderous cheers arose and I breathed a sigh of relief as she withdrew her hand back to the podium, averting the attention that had fallen on me.

She continued on with her speech, the audience never losing their cue. My attention drifted again as I longingly wondered what might be left to eat in the mess hall this late in the morning - I'd honestly be happy with plain toast at this point, I'm starved! I thought, before Stoakes' calm voice drew me away from my thoughts not for the last time.

"Carver, I can only imagine you must be nervous," she began in a kind, low voice. I looked around quickly only to find everyone had been dismissed. Stoakes and I were almost the only ones left in the room. "We've gone over this time and again, you must learn to have disciplined focus. You're capable of incredible things. The time has come for you to claim your destiny." She paused as if to allow me to respond, but I had nothing to say. Stoakes smiled with a sigh and motioned with her hand for us to leave.

"Why don't we go grab you a bite to eat before heading out?" I shot up, smiling and nodding, out of my chair immediately following her out of the room, happy to avoid the conversation she had been heading in.

--

The next few hours passed as if in a blur. I, along with three others who would travel with me, was outfitted with an Equalist security disguise to prevent detection from Loyalist forces as we traveled. Our first task would be to locate the White House, only a few mile's trek and short drive from where the base's elevator let out on the surface. We would then act as security reinforcement, ensuring Citizens remained a safe distance away from the stage that was set up in the middle of a large courtyard directly across from the White House. I would be in close enough range to do the deed, and then we would quickly disperse. It almost sounds easy when I lay it out like that, I thought in an attempt to mask my anxiety as I and the three other Freedom Fighters entered the elevator.

I wasn't sure what to expect when we arrived at the surface. I had never traveled very far on the surface before. When Stoakes helped me escape from CCIC, we had done so via interconnected underground tunnels. What I hadn't expected to see when the elevator doors opened atop a hill overlooking a good stretch of land were the massive concrete walls topped with barbed wire, crisscrossing deep into the horizon. The only exception to this landscape was the city where we were headed, the walls were much taller there, the buildings rose high into the sky.

My mouth gaped, They're are all Camps? I had only ever seen those walls from the insides, I could never have imagined they stretched on so far. My face fell, "No one's free?" The words escaped me before I could stop myself. I hated looking dumb by asking questions.

Two of my companions had already begun their trek downhill, a car would be waiting for us not too far from there, but the third companion had hesitated, waiting for me. When we made eye contact, hers held an almost tangible sadness.

"Executive Citizens are given Premium Upgrades™ but for the most part, it's like this everywhere," she said. "Welcome to the United Corporation of America."

We spoke little after that. When the massive white sky scraper I had noticed from atop the hill was only a few blocks in the distance, we parked the car in a well hidden alley and walked the rest of the way. It wasn't until we were in place, holding back crowds of Citizens as they fought for the best positions to see the stage, that I spoke again.

The tyrant retained few traditions from the past but one he humored was called, The Campaign. Every four years he gave an inaugural speech regarding his plans for the next four years of his 'Presidency'. Large cameras broadcast the event across the nation, but I never had reason to pay attention before now.

A booming voice spoke in what seemed to be an overly pleasant tone over the speakers, "Citizens, thank you for joining us on this momentous day! Before we welcome our President, let us proclaim the Pledge of Allegiance together!"

My eyes shot over to the Freedom Fighter that answered my question on the hill. She shrugged in response. We both took up the chorus as everyone recited the Pledge.

"I pledge allegiance to the nation

of the United Corporation of America,

and to the man for which it stands,

one nation under Trump,

indomitable, with equality and separation for all.

AMERICA IS GREAT AGAIN!"

As the last words rang out across the courtyard the cheery announcer returned, "Ladies and Gentlemen, Citizens and Executive Citizens, please rise to welcome, PRESIDENT TRUMP!"

I was taken aback when the stout man exited a large SUV and began making his way along a red carpeted route to the stage, surrounded by guards. My eyes shifted to my companion once more.

"He's not white," I hissed in surprise. "Orange, maybe tan if we're being kind."

The Freedom Fighter held back a smirk and frowned instead, motioning with her head and communicating with her eyes that I should begin.

My eyes widened in response, worried that I'd already messed up, but I quickly eased my mind as Stoakes had taught me and focused all of my attention on the target.

Everything became muffled and I could faintly hear my heart beat in my ears, soft and strong. The tyrant next worked his way through a crowd of Executive Citizens, shaking hands and greeting them personally. A perfect opportunity to begin. As his lips moved, I established a narrative in my mind, a sort of bad lip reading that under my directed focus would form a sync, causing the target to mirror the scrambled speech in my mind without their knowledge.

As the tyrant climbed the steps to the stage, a government official stepped forward to shake his hand.

"There's Tommy," said Trump jovially, the sensitive microphone on the podium already capturing his voice and broadcasting it. I would only later come to find the fellow's name was actually Edward. "Diggin' the formal shoes, buddy," he continued, "I like those." The crowd, who had all been smiling and cheering, began to falter.

As the resistance had hoped, the despot was too fearsome to correct. The man he had called Tommy nodded awkwardly and uttered a quick, "Uh, th-thanks."

"I like it in Vermont, it's cool," Trump said, waving and smiling as the cameras captured the moment. Tommy/Edward chuckled nervously, unsure of what to do. "Doesn't he look like he should teach at a university?" The tyrant smirked and waved the man off good-naturedly, taking his place before the podium. No one cheered now, many in the audience gave each other curious glances and concerned murmurs could be heard.

"Good afternoon, Citizens," Trump's voice amplified over the courtyard. "I'm kind of cramping up, so try to avoid the lasagna," he began, his face grave. Someone in the audience broke and a laugh erupted, causing others to join in.

One brave advisor must've realized what all the others should have noticed immediately. The longer they allowed their President to make a fool of himself, the worse it would be for them later. The brave advisor stepped forward, interrupting the tyrant in an unprecedented manner, covering the microphone and speaking directly in his ear.

I felt a gentle squeeze on my left elbow and my concentration broke. I made eye contact with the Freedom Fighter and she nodded, indicating it was time to disperse. I watched the tyrant be escorted off the stage toward the White House as I worked my way through the throngs of confused people to rendezvous with the others back at the hidden alley where the car would be waiting.

I was the last to arrive and by the looks of the other three when I did, they had already celebrated our win. I was received with congratulations and smiles, but it felt stiff. I was relieved when we decided to head out and the Freedom Fighter I'd been speaking to sat with me in the back.

"We should celebrate," the driver said, smirking into the rearview mirror and turning the radio on. As he flipped through the static to find a suitable music station, he paused at what sounded like a Nightly News® broadcast.

"Breaking news tonight on multiple fronts, Citizens. A terrorist plot stopped at the White House, and we have confirmation that the President has suffered a stroke. We're going live to-"

I slid forward, gripping the seat before me, "What! That's NOT what happened!"

The driver switched off the radio and the companion beside me placed a gentle hand on my leg, "We know, Carver, it's ok." I slid back in the seat and she pulled her hand back, satisfied once I'd calmed down.

"They had to make up something," piped up the third rebel in the passenger seat. "Make it seem like they know what's going on and have the situation under control."

"Exactly," barked the driver with a laugh. "Bet you they're shitting their pants right now."

A calm voice spoke up next to me, "The first phase of the Silent Coup has started," she said smiling. "The remaining dominos will inevitably topple and we will silence him for good."

All of their voices were happy, calm, and unworried. They felt none of the pressure I did. Guess it wasn't the rocks after all. What they said weren't lies, a crack in the foundation had been broadcast to the entire nation, something that had never happened before and it gave us an incredible opportunity. Stoakes' plan was coming to fruition exactly as she'd said it would.

"Be proud," came my companion's voice beside me once more. "Our victory today was all thanks to you."

I allowed myself to smile as I watched the world blur outside the window.

[mostlysignssomeportents]

Anti-corruption yellow vest protesters in Dublin's streets, protesting the 2008 bailout, Catholic church scandals, spiraling housing costs and no legal weed

Hundreds of yellow vest protesters marched in Dublin yesterday; like the French gilets jaunes who inspired them, the Irish yellow vests marched for a wide variety of causes, with no unified set of demands: the 2008 banker bailout (arguably the worst in the world since the Irish government has explicitly warned the banks it wouldn't guarantee their reckless loans, but still paid them off when the bubble burst); the continuing and ghastly revelations of scandals in the Church (including the forced-labor camps that unwed mothers were condemned to, and the scandal that the of storage tanks contained secret mass graves filled with the remains of infants); the spiraling costs of housing in Ireland; and the heel-dragging by the Irish government on legalizing marijuana.

Collectively, this could be called "anti-corruption."

Occupy had a semi-serious rallying cry: "Stuff is fucked up and shit." The everybody knows feeling, that our states are held captive by oligarchs, that oligarchs see us as "surplus population," that wealth means impunity.

