#no inheritable seasonal axe is safe from me

[lululeighsworld]

when your FEH Gunter harem which you started because Intsys wouldn't give your husband an alt becomes canon >:3cccccccc

https://www.tumblr.com/adayinthelife-feh/777458906056294400/comic-by-kitano-lirio

haha that's one of my favorite FEH strips. :D i'm pretty sure nintendo knows about @lululeighsworld's FEH Gunter harem and is nodding there. :P

[believemetheodore]

Northern Attitude pt. 4

Ted Lasso x Rebecca Welton

Divorce is hard. it doesn't matter if you're the one who got left, or you're the one doing the leaving. When an unexpected blizzard puts a dangerous twist in Ted's hiking adventures he's rescued by an axe-wielding, lumber-chopping, blonde angel. Oh, and there's only one bed.

Warnings: divorce mentions, mentions of Ted's dad, implied sex, let me know if you want me to add anything.

(Side note: this was supposed to be 3 chapters max. But now it's going to be 5. Apparently, I just have a lot of thoughts and feelings)

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In like a Lion, out like a lamb. The heavy winds and torrid icy weather fade quietly into a green spring. Rain becomes white noise beating against windows and rooftops. Ted wonders what the trees along the trails in the park must look like with their new leaves; how many new critters, and returning ducks must be enjoying the foliage and the defrosted lakes and rivers? 

He thinks about Rebecca daily. Hoping that she’s staying dry and warm as the new season’s downpours water the ground, and nature’s renewed life. 

Henry catches a cold in early April. A Saturday afternoon of splashing around in puddles and playing freeze-tag in the rain left him with sniffles and a chill. Ted makes soup from scratch, just like his mother used to make, and Henry seems content to watch movies on the couch in between bouts of sleep. The two of them end up missing the baseball game they were supposed to attend, but Ted couldn’t care less. 

“Can we watch it on the TV?” Henry asks. “Sure bud, so long as you think you’re going to be comfortable enough on the couch”. 

When his fever spikes, the boy curls up close to Ted’s side, his face buried against his chest. He can’t stand seeing Henry ill, but with his eyes shut, and his breathing slow and deep as he dreams, Ted remembers holding him when he was born. He recalls the promises he made to keep his little boy safe, to make sure he always feels loved.

There’s a guilt that creeps in; a sorry sort of feeling as he holds his son closer, guessing how much longer he’ll be able to take care of Henry in this way. Soon, he’ll be too tall to curl up next to him, too heavy for Ted to carry him up to his bed, too grown to want to seek out his comfort. 

He wonders if this might be the last time for all of those things. How many ‘last times’ have come and gone already, without either of them noticing? 

Ted doesn’t remember the last diaper he changed, or the last time he woke up at 3 am for an early morning feed. He struggles to recall the last time Henry asked to be picked up or the last time he needed a parent to give him a bath. 

His mother was always free with her affections; she still plants kisses on his cheeks and forehead when he goes to see her. His mom was always a hugger and never had a problem telling him she loved him. No matter how old he got, Ted was always her baby, as embarrassing as he found her adoration he understood it.

His dad talked a lot. There was never any mystery about Ted’s inherited loquacious nature. But, his father rarely shared his feelings. Ted can see now that while he never said anything, there was love in all his actions. 

Ted didn’t understand as a kid why his father asked him so many questions about his day. He couldn’t wrap his head around why his dad might care about what he learned at school, or what games he’d played with his friends after school. He never thought to care about why his dad was always the parent who volunteered to stay home when he was sick. 

He remembers being about Henry’s age, home sick from school, and feeling awful about his dad having to miss work. He worked so much and so often, Ted had always assumed he must’ve enjoyed his job, but when Ted cried as his father set down a plate of toast, and a glass of watered-down ginger ale for him he asked; “Why would I want to be anywhere else? You’re here?” 

Ted hadn’t had a good enough answer so he only shrugged. “Being your dad is the best job I could ever have,” he assured him before adding conspiratorially, “And between you and I, it’s nice getting to play hooky”. 

In memories of his father, Ted sees himself. So worried about being too much for others, never brave enough to actually wear his heart on his sleeve. He can hear the love his father gave him in his own laughter, and penchant for jokes. He feels his father’s fears when he looks at Henry, concerned that he’s failing to remember the tiniest of moments, perturbed by the prospect of missing the bigger moments too. 

. Ted knows he needs to do better in order to be better. He knows the best thing he can do is stop bottling everything up, he can’t take care of the people he loves if he doesn’t look after himself first. 

So, when his sleepless nights and restless days return, he books two weeks off of work, determined to return to the place he felt at peace, in the interest of collecting up the pieces of himself he’s allowed to fall by the wayside. 

He doesn’t know if Rebecca is still there, in her cabin in the woods, nor does it really matter. Every moment he had with her was more than enough if that’s all he gets. He’s made peace with that. This trip is for himself, he knows no one can fix him but himself. It wasn’t Michelle’s job, and it’s not Rebecca’s, but Ted knows that the days he spent hiking, and cozied up on Rebecca’s sofa made him want to be a finer version of himself. 

Beard had noticed in the day following his return to work his attempts to be kinder to himself, commenting on how it was about time Ted started taking some of his own advice. He felt more complete, somehow more whole, and far more centred than he had been in years, and he wants to feel that way again. 

The drive out of town is shadowed by thoughts of his father. Every dart game they played together, and the first one they never got to play together. His heart holds his rage, and his grief in equal measure. It feels an awful lot like fear when it claws its way out his throat, digging into his rib cage, and pressing on his lungs. 

He has to pull over. Choking on his own breaths.

Fathers and sons. They’ve written enough songs about it-- Ted wonders how many different forms the same type of guilt can take, and he can only hope he doesn’t pass it down to Henry. 

The park is unrecognizable from when Ted last wandered the trails. As he expected, the trees are all in bloom, bright green leaves leaving kaleidoscope shapes across the forest floor with the light shining above the canopies. The hills and valleys have become home to fresh bursts of tall grass, and sprawling plants. The chattering sounds of the birds and bugs prove to be a constant soundtrack for his hike up the first hill. 

His pack is lighter this trip, no heavy sweaters, or thermal pants to lug around. His knees and his back appreciate the lack of snow, each step he takes now feels half as heavy, and the same trek he took months ago takes half the time it did before. By noon, Ted passes the first cabin he stayed in previously. He stops to drink his water, and have a snack; stretching out his legs before resuming his journey. 

It’s raining now, but Ted doesn’t bother to stop to slip his raincoat on. The dirt turns to mud beneath his feet, and he only slows his pace to tread more carefully. He silently thanks the branches overhead for their natural umbrella, filtering the downpour into a drizzle for him. 

Rebecca’s cabin is harder to find now that the foliage is in it’s fullest state, but the puffs of chimney smoke serve as a beacon, leading his way off the gravel trails, and down the hill on beaten footpaths, carved out by repeated travel rather than official travel suggestions. 

When he climbs the steps up to the front porch, and knocks on the door, he gets no response. She isn’t home, and as the rain begins to fall harder in the small clearing he can only hope she’s dressed warmly, and keeping relatively dry. He settles on the top step, covered by the awning, watching the raindrops leave pockmarks on the softened ground. A chill runs up his spine as the wind blows and he hopes Rebecca will return soon. 

Ted knows what his mother would’ve told him about showing up at people’s homes unannounced, and a part of him feels dreadfully rude, but as the sun begins to set he finds his concern over Rebecca’s well-being is enough to override the fear of intrusion. 

He has no plans of making himself her guest again, he only wants to say thank you again, and visit the woman he’s decided to consider a friend. He’s packed his own food, and he knows where the guest cabins are. He’ll be off and on his way once she’s home. 

“Ted?” her voice shakes him from his drifting thoughts as she approaches, her slide of firewood trailing behind her. Her face is hidden by the hood of her black and white raincoat, but he grins at the sight of her baby pink rainboots. 

He’s down the steps without thinking, helping her load the wood into the shed next to the house. 

“What are you doing here?” She asks, slipping off her hood to get a better look at him. “The four seasons aren't just a cool band or a swanky hotel chain. I had winter all checked off. Thought it might be fun to collect the other three”.

“I can’t believe you came back,” she’s smiling, though there are tears in her eyes when she pulls him into a tight hug. He’s sure it’s more than just the joy of seeing him that’s got her tearing up. But, he doesn’t ask, he just holds her closer. 

“We should get inside before one of us catches a cold,” She states, pulling away, and nodding her head towards the door. 

The cabin is cozier than the last time he saw it if that’s even possible. The fire needs to be stoked, but still casts its shimmering orange light. He takes it in as they slip out of muddied boots, and drenched outer layers. 

She’s hung artwork on the walls, wildflowers, and butterflies in lifelike watercolour studies. The throw pillows, and blankets on the couch have changed too. Plusher fabrics, even more pastels, and fun colours liven up the space. But the brightest thing in the room, without a doubt, is her. 

Rebecca’s hair curls at odd, uneven angles, and sticks to her cheeks and forehead in its damp state. Her cheeks are pink from the wind and the cold spring rain, and she is an absolute vision. Prettier than he could’ve remembered her, and if the sparkle in her eye, and her Cheshire grin are anything to go by, she’s happy. 

“I’m sorry,” he tells her. “I usually don’t show up places without an invite--”. “It’s okay,” She cuts him off, “I’m glad you’re here”. 

“I didn’t come empty-handed though!” She watches silently, bemused, as he shuffles through his bag before digging out a plastic food container, with a small pink box inside. He hands it to her. 

“What is this?” “Take a peak,” he encourages, eyes wide and buzzing with excitement. 

Biscuits. He made her biscuits. It was the least he could do. 

She takes a bite, and he watches her enjoy herself. 

“Is there anything better than a food that makes you feel all warm and snuggly inside?” he wonders aloud. 

She shakes her head in response, setting the box down on her kitchen counter, 

“Ted?”

“Mhmm?” She stands in front of him now, closer than she was before. Her hand brushes his elbow, moving up to rest on his chest between them. “I think you should kiss me”. “Great minds think alike,” it’s not difficult for him to agree; his left hand is warm against her wind-chilled skin when he leans in to kiss her.

[tanadrin]

Hacru and Igran

A short episode common to all Chronicle rescensions, but fullest (as usual) in the Kelrus tradition. Scholars remain divided over its historicity, with the traditional view being that it is part of the elaborative folklore intended to legitimize the connection between the Second Monarchy and the First; and a newer perspective emphasizing textual evidence for a non-Lende source, and potentially testament to an authentic Utunnarese original. Has no parallel in the Short Chronicles, which notes only that Edrun and Eshe “came out of the South when they were full-grown.”

--Czayin Sjo, The Lende Chronicle-Tradition: A Critical Review

Wᴇ ʜᴀ��ᴇ ʜᴇᴀʀᴅ how Tavar, son of Dinel and heir of Athlost, rose to become the greatest warrior Lende had ever known; and his love for Anara endured even as he was seperated from her by the irresistible course of fate. And while Anara remained in Gaaizetsol, Tavar went far abroad. He made war against the cities of the south that had harried and burned the homes of Eleras’ people, and he was thought lost in the great slaughter there. Yet he survived and was captured, and languished in the dungeons of Rashur of Utunnar, until he killed that fearsome king and supplanted him, and in time he returned to Lende a conqueror, bearing with him Elonacos, the Sword of Destruction.

While Tavar dwelt in exile, he had a daughter with Edrea, daughter of Cershan, a warrior of the hillfolk. Edrea died at the gates of Utunnar on the ill-fated day that Tavar was imprisoned, but her daughter was safe, hidden among her mother’s people. When Tavar came to rule in Utunnar, he brought Erea, his child, to the city, and raised her there; and she was often looked after by Onaru, a warrior of the Narjetsu, and Tavar’s friend. And before Tavar departed Gaaizetsol, he said to Onaru, “A long journey lies ahead of me, and the road is dark; and I cannot see how I will fare at its end. If I shall die, Erea will be my heir, and you must remain to watch over her, and be her guide in the years to come. For if, by the Goddess’ mercy, my wisdom provides well for me, I guess the years to come will be full of hardship for this land, and she shall have need of wise counsel.” And Onaru agreed to remain behind, though his heart was heavy. When a year had gone, the Narjetsu returned, and Tavar was not with them; his axe and his helm, crowned with a band of gold, were brought back to that city, but his bones rested in a grave far away.

Onaru was wise and good, and he raised Erea well; and for her counsellors and companions she had her father’s friends and fellow-soldiers, the Narjetsu; for in the long years of their exile in the hills and heath, and their imprisonment in the dungeons of Utunnar, and the suffering and loss they had endured, their spirits were changed as much as their homeland, and because of the memory of grief they could not remain in Lende. They married in Utunnar, and they introduced the worship of Kiata, and forbade the cruelest practices of the ancient cults; and Onaru they named regent, until Erea should come of age; and under Onaru, many of the laws of that city were reformed.

And when Erea was sixteen, it was decided she should inherit the full authority of her father. A great festival was held to celebrate the accession of the new Queen, and the people filled the streets and plazas of the city, and for four days and nights there was feasting and celebration. On the fourth night, Erea went to the great arena in the middle of the city and stood before her people, and there many saw her for the first time. They hailed her thrice, and shouted “Long live the Queen of Utunnar!” and beseeched Kiata and their own gods for many blessings upon her; and they said she was the true image of her father, dark-skinned and fierce-eyed. Onaru was there, and cheered Erea with the crowd; and there was also one there named Hacru, a little younger than Erea, whose father had been a comrade-in-arms of Onaru and Tavar, and whose mother was born in Utunnar. And when Hacru first saw Erea, his voice was silenced and he stood for a while as one transfixed; and Erea saw him from the dais where she stood, and for the first time fell in love. There was also a man there named Igran, a child of the old lords of Utunnar, whose father had been mighty under Rashur, but disfavored under Tavar, and those who had succeeded him. Igran had the fire of the old lords in his spirit, and it burned in his throat when he first saw Erea, the proud and beautiful. Whether that can be called love, no tale tells; but that night Igran went to the fane of the old gods, which now was often empty, and where once many sacrifices had been heaped before the pyre; and he vowed in that bloody place that he would obtain her love though skies and hills all stood against him. He was alone there, but his vow did not pass unheard; and from that night, his fate was known to the Weaver.

And when Athlost died, the steward of Narsaane made the journey to Utunnar, and bowed before Erea, and named her a lord of that company; for during his years of war in the south, Tavar had been chosen Athlost’s heir, and that right had now passed to Erea. So Erea was known sometimes to travel the long leagues between Narsaane and Utunnar; and she would walk sometimes in the gardens of Narsaane, where Tavar and Anara had passed their first and happiest days together. But now those gardens were bare, and bore neither flowers nor fruit, nor had they since the day when Anara had passed away, except when Erea came to them. And if she remained for a time in Narsaane, the gardens would flower again; but they always withered and became barren in the days following her departure.

