#not them living three blocks from where my great grandfather was buried...

[cinemaocd]

the internet is weird...I just found the house on zillow where my grandparents lived when my grandmother was so desperate she almost aborted my father...

[frankterranella]

Today we celebrate an unlikely grandfather born 100 years ago

He was known variously as Merc, Mert, Rick, and God knows what else. Despite not being a blood relative, he was a very important member of my family beginning when I was 30, until his death when I was 65. Today, Americo Consolatore would have been 100 years old. He was a widower who married a widow, my mother, in 1984 and became a beloved grandfather to my children and grandchildren. In fact, my granddaughter Caroline, who was only three when he died, said at the time that she was “mad at God” for taking him (at the age of 95). Who was this man who had such an impact on just about everyone he met? If you asked him to describe himself, he would probably tell you he was a ne’er-do-well kid who grew up in Paterson, New Jersey during the Depression. He spoke only Italian until kindergarten. His immigrant parents loved their adopted country so much they named their only child Americo. Although he never graduated from high school, like many members of the Greatest Generation who had been through hard times, he was a hard worker. Through hard work he managed to make a living as a machinist and buy a house in a new development in North Haledon, New Jersey in 1959, where he lived for the next 60 years. He took such pride in how his house looked and his yard was always the most beautiful on the block. He lived the American Dream. Sadly, he and his first wife were unable to have children, so when my children were born, he was anxious to be their grandfather. He would do anything for those two. First, although a lifelong smoker, as soon as my son was born, he gave up smoking because he didn’t want the baby inhaling smoke. Later, he arranged for swimming lessons for my kids at the local North Haledon lake.  He accompanied me and the kids to baseball games, came to see all their school shows, and regularly took the kids to all his favorite parks (always ending up with ice cream). Watching him with my children, I often felt sad that he didn’t have the chance to experience fatherhood himself. He loved children and would have been a great father. Although he never got a chance to play father to me, he taught me a lot about how to handle getting old. Unlike many of his generation, he shared the details of what it was like to wake up with new aches and pains all the time. I mourned with him when his back pain required him to give up golfing at age 80. I don’t think there was anywhere in the world where he was happier than on a golf course. Merc reported to me all the deterioration of his body through his 80s and 90s, but he didn’t do it to complain; he wasn’t looking for sympathy. He was teaching me what to expect and how to handle it. Merc loved my mother and they were a great couple together. They were married more than 30 years. (By contrast my mother was married to my father for only 19 years.) But then, when he was 92, Merc became a widower a second time when my mother died. I don’t think he ever really got over that blow. Slowly, he retreated from the world, preferring to spend his days watching television. While he had made the long trek to Vermont to see my son married when my mother was alive, once she was gone, he no longer felt up to being in large family gatherings. He even skipped my daughter’s wedding. He apologized to them and to me, saying he just was not up to it. I think the last three years of his life were very lonely. He often told me that he was “ready to check out” anytime. And mercifully, his time came shortly after his 95th birthday. Although I told him more than once, I don’t think he ever appreciated just how much of an impact he had on all of us. Just last week we took my grandson Gio to see the grave where Merc and my mother are buried. And true to Merc’s wishes, we went for ice cream afterwards. His memory will live on. And speaking of memories, I think it’s appropriate to close this 100th anniversary celebration with a song that Merc always told me was his favorite. You can listen to his favorite rendition by Benny Goodman and Rosemary Clooney at https://youtu.be/26EVJzc0m8g. Thanks for the memories, Merc!