When Occupy fizzled, many people said that the momentum had broken. But that's not how change works. Change is a scalloped growth curve:

Each event -- Occupy, the Women's March, the Ferguson uprising, the Muslim Ban, family separation -- excites a massive public response, and then most of the new people who the event has incited go back to their lives, but some people remain committed activists, energized by the glimpse of a new possibility. Even the ones who went home are primed to go out again, excited by the possibilities they've glimpsed.

The stimulus that brought people out in each instance is intensifying. The bankers who got bailed out didn't retire with their fortunes: they funneled them into projects to seize even more political power, which they've exercised to make lives even worse for everyday people (Trump didn't just decide on a whim to cut food stamps right before Christmas: he is serving the interests of the rich and literally starving the poor).

The toothpaste tube is being squeezed and squeezed, and no matter how tight the lid (elections, petitions, and other "normal" ways of seeking relief) is screwed on, the toothpaste has to go somewhere, even if it means splitting the seams to escape.  

https://boingboing.net/2018/12/23/everybody-knows-2.html

[alexben10blog]

Chapter 4

Ben felt a great relief when they said to him go towards his room, his parents are start to suspect. Although he was sure he had convinced them.

―That was a close one. ― Ben put down his bag carefully let it out Azmuth with a jump and his arms cross behind his back. ― Did you look how I destroyed that robots!? With a little help of Kevin, but still I do almost all the job. ―

Azmuth stared at him for a second before jumping and hit Ben on the forehead.

―What I saw was a kid incredibly foolish and reckless; What would happen if you touch the water and electrocute yourself? Or because of your lack of concentration one of the robots will shoot you? ― Ben made a pouted cross his arms refusing to see Azmuth. He sighed resignedly that some of his warnings enter that stone head of his. ―  That said, it was a good thought to electrocute them. Although not so good ―

Ben's expression changed from a smile to a frown in less than a second with Azmuth's words.

―You really are not satisficing with nothing, Are you? ―

― I´m satisfied in getting piece for my communicator. ― Azmuth jumped to the desk where his communicator was halfway.

―Whatever. ― Ben lay down on his bed letting out a moan of pain. Azmuth gave him a quick worried look. ― Dumb robots. ―

― You have to go to bathe and clean those wounds. ―

―Who are you? My dad? ―

― If I was your progenitor, I will not allow you the arrogant attitude. Now go to bathe. ― Azmuth pointed the bathroom to his back. Took his things, Ben get inside the bathroom with making silly face mimic Azmuth. ― And remove that expression of your face, it only makes you look like a fool. ―

Ben stuck out his tongue before to close the door, Azmuth simply ignored the childish anger. With the sound of the shower took a time to think of a memory already very far away.

―Azmuth, you've been with that transformer for 12 hours. It's time that you go to bathe and eat, so you can rest. ―

―I don´t have time for that foolishness I have to continue my project. ― The older Galvan give an exasperate look before to remove the tools of his hands. ― Father! ―

―Don´t give the tone young galvan, now go to bathe and then to eat and rest. ― Azmuth

Reluctantly follow the path who is point his father. ― And remove that expression of your face, it only makes you look like a fool. ―

Azmuth felt his cheeks fill with blood because of the shame he was feeling.

―What shameful behavior ―

.

.

.

Ben arrived at his house almost leap of the emotion, penultimate day of school, one day more. Just one day! And he will be free to go camp with his grandpa. Sure, after to help Azmuth. The communicator it was finally ready. Yesterday Azmuth had told him they send the signal today at night and maybe it will take one or two days in coming, but he can ask to grandfather delay his trip. Anyway, this is important.

He was ready to take the omnitrix and the communicator, and go to the ramshackle dump. He not was expecting his uncles and his annoying cousin Gwen waiting in the living room, the last one with a frown trying to get her noose in her book.

―Oh Ben, you're here. Leave your backpack and take a seat. ―Ben look his mother as if she had betrayed him in the worst way possible.

―Mom, what are doing my uncles and the dweeb here? ―

―Ben! That´s not way to salute. ―

― I´m sorry. Good afternoon uncles and dweeb. ― The redhead frowns her eyes with anger before to back her book.  The grown-up sighed before the behavior of both kids, it always like this way.

―Ben, why you don´t leave your bag in your room and then get down. The dinner will be ready in a moment. ―

―In fact mom, I want go outside. I have a tutor that is help me with my homework who left the teacher today. ― Sandra show herself skeptical.

―You? A tutor? What it is the twilight zone? ― Ben scowled at his cousin who only saw him with mockery.

―A tutor? The same tutor you have since Monday? ―

―Yees. ―It sounds more like a question then an answer. And all the people notice.

―Then it not will a problem take your cousin with you. ― Ben start to object. Gwen also wanted to refuse, but she was in an espionage job right now. Specifically spy on his dumb cousin and see what he had done all this week to earn so many scrapes. From afar they were seen covering both arms and some smaller ones in their face. ―If you are going out you will take your cousin with you. Isn´t a discussion, young boy. ―

―So I will not go out.  ―As Ben climbed the stairs with condolences, the rest of the family saw him curiously. This was not a family behavior in Ben.

Ben came to his room with a growl and kicked his wardrobe, causing him to get hurt.

―This infant behavior will not help us ―Azmuth it was the same irritated then Ben, this ruin all his plans. Now they have to manage a new plan.

― I´ll have to go down and try to get ridded of them ass soon is possible. ―

―Don´t forget your homework. ― As soon Azmuth realize what he said he regret, “You are not his father, not even are his family”. Ben still listened grabbing his homework before to get out his room.

Just to find his cousin in the entry of his room. Ben close hit the door behind of him put himself between Gwen and his room.

―What is going on with you doofus? It is not as if I had not entered before. ―

―I do not care. It's my room and I do not give you permission to enter. Now let's get down to end this torture as soon as possible. ―They lasted a moment in silence before Gwen came down the stairs with Ben behind her.

“Another thing out of place; A tutor, give up very quickly, and then he doesn´t let me in to his room, thing before he doesn´t care. Maybe my uncles were right to worry”. Gwen took note the papers n Bens hands.

― What you have there? ―

―My homework, the thing I said I will do with my tutor. That by the way I had to cancel. ― Gwen don´t press more him, leave Ben going on with his business before she sits down again in the coach of the living room.

Ben sits down in the ground using the table in the middle for lean on, he wants to do this quickly and without distractions. Maybe that way he can go out. Despite to have the book on top her focus it was in her cousin, every question of the homework he answers fast, and with a good look she can tell there are correct.

She always knew her cousin it was more smart then he shows. And this are a prove that she was right.

―Is a good thing you are efforts in the school, doofus. ― Ben do not show a sign listen her, but Gwen know better. ― Normally you just do enough to get a C. ―

―How you will know? ―

―Not matter what or what class is, all your ratings are C. Not one less, not one more. ― Gwen give a wise look, Ben back his focus to his homework. ― You’re enough smart to get an A+, and it about time you show it. Instead to be a big doofus. ―

“I think is this the closest a compliment she gives to me”. Ben smile to her in responds, both of them still in there thing in a quiet silence. After a time, Sandra call both kids to eat.

“Whatever is happening with this behavior of Ben, it isn´t the bad for what we thought.” Gwens think while look how Ben eat and smile for all in the room.

.

.

.

Gwen was in her father's car on her way home, she had not discovered anything wrong. Nor good, apart from Ben's new attitude about school.

―It´s look like you talk with your cousin without fighting, right? ― Gwen agree with his father. ― I know you have plans this vacations for you own, but I want give you another option. ―

―What would be? ―

―Your grandpa Max and your cousin Ben will go to camp for all the country, I want to know if you are interested in accompany them. What do you think? ―

― If there is no other option. ―

.

.

.

Azmuth was ready with his communicator and the omnitrix, keeping them in Ben's freshly emptied backpack while the latter was dressed in his normal clothes and a black hood for the cold of the night. They could not waste any more time, so tonight they would go to launch the message, hopefully it would be received and picked up the same night.

―Are you ready, Benjamin? ― The boy took the little being in his hands by putting it on his shoulder to sit down.

―I was born ready. ―

_______________________________________________________________

Hello boys, girl, and no-binaris! For the ones who want read this fic in order I left here two links; 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/19835605/chapters/47181577

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/13326605/1/Ben-G-10-English-Ver

[lookijustwanttowrite]

Prompt 114 Response: Human Error

(finished)

See prompt in tags

Content warning: death, grief, suicide, child death

1123 words

Sarah believed in science. Ever since she was little she had been in the habit of recycling because she believed what her teachers told her about global warming. She believed that if everyone recycled that the world would be a better place, perhaps would last a little longer.

But not everyone believed in science. Not everyone did their part to recycle, and the world suffered for it. Hurricanes increased, agricultural zones changed and we didn’t adapt, forest fires continued, drinkable water became limited, animals went extinct faster than ever before. Everyone was affected by the changing weather, the floods, the tornadoes, the lightning storms. 

Sarah’s husband had gone on a relief mission to one of the tornado disaster zones two weeks ago, but he had never returned.