And it is said that when Erea went to Gaaizetsol, the hounds of the city bayed at her approach, calling out in eager greeting; and when she went out, they howled and their voices filled the streets of the city, mourning at her departure. So she was also called the Queen of Hounds, for no other could command the loyalty of Harud’s children.

Utunnar waxed in riches and joy under Erea’s rule. Hacru became a warrior in Erea’s service; and so long as they lived, the Narjetsu patrolled the marchlands, driving away wild beasts and foes, until they were gray and old. Even still, their determination never wavered, and it was often that they found their end stalking the fields and heathlands, and not at home; and for a long time after the last of them had passed away, they say, dark ghosts in armor watched the borders, and suffered no enemy to approach.

In time, Hacru was named Marshal of Utunnar, leader in war; and in those days, the warlords of the south began to grow restless, and sometimes fought with Utunnar. Hacru and his soldiers went to and fro on the marklands, often having occasion to drive back an enemy band; and often Hacru returned to Utunnar, to stand by Erea’s side, but he never stayed there long. And Erea desired that Hacru should remain with her, that they should marry; but Hacru said to her, “Queen of Hounds, I am your most faithful dog, and I will be ever at your side when you call for me. But I beg you, do not cage me up like a lap-dog or a pet, but let me run free, to hunt down your enemies and guard your kingdom against the beasts of the wilderness.” And Erea grieved at this, but she would not command Hacru to stay; and always after he had dwelt in Utunnar a little while, she would wake to find him gone from the city, once more riding on open fields. And Igran, seeing this, endeavored to become one of Erea’s most trusted advisors, eventually becoming chief among them; and they became fast friends. But though Hacru often tarried in the outlands, and Erea often was alone, to Igran’s sorrow her love was constant, and for Hacru alone.

It happened one year that the people of Arvrechu, far in the north, waged war on the Empire of Lende, and the same year, the Telcuth came up from the south, over the hills, and invaded the lands around Utunnar. Lende could send no aid to its ally, and against the Telcuth Hacru and the soldiers of Utunnar went alone.

For a season, the war went badly. The hill-folk were driven from their homes, and the Telcuth came in ever-increasing numbers, burning as they went; and they took land in the hills, and it seemed they intended to supplant the people of Utunnar in that region. When they made treaties, they would soon abandon them, following no oaths except those between themselves; and though they were led by many chieftains and many kings, there was a great alliance between them, which never wavered. For all Hacru’s bravery, he could not hold the advance of the Telcuth forever, and the onslaught did not begin to lessen until winter came. As he heard of Hacru’s deeds, Igran’s envy lessened, and he respected Hacru more. Then Erea called Hacru back to Utunnar, and held a great war-council with Igran and all the leaders of the city and the hill-folk.

In time it had seemed to Igran that because of Hacru’s wild wanderings, Erea’s heart might be gently persuaded that she would have better happiness with Igran; and Hacru, for his part, might thus be freed to find love with someone who loved to wander as he did. Igran had hope that Erea might turn to him in her loneliness, that love would grow between them in time, and his sorrow be turned to happiness. But when Hacru returned to Utunnar, Igran saw how she ran to him and embraced him, weeping tears of joy. And for his part, Igran, too, wept, later and alone: he sobbed and shuddered, and cried out for Kiata to take his love from him, because what had once been a little thing of joy had now become a terrible fire which burned him from within, and fenced him in all around, and all he desired now was a forgetting or an end. But he had neither, and with time, his sorrow turned bitter and became black within him. And he envied Hacru.

When winter broke, Hacru and Igran departed for the hills together, to bring one last contest to the Telcuta, though a mood of despair lay over them. Through bold plans, they made the enemy pay a heavy price in blood for every step they advanced, but they could not defeat them; and while the Telcuth pressed onward, Igran schemed in his heart against Hacru. Now in Utunnar, Erea heard news of the ill fortunes her soldiers had in war; and at last, she took Tavar’s axe, and giving it to her swiftest messenger, said to him, “Now the hour of our fate draws near, and Utunnar will be burned or saved. Go to the Judges in Gaaizetsol, and say, ‘If the name of Tavar and the house of Narsaane be held in any respect in Lende, at last you must grant us aid.’” In Gaaizetsol the weapon was received, and the Judges heard Erea’s request, and they sent a company south with the axe again; but the messenger who returned to bear this news was waylaid in the wilderness and killed, and in Utunnar, Erea and her counsellors despaired.

Now the Telcuth came to Zauran, a valley where three rivers came down from the Arduinn Mountains and met in a great cataract, high and mighty, nearly like the falls of Gaaizetsol itself. There, even as Hacru and Igran schemed against the Telcuth, Igran laid a plan against Hacru. Utunnar’s soldiers made camp at the high end of the valley, where rocks and cliffs protected them, and Hacru went at the head of a force to harry the vanguard of their enemy, and to keep the way out of the valley open. The plan was that Hacru should draw out the enemy at the leading edge, diffusing them; and when he sounded his horn, Igran should come with the rest of his warriors to destroy the divided enemy among the rocks and trees; then Hacru and his soldiers would ride to safety.

For two days, Hacru struck at the enemy, then quickly retreated into the rough land that crowned the valley-walls, and for two days the Telcuth remained resolved. But on the third day, the captain of the Telcuth vanguard grew impatient, and was determined to destroy Hacru’s small force, and divided his own force to drive them out into the open; and Hacru retreated toward the head of the valley. But Hacru found he was cut off from the camp, held hard against the swift-flowing river, so he blew a sharp call with his horn, which echoed through the valley. Yet there was no sound of answer; and he blew again, and there was no call even as the last echoes faded among the hilltops; and he blew a third time, and was met only by silence. And Hacru grew enraged, and cursed Igran, and vowed Erea should learn of his treachery, and that he should have no joy for the rest of his days; but the enemy fell on him and killed him, and hacked his body and threw it into the river. And Igran, from the heights, watched the assault on Hacru’s company, and at last let loose the counterattack; and the Telcuth vanguard was destroyed; but the attack was costly for the delay, and many soldiers of Utunnar died. Igran and the rest of the army thus escaped from Zaran, and the Telcuth were kept from crossing into the land beyond for a little while; but Igran was ill at ease.

Now though they had been halted at Zaran, the Telcutha were determined, and in their anger at defeat, they prepared an assault on Utunnar itself; and it seemed to the defenders that they might resist that attack a long time, but that they would fall in the end, and their people be destroyed. But even as the armies of the Telcuth approached the city, the Marshal of Lende came down out of the north; and the army of Lende joined with the army of Utunnar, and they drove the Telcuth off. Their army was dispersed, and they retreated to the hills; and there was little desire among the Telcuth to challenge Utunnar after that. In the seasons that followed, many sought other lands, and those that remained gave up their raiding.

After the battle, Tavar’s axe was returned to his people; and the Marshal said to Erea, “For a blade the debt of a blade is owed; and so long as Utunnar is ruled by the children of Lende, it shall have an ally in the north.” Igran returned amidst praise for his bravery, and Erea wept for Hacru. And when seven days had passed, Igran went to Erea, and said to her and spoke soft words of comfort; and said that he mourned Hacru as well, and that he hoped his name would be remembered in Utunnar so long as the city stood. And even as Erea made to answer, Hacru appeared beside them. His face was white with death and his flesh swollen by water which dripped from his clothes; and his armor was cut, and his body, too, and arrows and the blades of knives still stuck in him; and his sword was broken, and hung loosely in his hand. And he said,

“Igran! Battle-brother; betrayer now, you fed me to foes at the flowing river and their bloody blades bit my flesh. Sky you named, and soil, your witness, a my flesh to harry, my heart to plunder But in the stream my sorrow the spirits heeded, And bore me up, to bring her word.”

And then Hacru vanished, leaving a pool of water on the floor of the hall. At this, Erea wept bitterly, both for Hacru’s death and Igran’s betrayal, and she ordered Igran taken away. But she did not command his death. Rather, she decreed he should be exiled from the city, and should henceforth fight for her on the marchlands, a replacement for her most faithful follower; and she said, “My anger is boundless, my grief without limit. Yet you are not unlike my own father, who loved unwisely, even to a blood-soaked end. For his memory, and after the example of his mercy, I will restrain my wrath. Redeem yourself in time, if you can.” And for the rest of his life, Igran grieved at the things he had done; and although he fought for Utunnar until his dying day, he never held himself redeemed. Indeed, he lived long, and he died in battle, never having looked on his home again; and in Hacru’s curse was truth, for they say he never again knew joy.

That summer, Erea gave birth to three daughters together, Hacru’s children. They were Elea, Edrun, and Eshe. When her daughters were twenty years of age, she gave up the rule of the city and went to live among her mother’s people. To Elea she gave the governance of Utunnar; Edrun she sent to hold her seat at Narsaane; and to Eshe, who was a warrior like her father had been, she gave as her birthright the axe Itorclan, the breaker blade, and the bow Corthacor, which is Skysplitter. She died soon after of the wasting-sickness common to her father’s kindred, and Hacru’s name was in her final breath; and she was remembered always as Erea the Wise, Queen of Hounds, and Lord of Narsaane.

[imhereforbvcky]

Watch Me Run - Part 12

Masterlist  -  Series Masterpage  -  Part 13

Summary: You inherit a family relic that gives you the gift of foresight but there are others who are interested for more nefarious reasons. You turn to the Avengers for help. (Bucky x reader) Chapter: Needing a sense of security, you ask Bucky to help you prepare to defend yourself against the worst case scenario. Loki grows frustrated with tactical.

Warnings: Murdery violence! Loki at his worst, soz. Swearing, as per usz.

Word Count: 2985

A/N: We’re moving a little! Bucket and the reader don’t know that... well okay nobody knows it yet. Except for me. 😁

Page after page of nothing flashed over the grainy screen. An inquisitive porcupine, several returning deer, and what Bucky guessed were passing birds, too quick for the trail cam to catch. These were the only things to interrupt the sea of trees. He thumbed through shot after shot, carefully examining each one, just to be sure. It had been weeks of the same.

“This isn’t a very exciting movie,” you teased, hovering over his shoulder.

He smirked, but didn’t respond, clicking over to the next image.

“I don’t see anything,” you complained.

“Probably a bird.”

“Or a bear!” you clapped your hands excitedly. “Are there polar bears up here? Maybe you just can’t see him!”

“I’d see him.”

“Somebody’s sure of himself.”

“I was a sniper,” he leveled you with a look half bored, half offended. “I think I could spot an eight hundred pound animal.”

“Then why are we eating re-hydrated beef out of a bag?” You held your sleeve of beef stroganoff, designed for backpackers, toward him with a challenging smirk.

“Because it’s too early in the season to shoot anything but rabbits.” He snatched the sleeve out of your hands and shoveled a spoonful into his mouth. “And they’re not worth the energy.”

“But it could be something to do!” you protested, “And useful! One less trip into town where we could be spotted.”

He only sighed, handing you back the sleeve of stroganoff before returning to the trail cam. You’d had this argument before. Many times. You had begged him to let you practice shooting with his weapons, to get comfortable with them, just in case. He had firmly denied your request, every time.

“Come on!” you begged. “We have nothing else to do, and it’ll be good for me to practice.”

“No.” His answer was definitive.

But you were persistent.

“Please, it will make me feel safer.”

“We’ve talked about this.”

“No, you’ve steam-rolled me about this.” You dropped the bag of noodles on the table and pushed closed fists into your hips.

If he weren’t so serious about this topic, he might’ve laughed. You reminded him so much of Steve sometimes. Small and stubborn. Passionate and compassionate.

“Alright,” he set the camera down and turned to face you, elbows on his knees, hands loosely clasped in front of him. “Talk.” He had no intention of changing his mind. But if you needed to talk it out… again… maybe this time it would stick.

That surprised you. Your head tipped, and your chin lifted. A small victory, or so you thought, so you dropped into the nearest chair, dragging it close, until your knees nearly touched.

“I feel vulnerable out here.”

“You’re not. I told you, you’re safe. How many times—“

“I know,” you placed a hand on his clasped pair. “I know you’re good at this. I’m not questioning that. It’s just… I had to give up everything. I’m out of my element, here. The one thing I do have,” you placed a hand over the talisman hanging at your chest, “Is just as confusing and frightening to me as it is helpful.”

Bucky listened. He hadn’t expected to be swayed, but this… he could understand. Even if the outcome couldn’t change.

“You’re always saying how the escape plan could save me. Being prepared, having control, right? It’s so important to you?” you pushed, begging him to understand. “Well I feel very, very out of control here.”

Bucky leaned back, a frown creasing his face. “I’m sorry. I hear you, but it’s still not a good idea. The answer’s no.”

“You have the ability to give me some power over this situation. Don’t you feel… I don’t know, morally obligated to help me?”

He sighed deeply and shook his head. “Not everyone is as bound to their compassion as you are.”

“The world would be a lot nicer place if they were,” you grumbled, crossing your arms and flopping back in your chair.

“The world is not a nice place.”

“Come on,” you begged. “You brought all those weapons, just show me one! What if something goes wrong and—“

“It won’t.”

Your head dropped to the side with a frown. “Bucky. You can’t plan for everything. There’s a difference between being prepared and being a control freak. That difference is called denial.”

“Yes,” he agreed. “I’m in control here. I’ve brought every weapon I think I’ll need to keep you safe and I won’t turn you into one of them just to make you feel better.” Bucky had gone from listening but firm, to deadly serious. “If anyone comes for you, they’ll be well-trained. Years of it. Training you to shoot would be… false confidence. Irresponsible.”

“Okay,” you nodded, relenting under the intensity of his command and wilting slightly with the reality of your peril. “I got it.”

“Your only job is to get the hell out of here, do you understand? I can’t have you second guessing that plan just because you can hold a revolver.”

“I said I got it,” you grumbled, springing from your chair and storming to the porch for air.

Bucky’s head dropped into his hands and he shoved them deep into his hair once you’d left the cabin. He could still see you through the window, kicking at weeds as you made your way over to the pile of firewood.

If he didn’t feel like such an ass, he might’ve laughed at the sight of you. Your frustration was futile against his will, but he heard it with empathy, nonetheless. The little ax stuck in the first log you’d struck while trying to break off kindling to blow off steam. The jerky imprecision told him your actions were more frustration than actual concern for the fire supply.

He knew he shouldn’t have snapped like that. He’d meant every word, but he hadn’t meant to anger you like this, to seem insensitive. It was just that he’d begun to break protocol in ways he couldn’t seem to get a handle on. There was a nearly imperceptible shift, a softening in the way he regarded you. Hell, even the fact that he was second guessing the conversation stood as clear evidence of that.

It made him want to dig his heels in wherever he could. None of it helped.

In any other circumstance, it wouldn’t matter. But this was a mission, an assignment. And he had a clear path. Only, it was getting harder and harder to think of you driving away. Yet if it came down to it, he needed you to do just that. Or worse.

“Damn it,” he cursed, shoving to his feet.

Nothing good could come of this. Nothing.