Waking skies at sunrise Every sunset too Seems to be bringing me Memories of you

Here and there, everywhere Scenes that we once knew And they all just recall Memories of you

How I wish I could forget those Those happy yesteryears That have left a rosary of tears

Your face beams in my dreams 'Spite of all I do Everything seems to bring Memories of you

[polar-solstice]

I straight up almost unfollowed you for the tweet about thanking nature being like thanking the dead I disagree SO HARD I HATE IT VERY MUCH. Just the sheer presumption in assuming a)The barrier between what separates us from other living things is anything like the barrier that separates us from life and death b)that we're not actually part of nature in the first place by being organisms that exist on this earth and rely on it for survival c)that the dead are not also part of nature d)that the expressing gratitude to the earth can't also be something you actively participate with the earth (ie, gardening, trash clean up, conservation efforts ext) and d)that when you thank the trees they may not hear you

Anyway I love you and you're so wise and funny and post great stuff and I look up to you a lot as baby jewish witch and that just made me want to smash stuff I would honestly like to hear your take on why you liked it enough to reblog

So let's take a moment to re-read what that post said:

If it hits you that wrong, you can block the post. Heck, unfollow me if it hits you that badly. This is tumblr, you're well within your right to do so if it's hurting you that bad.

But since you asked.

For those on a screen reader, it says "Expressing gratitude for nature is a bit like mourning the dead. Mourning isn't for the dead; it's for us. Which is not to say that such things will not touch the world beyond our own minds."

Let's address your first three points: who said shit about there being a barrier between us and other living things? Where does it say that in any of those three sentences?

As to point d: please, please understand that there is a world of difference between your thoughts and your feelings, and actual physical activities. How you feel and how you act are not the same. This is talking about your thoughts and feelings. This is talking about the way that we feel.

So now on to your last point: Have you ever been in love? Like actual love? Have you ever stopped to reflect on the nature of love?

You say "when you give someone a present it is for them AND you" and you're not wrong there! That's true! But what the fuck do presents have to do with love? You are conflating the thoughts and emotions with actions again.

I love my partner. I have loved my partner for twelve years.

I do not love him for his own benefit.

I just. I don't. I love him for me. I love him because I do. I love him for a million selfish reasons. And he benefits from that because my love ends up driving my actions, but to say that I love him for his own benefit is fucked up and the height of arrogance, and if I felt like that, it would be in his best interest to run. I once, a long time ago, loved someone who felt like that, and it was dangerous. I love because I love, not for his benefit, and that's why we're twelve years in.

And while we're here, let's talk about mourning. You're Jewish too, so I'm a little shocked that you don't know this. I buried my grandfather, as the last great mitzvah I could do for him, the one he could never repay because he's gone. There were attendants, but my brothers and I took the time to bury him. If it had been my grandmother alone, of course she would have let the attendants do it, she's old, she couldn't do it herself! But we did it. Does it truly matter to him who puts the dirt in the grave as long as it gets done? Nah, probably not. (Honestly if you knew him, then no, not at all). But it mattered to us that we did it, and it mattered to her that we helped him with what he couldn't do, just one more time.

Genuinely. Please answer me this: do you really think that a mountain sits there wondering if you think it's beautiful in your eyes? Do you think that a river cares that you love it? If you left, if we all left, would it matter to them? No! Because they are so, so much bigger than us. The sea is not cruel, she simply isn't kind. She is the sea. Our feelings are small and fleeting. But we paint her and sing sings and tell stories for ourselves.

Please, please remember that thought and action are not the same. That's thought crime bullshit repackaged. Your love and your hate, your good thoughts and dark thoughts, those live in your mind. But your actions? Those are the only truly measurable thing.

Let's revisit the last line of the tweet again: "Which is not to say that such things will not touch the world beyond our own minds."

It never said (and by extension, I never said) that our love and our grief are meaningless and have no impact. In fact, it said that there is meaning. There is impact. It's simply true that love, in all of its forms, is not something that you do or feel to benefit someone else. And if you truly think that your love is a gift someone else should be grateful for, it's not love.

I love because my heart sings. I love because it is joyous and good and wonderful. I love because it makes all the lights brighter and the colors sharper, and everyday I find something new to love.

And that love influences my actions.

One last point, since this is getting long - I run a volunteer group that plants flowers and tends trees and cleans litter. I run it because I love my city's trees and I love my city and I love my city's people. I want better for all of us. But some of the people who come out are just there for school credit, or for Instagram photos. Some don't love trees, but they do hate litter. Does that really matter? Does it really matter why they're helping if they're helping?