A long sigh escaped Sarah’s lips. She wished that they had all gone together, but Cora was only four weeks old. It was too dangerous to leave her with anyone while she was this young, and too difficult to travel. As useful as she could have been to others as a nurse, Cora needed her as a mom. So instead, Mike went with a group to help with reconstruction, but no one had returned.

Sarah rocked Cora as she nursed, cooing at her and trying to smile at the beautiful baby. Studies reported how much a mother’s affect could impact the development of infants’ temperament, and Sarah wanted nothing but the best for her, even in a dying world. Hazy evening sunlight slipped further and further down the wall until Sarah heard the town bells chiming that there was a news report on. Lights flickered on in surrounding homes as electricity returned from the day’s blackout and the populace tuned in to whatever report was incoming.

“Hello Cincinnati and welcome,” the broadcaster began. “It is with a heavy heart that I bring you tonight’s news. The Yellowstone supervolcano has finally erupted...”

Nothing. There was no air. Glass shattered against the floor from Sarah’s fallen cup. Snippets of sound were all that reached her ears as the reporter described vast clouds of ash and dust that was sweeping over the nation and would soon reach them, even as far away as Ohio and beyond to the East Coast.

“...suffocation...blocking the sun...5:30 tomorrow...”

Tears welled up and spilled over as Sarah began to accept that they were going to die. Her precious baby, only four weeks old, would die. Clutching Cora tighter, Sarah wept for their lives. She listened to the rest of the broadcast as a panel of scientists explained the supervolcano situation, how the carbon in the dust and ash would block the sun, cause extreme breathing issues, and anyone who wasn’t killed in the initial wave would suffer lung damage and have significant risks of cancer. No one across the United States would be unaffected. Unaware of the time passing, Sarah finally stood to face their final day together

She picked out her three favorite books to read to Cora. Two of them had been Sarah’s own books as a baby, the other had been Mike’s. Sarah waited until Cora had nursed and then began reading them, maintain a smile on her face and talking to Cora as she had been, trying to show her as much love as humanly possible in these last few hours. Sarah let Cora fall asleep in her arms instead of trying to crib train her; there was no point now. They even ended up sleeping with Cora on Sarah’s chest, something that seemed deeply natural but was extremely dangerous, as any healthcare professional would tell you. Infants are supposed to sleep alone, on their back, and in their crib. They alternated sleeping and nursing, enjoying the sweet bond between mothers and their children, but eventually the sun set and rose, and it was well into the final day.

Ominous black clouds gathered to the west and Sarah knew they were out of time.

Getting into the medicine cabinet, Sarah got the melatonin and broke the capsule, giving Cora 5mg. She swaddled her tightly to keep her warm and settled into the rocking chair to read to her. They finished their three books and Sarah read them again. Alarms began to sound. Cora was soundly sleeping, so Sarah coaxed Nyquil down her throat. Far too much. Tears streamed down Sarah’s face as she got her own antidepressants out of the medicine cabinet and took the whole bottle. Sarah laid on the bed with Cora in her arms. Darkness washed over them, and Sarah could no longer tell if it was the dust or her own sight failing.

...

...

For months they had wandered from town to town helping various disaster zones. None of them were particularly skilled, but they were strong and at this point they had a lot of experience. At the very least, they could build shelters sturdy enough to keep survivors warm. It had been three months since the super volcano had erupted and not a single town they passed through was untouched. Many towns were just ruins, and the only survivors left decided to join the wanderers rather than stay.

They had been pushing towards a town in Ohio since before the eruption. Several members of the group had been from there originally, and many carried messages for family members of the deceased. Cincinnati had been hit with a tornado shortly after the eruption, so they were doing some excavation before beginning the reconstruction process.

Clark wiped his face on his sleeves and continued clearing the rubble from this toppled building. Tornadoes always amazed him in the unpredictability of their destruction; this building was completely destroyed, but next door looked almost untouched. Deciding to take a break and look for survivors, Clark went into the small apartment building.

Most apartments were empty. Some looked like they'd been abandoned quite a long time ago. Some more recent. He did find a few survivors still camped in their homes, continuing to survive as they had since the blackouts began. A few were locked and Clark had to kick in the door during his search. More than once he found the inhabitants dead inside. For those, he tried to leave them as dignified as possible until the mass funeral could be arranged.

Feeling as disheartened as he always did when finding the dead, he returned to the rubble next door. A group had gathered to take a break and eat together and they waved at him as he approached. He nodded somberly and told them what he'd found. They all tried to focus on the hope of finding survivors instead of despair at the dead. After a few moments, Clark closed his eyes and said, "I think someone should find Mike, too. Wasn't he from this area? Had a wife and newborn?"

[shannaraisles]

Set In Darkness

Chapter: 74/74 <--- THE END!!! Author name: ShannaraIsles Rating: M Warnings: Canon-typical violence Summary: She’s a Modern Girl in Thedas, but it isn’t what she wanted. There’s a scary dose of reality as soon as she arrives. It isn’t her story. People get hurt here; people die here, and there’s no option to reload if you make a bad decision. So what’s stopping her from plunging head first into the Void at the drop of a hat?

As the great gate opened, the inner portcullis rising, the Inquisitor did not spur his own horse onward, instead looking back at the commander with a wide grin. Kaaras was just as eager as Cullen to return home and meet the newest member of their strange little family, but he wasn't about to steal Cullen's thunder.