The logical, successful fugitive part of his brain told him it was better if you were afraid. It meant you would be more aware, you would follow the plan, you would run. But another part knew it wasn’t fair to keep you vulnerable and constantly fearful. The latter won out because there was a voice in his head that kept reminding him that he didn’t want you to fear one good god damn thing.

The longer he stayed in that cabin, watching you flail around with an axe stuck into a log, the louder that voice grew. When he caught himself smiling, a chuckle just punching out of his lungs, he decided.

He swept out the door with a shotgun in hand and a determined frown on his lips.

“Let’s go.”

The hundred year old brick trembled beneath the growing strength of the energy blistering from the blue mineral at the center of the long silver scepter.  Slender fingers tightened around the cool metal as a snarl rippled up Loki’s throat. One sharp and aimless slash of the scepter diagonally before his body and the wall before him gave way in a ripple of blue energy.

The soft whisper of paper over the dirtied, hard wood floor drew Loki’s attention. And his anger.

“How many more?” he demanded, glaring over his shoulder at the woman trembling in the doorway.

Wide eyes roved over the mess Loki had made of the house, wild with terror and watery with regret. Her mouth hung open, while her chin trembled. If not for the shock, she would have been wise enough to answer.

“HOW MANY MORE?!” This time his voice was like an avalanche, a rumble that built as loud as thunder, tone as sharp as ice and just as cold. As he shouted he struck the base of the scepter against the floor and a wave of blue energy snapped out in a plane across the house. It creaked and groaned under the force, in the same way a frozen lake snaps and buckles in springtime.

“Th-this was the last one.” The engineer trembled as dry-wall dust fell around her, and the mortar cracked overhead. The entire house and everything in it trembled under his rage.

Loki took a slow deep breath in through his nose, face rising away from the puppet who’d failed him. The shimmering blue had left her eyes, his control relinquished when he realized this was the final dead end. Now composed, he stepped toward her with a deadly calm and a dangerously slow pace. Anger would not serve him here, not anymore.

“The last one,” he echoed her words, reaching for the badge clipped to her belt on a retractable coil. “And they’re not here.”

She shook her head, watching, unable to speak. Her breath came in sharp, frantic puffs while he drew the small clear plastic card closer, examining the bright red lettering. Stark Industries.

“And you’re sure your code was successful?” his tone was gentle, almost soothing. It did nothing to calm her.

She swallowed thickly before answering. “Y-yes. These are all the safe houses in Avengers’ possession. And SHIELD’s. And anything that was even mentioned on the Stark Industries servers.”

“And yet,” he raised a flattened palm, glancing around the room. “Empty.”

“I did everything I could,” she breathed, stumbling half a step back. “Everything you asked.”

“I know,” he smiled. The venom flashed in his eyes and soured his grin to a sinister bite. It made the woman’s stomach churn. “But you’ve failed. And now, you have no use to me. Worse yet, you’ve become a liability.”

Before she could even inhale a breath in protest, Loki conjured a long slender dagger, spun it quickly in his fist and plunged it with inhuman force deep between bone. He had struck quickly and precisely, with enough force to break through the cartilage of her rib-cage and dive straight into the sinewy muscles of her heart.

The engineer blinked down at the blade protruding from her chest. It wasn’t until he withdrew the darkened knife that she gasped, gurgling and wet, choking on death itself before it swiftly claimed her.

Loki was cunning and patient, but he was also a warrior. And when his patience ran thin, he knew where to strike. He’d hoped with a swift strike, he could avoid an all-out war with Midguard and its Avengers. That no longer seemed possible.

With a sharp sigh and a scowl on his lips, Loki took one last glance at the rubble before he set off, once more, for the heart of his operation.

“Bullseye!” you shouted. “That was a bullseye, right?”

Bucky could hear the smile in your voice. He could feel it on him like a warm candle in the cold northern air.

“High,” he answered, a grin of his own turning his lips, his eyes still pressed to the binoculars.

“What! No way. Lemme see!”

“Is the safety on?” His tone a clear warning that he knew it wasn’t.

You flipped the small notch and turned to him again. “Is now! Let’s see!”

He chuckled and handed the binoculars over. You pressed a clumsy hand against your hair, pushing it out of the way. It fell right back into place. Without thinking, Bucky reached forward and held a strand back just as you swept the binoculars into place.

First, he wondered if you’d noticed. Second he wondered why the hell he’d done it. Third, he wondered, when it had become so easy to reach out like this. At what point had he become so damn comfortable that it seemed normal to touch your hair or brush your cheek?

It suddenly felt too intimate, and he retracted his hand, nearly took a step back. Your head swiveled at the motion, just a fraction, and he flushed with regret. Whether he regretted the touch or the withdrawal, he couldn’t say.

“It’s the gun,” you decided. “It’s gotta be a hundred years old.”

“That weapon is in perfect condition.” He held his hands out for the binoculars, with an open palm. In it, he held a new round. An even exchange. “Try again. Aim for the bottom of the second ring this time.”

You took the ammunition and sighed, turning the weapon sideways to load it. Like every time, you mentally walked yourself through each of Bucky’s instructions.

“This is a single barrel shotgun,” he’d explained days before. “You need to load it every time you shoot.”

You’d nodded, trying to absorb every detail he shared.

“We’re using slugs for practice because I want you to focus on aim,” he’d reached into his pocket and showed you the thick green casing, tipped by what looked to you like a huge rounded bullet.

Another nod. “’Kay.”

He’d shoved the slug back in his pocket and reached into another. “But if you have to use this on somebody to protect yourself,” he turned out a bright red shell this time. “I want you to use buck shot.”

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry and tight.

“You’re gonna be nervous and full of adrenaline,” he’d explained. “I don’t expect you to be a marksman, and this’ll get the job done. If it doesn’t kill ‘em, it’ll sure as hell slow ‘em down. Understand?”

You’d taken a shaky breath then and nodded, eyes on the shot in his hand and trying not to imagine too vividly the bloody array it signified. “Red for trouble. Got it.”

Now though, you gently, steadily pushed the forest green slug into the oblong slot on the gun. These unfamiliar motions of violence were becoming easier by the day. But then again, you were only shooting at paper.

“This time I’ll hit it.” You grinned up at Bucky, half a taunt on your lips as you gripped the pump and pulled. The unmistakable swoosh-kerchunk alerted you both that you’d loaded and cocked the weapon properly.

“It’s loaded now,” Bucky had explained to you the first time ‘round.

“It sounds like a movie,” you’d whispered. Half awe, half horror.

“This is not a movie,” he’d been quick to contradict.

“I know.”

“It’s not a game or a dream,” sharp grey eyes bore down on you. “That is the international ‘back the fuck up’ sound. You load this weapon, you’d better be ready to fire it.”

You couldn’t have helped laughing if you’d wanted to. You’d been so high strung, and it was just too much.

“That was very dramatic.”

He’d merely shrugged. “Few sounds will light a fire under someone’s ass quicker than a pump-action shotgun. One way or another.”

“Wow.”

“What?”

“You are such a soldier.” There was a scowl in your eyes but a smirk on your lips. Teasing, but truthful. “You gonna make me do push-ups next?”

He’d chuckled, but shook his head. He looked serious and a little sad when he looked down at you again. “You asked me to teach you to shoot so you’d feel ready to defend yourself. Drawing a gun takes a conversation in exactly one direction. You need to be prepared for that. If it comes down to you loading that weapon while we’re here, you shoot to kill. And then you run.”

Run. That was still your best shot if things went south. Turn your back and run.

You hated it. For all the power you held in your hands, deadly and loud, you still felt powerless in a battle of gods.

This time, after days of practice, you did as Bucky said and aligned your aim just low of the center ring. It felt odd, to aim off-target, but you trusted him.

Just like he’d instructed, you gently squeezed the trigger on a smoothly released breath. Your shoulder ached now from the repeated buck of the stock against the blast.

“Better,” Bucky praised, lowering the binoculars and offering them to you. This time, you remembered the safety.

“Ish,” you complained.

He chuckled. “Hit the paper this time.”

“Is that going to be good enough?”

His smile froze for a fraction of a second before it faded. The storm returned to the grey of his eyes.

He gave a sharp nod to the binoculars in your hand before withdrawing a handful of slugs. You watched him for too long. Before you could think to raise the binoculars he’d pushed a slug into the slot and braced the rifle to his shoulder.

One round.

You got the hint and put the binoculars to your eyes to look down the make-shift range. Upper left corner.

“Ha!” you taunted, but he’d already reloaded. “Told you the gun’s no good.”

Two. Dead center.

Oh.

Three. Bottom right.

Four. Upper right.

“Okay, I get it.” You rolled your eyes.

Five. Dead center. The shot lay so tight over his second that you could barely tell the paper had been blown open wider. Just barely.

Six. Bottom left. A perfect X fired into the paper.

You threw up your hands in defeat. “Fine, you win. Gun’s fine. I’m not a good shot.”

He carefully set the shotgun down and looked to you with that unwavering certainty that nearly had you believing everything would all be alright. “You don’t have to be.”

Part 13 >>

[kaorei-endgame]

Ranking of Resident Evil save room themes?

I got my first latte of the season, it’s chilly enough to wear pants indoors, #Streamtober started yesterday. LET’S DO THIS, NICK. >:O 

17. Resident Evil 6 Chapter Ends, All Characters: Back to the cabbage patch. None of you are valid, with your Netflix Original knock-off of some ABC knock-off of 24-ass soundtrack. Go suck a giraffe’s dick with an Ada clone, Jake Muller.

16. Resident Evil, Deadly Silence: What is this Resident Evil for Babiez? Nintendogz+ResidentEvilz? Imagine listening to this on the crappy DS speakers. Wasn’t there something creepy about Jill’s costume in this game, like you could tear pieces of it off, or am I just conjuring fall memories and combining them with how they went out of the way to add boob bounce to the REmake 15 years after the fact, and now Jill’s boobs on PS4 undulate languidly beneath her shirt like a pair of Dragon Quest Slimes yearning to be free. This track: aural despair, unleavened. A way to quickly induce nausea in dogs who have eaten chocolate or raisins.

15. Resident Evil 6, Ada Chapter End: Well, okay, this one is all right. The first fifteen seconds feel like a HiFi version of a track from those Playstation 1 top-down shooters where you played a murder clown or a pyro guy escaping a space prison where you were held for crimes you definitely DID commit. The little background jog kicks in soon after and look, I’m a soft sell for ululation, what can I say.** But it just all just serves to stir memories like embers finally gone to smolder beneath the fireplace ash, stoking them after all these years, reminding me what a weird psycho they turned Ada into in this game. I like reflecting on how people got so mad about there not being co-op in Ada’s campaign that Capcom patched in a partner but his name is like “TeamMate” or “Buddy” and he has no lines of dialogue and is never addressed in the story in any way and thus is either a figment of Ada’s imagination or he’s a real dude who’s just pretty quiet and ultimately drowned on that sub? Well, I guess life’s tough if you’re the (potentially imagination) friend of an ex-spy turned pod person.

**(i contacted my musician friend, Kylie, who confirmed that ululation  was the term i was thinking of, lest i second guess myself. at the same time, i’ll post her text here lest i misrepresent her words “Yeah, ululate as a technical term is vibrato using the tongue, so that would be wrong, but ululate as a descriptor refers to a sound that has a very pronounced waver between tones to it.” cool! i’ve often wondered if that’s the most accurate way to describe it. thanks Kylie!! :D)

14. Resident Evil Revelations 2: Claire gets the best costumes probably across the whole series and yet it feels like she’s gotten the least love of all the main cast. I never really got it, she looks good in denim, whether jacket or pant, and her Revelations 2 blazer does her all the favors. But now they’re remaking RE2 and they turned her face into this weird porcelain Precious Moments dol—MY BELOVED DAUGHTER. MY MOIRA. I SWEAR I’LL FIND YOU. FOR THE SAKE OF JBLL I WILL AVENGE YOU AND THE OTHER ONE.

13. Resident Evil 0: What’s with all the shivery whiney stuff. Like your younger sibling running nails down the chalkboard of your spine, like how the speed run of this game hinges on juggling an evasive bat with 5 out of the 6 flame rounds on hand, so try. Neither relaxing nor scary. Do I hear something like a bongo in the distance? That is the clarion call of Becky Chamber’s goose booty coming home to roost.

12. Resident Evil 7: I had a dream last night about this game. If you have phobias about glass and/or mouths and/or wasp genitals, I would skip this paragraph. I was in the house where you have to run away from the mom with the disgusting wasp hive vagina. Also—unrelated and yet somehow related, as dreams always are—I had opened a beer bottle in such a way that the stem broke. I had decided to drink it anyway and now, as I progressed through the house, I found that there seemed to be endless small slivers of glass in my mouth that I had to repeatedly spit out lest they cut me. When I woke up, my jaw was clenched to the point of soreness. Welcome to the family, I guess. Otherwise this save room music reminds me of the game itself: mostly dull and barely there.

11. Resident Evil Revelations: Item Box Music, only Save Room Adjcanet. Can’t disassociate this from the “swish-swish-swish-SHUCK” sound effects of navigating menus to equip Charge Shot 2 to my Shotgun. Not as pleasing or as integrated into my bone marrow as  the Resident Evil 3 equivalent, but I have probably played this game through thirteen or fourteen times at this point. Life is short and yet the strings of fate tug us the directions they will.

10. Resident Evil 5: Again, this is menu music. No save rooms at all in this game. Anyway I have no inherent memory of this song because I’m sure I’ve talked over it while upgrading my M92FS to 100 bullet capacity 110% of the times I’ve played this game. Exempted from higher echelon of rankings on these technicalities, but still A POOR PERFORMANCE INDEED for Not The Best Resident Evil Yet Paradoxically The One That’s Given Me The Most Joy In My life.

9. Resident Evil, Dead Aim

: Wow I almost can’t believe I don’t remember this despite playing this game enough to write a speedrun guide for it. Well, that was the style at the time. As was a bloated zombie corpse boss, I suppose (long before Left 4 Dead, those copy cats), whose weak spot was its exposed brain which, halfway through the fight when you’d done enough damage, would pop out and dance a sprightly jig on its brainstem every time you shot it. With the whisper of wind and rain and single intermittent synth I feel like I’m living in a cyberpunk future and not a game whose protagonist’s “””cajun””” accent is as questionable as its presentation of the antagonist’s gender.

8. Resident Evil, Umbrella Chronicles

: Hey now, weird bit of the creepy-freaky bass here kind of does put you in a certain headspace, but it’s not the headspace i remember of this game, which was basically unplayable in co-op for the final 3rd because a failed QTE would result in a hunter slicing away half your health. Good for an Into the Breach playlist to keep you focused on the action and stop you from trying to play it while also binging a Netflix show about werewolves that you didn’t really like anyway, and splitting your attention between visual mediums is just getting Good Pilots Killed.