Tumblr user oudenonoma cites the Jewish story of a wealthy man who says to his rabbi that will build an orphanage, and changes his mind because he realizes that his motivations were selfish, and now he will not build it, to which the rabbi points out that to the orphans, it doesn't matter why it was built, only that it gets built.

Please, please take the time to decolonize your ethics and remove thought crimes from your belief system. It will do you a world of good.

TL;DR

I really enjoyed this tweet because I think it's right. I think that love is a thing that we do for ourselves. I know that thoughts are different than actions, but that they can fuel actions. I know that that has value. And I know that love counts. Love and loss, they mean something. The universe is so big and we are so small as to be insignificant, and in that insignificance we once again become giants because we get to assign value to things.

And we cannot measure what our love and our grief mean. All we can do is feel our feelings and try to do as much good as we can, while we can.

[shinsoups]

Student No. 22 —

m a s t e r l i s t

pairing: shinsou hitoshi x f!reader x class1a

genre: 1tbsp of crack, 1 tsp of fluff, a sprinkle of angst and 1 cup of chaotic randomness

synopsis: y/n was certain she would never be a Hero. She had a different goal in her mind, and that is to be a great doctor someday. With a terrible past she wants to forget, she vows she would never use her Quirk and will never let the world know what it is. Not until she finds out that the invincible quirk she thought she has can also have a certain weakness.

super random updates

a/n: canon Shinsou is joining hero class for their second year but I'm gonna make him part of Class 1A already yay! ALSO IM ON MOBILE IDK HOW TO PUT A *KEEP READING CUT* will edit this tomorrow 🙏🏻 sorry for the long post on your dash

OO5 : Acceptance...Is that a Threat? —

"You're already enrolled and your safety was entrusted to us."

"No, I'm sorry but I think I had enough." You hoarsely whispered. "I already got the answer what I was looking for."

Aizawa stopped in his tracks, his hands buried in his pockets as he watches you struggle to reply. "And that is?"

"The Hero scene isn't cut out for me." You bravely look at his eyes, slowing down your pace and faced him, catching Shinsou's gaze just behind your teacher.

"I don't want to fight nor hurt anyone to save lives. I want to save lives as a doctor if possible. And if you think that proper guidance is that one thing I need then you're wrong, sensei. I don't need that, please don't patronize me."

Aizawa tried his best to remain calm but the way you somehow push the wrong buttons and say things so straighforward makes him want to knock some sense in to you and tell you that there is more to being a hero. But the way you fidget somehow caught his watchful eyes. Aizawa squinted as you kept glancing towards him and behind him, catching a certain purple head boy passing you two.

You fiddled your hands nervously, seeing another gaze settling on your figure. Still feeling the pain on your shoulder, Aizawa walked closer to where you stood.

"You're scared of him," he said in-a-matter-of-fact tone.

"I am not."

"Because he can control you," he taunted.

Is Aizawa even a teacher right now? Why is he so pressed into this matter? You thought to yourself as you felt his presence even closer, caging you and your thoughts... your fears that someone actually exists that can easily negate your own self defense quirk. You bowed your head, averting your gaze.

"l/n-san, you don't like being controlled don't you?" Aizawa sighs seeing how your body trembles at the mention of the word.

You looked up wide eyes, straining to retort something but words fail to escape your mouth. Instead a nonsensical challenge transpired between the two of you. Shinsou held his breath, wanting to intervene the moment he saw Aizawa’s eyes glowing red and hearing your whispered exchanges. Only for Bakugou to block his way, enjoying the scene unfolding in front of them.

Everyone was silently hoping there was a good reason why Aizawa was suddenly fighting you just after finishing the Hero Training exercise. His hair flared up as he tried to capture you with his scarf, only for you to dodge and glare at your teacher.