"You first, commander," he ordered with a cheery nod, the haunted look from Adamant gone from his eyes for now. "There's someone in there who really wants to meet you." Cullen felt the stirring of quiet panic in his chest as he spurred his horse on, past the Qunari warrior and his inner circle of friends and companions. Yes, Rory was waiting. But so was someone else, someone who had been born on the night Adamant fell. While he had been far away, leading a siege that had killed too many for the wrong cause, the woman he loved had been laboring to bring their firstborn into the world. The symmetry there was too much to ignore; they had lost a good friend and ally, among so many others, and gained a new life in their midst, all in the course of a single night. But what if the child didn't like him? What if he frightened the little one for whom he would gladly give his life, even never having met her? He was a warrior; the blood on his hands was too thick to wash away. This innocent life he had helped to create ... would he ever feel worthy to call himself their father? A ragged cheer went up from merchants and workers alike as the party rode into Skyhold, welcoming home the Inquisitor and his companions, glad to see them returned hale and well, despite the losses sustained in the Western Approach. For once, Cullen's eyes did not scan the battlements to check the guard rotation, turning instead toward the wide stone steps up to the upper courtyard, where she had said she would be waiting for him in her last letter. He felt a weight lift from his heart as his gaze found vibrant red hair, a wide warm smile, one arm raised to wave to him, to catch his attention. The other arm wrapped securely about a small bundled form cradled against herself as she continued down the steps to meet them. He was vaguely aware that both Josephine and Leliana were walking with Rory, both warily watchful to be certain she didn't slip, but his body was already moving, swinging down from his horse to stride toward his wife. "Took you long enough, didn't it?" were her first words to him, and Cullen felt himself release a low chuckle at the familiarly fond irritation he should have known was waiting for him. "You owe me, commander." "Ever at your service, healer," he answered her, dipping his head to taste her lips, to feel her smile, and know that he had returned from death yet again. Rory's fingers teased into his hair, delicately tracing the still faint swelling around the healing bruise at his temple as she answered his kiss with her own, shameless in pouring her relief and affection into that one moment of contact in front of everyone they knew before her hand dropped to his chest to ease him back. "Careful," she murmured. "We're squashing your daughter." "My ... our daughter." Just saying that brought a strange flush to his face. I have a daughter. The old familiar panic welled up, but Rory's fingers touched his cheek, her expression softening as she recognized that look in his eyes. Her mouth opened, but he took hold of himself, nodding swiftly to cut off the reassurance he didn't want others around them to hear that he needed, and forced himself to look down at the infant in her arms. Big blue eyes blinked up at him, focusing with curious intensity on this new face that mama seemed to be so relaxed with, so happy to see. He hadn't been expecting blue eyes; he'd hoped for gray, like Rory's, though it seemed that their daughter had inherited her mother's hair. The soft crop of thicker down on the top of her head was definitely red. The nose was familiar, almost depressingly so. She'd inherited his nose, for certain. Cullen held that solemn gaze for what felt like a small eternity, just as solemn in return, studying the child just as she studied him. He couldn't say she was beautiful - as far as he was concerned, no baby was ever beautiful. She was small, and bright-eyed, and unafraid of him. That was all the reassurance he needed. "She needs a name," Rory murmured softly, watching as he slowly removed his glove, as his hand reached out tentatively to cup his palm over the soft heat of their daughter's head. A name ... His throat seemed to choke closed for a brief moment as he rubbed his thumb over the delicate brow, enthralled by the way the little head wriggled gently into his palm, the big eyes blinked above a chubby-cheeked hint toward a smile. Rory's letters since the birth had laid the responsibility for naming their daughter firmly in his lap, with amusing commentary on the various suggestions Josephine, Leliana, and Granthis had been making in lieu of having a proper name to call the baby by. Even that responsibility had felt like too much. How could he name a child he had not seen, who had been born so many miles away on such a terrible night? Yet here and now, looking into the eyes of his daughter, the name he had been toying through his mind since hearing the news seemed perfect. "Alys," he said hoarsely, swallowing to clear his throat as he glanced up to meet Rory's eyes, knowing she would recognize the bitter-sweetness in their firstborn's name and understand it. Her smile was sad, but pleased, her stormy eyes calm as she nodded. She did not seem surprised by his choice - yet another reminder that this woman, for all her oddities and unfathomable memory lapses, was more his match than anyone he had ever known. "Alys would very much like to cuddle her papa, Cullen," she said in a soft tone, her smile flashing into a grin at the sudden panic he knew flickered across his face. "She knows you already, love. I'm not going to coddle you or do all the work now you're home." "I don't mean for you to do all the work, I simply ..." Cullen flailed for an excuse. "I ... am wearing my armor. It will not be comfortable for her." "So take it off," Rory suggested bluntly. "I am not disrobing in the middle of the courtyard," he countered, a little flustered that she would even suggest it. His wife laughed, and despite his bristling, he found himself smiling to hear the sound. It had been a long time since he had heard her laugh, seen her smile. More than two months on campaign - his first true campaign, though he had lived his life by the sword. It had taken everything he had to ride away from her, knowing that when he returned, it could be to an empty home. In truth, he had feared more for her in childbirth than for his own life in battle, trusting in the Inquisitor and his own forces to deliver him safely from harm. For a moment, he was transported back to the camp, the day before they laid their night siege ... to the odd quietness of men and women who knew that some of them would not be coming home, the gentle camaraderie, the talk of home and family and the provisions they had each left behind them in case the worst should happen. He hadn't known that, while he was connecting with his troops at this very personal level, Rory had been suffering through the first throes of a labor that had dragged on for more than twelve hours, yet in hindsight, it seemed almost appropriate. As he had suffered with the knowledge of the deaths he presided over, she had struggled to bring one precious new life into this world. This life, this child ... my daughter. Without thinking, his hands rose to the buckles on his pauldrons, and to his surprise, another pair of hands joined his - Cassandra, who had somehow managed to stand close enough to see the child first of all the Inquisitor's companions, but far enough not to intrude. Yet now he needed an extra pair of hands, she was there, and he found himself grateful as pauldrons, vambraces, sword, shield, and finally breastplate all left his form. Rory didn't give him a moment to reconsider, placing the squirming bundle of blankets and blue eyes that was his own flesh and blood into his hands before he could say a word. He remembered something like this with Rosalie, when he was just a boy, being handed his baby sister and knowing she was related to him, that she was a part of him. She'd had blue eyes then, he recalled, yet now her eyes matched his. Would Alys' eyes darken? Would she shared his hued gaze? But this ... this was different. This was his daughter, his child, the unexpected miracle of life brought out of so much death. The hands that held her were his hands - a warrior's hands, stained with blood that had not always been guilty; hands that shook when the strain became too much; hands that trembled now as he drew little Alys to his chest and held her close for the first time. He felt her breathe against his chest, the fumble of little fingers gripping at the loose edge of his mantle, and something fundamental seemed to crumble inside him. So much fear held deep inside, of a life that would end alone and forgotten even by himself ... yet here he stood, holding the future in his hands, watched over not only by the wife he had never dared to hope for, but also by the friends he still did not believe he deserved. Whiskey-bright eyes rose to look into the freckled storm-gray that was Rory's gaze, soft and understanding and loving. She knew the worst of him, in his own words, his own unthinking actions, and yet still she loved him. He could not think of a better reward for continuing to fight for the world their daughter deserved. Biting down the tears that wanted to spill from his eyes, he leaned close to her, hugging Alys close as his lips brushed Rory's brow. This was home. "Are we allowed to meet the new Rutherford, or are you going to stand there hiding her from us for the rest of eternity?" a warm voice demanded from behind him, and despite himself, Cullen laughed along with Rory as he turned to look at Kaaras. The Qunari Inquisitor had been fascinated by the pregnancy, and was almost over-eager to meet the baby, holding himself stiff in his serious effort not to reach out and grab for her as Cullen showed off his little family. Fade-touched eyes glued themselves to the infant gripping the commander's mantle, all others utterly dismissed from his mind. "She's so tiny," he breathed, his right hand reaching out involuntarily before he drew it back, glancing to the proud parents with a guilty glimmer to his gaze. "Uh ... may I?" Cullen glanced down at Rory as she answered. "The worst she can do is cry at you, so prod away." As Kaaras' hand reached toward the baby, Cullen felt himself bristle a little, an over-protective instinct drawing his daughter closer to his chest before he recalled himself. This was a friend - not just a friend, but a good man, for all that he was seven feet tall with horns. Guilt colored his expression a moment as Kaaras hesitated, the commander relaxing his arm once more as Rory squeezed his free hand. Assured that he really was welcome to introduce himself to the baby, Kaaras' grin emerged, one large finger very gently stroking the little fist Alys flailed in his direction. The tiny fingers opened to wrap about the wide digit at hand, and Cullen found himself staring in utter astonishment as a Qunari warrior he had seen tear through four demons single-handed without breaking a sweat visibly melted in the face of a tiny baby trying to suck his finger. "What a grip!" Kaaras chuckled to them, impressed by the strength exerted on his finger, glancing down at Cassandra as she came close to his side. The Seeker seemed just as enchanted, and perhaps a little envious, though her rare smile was there for all to see. The Qunari Inquisitor lifted his left hand, wriggling his fingers to make the Anchor glow, trying to tease a first smile out of the infant clinging to his hand. Alys' eyes focused on the glow ... but there was no smile. Cullen was shocked to see his solemn daughter, who had seemed so even-tempered until now, suddenly scream, flailing her fists as tears flooded her eyes. Kaaras snatched his left hand away, hiding both behind his back as he looked around wildly. "I didn't touch her!" "I know you didn't," Rory assured him, shaking her head. "Look, she's already calming down." And the baby was calming, her sobs fading now there was no eerie green light in her eyes, rubbing her face with pudgy hands as she nestled into Cullen's grasp once again. The commander stared at her, torn between horror at her over-stated reaction to Kaaras' hand and relief at how quickly she'd recovered from him. What was wrong with the Anchor that made a baby react so violently to it? "It's wrong," a quiet voice said from Rory's other side - Cole, peering around the redhead, his red-rimmed eyes focused on the now quiet baby once more. "It's wrong and it hurts and it shouldn't be there. It won't be there, and that hurts, too." He blinked, frowning. "She doesn't like it when it hurts." "She's hurting?" Cullen's head snapped up, deep concern making his gaze sharper than he had intended. Cole shied back. "Not her," he promised. "She ... she sees it, and she knows it hurts him. The glow and the shimmer ... she cries because he hurts, because ..." He frowned uncertainly. "Because one day it will stop hurting, and that frightens her." Rory's head swung about to look down at her daughter, reaching over to stroke the soft cheek even as she frown in concern of her own. "That makes no sense, Cole," she pointed out, but there was a wariness about her voice that suggested she might share that feeling with the newborn child. "The mark hurts?" Cassandra tilted her head toward Kaaras, who gave her a sheepish smile. "Not so much," he tried to mollify her, but she wasn't having it. She did, however, pull him away from the commander and his wife by the horn before beginning to inform him in no uncertain terms that not telling her when he was in pain was a very bad idea. This gave space for others who were attempting not to seem eager to press forward. Dorian, naturally, did his utmost to ignore the baby, instead moving in to offer Rory a one-armed embrace. Even Cullen was surprised by that; he'd been on the receiving end of a few rants toward the end of the pregnancy that had involved how much she worried about certain of their friends and their inability to offer or accept innocent tactile affection. "You look marvelous, darling," the Tevinter altus informed the new mother as he drew back. "Exhausted, but I'm told babies don't much care who they keep awake at night. Now you have a fine strapping commander to be awake with you, you should improve vastly." Rory eyed him in amusement. "I'm not entirely sure that's a compliment, but thank you. Would you like to meet her?" "Not if she intends to display the capacity of her lungs with everyone," was Dorian's matter-of-fact response, hanging back at her side only to startle as Cole piped up again directly behind him. "Not you, not us," the boy assured him. "The brightness, the lie is what hurts ... looking up, warm eyes, gold hair, seen before through another's eyes. Loving and loved. Mother and father and home. She doesn't see the past in the scars, she sees the man." He beamed, turning his eyes onto Dorian once more. "She will like you. Rory does." "Of course Rory likes me, I am unmatched," Dorian puffed, but there was a slightly nervous look in his eyes as he craned his head to look down at the baby in Cullen's arms. What he said next was lost on Cullen. The commander's eyes had returned to the baby girl in his arms, Cole's words echoing in his mind as others crowded in to say their piece and admire the baby girl born in their absence. Warm eyes, gold hair ... she doesn't see the scars. Though he still did not wholly trust the strange spirit made flesh, he trusted that what Cole said was what was felt in the moment. Which meant the child in his arms, his child, his little girl ... she liked him. Alys didn't see the scars that littered his flesh and soul, nor the guilt that would weigh on his heart for all the years to come. She saw him and knew him for the father he longed to be; her most stalwart protector and most trusted friend, a teacher and mentor, a shoulder to cry on in the years to come, but most of all, a constant source of love and support, no matter her choices as she grew. That was the father he wanted to be, the father he would spend the rest of his life trying to be. "You will always be loved," he promised the babe in his arms, heedless of the ears that could hear him, or the eyes that saw him raise her high to brush his lips to her soft forehead to seal that promise. He couldn't promise her safety or happiness, or even peace, but what he could give her was love, all the days of his life. By the gate, speculative eyes watched the happy little scene, considering the dynamic of the commander and the healer, the Inquisitor and his friends. Something had changed there, something he could not quite put his finger on. Something so small as to barely register and yet ... that change made his hackles rise. "She forgot, but the memories did not die," the spirit spoke near him. "They went away, found a home. Innocence knows what will be, what will come, the plans, the dangers, the lies. She sees the deception with no words to speak it aloud, fears the Dread -" "Enough." One sharp word, and the spirit fell silent, his connection broken to the knowledge that would cause so many problems if it were to become common. The child knew. Yet she was just a child, a babe in arms. No threat to him, nor a thorn to prick his palms when he laid hands upon his orb once more. In years to come, perhaps.But not yet.