7. Resident Evil 2: Ominous. Maybe TOO Ominous at points. Aren’t save rooms about being safe? I guess we could argue that because the save room reflects the lacuna of safety ��BING BONG piano is the Try Hard version of video game music asking “you scurred yet?” Perhaps a novice mistake from a first-time director who would go on to do so many great things (well, RE2 among them, no lie). In a way, this fits with Rookie Cop Leon S. Kennedy, and anyway it’s so over the top I’m kind of okay with it. Most innervating when first heard on your way to equip a cowgirl costume for fast-firing six-shooter action. Guns suck, and cowboys too, but both are okay if we experience them in the abstract sense. This is what culture teaches us. Fan the trigger.

6. Resident Evil 4: A surprisingly gentle one, considering the series turn towards action from which it would never recover. I am transported to the early minutes of a horror movie where the audience knows something the protagonist doesn’t about the terror that’s about to befall them while they blithely pick up a desiccated nudie mag in an old shed on a haunted property they inherited from their estranged uncle, more focused on the “ballistics” before them than the axe murderer crouched in the shadows of disused farm equipment behind.

5. Resident Evil 3, Nemesis: More languid riff on 2. Strings get you shivery, and no more than a single BONG per two measures proves that save room music is as much about the notes you DON’T play. Two bongs to scare, but one bong to keep you on your toes, disallowing you from getting *too* relaxed by the soothing bleeps and bloops as you combine the 3 Gunpowder As you just found to make sure you have enough ammo to pistol-juke the so-called unkillable Nemesis. You’re not coward, but that doesn’t make you brave. Discretion is the better part of valor, they say, but that’s not taking into account that non-discretiony valor rewards you directly with a faster-firing pistol with critical headshots. :3

4. Resident Evil 1, Vanilla: Gentle, plucky strings make you question your memory, more familiar with later revisions than you are this one. How often was I in this place? Or does its primacy belie its immediacy? If I went to the strange, pointless closet around the corner from this medicine save room, would I find a broken shotgun I expect there, a round of magnum ammo, or simply the ghost of discarded aspirations masking as memories. I recall a time when it felt like time was enough, but then again, this was back when anything sub-three hours would get you the infinite rocket launcher, regardless of how many First Aid Sprays you used.

3. Resident Evil 1, REmake: High fidelity version of RE1’s gentle strings remind you of simpler times when your worst fears were zombies resurrecting into scarier, faster zombies with claws. What we wouldn’t give to go back to those days, and maybe tell ourselves not to take out so much student debt. Listening to this sends a pulse of gentle energy through my shoulder blades that makes me think “relaxation,” though I’m not sure my body understands the meaning of the word. A respite in trying eras, there is no association with the tension of shaving 15 minutes off your time to be competitive. “Safe Heaven,” they call it; a theme for a place that is not our own, but should be.

2. Resident Evil 1, Director’s Cut: Wow I did not expect music box chimes and tones stirs something ancestral in my blood. I’ve played the Director’s Cut far more times than the original RE1 and this is like coming home to a big house where I enjoyed an idyllic childhood, but I now know every box is filled with the creepy knife doll from Onimusha. Though these senations are foreign to me, something about them inspires a thirst for a homeland I never knew.

1. Resident Evil Code Veronica: The absolute chillest. In life, paths may wind, but the ultimate  The strings are tickling your spine. You’re so relaxed you feel like oiling your ponytail, and you could even take a nap in Steve Burnside’s arms without reflexively gagging. When you hear this, you are at peace, and the world seems like a place that can be kind. Truly, the Code is Veronica.

and don’t forget to vote in our poll on whether or not we’re playing Claire A or Leon A tonight!

[geneshaven]

Arrow, Season 6 (Threads of Discord)

The following breakdown of Season 6 has been churning around in my addled brain since 623 ended two weeks ago, and today I felt compelled to bring it out into the light of day.  I am not agreeing or disagreeing with anybody else’s take on the season. I’m only putting it down in black and white, because quite frankly, it’s a way for me to make sense of what was served up to us this season. I was left with some discombobulated thoughts and feelings when 623 was over, so much so that the next night I felt an immediate need to write a fic, (The Distance Between Two Hearts, *plug, plug*) to give everything  a happy ending and to help it all go down smoother. So, here is my final take on the Season as a whole.

When Lian Yu blew up at the end of Season 5, the writers of Arrow left a few storylines up in the air; mainly, Oliver and Felicity and their momentum of getting back together. A lot of fans just assumed it was a done deal. They kissed. They hugged. They made a promise to one another that after the smoke cleared; they would talk about being in each other’s lives again. (I’ve thought recently that the visual of Lian Yu exploding into larger fireballs could be a great summation of Season 6.)

So, hiatus came upon us in the summer of 2017 and the writers tried to pull a fast one, leaving all our beloved characters fates up in the air via a lame cliffhanger. Oliver saved William from Chase’s clutches. Samantha was killed, giving life to one of the plot lines for Season 6. Thea was caught in the explosions, blasted into a coma; a colossal waste of her character and of Willa’s acting abilities. John was injured, setting up yet another ill-conceived plot line for Dig. The Newbies---well, they survived, but a lot of fans might have wished they were blown up. Quentin survived, only to be killed off after stringing him and us along with a lunatic fringe thing with Black Siren---another waste of a good character and actor. And Felicity? Of course she would survive. But how did she survive? A really great potential scene was wasted by the writers not having Oliver searching for and finding the love of his life safe and in need of a hug. She was last seen running for cover; then after five months of hiatus, she reappeared at the Bunker with food orders from Big Belly Burger for the guys. There was a brief scene with her and Oliver alone in the Bunker, with UST hovering over them like an image of the salmon ladder calling out to them. Instead, they danced around each other and gave us an ever briefer talk about William, how they had agreed to stay apart in order for the boy to adjust to his new life. “Not tonight, another night,” Felicity promised Oliver. Had that been going on for five months? Were cold showers to be the norm for them in the unforeseeable future?

It was not to be, and plot took the lead over character for the bulk of the season. As a result, the stories were paper thin and patience thin.

To be fair, not all the episodes were terrible. There were a handful that had glimmers of promise. 603 and Olicity finally coming back together with one big kiss was pretty okay. 604 is a front-runner for me, coming in as a favorite episode. It was a rare example of character over plot, which is why it worked so well. Having Oliver and Felicity switch places, (due to another plot driven story line of Oliver giving up being the Green Arrow and passing the torch on to John) with Felicity out in the field and Oliver taking up the Overwatch mantle---it was inspired writing. Yet, having John in the Green Arrow suit and leading the charge, as well as turning him into a drug addict; it was so out of tune, sending the fandom into a tail-spin. And the Newbies? Didn’t they get blown up?

So after 604, we got some filler episodes, giving the writers more time to strengthen their plots. Slade Wilson and his mission to save his son, and dragging Oliver along with him was not a good idea, story wise. I always liked Slade Wilson’s character; the good and the bad. But the writers missed another chance to send him out with a good and final story.

We got a very brief look at Oliver getting arrested in 607, on Thanksgiving no less. It would come back to haunt everybody in 623.

The Crossover. Nazi’s. Doppelgangers. Evil Oliver as the Fuhrer. Supergirl as Eva Braun. Felicity as a victimized Jew. Quentin as the Gestapo.  The WestAllen wedding ceremony and the destruction it suffered. Whoever paid for the event probably felt the economic hurt more than the invasion. It would have been more believable than the racist crap MG and AK came up with.

Then at the end, it was a shout-out to Oliver telling Barry guys like them don’t get the girl. They were married to their loves, side by side in an impromptu ceremony. Okay, because I am an Olicity shipper, it was good to see them happy and all in with their love for one another. No rings, no wedding apparel and no vows. Just a beautiful fall day by a lake. It worked for some and was a travesty for others.

Olicity’s reception in 609 took some of the sting away from their unconceivable double wedding. We got a lot of pretty, (Oliver and Felicity dressing up) an ill-advised toast from Rene, (Rene, really? If I were John, I would have been pissed by that demotion) music and dancing, cake-cutting and bouquet-throwing---and god help us; the Hoffman’s.

So 610, to the end of the season, was nothing short of the worst writing to ever find its way onto the show. It was a flight of fancy and preference for Marc and Wendy. The whole civil war thing between OTA and NTA---how could they think that would be entertaining? And killing off Cayden James, who had the potential of being a good villain and replacing him with Ricardo Diaz---it was the writers shooting themselves in the foot and the fans in the back. Rene shooting at Felicity and taking an axe to Oliver, Curtis intentionally hurting John to get intel and Dinah just generally pissed at everyone---it was all a swirling, nauseating mess of WTF.

Then John and Oliver throwing each other around the Bunker like kids in a schoolyard? John brings out some pent-up resentments and disapprovals over Oliver’s leadership abilities. Really? It was just more piling on on Oliver to keep the plot going. Oliver is now a husband and a father, and maybe even a role model. He has earned all that makes his life full, through blood, sweat and tears. He has virtually erased the angry, violent juggernaut we all met in Season 1. He doesn’t deserve to be blamed for everyone else’s short-comings and issues. It was just backwards writing all around.

Diaz. One big yawn. A non-threatening blow-hard who’s only real menace was being a big whiner and killing you with annoyance. I’m still shaking my head that he is coming back for Season 7.

About Season 7. Marc, Wendy and a large part of their toxic writing staff are gone. A new showrunner (Beth) is in place, along with a new, mostly female writer’s room. Do we get more character and less plot? Can they do enough damage control to salvage the mess they inherited? I hope so. Will Diaz meet an early demise; say in the first act of 701? Will Oliver be released from prison by some lawyerly trickery? Will the Newbies get blown up? Okay, I didn’t want to push things too far.

Thea and Lance are gone (insert tears here.) But Roy is coming back, and there are rumors of an Olicity baby. The Big Bad? Well, a litter of kittens would be scarier than Dias. And cuter too.

Five months. Damn. Maybe I will rewatch Season 6, you know, to pass the time.

Just kidding. I’m not into self-torture.  

@it-was-a-red-heeler @memcjo @almondblossomme @hope-for-olicity @wordslovedreams @olicityinmyheart @olicityotp-always @swordandarrow @cruzrogue @ruwithmeguys @gabriellamarie97 @bandanab310 @dmichellewrites @wanhani @1106angel

[multifandomsish]

Like Father, Like Daughter Summary: Ragnar Lothbrok’s spitting image of a daughter sets out for her own land. Word Count: 1,813 Characters: Ragnar Lothbrok, Bjorn Ironside, Rollo Ragnarsson Warnings: none quite yet. If this turns into a series (it probably will) there will be some eventually. A/N: this is my first time writing for the Vikings characters so if it’s bad, I’m terribly sorry. I’m also not caught up, I’ve only just reached season three, episode five so I’m a season or so behind. But please do leave some constructive criticism, let me know what you’d like to see or just request some stuff for Vikings! - The desire began when you were just a child, a mere age of five. Your father, Ragnar Lothbrok, had taken you with him on a walk down to the shore of the waters to play freely. Despite his attempts at keeping you away from the water, you’d managed to tumble right into the small oncoming waves, your twin brother, Bjorn, watching you with raised brows as you fought your father off. Bjorn hadn’t carried the suspicions you had about what laid beyond the large open waters, much farther from your home land than you could ever dream. From the moment you’d been born, everyone had told Ragnar or Lagertha that you’d grow to be his walking shadow, a spitting image of the man with extravagant dreams. No one would have ever imagined you would pursue those very dreams. Ragnar would tuck you into bed, a soft kiss being pressed to your forehead but before he could blow out the small lit torch by your bed of furs, you begged him each night for another story of the waters. And so, as to please you, he would sit and tell you of what he imagined, what he dreamed was beyond the waters of their land. And each story drove you just as they drove your father. When he had come home one day to tell your mother that he, Floki, Rollo, and several other men were taking the waters on themselves despite Earl Haraldson’s command, you had immediately jumped to his side, begging and pleading and crying, asking him to take you along. But he turned you down, squatted down to your eleven year old height and promised you that if they made it west and came back safely, he would then take you on their next trip. When you and Bjorn were twelve, your mother and father split, leaving you and Bjorn to go with Lagertha. You had faith in your father but the princess standing next to him, swollen with his child, had driven you away. No amount of love for your father could bring you to endure letting a woman you hated with a burning passion mother you. And as you watched your father’s slowly disappearing form, you’d promised yourself that you would explore the waters no matter what you had to do. You had to prove to your father that you could conquer just as much as he had. - The cold air nipped at your cheeks, having turned them a bright red that would look painful to others, but because of the cold they had begun to go numb, along with your nose. With the presence of your army of men and women stood behind you, shields and swords and axes ready, you watched across the field at the oncoming herd of another army. The cape worn around your shoulders flew with the wind, your hand gripped tight at the sword in hand and you raised it, letting out an animalistic cry. “Charge!” You screamed. The oncoming men were not familiar to you and you had no idea who they were, but they were a threat seeing as they were trying to raid the land that you had full intentions of making yours. A man in the distance, presumably their leader, raises his fist as you had around a sword and shouts at his men, everyone quickly herding towards your own. Two groups of warriors clashed in the middle of the land, met with swords and axes swinging, either being dodged or hit. You were quick to join your men, having taken down the first few who took an attempt at killing you. Though you were growing tired with each fight, you pushed on until you were face to face with the leader of the enemy. Blue eyes that mirrored yours exactly held your gaze, a state of shock overcoming the man’s face as he watched you. He stepped forward and you immediately slung your sword out, the tip of it just barely scraping his neck. You stopped it so the tip is settled against his Adam’s apple, raising an eyebrow. You hadn’t seen your father since you were twelve, you had very distant memories. You also hadn’t known that Bjorn was visiting him on the side, your mother having known and permitted it. His voice is what made your mind flood with the memories of his stories, promising you that one day the two of you would sail the sea together. “Y/N?” You could just barely hear him but it was enough and you fought to not drop your sword and run into his arms. You only pressed upwards more firmly to tilt his chin up with it. You examined him, taking in the features that began to look familiar to you. It was like a rush of warmth and happiness flooded over your body, having longed to be with your father again but Lagertha told you no time and time again. She had believed that you would be better off without him in your life. Unlike Bjorn, you listened to your mother nowadays while he continued to connect with Ragnar despite Lagertha’s new husbands wishes. "Ragnar? Father?” You spoke up and he gave as best a nod he could. You immediately dropped your sword from his chin. “Retreat!” You shouted at your men, seeing many of them look around confusedly. You hadn’t been losing by any means but these were your fathers men and you could not take them from him. The familiar face of your brother emerged from the crowd, blood splattered over his face as the two groups retreated until you and Ragnar were left standing in the middle of it all. You had known Bjorn was leaving the town to go on a mission for your mother and step father, but you had no idea where exactly he was going. You assume your step father hadn’t known where he was going either, seeing as he hated Ragnar as much as you hated your fathers’ new wife. You gave Bjorn an odd look, brows raising at him as he walked closer to the two of you, panting heavily from the exertion from the fighting. He stopped near you and your father. “Y/N- You weren’t supposed to be here- How did you-?” He stopped, brows furrowed almost confusedly. "Our mother has agreed to let me sail the seas as I please. I have my own army, she could not tell me no.” You told them, looking from Bjorn to Ragnar as they both watched you. The grin on your fathers’ face told you that he was more than pleased and joyous that you were taking such a stand, even at a young age. "My daughter- Already making a leader out of herself. You’ve no idea how much I prayed to the Gods when you left with your mother that you’d take and do something with your love for the waters.” Ragnar spoke up, looking you over before he stepped forward to ever so gently cup your cheeks and kiss your forehead. “I hope that you would join us for celebration? Let us treat you to a nice meal.” He insisted, giving you no room but to agree. With little hesitation, your men followed you as you walked alongside your father. A figure that approached your side almost made you jump but when you looked up your uncles face came into view and a grin settled on your lips at the sight of him. "You’ve gotten so big since the last time I saw you. You are growing into a fabulous young woman.” Rollo told you, giving you a smile that spoke thousands for the fact he’d just told you how proud he was of you. "I could not stay a child forever, uncle, and we all know that.” You laughed softly at him, shrugging your shoulders. Things went quiet as the two armies took the trek back to your father’s camp grounds. Upon getting there, you were shown to your father’s tent and given a cup of mead to keep you settled until the food was done. - With empty plates and full bellies, the herds of men were just about silent, now satisfied with the meal. You were laid back on a bed of furs that you were sure belonged to your father, nearing the sweet escape of sleep but a body that plopped down beside yours stirred you from the half awake, half asleep state you’d been in. Icy blue eyes that you’d inherited met yours, a grin that lingered on your father’s lips. He was obviously tipsy, or at least feeling the mead fairly well and that was seen in his eyes and how he swayed slightly as he sat beside you. "I have missed you dearly, love. You have no idea.” He whispered, voice just barely heard over the chatter in the tent. You, Ragnar, Bjorn, Athelstan, Rollo, and Floki had all taken to your father’s tent for the night to sit around and enjoy the company. You smiled wide at Ragnar, sitting up despite the dizziness in your head and taking his hand. “I’ve missed you too, father. Just as dearly as you speak of missing me. I’d have visited sooner but mother has not allowed me to do much. She’s been very heavily protective of me.” You admitted with a laugh. The look of hurt that passed over his face was noticeable but only for a moment and he nodded. “Very understandable. Your mother was not happy when she found out about Aslaug, as you can imagine.” The obvious guilt laced in his voice made you feel bad yourself but you knew you had no reason to feel bad for him. He’d chosen for himself to sleep with her and tear the family apart. "I remember. She was very angry. Though despite how angry she had been with you, she never told Bjorn or I that you were a terrible father. She continued to tell us how you loved us and how you would be with us if it were not for certain things.” You added, your hand giving his a firm squeeze. The admittance brought a smile back to his lips and he nodded, going quiet for several moments before he looked to you once more, something obviously on his mind. "Join me and my army of men in raiding this land.” He whispered, taking both of your hands this time, holding them so you had to keep your eyes on him. “We can split the land as you please, split the riches and work together to better our own people.” The excitement in his voice sent chills down your spine and before you could properly think the arrangement over you’d already nodded. -