“You didn’t fight Shinsou and Bakugou. Is that how you like to win?,” Aizawa’s voice echoed as you run towards the exit. Trying your best not to bump into someone along the way.

At the back of your mind there was a tiny voice telling you that they’re all judging you and your intentions was so unclear to be there at the Hero Course. That you don't deserve to be there. And they were right. But...

"You can become stronger if you train against him and with him. Maybe find a reason why he of all people can do that to you..."

You scoffed, amazed by how a teacher can agitate you with such simple words. Your grandfather was worse, his training methods were the worst, the hero exercise earlier pale in comparison to what you experienced. You only learned self defense in order to protect and not fight.

And to see this class filled with hopeful heroes to be are trained in order to fight for the justice they believe is such a ludicrous notion it made you wonder... why train them in the first place only for the HPSC to control everything? You gag at the toxic hero worship everyone seems to adapt. Is everyone foolishly blind? Foolishly following such trend? Or were you the blind one?

Gritting your teeth, you spat the words angrily. You stopped running and charged into him instead, “I still won. You got what you wanted, sensei. My Quirk... you saw it with your own eyes. So why do I have to hurt someone if the only goal is to win?”

With that said you side-stepped away from the white material coursing your way only to meet another set of it the moment you evaded Aizawa’s.

The rest of the class tried their best to avoid the both of you, still confused about what's going on. "She really likes to pick a fight doesn't she?" Kaminari watches as you gracefully dodge each of Aizawa's attempt to capture you.

"Sensei's erasing quirk is useless against her too," Midoriya mumbled, amazed once again with this new information. "I thought it was only fire quirks that were affected but I'm guessing she can --"

Midoriya's words were cut off when he saw Shinsou walked closer, carefully threading in the sidelines.

"You have got to be kidding me!"

"I-I think everyone should calm down." Shinsou looked over you then to Aizawa who was shocked that his own protege captured him with his own binding technique.

"y/n-san" Shinsou pulled you into him, trapping you with his binding cloth for the second time after releasing Aizawa. "I don't know what's going on, but -" he looks at his mentor then back to you.

"Release me."

"No."

"Shinsou!"

"No!" he pulled you closer.

"Take it off."

Shinsou raised his eyebrows, smirking at the tone you used. He tried to hold his smile but the way you whispered those three words somehow made you two blush at the weird notion.

You bit your lips in embarrassment as you felt his breath on your cheeks, "No."

"Please?" you sighed, trying to calm yourself down. Too close...he's too close.

Shinsou looks back up at his teacher. "Sensei-"

Aizawa’s face was more unreadable as he walks closer, Shinsou was trying to figure out what his mentor's expression means. Aizawa simply stares at the both of you, a strange look both of you can't read.

Shinsou takes a deep breath, and goes on, “I shouldn't probably intervened but she's...she's injured because of me.” he looks away, too shy with the reason he came up with, now a small tinge of red powdering his nose.

There was a long pause. Aizawa merely nods. Shinsou opens his mouth, wanting to say something more but the words don’t come.

Giving into another temptation and succumbing to the curiousity budding, you rationalized the choices in your head. Do you want to fight him? Or do you wanna know how far he can use his quirk against you. About what he said earlier, were you scared people will resent you or maybe you really are scared of yourself.

"Fine." you murmured. "I accept the offer."

"Offer?" Shinsou looks momentarily confused about the exchange.

"Good. Now please do me a favor and stop being another problem child." Aizawa pats your head and walks away as if nothing had happened. "I'm not getting paid enough for this." he mutters to himself as he looked between you and Shinsou leaving you two behind and calling the whole class to go change back into their uniforms.

"Were you always a pushover?" Shinsou asks out of curiosity as he frees you.

"I am not!"

He watches as you contorted your face into a pout, your nose scrunching in annoyance as you rub your arms. With cheeks puffed out you glared at him, "I'm going to crush you, so you better know what's coming.”

"Is that a threat?"

You pat his shoulder bravely making him flinch at the sudden contact "No. It's a declaration of war."