[liveindiatimes]

Woman Army Officer, 9-Month-Old Infant Among Uttarakhand's 5 New COVID-19 Cases

https://www.liveindiatimes.com/woman-army-officer-9-month-old-infant-among-uttarakhands-5-new-covid-19-cases/

The infant contracted COVID-19 from the father who is being treated at Doon Hospital (Representational)

Dehradun:

A woman officer posted at a military hospital in Dehradun and a nine-month-old infant are among the five fresh coronavirus cases detected in Uttarakhand in the last 24 hours, officials said on Saturday.

The two had tested positive on Friday, they said.

While the woman officer had recently travelled to Lucknow, the infant contracted the infection from his father, who had attended a Tablighi Jamaat congregation, the officials said.

They did not say where the group’s congregation was held or when the infant’s father had tested positive.

A state health department spokesperson said the woman officer had recently returned from training in Lucknow. Her contact tracing is underway.

The infant is quarantined at a school in Dehradun, he said.

According to the spokesperson, the infant’s father is one of the 10 Tablighi Jamaat members undergoing treatment for COVID-19 in Dehradun. He is admitted to the isolation ward at the Doon Hospital.

However, the baby’s mother has tested negative for COVID-19, he said.

A Tablighi Jamaat member from Nainital, a 25-year-old man who worked at a relief camp in Roorkee, and a 45-year-old woman who is a relative of a COVID-19 patient are the other three people who have tested positive for coronavirus in Uttarakhand in the last 24 hours.

The Tablighi Jamaat member is undergoing treatment at Sushila Tiwari Hospital, Haldwani, the spokesperson said.

The 25-year-old man and the 45-year-old woman, both from Haridwar district, have been admitted to the isolation ward of the Haridwar Mela Hospital, Chief Medical Officer Saroj Naithani said.

Of the total 42 patients in Uttarakhand, nine have recovered and have been discharged.

Live India Times

[imagineclaireandjamie]

A Hundred Lesser Faces: (Five)

Notes from Mod Bonnie

This story stems from the premise: what if Voyager!Claire had gone first to Lallybroch instead of directly to the print shop in Edinburgh?

Links to past installments:  (One) (Two) (Three) (Four)

My own Jamie,

Almost six months ago, I learned that you survived Culloden. You made history, my darling! Q.E.D.

As many nights as I’ve lain awake in those months cursing myself for not having looked sooner, I know I shall thank God every day of my life for the series of events that led me at last to the right pages, to you. When I fully realized what it meant— that you had been spared the death you faced so bravely that April morning, the death that has haunted my thoughts and my nightmares for so long— It was like a wound, the oldest and deepest scar ripped back open, inch by inch. I was completely laid bare from it, from the storm of emotions warring within me: such joy, such anguish for the lost time (how many more years could we have had, Jamie, had I looked?), such fear—and then joy again, because the years of grief could now be ended, and *against all reason!* I could see you again.  

Likewise will I thank God every day for the small voice in my head that nudged me at the very last moment to go first to Lallybroch, rather than to your shop in Edinburgh. Please thank Jenny for me. She explained everything. 

It is for the best, that it happened this way; easier, I think, for all concerned. Perversely, despite the shock, I find myself smiling in this moment: for we promised there would be no lies between us, remember? It is a promise I make to you again, today. You can know, then, with absolute certainty, that it can be no lie when I tell you that I am glad — glad and on-my-knees grateful to Heaven— that you have found true happiness. 

After all the pain and the loss, the war and the hunger and the suffering you’ve endured, to know that you have a wife with whom you’ve found something new and wonderful; that you have had the joy of holding your own children in your arms, to have seen them be born and grow? It is a balm, Jamie, a comfort to know that despite all the cruelty fate has dealt you—dealt us— you have been blessed with such great and abundant joy. Never would I wish anything less for you, just as I know you would not for me. 

It is my deepest prayer that as you read these words, you will know the truth of them, will be able to feel my heart through the page, and KNOW that from its very depths, I wish you every happiness with your wife and your daughters. 

And yet I couldn’t leave, couldn’t go back from whence I came, without telling you about another little girl, who was born the 23rd of November the year of Culloden. 

I hope the contents of the brown packet, here enclosed, tell you more than any words could about your daughter—our daughter—Brianna Ellen.

Jamie was shaking—no, he was — crumbling. 

Every breath wrenched through him, agonizing, and the tears were falling, blurring his vision. He had to sit back on his haunches to keep them from dropping onto the page and blurring her precious words. 

Her words

CLAIRE’s

His hands were quaking with

November

with EVERYTHING

Jesus, GOD in 

Couldn’t

He COULD NOT think

Thoughts, words, they were—

They failed him, simply abandoned him as he shook on the study rug. Only his body seemed to know the way, for he was snatching for the parcel, tearing at the string binding the paper. There was an oily, unidentifiable wrapping within, then a layer of soft flannel, and then —   

The sound that escaped him—He didn’t even know there existed such a sound within him. It was terrible and beautiful at once, and though it was in no language, what he felt, his lips over and over formed a word, the only word he could muster: “No….NO….” 

For as though a great knife had cut through those terrible, looming stones on the accursed hill, Jamie held his infant daughter, newly-born, sleeping there in the palms of his hands. The portrait—picture?—painting?—was all in shades of grey, and yet somehow lifelike as a true bairn in miniature before him, like peering through a spyglass straight into that distant life.

He had not a single thought to spare for how, or by what means…

He could only trace the bitty wee fists curled on the blanket, the sweet wisps of hair on the tiny skull.

“Oh, mo chridhe…” 

He couldn’t look away, could not even blink, though tears were coursing downward. 

God, the child —this very child — 

—delivered safely into the world and into the arms of her mother—her mother.…

The babe had lived—LIVED.

The pad of his thumb caught slightly as he caressed her cheek, and the portrait slid upward just enough to reveal — “Ohh…Jesus…”

She was grown to a toddling child, eating a cake that was smeared all about her face. And damn him if he didn’t LAUGH amidst the weeping to see just how pleased with herself she looked for it, a cuddly toy raised in triumph like a sword, four wee teeth visible as she giggled out a victory cry.

There she was again, older, standing in a great snowfall, naught but wee cheeks and grinning eyes visible under the great padded suit she wore against the cold. 

Older, still. Three? Four? Sitting proper-like in a pretty frock with her hair combed smooth. 

Such a sweet face—

Older, still, standing with a wee box in her hand beside a giant something with wheels, proud and eager, eyes bright.

And then he was gasping as the spyglass world ignited into blazing, brilliant colors. He saw his daughter’s hair, red and victorious and shining against the black coat of the huge dog she hugged tight; saw the pink flush of her cheeks, spread down her neck as it always did his, when he was happy and exuberant.

On and on flashed the paintings, these captured moments of his daughter’s life.

Going fishing and doing a damn fine job of it. 

Playing uproariously in the sea-surf, splashing and laughing with complete abandon.

Absolutely lovely as as she grew out of girlhood, and God, how vividly he could see Claire in her, as she did—in the lines of her, the way she held her mouth, tilted her head—that broad, clear brow that begged to be kissed, reverently—

Laughing, carefree, safe. 

Braw and strong as she chopped wood. Good lass!

Gazing softly out a window, seeming not even to notice her image being captured. 

On 

and on

and on 

until he was gasping and looking at the last portrait, of an achingly beautiful young woman sitting on a rock before a fire, making camp for the night, perhaps. Her face was cast in the same golds and red as her hair; the dreams of her heart seeming to dance across her eyes—as they always did her mother’s. His daughter…grown.  