[joyfullynervouscreator]

The Walkers pt 3

Insomnia, woo! aka, here’s another chapter. Not much Beorn in this one, sadly, but he’ll be back in the next one.

Part 1       Part 2

word count: 4k

You have run far, always heading south. For a time, you’d followed the river, but eventually you had headed in-land a bit, walking in your human body by day, passing a few farms and nodding at people you met, while running stealthily in your other skin by night.

“Hey, you there!” Someone calls, as you are passing a small farm in the early morning hours. You had wandered close to the homestead, hoping to barter for a few eggs for your breakfast; these Rohirrim people are usually quite happy to accept the strength of your arms in return for food. Looking up, you catch sight of an arm waving at you from the upper floor of a small barn. You frown, but move closer. By the smell, the owner of the arm is the only Man present on the farm; you can sense no one else moving around aside from a few horses and a cow.

“Yes?” you call. A man pokes his head out of the hay-loft.

“Béma’s blessings!” he calls, seemingly relieved to see you. “Would you be so kind as to put my ladder back, my good woman?” Following his finger, you spot a long ladder lying in the grass beneath the window. Picking it up, you rest it back against the wall, wondering why the man hasn’t just jumped; he is only about 10 feet above ground, hardly an impossible leap, even for a Man. “Thank you, lass,” he calls, and you immediately realise the reason he was stuck when he begins clambering down the rungs. The man has only one leg, the other coming to a stump about mid-thigh. Holding the ladder steady, you notice the careworn state of the buildings; obviously the one-legged man has enough to do taking care of his animals, leaving his buildings to fall into disrepair.

“You need help?” you ask, when he has reached the ground safely. The man blinks up at you, staring.

“You’re a tall one,” he mumbles to himself, probably not intending for you to hear the low words. You smile, amused by the comment. At nearly seven feet, you are a lot taller than all the humans you have met so far, even if you are not as tall as you ought to have been; the lack of food in the Orc stronghold stunted your growth. Beorn was taller, but he’d been an adult already when the Orcs came – it still aches to think his name, to wonder how he is coping alone, but you push the thought away.

“Strong, too,” you smirk, the Man jumps slightly, startled. You give him a friendly smile.

“You’re not running away from your husband, are you?” the Man asks suddenly, narrowing his eyes at you. You shake your head with a slight laugh. No, you have no mate, and never will. “I’ve enough trouble without inviting more from anyone coming after you,” he mumbles, blushing as he stares at your body, as though noticing your dress for the first time. The cloth is a simple blue, turned into a form-fitting tunic and a pair of brown trousers, clothes you had made when you lived with Beorn – you learned that you are good at weaving, something Beorn tended to struggle with, and it shows in the quality of your garments.

“No husband, nor family,” you shrug, “no home to speak of. I am simply looking to see some of the world, Master Farmer.”

“Athelstan,” he replies, apparently choosing to accept your word and holds out his hand.

“Ullrae,” you say, shaking it. His grip is strong, but not crushing, pleasant in a way that speaks to you on a deeper level. You smile. This man has a good scent.

“Well, Ullrae, how about a bit of breakfast? One good turn deserves another,” Athelstan offers, waving towards the house. You nod. Athelstan picks up his crutch, making his way toward the henhouse. You wonder if you should offer to help him, but decide against it. The Man is obviously proud of what he can do; offending him by implying he is incapable would be impolite. Looking around, you spot an axe and a wood-chopping block. Picking up the axe, you let the calm serenity of chopping wood fill you; the rhythmic thunk!s a familiar sound that make you think of Beorn with a small smile.

“Well, you weren’t kidding about being strong,” Athelstan murmurs under his breath. Focusing on your surroundings once more, you realise you’ve already split fourteen logs in fours. Picking up a few logs, you carry them into the small kitchen, setting them down in a neat stack by the hearth. “Go get a bucket of water from the well, Ullrae,” Athelstan asks quietly, getting a small fire going with practiced ease. You nod silently.

Hauling the bucket up from the depths, you wonder if Athelstan has no kin to help him – the farmstead is small, but would certainly have benefited from an extra pair of hands. Maybe you’ll chop up the rest of his winter firewood supply before you move on, you think with a smile.

“Water,” you announce, startling Athelstan. You smile apologetically, reminding yourself that humans can’t hear your steps; the grace of the lynx’ body bleeds into your human skin and allows you to walk silently over most surfaces.

“I’ve oats for porridge, but I haven’t milked the cow yet,” he replies apologetically, covering up his surprise. You shrug.

“I could do it,” you offer, “though strange cows tend not to like me at first.” It is something you’ve come to realise travelling through this land. Milking is a simple task on any farm, but the cows seem to smell predator on you – even in human skin – and often shy away from you. Horses, however, like you. Athelstan chuckles.

“I’ll go do that then,” he winks, “and you can get some water heated for a pot of tea.” You nod silently, turning to fill his kettle with the bucket of water, swinging it back over the fire as you listen to his uneven gait moving across to the cow’s pasture. You hear the low sound of mooing, the cow obviously relieved to be milked.

When you have fetched another bucket of water, you sweep the floor of the kitchen quickly, waiting for Athelstan to return with milk. Setting out a crock of honey and a small container of salt, you crack a couple of eggs in a bowl, whisking them lightly; feeling like having scrambled eggs for breakfast while the porridge cooks.

After breakfast, you help Athelstan unload the rest of the hay – obviously a task he hadn’t finished the evening before, which was why he’d skipped breakfast to do it – finishing just in time to put the cart into the barn before the rain-clouds burst overhead.

“You might as well wait out the rain,” he says sagely, nodding at the sheets of water coming down. You smile. Pulling out an old shirt of Beorn’s – it no longer smells of him, you think, feeling a little sad at the fact – you set to mending a tear in the fabric. As you mend your shirt – silently taking care of the sleeve Athelstan ripped on a nail earlier too – Athelstan begins mixing flour for bread dough. “If you wanna stay a while, I could do with a hand with the harvest,” Athelstan mumbles later, his fingers nimbly twisting candlewicks while the dough rises. Outside, water is still pouring.

“Sure,” you reply, unafraid. Athelstan is strong, but you are stronger; you are in no danger from him, you know, having long-since learned to see the heart of a man – Man, Walker, or Orc. Athelstan is a lonely man, but he won’t try anything you don’t invite.

Six turns of the moon later, you are still on the farm, spending your days in quiet companionship with Athelstan. It isn’t the same as living with Beorn – the mere thought of your bear still makes your heart beat a little quicker – but it is a good solid existence. As you take on more tasks, the farm begins looking better, and Athelstan with it. The cow eventually got used to you, though you had had a few tipped buckets of milk before that happened. Athelstan takes you riding – you’ve visited the closest village for things he can’t make himself, and to sell things you made – but you also patrol the land in your other skin, marking it as your territory. You haven’t told Athelstan of your other form, though you often spend your nights in the lynx’ skin; listening for Orcs is an unbreakable habit by now. You try not to admit to yourself that you also listen for the sound of a huffing bear, even though you know Beorn will not come looking for you; during the two decades you spent with him that, too, has become an unbreakable habit.

“Why do you not have a wife?” you ask one evening, spending the dark winter night sewing a new shirt for Athelstan while he carves himself a new crutch. The old one hit a stone or something while he walked along the road, and the bottom foot of wood has split in two.

“I did, once,” Athelstan says quietly. The scent of sadness surrounds him, the flavour of old sorrow. It is familiar to you. “Had a daughter, too, and a wee lad.” You look up when he rises from the table, fetching a pair of scrolls. Unrolling them, he shows you a smiling woman – the sketch was clearly made by the corner of the house; you recognise the carvings on the door post. “My wife, Ceolwen,” he says, stroking the woman’s round cheek. Ceolwen had been a pretty woman, you think. Athelstan rolls up the scroll once more, carefully tying the string holding it closed. He unrolls the other, holding it flat on the table. “My daughter, Eafled, with my son, Athelred.” Eafled clearly took after her mother, though the small boy – no more than a toddler – had inherited Athelstan’s dark curls.

“They are dead?” you ask, giving him a sympathetic look. Athelstan nods.

“Ceolwen died giving birth… and a sickness claimed my children three years later.” He ties up the scroll once more, returning it to its shelf.

“My family was murdered,” you hear yourself say; the first time since your early days with Beorn you have spoken of them. “Orcs came… there is nothing left for me there.”

“Is that why you travel?” he asks, frowning, ignoring the fact that you have been with him for more than two seasons. “Because your home is gone?” You chuckle mirthlessly.

“Yes, Athelstan, my home is gone; long ago and far away… I am alone.” Except for Beorn, your heart mumbles, but – as always – you ignore the desire to go back to the man who doesn’t love you like you love him.

Neither of you speak another word that night.

 “The King has called a muster,” Athelstan announces, when you have been with him for little over a year. Looking up from your work, planting leeks that have grown inside the house until the seedlings are strong enough to survive in the field, you spot a young lad on a horse, obviously come to deliver the word of the King.

“A muster?” you ask, frowning at the unfamiliar term. Offering the lad a drink from your bucket – welcome on the hot summer day – you wait for Athelstan to explain.

“Orcs are raiding our lands, looking for black horses it seems, but pillaging everything they can, my lady,” the boy says, gulping down the fresh water. You offer your bucket to his horse, which is equally grateful for a drink.

“The muster is the calling of the King’s forces; we’re going to fight the orcs,” Athelstan mumbles. You know why he hesitates. Orcs took his leg once, when they foundered his horse, the big beast crushing Athelstan’s leg beneath it. He knows the dangers he will soon face.

“I will go.” You smile viciously, the predator rising in your blood. You are meant for the hunt, not the farm, and you have longed to avenge yourself on those who have tormented your race. “I have a score to settle with those foul creatures,” you grin, ignoring the way the boy pales. Your eyes are probably glowing yellow, your sharp teeth clearly displayed. Leaping onto his horse, the boy flees swiftly. You chuckle, smelling the acrid scent of his fear.

“I was hoping you would stay here, Ullrae,” Athelstan whispers, his quiet words breaking through the song of blood-lust in your blood. You whirl to face him, cocking your head questioningly. “You are dear to me, girl.” He admits, blushing lightly. You know that, of course, know that he’d often give you fatherly smiles, but you haven’t thought about the deeper implications. “I know you are strong, but these are orcs… I could not bear to see them harm you.”

“You are more likely to be hurt than I,” you mumble, cupping his face. “And if I am dear to you, are you not so to me? Should I not wish to protect you?” Athelstan smiles, but then his face hardens.

“You cannot ride with an éored,” he sighs, “I do not know where you lived before, but it was certainly not Rohan.” He has a point. You are not a good rider; even though Athelstan has only one leg, he sits far more securely in the saddle than you. Of course, you have no intention of fighting in human shape, but he doesn’t know that. You give him another sharp smile.

“Follow me,” you call, heading back to the farm. Athelstan shakes his head fondly, probably thinking you’ll try to prove you can ride with a lance, fight with a sword. When he reaches the courtyard, however, you have not pulled out one of his two horses, simply put the bucket down by the well, and stand waiting.

“What are you doing?!” he cries, when you begin removing your clothes. A fierce blush stains his cheeks as he whirls as swiftly as the crutch allows. You smirk, leaving your clothes in a pile beside you. Humans have such odd hang-ups about nudity.

“Please, Athelstan,” you reply, needing him to watch the transformation, to know the truth of what you are, “do not be frightened. Turn around.” You trust him, but you do not know what he will do when he realises that you are not truly human, even if your ‘cat-like’ appearance should have given him some inkling that you are different to him.

“Are you dressed?” he asks weakly. You chuckle.

“No. I will put my clothes back on when you have seen what I wish to show you.” The long thin scars from the lash have long-since healed, leaving your skin unmarred – scars never remain for long on the shifting body of a Walker, after all. Athelstan sighs – you are far more stubborn than him, and he knows it. When he turns to face you, you shift. Yawning widely – showing off your teeth – you lay down, trying to appear non-threatening to your friend.