The paintings were strewn all around him on the carpet, a tableau of her; her life. On his knees he bowed over them, overwhelmed and shuddering with great sobs as he looked, and looked, and looked.

She was—

She would be—

…..she was well.  

The child HAD been safe.

It hadn’t been for naught. 

He fell, then, and sheltered her like a cloak, keeping his child, his daughter, safe and shielded from the world for just one moment; safe…his….

Brianna

It was only sudden, ripping, screaming panic that yanked him out of the quiet calm, searching wildly, fumbling with desperate hands—

But relief tore from his throat just as suddenly as he found a second page: 

Not everything can be captured in a photograph, of course (that’s what they’re called. Did I ever tell you about them?), and there’s so much I long to tell you about this wonderful person.

Will you believe she’s been taller than me since the age of thirteen? She carries it like a queen, though, like I imagine your mother did. She doesn’t slouch or try to hide. Not Bree. 

Oh, yes: most people call her Bree, for short. 

She bites her nails, when she’s thinking hard. I don’t even think she notices when she’s doing it.

She’s absolutely brilliant, Jamie, studying at one of the top universities in the world to be a historian. You would be so very proud of her. 

She’s not perfect, of course. Perhaps her biggest flaw as half-Scottish is that she HATES whisky, haha. I’ll do my best to win her over, though, don’t you worry. 

She’s a spectacular artist, another way in which she takes after her grandmother. She captures you, completely. 

That statement, actually, is true in more ways than one. Our Brianna is captivating, in every way. 

She’s an absolute wonder with maths and figures —as natural to her as breathing, it seems, just like they are for you. 

She smiles in her sleep, just like her father. 

She’s so like you, Jamie, it breaks my heart. 

After Frank died—But Lord, I haven’t said anything of him. 

It was two years ago. He had a good, full life, and he loved Bree more than anything in the world. He could have been cruel, could have taken out his anger upon the child, the very breathing manifestation of the ways in which I’d betrayed him—but he didn’t. From the moment he first held her, Frank loved her as his own, and while things between he and I were tenuous, to say the least, I will always love him for the father he was to her, for the sacrifices he made for her. I hope that is a comfort to you, and not a blow. 

After he was gone, after giving her time to grieve, it felt important that Bree should know about you, about the stones. It took—well, it frankly took a bloody lot of luck and a jolly good miracle to get her to believe, *but she does.* She loved Frank with all her heart, but she knows now that Jamie Fraser was her father. IS her father. 

You should know that she was instrumental in finding you. She persisted when I would have faltered under the doubts and the fears. As ecstatic and overjoyed as I was at the news that you were alive, I was so afraid Jamie, for you, for me, for Bree. 

Even though I know she, too, was plagued with fears, she remained strong; and she kept ME strong. Even at the very stones, when I was so wracked with guilt over leaving her forever that I would have stayed, for her sake, she was there to strengthen me, to tell me not to look back. She said that she was giving me back to you, and that if I didn’t go, *she* would. ‘Someone has to find him and tell him I was born,’ she said, and she meant it. 

THAT is the kind of person your daughter is growing to be, Jamie: determined, and brilliant, and selfless for the sake of those she loves; *and that includes you.* She asked me to give you a kiss, just from her. I’ve left it here, on the page, for you to keep, always. 

Brianna has been the greatest joy of my life since we parted, a joy that would have been richer only if I had been granted the grace to raise her with you at my side. Thank you for her. THANK YOU for making me go on, for her sake. Despite everything, it has been a good life. Even in those long years of grief, I had the joy of seeing you every day, of seeing your spirit, there in the child of our love. And I’m so very grateful. 

I’ll keep telling her about you. There wasn’t enough time, before I left. She’ll be able hear everything, now. I promise. 

Jamie shook his head hard, fast, feeling for a third page that wasn’t there. “No…” 

Be happy, Jamie Fraser, and LIVE. 

“No,” he moaned. his eyes clinging to the fleeting words, even as he begged them not to stop. “Claire…”

Love, always, 

“Mo nighean donn, don’t —  

Claire

Those next seconds were everlasting, each terrible, catastrophic truth echoing in his soul like the toll of a great bell, over and over. 

She had been here

Claire had been here

She left

Claire left

Because Jenny—

She was sitting at the bottom of the staircase, crying hard into Ian’s shoulder. When the study door crashed open, her head shot up and she jumped to her feet, her face pure terror. “Jamie, mo ch—”

“When?” He snarled it, and Jenny convulsed with a deep sob like a swallowed scream, and covered her face with her hands. 

Jamie was thundering toward her, a veil of red over his vision as he demanded, “WHEN?” 

Ian—in a shockingly deft and smooth movement given the leg—shot to his feet, shielding Jenny from Jamie’s rage with his body. 

In all truth, the rational parts of Jamie’s mind were glad for Ian’s presence, for that was the only thing keeping the blood rage from taking control, from taking revenge. “WHEN was she here, woman?” he bellowed over Ian’s shoulder,  “How fucking long did ye see fit to keep—”

Ian shoved him, eyes blazing. “You’ll NOT talk that way to—” 

“Mor—ning—”Jenny sobbed, her voice a strangled whisper, “—gone before—Jamie! Oh, Jamie, I ken I’ll—never for—give mys—for—” 

“HOW MANY MONTHS?”  he roared, overtaken by despair, overtaken by rage, becoming a nameless beast under it. “HOW MANY YEARS, JENNY?” 

“This morning—” she wailed, “To—TO—DAY—” 

Nothing. 

Silence. 

And then a great wave, tall as a mountain, rose up within Jamie, blasting out everything within him in a single cataclysmic moment of clarity. 

Today

T O D A Y

Then she was—

She could be no more than—

He vaulted up the stairs four at a time, paying no heed to Janet and Wee Ian and the others who were gathered at the top of the staircase, wide-eyed and pale and gaping.

Less than a minute later, he thundered back down past them all, breeks only half-laced under his boots, traveling bag on his back. 

“No,” Jenny moaned, grasping at his sleeve as he passed and trying to hold him back. “Jamie, ye canna—Ye CANNA catch her, she's—GONE—she’s—”

He shook her off, hard enough to knock her off-balance, and ran to the kitchen, shoving what food he could lay his hands on into his sack and moving straight to the door, so crazed with determination he could barely see what it was he took. Food didn’t matter. Fatigue, already tugging at him, didn’t matter. Claire was— 

“Jamie, she’s nearly a day ahead—” Jenny caught the handle just as he did, eyes absolutely wild. “Ye dinna even ken where she’s bound or—” 

He spared his sister one look, and let all the hate and contempt, the rage and the betrayal show there as he growled, “I ken precisely where she’s bound.” 

[xtruss]

Rohingya Hail UN Ruling that Myanmar Act to Prevent Genocide

— Mike Corder | January 23, 2020

THE HAGUE, Netherlands (AP) — The United Nations’ top court on Thursday ordered Myanmar to do all it can to prevent genocide against the Rohingya people, a ruling met by members of the Muslim minority with gratitude and relief but also some skepticism that the country’s rulers will fully comply.

The ruling by the International Court of Justice came despite appeals last month by Myanmar’s civilian leader Aung San Suu Kyi for the judges to drop the case amid her denials of genocide by the armed forces that once held the former pro-democracy champion under house arrest for 15 years.

Judge Abdulqawi Ahmed Yusuf, president of the court, said in his order that the Rohingya in Myanmar “remain extremely vulnerable.”

In a unanimous decision, the 17-judge panel added that its order for so-called provisional measures intended to protect the Rohingya is binding “and creates international legal obligations” on Myanmar.

U.N. Secretary-General Antonio Guterres welcomes the court’s order and “will promptly transmit the notice of the provisional measures” it ordered to the U.N. Security Council, U.N. spokesman Stephane Dujarric said.

Diplomats said the U.N.‘s most powerful body is not expected to take any action until it sees how Myanmar is implementing the court’s order.

While the court has no ability to enforce the orders, one international law expert said the ruling will strengthen other nations pressing for change in Myanmar.

“Thus far, it’s been states trying to put pressure on Myanmar or using their good offices or ... diplomatic pressure,” said Priya Pillai, head of the Asia Justice Coalition Secretariat. “Now, essentially for any state, there is legal leverage.”

The orders specifically refer to Rohingya still in Myanmar and thus did not look likely to have an immediate impact on more than 700,000 of them who have fled to neighboring Bangladesh in recent years to escape Myanmar’s brutal crackdown.

Even so, Yasmin Ullah, a Rohingya activist who lives in Vancouver and was in court for the decision, called it a historic ruling.

“Today, having the judges unanimously agree to the protection of Rohingya means so much to us because we’re now allowed to exist and it’s legally binding,” she told reporters on the steps of the court.

But asked if she believes Myanmar will comply, she replied: “I don’t think so.”