“Béma!” Athelstan exclaims, staring wide-eyed at you. “You’re… a lion. Is it you, Ullrae?” he asks, creeping closer. You nod. Stretching languidly, you get to your feet, padding towards him with slow feline grace. “How is this… possible?” You shrug, though he doesn’t seem to expect an answer. You’d never been told how the Walkers began, after all, most of your kin believing that you are manifestations of the First Powers, infused by the Spirit of the Hunt; not too different from Men, but far older as a race. Bumping his good leg lightly with your head, you rub your side along him, amused that your back is level with his hip. Changing back to your human skin – slightly regretful, you would have liked to go for a run – you get dressed again.

“I had no plans to fight as a woman, Athelstan,” you chuckle, turning to face his awed expression.

“You are one of the Gengende…” he breathed. “My old grandmother told me legends of men who could walk as animals, but I always thought it was just a story.”

“It is a story.” You snap, suddenly ill-tempered. “The Orcs slaughtered all the Walkers they found. We are but a legend now.”

“Your family,” he whispers in sad understanding. “The Orcs who killed your family… they killed your people?”

“All of my kin, yes, and more besides,” you snarl, an angry sound that echoes against the wooden walls around you. You remember Léona’s roars, trying to protect his pride, remember your siblings, the cubs, the youngsters, the old; everyone dead except you… and Beorn.

“You still cannot fight with an éored,” Athelstan points out. “Even if you did not scare their horses, they would think you a giant beast; a worthy fur rug for the King.” You snarl at the thought, though you know he is right. It is unsafe to go to war on your own, but you do not wish to be left behind either. You miss your sisters. Three lynxes can take down almost anything, you know, working together. You ruthlessly squash the desire to run back to Beorn, make him fight with you – he will relish any chance at killing orcs, you know; and, even if he hates you, he wouldn’t let you get hurt if he could prevent it.

 In the end, you stay home, looking after the farm and the animals. It grates, but neither of you have been able to come up with a way for you to join the King’s army that does not involve riding – unless you wanted to be a camp-cook – which is not an option. Even if you could stay on a horse while in combat – a big IF – you still have no skill to speak of with a sword or a lance.

To make yourself feel better, you spend two days hunting deer and hauling the carcasses back to the farm, smoking the meat for winter storage.

After that, you cut more logs than you are likely to need through the next two winters, hauling trees back from the nearby forest. Fangorn is reputedly haunted, but you know better; the tree herders are known to your kind as more than legends, and you know how to pick the trees that need culling, making space for new growth. Dragging a whole tree out through the underbrush is a hassle, but not impossible for someone with your strength; you’ve pulled Athelstan’s hay cart to the edge of the forest, and once you’ve cut off a few of the larger branches it is easy enough to tie the pieces of tree together to take them away.

Athelstan keeps a few sheep, which had been sheared in spring and the wool carded. You spend days spinning the long fibres into thread, dyeing it all green with a mix of foxglove and chamomile. Later, you will waulk it, before turning it into a pair of the long cloaks favoured by the horse lords. Athelstan had wanted you to get a new cloak last winter, but you had made do with stitched together fur from your kills, not wanting to buy wool with Athelstan’s money when you did not feel the cold the same way he did.

You haven’t thought about it ever since you ran from Beorn’s house, but your heat is nearing. Putting the animals out to pasture, you lock yourself in the hay barn, suffering as you had done at Beorn’s. Though not tormented by the scent of a delicious male as you had been then, you are still in agony throughout.

As luck would have it, Athelstan returns at the end of your third day of needing, a linen bandage wrapped around his arm but otherwise unscathed.

“Ullrae?” he calls, but you feel too weak to answer, trembling in your pile of straw. You’d brought two buckets of water into the barn with you, but you’d accidentally knocked the full one over during the second day. Your throat feels drier than sand. “Ullrae!” he calls again, sounding worried. You move slightly, trying to get to your feet, but give up halfway. Slumping down onto the straw, you make a pained mewling sound, curling up around your empty belly. You miss Beorn taking care of you after one of your heats; even though he always fled when they began, he was always there to help you afterwards. “Ullrae?!” Athelstan cries, opening the barn door. You hiss at the sudden light piercing the hay-scented gloom. “What happened to you?!” he whispers, staring horrified at your naked flesh, covered in self-inflicted scratches and bruises. You can’t gather yourself to do more than whimper.

“Water,” you croak hoarsely, interrupting him before he can touch your skin, still feeling the licks of the flames as your heat passes.

“Ullrae,” he whispers, as he helps you sip. “Did someone… attack you?” He has covered your nakedness with his cloak, and you haven’t the heart to tell him that the wool is uncomfortable. If you had a mate, you’d wear the scratches of his claws, the marks of his bites with pride, walking around naked until they healed; showing off, as it were. You still remember your sister’s smug smiles when she went through her last needing; she had mated a few years before and Léofwine had marked her up properly, his own smugness more than evident when Lillia showed signs of bearing. You sigh, waving away memories of playing with the little cubs; Lillia’s first litter, two girls and a boy, a good omen for a strong family, your father had said.

“Heat,” you try, but you know Athelstan doesn’t understand. You stumble, but you manage to get to your feet, manage to walk across the yard as you try not to wince at the feeling of pebbles against your oversensitive skin. Collapsing weakly into your chair – it is larger than Athelstan’s, he made it for you when you’d been on the farm for four months – you reach for a three days old loaf of bread, tearing into it with rapacious hunger. Athelstan pours water into the kettle, lighting the hearth-fire.

“Tell me what happened?” he is nearly begging, and you finally realise that he thinks the marks on your body were made by someone who used you for sport.

“Heat,” you repeat, swallowing before continuing in a rough voice, hoarse from crying and screaming. “I went into heat.”

“Heat…?” Athelstan is obviously lost.

“Females go into heat when they’re fertile,” you say, standing to reach the smoked leg of venison you had left out before you went into the barn and tearing off a strip with your teeth. You want fresh meet, want to gorge yourself on blood and meat, but that is instinct; your body wanting the best food source for the cub you will not have. “All of this,” you gesture to your body, “I did all of it. The needing is painful if you do not have a mate to,” you pause, knowing that he is sensitive about this sort of topic, even though he was married before and must have more experience than you do. Athelstan nods. The smoked meat is nearly gone. You feel a little bloated. Porridge might have been a better idea, just like Beorn always claimed. Porridge and four hours of rest, then you’d been allowed to hunt. The memory makes you nearly tearful, wishing the he was here, even if it wouldn’t change anything.

“How long were you out there?” Athelstan asks, a little fearfully as he stares at the clean-picked bone.

“Three days, usually. I don’t remember most of it,” you shrug, seeing no need for him to know just how much agony is involved. “It’ll be four years before it happens again.” Pushing away from the table, you stumble off to your bed, falling into exhausted sleep as soon as your head hits the pillow.

part 4

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Psalms and Proverbs

for february 10 of 2020 with Psalm 10 and Proverbs 10, accompanied by Psalm 52 for the 52nd day of Winter and Psalm 41 for day 41 of the year

and the number 52 is the alphabetic number of each of the words “heart” and “door” along with 41 being the alphabetic number of the word “dream”

[Psalm 10]

God, are you avoiding me?

Where are you when I need you?

Full of hot air, the wicked

are hot on the trail of the poor.

Trip them up, tangle them up

in their fine-tuned plots.

The wicked are windbags,

the swindlers have foul breath.

The wicked snub God,

their noses stuck high in the air.

Their graffiti are scrawled on the walls:

“Catch us if you can!” “God is dead.”

They care nothing for what you think;

if you get in their way, they blow you off.

They live (they think) a charmed life:

“We can’t go wrong. This is our lucky year!”

They carry a mouthful of hexes,

their tongues spit venom like adders.

They hide behind ordinary people,

then pounce on their victims.

They mark the luckless,

then wait like a hunter in a blind;

When the poor wretch wanders too close,

they stab him in the back.

The hapless fool is kicked to the ground,

the unlucky victim is brutally axed.

He thinks God has dumped him,

he’s sure that God is indifferent to his plight.

Time to get up, God—get moving.

The luckless think they’re Godforsaken.

They wonder why the wicked scorn God

and get away with it,

Why the wicked are so cocksure

they’ll never come up for audit.

But you know all about it—

the contempt, the abuse.

I dare to believe that the luckless

will get lucky someday in you.

You won’t let them down:

orphans won’t be orphans forever.

Break the wicked right arms,

break all the evil left arms.

Search and destroy

every sign of crime.

God’s grace and order wins;

godlessness loses.

The victim’s faint pulse picks up;

the hearts of the hopeless pump red blood

as you put your ear to their lips.

Orphans get parents,

the homeless get homes.

The reign of terror is over,

the rule of the gang lords is ended.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 10 (The Message)

[Psalm 52]

A David Psalm, When Doeg the Edomite Reported to Saul, “David’s at Ahimelech’s House”

Why do you brag of evil, “Big Man”?

God’s mercy carries the day.

You scheme catastrophe;

your tongue cuts razor-sharp,

artisan in lies.

You love evil more than good,

you call black white.

You love malicious gossip,

you foul-mouth.

God will tear you limb from limb,

sweep you up and throw you out,

Pull you up by the roots

from the land of life.

Good people will watch and

worship. They’ll laugh in relief:

“Big Man bet on the wrong horse,

trusted in big money,

made his living from catastrophe.”

And I’m an olive tree,

growing green in God’s house.

I trusted in the generous mercy

of God then and now.

I thank you always

that you went into action.

And I’ll stay right here,

your good name my hope,

in company with your faithful friends.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 52 (The Message)

[Psalm 41]

A David Psalm

Dignify those who are down on their luck;

you’ll feel good—that’s what God does.

God looks after us all,

makes us robust with life—

Lucky to be in the land,

we’re free from enemy worries.

Whenever we’re sick and in bed,

God becomes our nurse,

nurses us back to health.

I said, “God, be gracious!

Put me together again—

my sins have torn me to pieces.”

My enemies are wishing the worst for me;

they make bets on what day I will die.

If someone comes to see me,

he mouths empty platitudes,

All the while gathering gossip about me

to entertain the street-corner crowd.

These “friends” who hate me

whisper slanders all over town.

They form committees

to plan misery for me.

The rumor goes out, “He’s got some dirty,

deadly disease. The doctors

have given up on him.”

Even my best friend, the one I always told everything

—he ate meals at my house all the time!—

has bitten my hand.

God, give grace, get me up on my feet.

I’ll show them a thing or two.

Meanwhile, I’m sure you’re on my side—

no victory shouts yet from the enemy camp!

You know me inside and out, you hold me together,

you never fail to stand me tall in your presence

so I can look you in the eye.

Blessed is God, Israel’s God,

always, always, always.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 41 (The Message)

[Proverbs 10]

The wisdom of Solomon:

When wisdom comes to a son,

joy comes to a father.

When a son turns from wisdom,

a mother grieves.

Gaining wealth through dishonesty is no gain at all.

But honesty brings you a lasting happiness.

The Lord satisfies the longings of all his lovers,

but he withholds from the wicked what their souls crave.

Slackers will know what it means to be poor,

while the hard worker becomes wealthy.

Know the importance of the season you’re in

and a wise son you will be.

But what a waste when an incompetent son

sleeps through his day of opportunity!

The lover of God is enriched beyond belief,

but the evil man only curses his luck.

The reputation of the righteous

becomes a sweet memorial to him,

while the wicked life only leaves a rotten stench.

The heart of the wise will easily accept instruction.

But those who do all the talking

are too busy to listen and learn.

They’ll just keep stumbling ahead

into the mess they created.

The one who walks in integrity

will experience a fearless confidence in life,

but the one who is devious

will eventually be exposed.

The troublemaker always has a clever plan

and won’t look you in the eye,

but the one who speaks correction honestly

can be trusted to make peace.

The teachings of the lovers of God are like

living truth flowing from the fountain of life,

but the words of the wicked

hide an ulterior motive.

Hatred keeps old quarrels alive,

but love draws a veil over every insult

and finds a way to make sin disappear.

Words of wisdom flow from the one with true discernment.

But to the heartless, words of wisdom

become like rods beating their backside.

Wise men don’t divulge all that they know,

but chattering fools blurt out words

that bring them to the brink of ruin.

A rich man’s wealth becomes like a citadel of strength,

but the poverty of the poor leaves their security in shambles.

The lovers of God earn their wages for a life of righteousness,

but the wages of the wicked are squandered on a life of sin.

If you readily receive correction,

you are walking on the path to life.

But if you reject rebuke,

you’re guaranteed to go astray.

The one who hides his hatred while pretending to be your friend

is nothing but a liar.

But the one who slanders you behind your back

proves that he’s a fool, never to be trusted.

If you keep talking, it won’t be long

before you’re saying something really wrong.

Prove you’re wise from the very start—

just bite your tongue and be strong!

The teachings of the godly ones are like pure silver,

bringing words of redemption to others,

but the heart of the wicked is corrupt.

The lovers of God feed many with their teachings,

but the foolish ones starve themselves

for lack of an understanding heart.

True enrichment comes from the blessing of the Lord,

with rest and contentment in knowing

that it all comes from him.

The fool finds his fun in doing wrong,

but the wise delight in having discernment.

The lawless are haunted by their fears

and what they dread will come upon them,

but the longings of the lovers of God will all be fulfilled.

The wicked are blown away by every stormy wind.

But when a catastrophe comes,

the lovers of God have a secure anchor.

To trust a lazy person to get a job done

will be as irritating as smoke in your eyes—

as enjoyable as a toothache!

Living in the worship and awe of God

will bring you many years of contented living.

So how could the wicked ever expect to have a long, happy life?

Lovers of God have a joyful feast of gladness,

but the ungodly see their hopes vanish right before their eyes.

The beautiful ways of God are a safe resting place

for those who have integrity.

But to those who work wickedness

the ways of God spell doom.

God’s lover can never be greatly shaken.

But the wicked will never inherit

the covenant blessings.

The teachings of the righteous are loaded with wisdom,

but the words of the evil are crooked and perverse.

Words that bring delight pour from the lips of the godly,

but the words of the wicked are duplicitous.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 10 (The Passion Translation)

[dailychapel]

Lord, I pray you would move the Spirit more boldly in my life. I know that any sin can grieve and diminish the voice of the Spirit, and I pray against the temptation to sin. Help me crave your presence more than I crave sin. Help me grow in the fruit of the Spirit and so walk closer with Yourself. I pray for guidance from your Spirit- let your will and promises always be a meditation of my heart. In Jesus’ Name, Amen.

Leviticus 26:1-14, 16-20 NLT - "1 "Do not make idols or set up carved images, or sacred pillars, or sculptured stones in your land so you may worship them. I am the LORD your God. 2 You must keep my Sabbath days of rest and show reverence for my sanctuary. I am the LORD. 3 "If you follow my decrees and are careful to obey my commands, 4 I will send you the seasonal rains. The land will then yield its crops, and the trees of the field will produce their fruit. 5 Your threshing season will overlap with the grape harvest, and your grape harvest will overlap with the season of planting grain. You will eat your fill and live securely in your own land. 6 "I will give you peace in the land, and you will be able to sleep with no cause for fear. I will rid the land of wild animals and keep your enemies out of your land. 7 In fact, you will chase down your enemies and slaughter them with your swords. 8 Five of you will chase a hundred, and a hundred of you will chase ten thousand! All your enemies will fall beneath your sword. 9 "I will look favorably upon you, making you fertile and multiplying your people. And I will fulfill my covenant with you. 10 You will have such a surplus of crops that you will need to clear out the old grain to make room for the new harvest! 11 I will live among you, and I will not despise you. 12 I will walk among you; I will be your God, and you will be my people. 13 I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt so you would no longer be their slaves. I broke the yoke of slavery from your neck so you can walk with your heads held high. 14 "However, if you do not listen to me or obey all these commands, ... 16 I will punish you. I will bring sudden terrors upon you--wasting diseases and burning fevers that will cause your eyes to fail and your life to ebb away. You will plant your crops in vain because your enemies will eat them. 17 I will turn against you, and you will be defeated by your enemies. Those who hate you will rule over you, and you will run even when no one is chasing you! 18 "And if, in spite of all this, you still disobey me, I will punish you seven times over for your sins. 19 I will break your proud spirit by making the skies as unyielding as iron and the earth as hard as bronze. 20 All your work will be for nothing, for your land will yield no crops, and your trees will bear no fruit."

Psalm 2:1-12 NLT - "1 Why are the nations so angry? Why do they waste their time with futile plans? 2 The kings of the earth prepare for battle; the rulers plot together against the LORD and against his anointed one. 3 "Let us break their chains," they cry, "and free ourselves from slavery to God." 4 But the one who rules in heaven laughs. The Lord scoffs at them. 5 Then in anger he rebukes them, terrifying them with his fierce fury. 6 For the Lord declares, "I have placed my chosen king on the throne in Jerusalem, on my holy mountain." 7 The king proclaims the LORD's decree: "The LORD said to me, 'You are my son. Today I have become your Father. 8 Only ask, and I will give you the nations as your inheritance, the whole earth as your possession. 9 You will break them with an iron rod and smash them like clay pots.'" 10 Now then, you kings, act wisely! Be warned, you rulers of the earth! 11 Serve the LORD with reverent fear, and rejoice with trembling. 12 Submit to God's royal son, or he will become angry, and you will be destroyed in the midst of all your activities--for his anger flares up in an instant. But what joy for all who take refuge in him!"

Luke 3:1-14 NLT - "1 It was now the fifteenth year of the reign of Tiberius, the Roman emperor. Pontius Pilate was governor over Judea; Herod Antipas was ruler over Galilee; his brother Philip was ruler over Iturea and Traconitis; Lysanias was ruler over Abilene. 2 Annas and Caiaphas were the high priests. At this time a message from God came to John son of Zechariah, who was living in the wilderness. 3 Then John went from place to place on both sides of the Jordan River, preaching that people should be baptized to show that they had repented of their sins and turned to God to be forgiven. 4 Isaiah had spoken of John when he said, "He is a voice shouting in the wilderness, 'Prepare the way for the LORD's coming! Clear the road for him! 5 The valleys will be filled, and the mountains and hills made level. The curves will be straightened, and the rough places made smooth. 6 And then all people will see the salvation sent from God.'" 7 When the crowds came to John for baptism, he said, "You brood of snakes! Who warned you to flee God's coming wrath? 8 Prove by the way you live that you have repented of your sins and turned to God. Don't just say to each other, 'We're safe, for we are descendants of Abraham.' That means nothing, for I tell you, God can create children of Abraham from these very stones. 9 Even now the ax of God's judgment is poised, ready to sever the roots of the trees. Yes, every tree that does not produce good fruit will be chopped down and thrown into the fire." 10 The crowds asked, "What should we do?" 11 John replied, "If you have two shirts, give one to the poor. If you have food, share it with those who are hungry." 12 Even corrupt tax collectors came to be baptized and asked, "Teacher, what should we do?" 13 He replied, "Collect no more taxes than the government requires." 14 "What should we do?" asked some soldiers. John replied, "Don't extort money or make false accusations. And be content with your pay.""

Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name, thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, forever. Amen.

Lord Jesus Christ, send us out with confidence in your word, to tell the world of your saving acts, and bring glory to your name. Amen.

[softplacepod]

Episode 1: Sugar, Butter, Flour

Show notes & transcript below the cut.

SHOW NOTES:

“A Soft Place to Land,” from Waitress, sung by Jessie Mueller, Keala Seattle, and Kimiko Glenn.

Schitt's Creek

Stardew Valley

"Dead Stars,” by Ada Limón, from The Carrying (2018)

TRANSCRIPT:

Hello, bees. It's me, Sara, sending you light and love, and also a bunch of things I've been super into lately that I think might be your jam. Welcome to A Soft Place to Land.

[music]

Item the first: "A Soft Place to Land,” from Waitress, sung by Jessie Mueller, Keala Seattle, and Kimiko Glenn.

Or, a title track to parenthood.

[clip: opening]

This whole musical has, more often than not, been on my mind since I've had a kid. It's not only about kids, of course, but so much of it reflects on the ways we grow up, and how our raising stays with us and shapes us, for good or ill, forever. And this song specifically just breaks my heart every time I hear it.

I want, more than anything in the world, for my kid to grow up happy - not all the time, not Stepford-style, but fundamentally happy. Secure in the knowledge that she is so loved, no matter what, that nothing she could ever do or say or not do or not say could change that. Fearless to be herself in the knowledge that behind her are people who stand ready and waiting to catch her, to carry her, to clap as she soars.

Growing up any other way leaves scars, and they never really heal, and I am walking around trying to bear them and maintain them and maybe forget about a few while trying very, very hard not to give any of them to my kid. She's going to have some stuff, and she's going to go through pain, and she's going to cry and be sad and get her feelings hurt, and I want very much for none of it to wound her so deeply she turns inward.

[clip: a dream needs believing / to taste like the real thing]

So, how do I do that? How do I singlehandedly prevent my trauma from messing up my kid?

First I forget the concept of doing anything singlehandedly, ever. The rest is...a process. I rein in my own ish as much as I can, I am honest when I can be about the struggles I'm having, I talk about parenting in a complicated world with one of my very good friends (we have a podcast, I'll link it below). I talk to people. I listen to my kid when she talks, and when she sings, and when she's quiet. I ask her how she feels, if she's proud of herself, if she needs a hug, if she'd rather have some quiet time. I give her space and I ask for it when I need it, and more than anything in the world I try, against my own nature, to tell her and show her how much she is loved.

I do what I can with who I am to give her a soft place to land, and I hope to the universe that it's enough, and I take a deep breath and I do it again.

[music]

Item the Second: the final season of Schitt's Creek

Or, a reminder that where things start doesn't dictate where they go.

[clip: little bit alexis]

Look, okay, if you're an Internet person you likely don't need me to yell about how much Schitt's Creek means to me. It starts, I will freely admit, as a sort of skimmed version of Arrested Development, but quickly shows you that it's actually doing something much more interesting and difficult. It is instead a show about family, yes, but a family that is forced by circumstance to reassess who they are and who they are to each other, and finds the beating heart at the center of their relationships. Stripped of all the obstacles they'd joyfully embraced to keep themselves apart, they find joy.

It's about love - romantic and platonic, mixed-up and weird and shifting - and about acceptance of yourself and of other people. It's a show that, like eternal favorite Leverage, began with characters who completely changed when compared to the people they are now, but are still those people underneath. David is still the vain, needy, insecure, damaged person he was in the premiere, but he's also beloved and loving, generous and funny, kind (especially when no one is looking) and clever. Alexis, who I love more than air, is still brittle in some ways, and too comfortable being overlooked while still angry about it, and prone to take on anything anyone will hand her out of fear no one would ask. But, too, she's found her strength, and her passion, and some of the truths at the center of herself, and she's built a life that works for her, and she's chosen that life again and again. They all have.

[clip: what's your secret stevie]

For me, there's no story I'd rather see than that one. The building a life where you are and making it work for you, the "change is inevitable and needed but I am still who I am" narrative: that's my jam, eternally. I choose this life, every day, and I will keep choosing it.

Also, and this is sincere, Schitt's Creek gave me some of the best ways to talk to my straight friends about the dreams I have re: my own queerness, avenues of conversation I'd never thought of before. Plus, the fanfic is almost uniformly sweet and great, so.

[music]

Item the third: Stardew Valley

Or, a life that means something.

[clip: stardew valley overture]

This is the best video game. It's three years old, and it's on basically every platform, and it has brought me more peace than any one media item has in years.

The basic gist is that it's a farming simulator, mostly. You inherit a derelict farm in a tiny town when your grandfather passes away, and you take it as a chance to escape your soul-crushing cubicle job for a megacorp. And you get there, and everything is difficult. You can barely swing your pickaxe to break up the rocks to make room for a first pitiful planting of parsnips, and you don't have any friends, and there's junk and weeds all over this land that, you suddenly see, you are solely responsible for. And there's a town with people in it, some of whom are nice enough and some of whom seem desperate to ignore you, and you have a little exclamation point urging you to talk to all of them at least once.

Then you look up and it's been a year or two or three. Your crops do just fine, and the chickens in the big  coop cluck happily. You have friends, maybe a partner, and the rhythm of the community has embraced you. You have a place here, standing. You have a life that you've built one swing of your axe at a time.

And that's the thing about it. It's not a game you win, exactly, though of course (like the Sims) you can try to min-max your crop yields, or romance every character, or finish every offered quest line. You can try to make enough money to never have to work again. You can choose to side with the megacorp - they're here, too, because capitalism is inescapable - and kill off the remaining kindness of the town.

But it's a life that matters. Your choices may not affect Abigail's daily routine, but you can play video games and music with her, and encourage her to use the bravery and curiosity that's so obvious about her to go exploring, like she wants. You can't make Shane's alcoholism or depression disappear, but you can encourage him to get the help he needs, and cheer with him as he finds joy again. You can't make George a happy person, exactly, but you can become his friend.

[clip: distant banjo]

It's a life where you can't starve to death or fall ill or be evicted, where your friends are always excited to see you, where your work goes out into your community and you see results from it, where you can have a house and a family and a pet if you want them. A life that's small and quiet, yes - you can't become the mayor, or end the war that's referenced - but far from inconsequential. And there are changes you can make to better your community, small and large alike, and there are people you can help, and there are things you can create. It's a dream of a life that's not defined by anything but what you think of it.

It's silly, maybe, to talk about a video game like that, but there it is: a game that at its heart thinks capitalism is a bad idea, that creativity is the best thing about being a person, that relationships matter more than basically everything else, that nobody likes getting holly as a gift. A place where everyone in town comes out to the fair or the wedding or the jellyfish migration, and you have a place to stand, too. A life you build yourself, a home you make.

[music]

Item the final: "Dead Stars" by Ada Limón, from The Carrying (2018)

Or, being a nest of trying.

Ada Limón is, and has been for a few years now, my favorite poet. Oh, Richard Siken and Mary Oliver and Eve Ewing, of course, too, and a million more - I love poetry, more on that in a moment - but all of Limón's work lately has just been a knife to the neck for me, and I mean that in the best possible way.

This poem in particular has been rattling around as the winter holidays swarm, as domestic life gets yelled about from every TV, as I have yet another crisis of confidence, sure as I always am that while I know full well my worth as a person is in no way tied to how my house looks, I also am a bad person and the proof of that lies in the pile of laundry at the foot of my bed.

But, too, what I like about this poem, or maybe what I responded to so strongly, is its very suburban setting: taking out the trash, looking at the stars. And that's when it turns, and that's when it shakes me back awake.

I burst into tears the first time I read this poem, and then I made my weekly calls to my representatives, and then I wrote some more lore for the Dungeons & Dragons game I run, and then it was time to go pick up my kid from school.

Our little lives in their little boxes, our worn-in grooves on the world, they have value. Many of us have fought and scratched and sacrificed to get them, to settle into them, to stake our claim. And now we have a safe place, safer than some, and we look around and, for some of us, for me, feel guilty about it. I have all of this, and others have so little.

So maybe we wallow, and maybe we whine, or maybe we go the other direction and get haughty and hard-nosed. Or, which I think would be better, we widen our orbit. We survive more, we love harder, we speak out and up from the place where we are safe. We cast our shadow where we can, and we bring the light where we can reach. We've built something safe in our home or our heart or our neighborhood gas station, and the next thing to do is expand it. If my house is a safe place, what about my yard? What about my sidewalk, and my street? The voting location blocks away and the library on the other side of town, the school my kid attends and the ones she doesn't?

What happens if we take the stable footing we're on and start scooting towards the edges of it, bringing its stability with us? What happens if we shout across the lines we draw around ourselves, choose to choose a life eternally pushing our boundaries outward towards each other? We start from here, from the carved-out nook we rest in, and we take a step towards the edge, and we keep doing that. What happens next?

[poem:

[Out here, there’s a bowing even the trees are doing.                 Winter’s icy hand at the back of all of us. Black bark, slick yellow leaves, a kind of stillness that feels so mute it’s almost in another year.

I am a hearth of spiders these days: a nest of trying.

We point out the stars that make Orion as we take out       the trash, the rolling containers a song of suburban thunder.

It’s almost romantic as we adjust the waxy blue       recycling bin until you say, Man, we should really learn some new constellations.

And it’s true. We keep forgetting about Antlia, Centaurus,       Draco, Lacerta, Hydra, Lyra, Lynx.

But mostly we’re forgetting we’re dead stars too, my mouth is full       of dust and I wish to reclaim the rising—

to lean in the spotlight of streetlight with you, toward       what’s larger within us, toward how we were born.

Look, we are not unspectacular things.       We’ve come this far, survived this much. What

would happen if we decided to survive more? To love harder?

What if we stood up with our synapses and flesh and said, No.     No, to the rising tides.

Stood for the many mute mouths of the sea, of the land?

What would happen if we used our bodies to bargain

for the safety of others, for earth,                 if we declared a clean night, if we stopped being terrified,

if we launched our demands into the sky, made ourselves so big people could point to us with the arrows they make in their minds,

rolling their trash bins out, after all of this is over?

[music]

Theme music for A Soft Place to Land is “Repose,” by Chase Miller, off his album Burnout. Chase’s music can be found at chasemiller.bandcamp.com. Show notes and episode transcripts are at softplacepod.tumblr.com. You can find me on Twitter @cyranoh_ and you can listen to me jabber on as the foil to my very good friend Anna on our parenting podcast, The Parent Rap, at parentrap.net.

I love you very much. Take care of yourselves. See you soon.