Myanmar’s legal team left the court without commenting. Later, its foreign ministry said in a statement that it took note of the ruling, but repeated its assertion that there has been no genocide against the Rohingya.

The court sought to safeguard evidence that could be used in future prosecutions, ordering Myanmar to “take effective measures to prevent the destruction and ensure the preservation of evidence related” to allegations of genocidal acts.

At the end of an hour-long session in the court’s wood-paneled Great Hall of Justice, judges also ordered Myanmar to report to them in four months on what measures the country has taken to comply with the order and then to report every six months as the case moves slowly through the world court.

“I think this is the court maybe being much more proactive and ... careful in acknowledging that this is a serious situation and there needs to be much more follow-up and monitoring by the court itself, which is which is quite unusual as well,” Pallai said.

Rogingya refugees living in camps in Bangladesh welcomed the order, which was even supported by a temporary judge appointed by Myanmar to be part of the panel.

“This is good news. We thank the court as it has reflected our hope for justice. The verdict proves that Myanmar has become a nation of torturers,” 39-year-old Abdul Jalil told The Associated Press by phone from Kutupalong camp in Cox’s Bazar.

However, he too expressed doubts that Myanmar would fully comply.

“Myanmar has become a notorious state. We do not have confidence in it,” Jalil said. “There is little chance that Myanmar will listen.”

Rights activists also welcomed the decision.

“The ICJ order to Myanmar to take concrete steps to prevent the genocide of the Rohingya is a landmark step to stop further atrocities against one of the world’s most persecuted people,” said Param-Preet Singh, associate international justice director of New York-based Human Rights Watch. “Concerned governments and U.N. bodies should now weigh in to ensure that the order is enforced as the genocide case moves forward.”

The world court order for what it calls provisional measures came in a case brought by the African nation of Gambia on behalf of an organization of Muslim nations that accuses Myanmar of genocide in its crackdown on the Rohingya.

The judges did not decide on the substance of the case, which will be debated in legal arguments likely to last years before a final ruling is issued. But their order to protect the Rohingya made clear they fear for ongoing attacks.

At public hearings last month, lawyers used maps, satellite images and graphic photos to detail what they called a campaign of murder, rape and destruction amounting to genocide perpetrated by Myanmar’s military.

The hearings drew intense scrutiny as Suu Kyi defended the campaign by her country’s military forces. Suu Kyi, who as Myanmar’s state counselor heads the government, was awarded the 1991 Nobel Peace Prize for championing democracy and human rights under Myanmar’s then-ruling junta.

Buddhist-majority Myanmar has long considered the Rohingya to be “Bengalis” from Bangladesh even though their families have lived in the country for generations. Nearly all have been denied citizenship since 1982, effectively rendering them stateless. They are also denied freedom of movement and other basic rights.

In August 2017, Myanmar’s military launched what it called a clearance campaign in northern Rakhine state in response to an attack by a Rohingya insurgent group. The campaign forced more than 700,000 Rohingya to flee to neighboring Bangladesh and led to accusations that security forces committed mass rapes and killings and burned thousands of homes.

Suu Kyi told world court judges in December that the exodus was a tragic consequence of the military’s response to “coordinated and comprehensive armed attacks” by Rohingya insurgents.

Thursday’s ruling came two days after an independent commission established by Myanmar’s government concluded there are reasons to believe security forces committed war crimes in counterinsurgency operations against the Rohingya, but that there is no evidence supporting charges that genocide was planned or carried out.

Phil Robertson, Human Rights Watch’s deputy Asia director, said the panel’s findings were “what would have been expected from a non-transparent investigation by a politically skewed set of commissioners working closely with the Myanmar government.”

At December’s public hearings, Paul Reichler, a lawyer for Gambia, cited a U.N. fact-finding mission report at hearings last month that said military “clearance operations” in Myanmar’s northern Rakhine state spared nobody. “Mothers, infants, pregnant women, the old and infirm. They all fell victim to this ruthless campaign,” he said.

Gambia’s Justice Minister Aboubacarr Tambadou urged the world court to act immediately and “tell Myanmar to stop these senseless killings, to stop these acts of barbarity that continue to shock our collective conscience, to stop this genocide of its own people.”

Anna Roberts, executive director of Burma Campaign UK, called the order “a major blow to Aung San Suu Kyi and her anti-Rohingya policies.”

She urged the international community to press her to enforce the court’s order.

“The chances of Aung San Suu Kyi implementing this ruling will be zero unless significant international pressure is applied,” Roberts said. “So far, the international community has not been willing to apply pressure on Aung San Suu Kyi over her own appalling record on human rights.”

[vulpixen]

Three Kids and a Baby (Platypus)

Word Count: 1509

Series: Camp Camp (webseries)

Relationships: David/Gwen/Jasper (hinted)

Characters: Max, Neil, Nikki, Cameron Campbell, Jasper, Gwen (mentioned), David (mentioned).

Summary: Max and friends start to see life being not so shitty as they thought to be, seeing where they find it.

A/N: I don’t own Camp Camp, I just really enjoy it. I should add that this is my first Camp Camp fic so bare with me if I get the personalities off or it's OOC. And I made this for fun and my own self-indulgence of wanting the baby platypus from Eggs Benefit to live and Jasper too, along with being in a relationship with David and Gwen. I may write more to continue this as this is a bit new to me with these characters. 

____________________________________________

Not a moment after Max tells his insightful message about parenting, the platypus egg in Nikki’s hands begins to move and crack, causing the girl to panic and on the verge of tears for how stressed she is concerning how to care for the egg.

“OH GOD! NOW IT’S BREAKING!”

Neil leans on the metal rail that was his over-protective shield for the egg he once had, now in awe of what’s occurring, “No! It’s hatching!”

Not a moment too soon, the egg hatches to reveal a little baby platypus, bright-eyed innocence leaving the children around it in awe, the baby animal letting out it’s first, “muack” noise. Hell, even Max couldn’t help but to genuinely smile as him and his friends utter, “Awwww…” in unison.

Cameron Campbell sighing in relief, “Finally, whew!” though more concern for the money he could earn selling off the remaining platypus, “Thanks to you kids, the prime minister of Thailand lives to see another day.”

Max and his friends weren’t concerned to what the founder said, the boy expressing, “Wow, Nikki. Thanks for getting us through this,” he holds the baby with Nikki, “You know, sometimes, life is beautiful.”

Suddenly, the mother platypus attempts to gobble up her own baby until Neil yanks the platypus by the tail, keeping her from getting to her baby, knowing how much of a little shit their mascot is.

“Get away from it, you bitch!” Neil throws the full grown platypus into the nearby lake, the platypus not giving a care and swims off.

Satisfied that another threat to his plans have been dealt with, Cameron extends his hand and politely asks, “Now kids, hand over the platypus so I can complete what I need to do.”

Nikki and Max frown, glancing over to the hatchling and then to the older man, asking, “Will they be alright? I mean, will they be cared for?”

Cameron just shrugs, not caring of the baby platypus will get raised right or not, “Hell if I know once they have it. Now please give me the platypus.”

Max couldn’t bare see the young platypus possibly go off to a place where it could end up neglected or worse, seeing himself in the infant animal. He gives Cameron a glare, holding the baby platypus close, “Fuck no! I’m not letting you take it away to be eaten or some messed up shit like that.”

Nikki and Neil both take Max’s side, having quickly grown attached to the platypus.

“It’s our baby!” Nikki hisses protectively, her mothering instincts kicking to a great level.

“Quick, into the shield!” Neil suggests, guiding his friends and the baby platypus into the metal barrier.

This did not settle well with Cameron, the older man close to dropping his facade smile as he knocks on the metal barrier, “Kids, do you really want the Minister of Thailand to--”

“Like we give any amount of shits about what you do!” Max yells back, “You’re not taking this baby and that’s final!” To the boy’s surprise, the other kids stood around the barrier, facing Cameron with their arms crossed and glares at the man, taking Max’s side for once.

Cameron reluctantly backs down, can’t be too bad in front of the campers as he bids, “Very well. That’s why you always have a plan B,” he raises his hand with a watch as he orders to an anonymous person on the other end, “Take out the body double.” Cameron then puts on a mustache and Russian hat while a large submarine rises from the lake’s waters near shore. He parts as if it were a slight threat, “None of you saw me here,” he then hops onto his submarine and leaves with a Russian way of saying goodbye, “Dasvidaniya, campers!” Cameron opens the hatch and jumps inside the sub, closing the door before descending into the water. As soon as he leaves, Neil deactivates the barrier with Max commenting.

“This wasn’t a waste of a Saturday after all,” the boy still smiling in the presence of the baby platypus. For once, Max actually feeling good after all his time in Camp Campbell thus far.

As Nikki gently removes the rest of the egg from underneath the baby platypus, she wonders, “What should we name it? I’m thinking something epic like Valkyrie!”

Neil raises a brow, “We don’t even know the gender yet.”