[dfroza]

Today’s reading from the ancient books of Proverbs and Psalms

for Wednesday, february 10 of 2021 with Proverbs 10 and Psalm 10, accompanied by Psalm 52 for the 52nd day of Winter and Psalm 41 for day 41 of the year

52 is the alphabetic number of each of the words “heart” and “door”

and 41 is the alphabetic number of the word “dream”

[Psalm 10]

The Cry of the Oppressed

God, are you avoiding me?

Where are you when I need you?

Full of hot air, the wicked

are hot on the trail of the poor.

Trip them up, tangle them up

in their fine-tuned plots.

The wicked are windbags,

the swindlers have foul breath.

The wicked snub God,

their noses stuck high in the air.

Their graffiti are scrawled on the walls:

“Catch us if you can!” “God is dead.”

They care nothing for what you think;

if you get in their way, they blow you off.

They live (they think) a charmed life:

“We can’t go wrong. This is our lucky year!”

They carry a mouthful of spells,

their tongues spit venom like adders.

They hide behind ordinary people,

then pounce on their victims.

They mark the luckless,

then wait like a hunter in a blind;

When the poor wretch wanders too close,

they stab him in the back.

The hapless fool is kicked to the ground,

the unlucky victim is brutally axed.

He thinks God has dumped him,

he’s sure that God is indifferent to his plight.

Time to get up, God—get moving.

The luckless think they’re Godforsaken.

They wonder why the wicked scorn God

and get away with it,

Why the wicked are so cocksure

they’ll never come up for audit.

But you know all about it—

the contempt, the abuse.

I dare to believe that the luckless

will get lucky someday in you.

You won’t let them down:

orphans won’t be orphans forever.

Break the wicked right arms,

break all the evil left arms.

Search and destroy

every sign of crime.

God’s grace and order wins;

godlessness loses.

The victim’s faint pulse picks up;

the hearts of the hopeless pump red blood

as you put your ear to their lips.

Orphans get parents,

the homeless get homes.

The reign of terror is over,

the rule of the gang lords is ended.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 10 (The Passion Translation / The Message)

[Psalm 52]

The Fate of Cynics

For the Pure and Shining One

A song of instruction by King David composed when Doeg, the Edomite, betrayed

David to Saul, saying, “David has come to the house of Ahimilech!”

Why do you brag of evil, “Big Man”?

God’s mercy carries the day.

You scheme catastrophe;

your tongue cuts razor-sharp,

artisan in lies.

You love evil more than good,

you call black white.

You love malicious gossip,

you foul-mouth.

God will tear you limb from limb,

sweep you up and throw you out,

Pull you up by the roots

from the land of life.

Good people will watch and

worship. They’ll laugh in relief:

“Big Man bet on the wrong horse,

trusted in big money,

made his living from catastrophe.”

And I’m an olive tree,

growing green in God’s house.

I trusted in the generous mercy

of God then and now.

I thank you always

that you went into action.

And I’ll stay right here,

your good name my hope,

in company with your faithful friends.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 52 (The Passion Translation / The Message)

[Psalm 41]

King David’s poetic song for the Pure and Shining One

Blessed are those who consider the helpless.

The Eternal will stay near them, leading them to safety in times of bitter struggle.

The Eternal defends them and preserves them,

and His blessing will find them in the land He gave them.

He moves ahead to frustrate their enemies’ plans.

When sickness comes, the Eternal is beside them—

to comfort them on their sickbeds and restore them to health.

And me? I cry out to Him,

“Heal my soul, O Eternal One, and show mercy

because I have sinned against You!”

My enemies are talking about me even now:

“When will death come for him and his name be forgotten?”

As they sit with me under my roof, their well wishes are empty lies.

They listen to my story

and then turn it around to tell their own version on the street.

Across the city, crowds whisper lies about me.

Their hate is strong, and they search for ways to harm me.

Some are saying: “Some vile disease has gotten hold of him.

The bed he lies in will be his deathbed.”

Even my best friend, my confidant

who has eaten my bread will stab me in the back.

But You, Eternal One, show mercy to me.

Extend Your gracious hand, and help me up.

I need to pay them back for what they’ve done to me.

I realize now that Your favor has come to me,

for my enemies have yet to declare victory over me.

You know and uphold me—a man of honor.

You grant me strength and life forever in Your presence.

Blessed is the Eternal, the True God of Israel.

Always and Eternal. Amen and Amen.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 41 (The Passion Translation / The Voice)

[Proverbs 10]

The wisdom of Solomon:

When wisdom comes to a son,

joy comes to a father.

When a son turns from wisdom,

a mother grieves.

Gaining wealth through dishonesty is no gain at all.

But honesty brings you a lasting happiness.

The Lord satisfies the longings of all his lovers,

but he withholds from the wicked what their souls crave.

Slackers will know what it means to be poor,

while the hard worker becomes wealthy.

Know the importance of the season you’re in

and a wise son you will be.

But what a waste when an incompetent son

sleeps through his day of opportunity!

The lover of God is enriched beyond belief,

but the evil man only curses his luck.

The reputation of the righteous

becomes a sweet memorial to him,

while the wicked life only leaves a rotten stench.

The heart of the wise will easily accept instruction.

But those who do all the talking

are too busy to listen and learn.

They’ll just keep stumbling ahead

into the mess they created.

The one who walks in integrity

will experience a fearless confidence in life,

but the one who is devious

will eventually be exposed.

The troublemaker always has a clever plan

and won’t look you in the eye,

but the one who speaks correction honestly

can be trusted to make peace.

The teachings of the lovers of God are like

living truth flowing from the fountain of life,

but the words of the wicked

hide an ulterior motive.

Hatred keeps old quarrels alive,

but love draws a veil over every insult

and finds a way to make sin disappear.

Words of wisdom flow from the one with true discernment.

But to the heartless, words of wisdom

become like rods beating their backside.

Wise men don’t divulge all that they know,

but chattering fools blurt out words

that bring them to the brink of ruin.

A rich man’s wealth becomes like a citadel of strength,

but the poverty of the poor leaves their security in shambles.

The lovers of God earn their wages for a life of righteousness,

but the wages of the wicked are squandered on a life of sin.

If you readily receive correction,

you are walking on the path to life.

But if you reject rebuke,

you’re guaranteed to go astray.

The one who hides his hatred while pretending to be your friend

is nothing but a liar.

But the one who slanders you behind your back

proves that he’s a fool, never to be trusted.

If you keep talking, it won’t be long

before you’re saying something really wrong.

Prove you’re wise from the very start—

just bite your tongue and be strong!

The teachings of the godly ones are like pure silver,

bringing words of redemption to others,

but the heart of the wicked is corrupt.

The lovers of God feed many with their teachings,

but the foolish ones starve themselves

for lack of an understanding heart.

True enrichment comes from the blessing of the Lord,

with rest and contentment in knowing

that it all comes from him.

The fool finds his fun in doing wrong,

but the wise delight in having discernment.

The lawless are haunted by their fears

and what they dread will come upon them,

but the longings of the lovers of God will all be fulfilled.

The wicked are blown away by every stormy wind.

But when a catastrophe comes,

the lovers of God have a secure anchor.

To trust a lazy person to get a job done

will be as irritating as smoke in your eyes—

as enjoyable as a toothache!

Living in the worship and awe of God

will bring you many years of contented living.

So how could the wicked ever expect to have a long, happy life?

Lovers of God have a joyful feast of gladness,

but the ungodly see their hopes vanish right before their eyes.

The beautiful ways of God are a safe resting place

for those who have integrity.

But to those who work wickedness

the ways of God spell doom.

God’s lover can never be greatly shaken.

But the wicked will never inherit

the covenant blessings.

The teachings of the righteous are loaded with wisdom,

but the words of the evil are crooked and perverse.

Words that bring delight pour from the lips of the godly,

but the words of the wicked are duplicitous.

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 10 (The Passion Translation)

[dfroza]

Today’s reading in the ancient book of Proverbs and Psalms

for Tuesday, August 11 of 2020 with Proverbs 11 and Psalm 11 accompanied by Psalm 53 for the 53rd day of Summer and Psalm 74 for day 224 of the year

[Proverbs 11]

Dishonesty in business disgusts the Eternal,

but fair dealing delights Him.

When pride comes, shame is not far behind,

but wisdom accompanies those who are humble.

The right-living are guided by integrity,

but the crooked ways of the faithless will lead to ruin.

Riches won’t matter on the day of wrath,

but right living will rescue from death.

The good deeds of the blameless pave a peaceful, productive path,

but wrongdoers trip over their own faults.

The good deeds of the upright will rescue them,

but the faithless will be conquered by their shallow desires.

When wrongdoers die, their hopes die with them.

Their great expectations vanish into nothing more than a dream.

Those who do right are pulled from trouble;

it falls on wrongdoers instead who are left to sink in their own problems.

The words of the godless ruin those close to them,

but through insight the right-living are spared.

When prosperity comes to those who do right, the whole city celebrates;

but when the wicked get their just punishment, there is joyous cheering.

A city thrives through the blessing of those living right,

but the words of a wrongdoer will bring it to ruin.

Whoever puts down another is not wise,

but one who knows better keeps quiet.

A gossip can’t keep anything confidential,

but a reliable person protects a secret.

Without wise guidance, a nation falls;

but victory is certain when there are plenty of wise counselors.

Trouble compounds when you guarantee a stranger’s debt,

but you’ll be safe if you refuse the pledge.

A gracious woman acquires honor,

but cruel people are only interested in acquiring money.

Kindness is its own reward,

but cruelty is a self-inflicted wound.

The wicked earn a living by deception,

but the one who plants righteousness gathers a true harvest.

Indeed, those who do what is right will live a good life,

but those who pursue evil will die.

The Eternal detests a crooked heart and a warped mind,

but He takes great pleasure in those who follow the right way.

Certainly those who do wrong will not escape punishment,

but those who do right will go free.

Much like a gold ring in the snout of a pig,

so is a beautiful woman who lacks good judgment.

Those who live right crave what is good,

but the prospect of wrongdoers is wrath.

One shares liberally and yet gains even more,

while another hoards more than is right and still has need.

A giving person will receive much in return,

and someone who gives water will also receive the water he needs.

Curses fall upon those who hoard food,

but blessings come to those who sell food.

Those who seek good find the goodwill of others,

but those who look for evil are sure to find it.

Those who trust in their wealth are headed for great disappointment,

but those who do right will sprout like green leaves in the spring.

A person who stirs up trouble in his family will inherit stormy winds,

and foolish troublers will end up serving the wise.

The tree of life grows where the fruit of right-living falls,

and whoever wins souls is wise.

If the righteous can expect to be repaid on earth,

how much more can the ungodly and the sinners?

The Book of Proverbs, Chapter 11 (The Voice)

[Psalm 11]

For the worship leader. A song of David.

I am already in the soft embrace of the Eternal,

so why do you beckon me to leave, saying,

“Fly like a bird to the mountains.

Look! The wicked approach with bows bent,

sneaking around in the shadows,

setting their arrows against their bowstrings to pierce everyone whose heart is pure.

If the foundations are crumbling,

is there hope for the righteous?”

But the Eternal has not moved; He remains in His holy temple.

He sits squarely on His heavenly throne.

He observes the sons of Adam and daughters of Eve, examining us within and without,

exploring every fiber of our beings.

The Eternal searches the hearts of those who are good,

but He despises all those who can’t get enough of perversion and violence.

If you are evil, He will rain hot lava over your head,

will fill your cup with burning wind and liquid fire to scorch your insides.

The Eternal is right in all His ways;

He cherishes all that is upright.

Those who do what is right in His eyes will see His face.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 11 (The Voice)

[Psalm 53]

For the worship leader. A contemplative song of David. A song for the dance.

The foolish are convinced deep down that there is no God.

Their souls are polluted, and they commit gross injustice.

Not one of them does good.

From heaven the one True God examines the earth

to see if any understand the big picture,

if any seek to know the True God.

All have turned back to their wicked ways; they’ve become totally perverse.

Not one of them does good,

not even one.

Do the wicked relish their ignorance,

the wicked ones who consume My people as if they were bread

and fail to call upon the True God?

They trembled with great fear,

though they’d never been afraid before,

Because the True God ravaged the bones of those who rose against you.

You humiliated them because the True God spat them out.

Oh, that the liberation of Israel would come out of Zion!

When the True God reclaims His people,

let Jacob celebrate; let Israel rejoice.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 53 (The Voice)

[Psalm 74]

A contemplative song of Asaph.

This lament was written shortly after the Babylonian destruction of Jerusalem and the temple in 586 b.c. Now in exile and separated from God, His city, and His land, the people of God experience pain that is palpable.

O True God, why have You turned Your back on us and abandoned us forever?

Why is Your anger seething and Your wrath smoldering against the sheep of Your pasture?

Remember the congregation of people You acquired long ago,

the tribe which You redeemed to be Your very own.

Remember Mount Zion, where You have chosen to live!

Come, direct Your attention to Your sanctuary;

our enemy has demolished everything and left it in complete ruin.

Your enemies roared like lions in Your sacred chamber;

they have claimed it with their own standards as signs.

They acted like lumberjacks swinging their axes

to cut down a stand of trees.

They hacked up all the beautifully carved items,

smashed them to splinters with their axes and hammers.

They have burned Your sanctuary to the ground;

they have desecrated the place where Your holy name lived in honor;

They have plotted in their hearts, “We will crush them and bring them to their knees!”

Then they scorched all of the places in the land where the True God met His people.

We no longer receive signs,

there are no more prophets who remain,

and not one of us knows how long this situation will last.

O True God, how much longer will the enemy mock us?

Will this insult continue against You forever?

Why do You stand by and do nothing?

Unleash Your power and finish them off!

Even so, the True God is my King from long ago,

bringing salvation to His people throughout the land.

You have divided the sea with Your power;

You shattered the skulls of the creatures of the sea;

You smashed the heads of Leviathan

and fed his remains to the people of the desert.

You broke open the earth and springs burst forth and streams filled the crevices;

You dried up the great rivers.

The day and the night are both Yours—

You fashioned the sun, moon, and all the lights that pierce the darkness.

You have arranged the earth, set all its boundaries;

You are the Architect of the seasons: summer and winter.

Eternal One, do not forget that the enemy has taunted You

and a company of fools has rejected Your name.

We are Your precious turtledoves;

don’t surrender our souls to the wild beasts.

Do not forget the lives of Your poor, afflicted, and brokenhearted ones forever.

Be mindful of Your covenant with us,

for the dark corners of the land are filled with pockets of violence.

Do not allow the persecuted to return without honor;

may the poor, wounded, and needy sing praises to You;

may they bring glory to Your name!

O True God, rise up and defend Your cause;

remember how the foolish man insults You every hour of the day.

Do not forget the voices of Your enemies,

the commotion and chaos of Your foes, which continually grow.

The Book of Psalms, Poem 74 (The Voice)

and this verse of Psalm 74 from The Message:

God is my King from the very start;

he works salvation in the womb of the earth.

(verse 12)