Max lets out a sigh, “Just give it a name, doesn’t matter if it’s a boy or girl. I think the name…” he eyes for something he can give an appropriate name for the young platypus, not exactly finding the right things they could name the infant but does suggest, “Flannel.”

“Flannel?” Nikki and Neil question in unison.

“Hey, it’s a name, alright? Flannel will be their name,” he smiles again at the baby platypus, the young animal making noises and mouthing on Nikki’s arm.

“I think Flannel’s hungry. What do we give a baby platypus? I don’t think normal milk will do,” Nikki pulls Flannel off her arm.

“We can ask either, Gwen, David or Jasper if they know,” Neil suggests.

“Alright… we’ll go ask them,” Max agrees, hoping the adults would know. At least they'll be good for something, he thinks.

Meanwhile in the Camp Counselor cabins...

Another baby platypus happily drinking the platypus milk formula by the hands of Jasper. The young man having made something to simulate how the baby would fed from its mother. Jasper raises his head when he hears knocking on the door, bringing the baby platypus with him as he answers, surprised to see Max, Neil and Nikki carrying a baby platypus, yet relieved that the egg didn’t break like all the others have. Damn Cameron for trusting a bunch of kids, who did not have prior knowledge or maturity, to be caring for an infant animal, Jasper thinks bitterly, having seen the founder for how awful he really is since his childhood.

“Why hey, campers! I see your egg has hatched. Thank God…” Jasper shows a small smile, “What can I help you with?”

Max and his friends sees the baby platypus in the young man’s arms, wondering how the hell did he get a baby platypus unless…

“Do you know how to feed a baby platypus?” Nikki holds up Flannel, “We don’t know exactly what to give it.”

“As a matter of fact, I’m feeding this little one a platypus formula that has the same nutrients as the mother’s milk. Come on in,” Jasper lets the three campers and their baby platypus inside the room where it’s 90’s inspired with a variety of colors that seem to pop out.

“Jasper what the hell is all this? It looks like the 90’s took a great big shit in here and it won’t leave…” Max comments, sitting on a nearby beanbag chair, not admitting it was comfy than the hard wooden chairs and logs regularly.

“So pretty…” Nikki was fascinated by the decorations of his memorabilia.

Jasper rolls his eyes with a small grin, having like how snide the camper is, knowing what it feels like to be in a place he doesn’t want to be. He mixes the formula and dips a clean rag into the mix, then giving it to Flannel for it to “nurse” from, “Say campers, I can help take care of Flannel while you all do your camp activities. Plus, Nurf Jr here can play with his sibling.”

“It makes sense that it was someone who wrote the letter and didn’t just “run away.”” Neil brings up, “Nurf is gonna shank you for taking the egg you know? But at least you’re waaaaay better than how he and Preston took care of it. Why did you do it?” Neil inquires while petting Flannel’s small head.

Jasper places Nurf Jr in his makeshift enclosure as he gives an honest explanation, “I care too much about animals since I was a boy. I couldn’t standby any longer to see another egg crushed, because of some moron making the kids do all the work,” he looks around for a moment to make sure no one else was around before saying, “I really, really hate Cameron Campbell and haven’t been fond of this camp for a long time.”

“Then why are you working here? Is it similar like how Gwen didn’t want to be here too?” Max asks, actually finding it interesting to hear Jasper show his discontent, even if it wasn’t telling from his neutral expression.

Jasper gives his reasons, wanting to be straightforward with the kids and no bullshitting them, blushing a bit before saying, “I agreed for David when he offered me the job. I was down on my luck, and felt empty in a sense, but I won’t go deep into that--”

“Good,” Max interrupts, but Jasper kept going much to the young man’s annoyance.

“I felt that I owed him since he saved my life twice when we were kids. Plus, I got to meet Gwen and… for all of your flaws, all of you kids are great. For the most part.”

[stumblingsbalderdash]

Clan Hunar

“The Korcari Wilds are a cold southern expanse of forest and swamp, the extent of which is not truly known. Its native to monsters such as giant swamp crabs, and Chasind Wilders who tell of a wasteland of snow and ice further to the south, filled only with desolate tundra and nomadic barbarians. Most northerners believe little of what the Chasind have to say.

The Wilds are also home to Flemeth, the legendary "Witch of the Wilds", and her daughters.

South of the Wilds itself lies the mysterious region known as the Sunless Lands.”

Lady Nightingale,

We have made contact with the Dalish Clan- Hunar in Korcari Wilds at the suggestion of Clan Humael’s representatives and Ambassador Josephine.

We expected  from Humael’s intel, a bad situation within the Hunar. We grossly underestimated , their social, economic, and political situations. The clan has a devastatingly high infant mortality rate. Odds for a healthy birth are  1 out 11 children. In addition, Mothers rarely survive the birthing process, leaving a disproportionate gap between men and women. Out of the few that survive childbirth, half of the infants die before the age of 10 from malnutrition or raids against the clan.

Furthermore, Hunar’s warriors and hunters average life expectancy is 30 to 32 years of age. They’re leader is called the Elder, is typically a warrior that has lived past the age of 40.  

Clan Hunar has no established Keeper or mages, the last magically inclined child was taken by Templar while the clan was under siege by Darkspawn, roughly 10 years ago. Since the removal of Mani Hunar’s younger brother, the clan has lost hope and superstitiously believes their gods are punishing them for an unknown crime. The lack of a Keeper has resulted in Huron’s unsophisticated medical care and extreme illiteracy.

 Furthermore, the clan’s Vallaslin is drastically different from other clans --the markings are harsh, crudely formed lines  or simple circular tattoos. When asked the village Elder informed us, the Hunar lacks the materials and traditional designs to complete the true dalish vallaslin .

The Hunar have appealed to other Dalish clans for assistance or a mage child to help relieve their medical issues. However, the other clans have decided that the Hunar region is too dangerous and unstable for assistance. The only clan providing relief is the Humael clan, however the travel between Ravain and the Wilds is dangerous and extremely difficult. As a result, political tension between the Hunar, Humael and other clans to factions.

We proceeded with caution, sending only our Dalish scouts in first, hoping to prevent the same results with our initial contact with the Lavellan clan. However our intial contact did not proceed well, Hunar hunters and their war dogs nearly killed one of our human spies-- they were unnaturally stealthy and seemed to have tracked our movements days before  we reached the outskirts of their camp. We were taken captive and treated with hostility until they discovered one of our scouts was a trained healer. Negotiations went smoothly after our healer attended their sickly and injured.

After careful observations, we discovered The Hunar clan is well known for it’s phalanx technique, wars dogs, and Ash/ Reaver warrior techniques.

Unlike the majority of peoples in Thedas, the Korcari Wilds is extremely hostile, recovery from blight and in constant chaos. The Hunar clan has lost much of it’s cultural background, suffered plague and sickness from The Fifth Blight. Despite the clans devastating loses, they have a wonderful appreciation for life-- I believe The Hunar clan cherishes life than most.

                              Physical Appearance of the Hunar Clan:

The Hunar clan are generally lanky, and emaciated ; the tallest member of the clan was about 5’ 6’’ . Their skin tones generally vary from light  to ebony and vallaslin are usually variations of burnt red, yellow, and forest greens. Their hair color varies from flaming red to soft browns and the eye color differs greatly from one to another. Uniquely, they all have some form of freckle on their faces, shoulders and ears.  Many of the clan’s children have swollen stomachs, lack of muscle development and are short in statures due to malanutrion. The adult are incredibly skinny, have multiple scars, and missing teeth because of the  lack of medical attention.

                                               Hunar Culture:

The first and most apparent difference between the Hunar clan and others we have contacted is the bond they form with their hunting dogs . The Hunar children start their training at age of 10 and are introduced to a litter of puppies in an elaborate ceremony. The Hunar’s Elder will present a child of age with a shield or dagger based on the children’s natural inclinations. If the child is presented with a shield, they begin their training as a warrior. If the child receives a ceremonial dagger, the child will be trained as hunter.

 Afterwards, the children are presented to the Dog Master and new puppies choose their elven companions. The Hunar hunting dogs are considered members of their family and clan protecting their homes and owners. The dogs are typically larger the Hunars and allow the elves to ride them. In addition, the dogs pull the clan’s araval and smaller wagons. They have appeared to replace traditional Dalish halla. 

Secondly, they often wear mismatching jewelry they steal or savage from towns outskirting The Wilds.  In addition, their clothes made from patched furs, buckskin  or leathers to help protect them from the cold climate. They often steal or slavage metals, daggers, or food from villages because they are unable to maintain trade with surrounding towns. The elves have elaborate shaved hairstyles and piercings which reflect their social standing.   

Overall, the Hunar clan is extremely anti-diplomatic and not friendly to any outsiders-- including the Dalish. Their culture is heavily influenced by constant war and poor living conditions. However after intense negotiations, they have agreed to help the Inquisition. The Elder is reluctant to send his people to the Inquisition however, they will send their finest warriors and hunters in trade for education and supplies. The Elder believes that education will help the clan survive even if it’s ‘a shemlen learnin’. 

Sincerely,

Bear