The heat rises to his cheeks, his cool and passive demeanor suddenly melts aways as he chuckles lowly, accepting the declaration you just announced. "Then be ready to taste defeat this next time."

Curiosity was one thing you don't like but what you really hate the most is not finding answers to satisfy your own. So this time, you might as well go all the way in satisfying the curiosity growing.

"Then try me. Bring it on, hero."

a/n: the story is progressing so slow skdkkskec i just want to stress the part that y/n hates the idea of hero worship... Probably due to one of the many traumas she endured during her childhood.

But still she's a very curious cat, Shinsou unknowingly being the reason why she accepted Aizawa's offer once again.

ps: this is not proofread 🤧 will edit laters~

taglist: @sugarandsoft @roesaurus @moonlightbae14 @therealwalmartjesus @redperson58 @i-bitch-you-bitch @allie-munoz @seijohoe @riathearora

general taglist: @b0ku4ka @chibishae34 @skusamiya

i got a taglist im soft ~ want to join? just leave a comment or shoot an ask my dudes and dudettes ✨

likes, comments and reblogs is highly appreciated 🐣

this is my first time writing bnha so tips and comments are really helpful ! ✨

[thranduilland]

I’ve tripped back into the Barduil fandom, so...

(Whoops, I did a thing.)

Bard isn’t human, least not fully. He’s not fully anything. He’s not mortal either. There had been a time, in his youth, where his parents thought that perhaps he would be mortal in the way that his mother and grandfather weren’t, but he reached his majority and didn’t grow a single day older and they knew.

When his beard had started to grow in, he’d been surprised, had assumed that he wouldn’t grow one, like his grandfather. But he’d been pleased when it had grown, without it he looked too young, too other-worldly and he didn’t want that. Especially not after learning the reason for the Master’s hatred of him. He does wish his mother could have let Grandfather murder the idiot, but alas, that was too much to ask for.

He’s twenty when his father dies, illness had caught him in the winter and he never recovered. He watched his mother wither away in the months that followed and begged her to stay, but he already knew that she would be leaving him. At twenty, he loses his mother and father and begins working as the bargeman for the Woodland Realm.

At twenty-five he meets Florrie; he knows within moments of meeting her that she is like him. Stuck halfway between belonging anywhere and, therefore, belonging nowhere. They spend the majority of their courting days chasing each other through the trees at the edge of the wood at night, giggling like little children and pretending that they are elves of the wood and the moon and the stars. All the while, they know that when morning comes, they’ll be forced to return to their lives among mortal men, where they do not fit in. They know already that they do not fit in under the trees, either, but it’s fun to pretend.

His grandmother dies suddenly when he is thirty-three and he already knows without his grandfather needing to say a word, that he will lose him, too. The morning after his grandfather passes, he clutches Florrie close to him and they promise each other that they will not fade, no matter what happens, because one of them must always be there for the life that grows in Florrie’s womb even then.

His wife dies when he is forty-one, sickness and age could not claim her, but the birthing bed did. She leaves him three beautiful children and he promises that he will raise his children right, that he will love them always and ensure they know their mother and where she came from.

He is fifty when a dragon burns his town to ashes. Fifty when he does what countless others have failed to do. Fifty when he slays a dragon and becomes a king.

He is seventy-five when he has to sit his lover down and point out the fact that they’ve known each other for fifty-five years and he hasn’t aged a day. This is when he realizes that time truly means nothing for his grandfather’s people.

--

Ever since Bard abdicated his throne to Bain, citing old age, and disappeared into the Woodland Realm to be with his lover, he notices the way his lover has changed. Where once his lover made as much time as possible to be with him, now he pulls away, avoids him, and does what he can to be elsewhere, which is made easier by the fact they’re still sneaking about like they did in those early days. For all the affection they used to show in public, their relationship is one that has never been out in the open and now it seems to be slipping away. If Bard didn’t know better, he’d assume he’s made a mistake, that what he thought was love between them was only affection, but knows he isn’t wrong.

He has more patience than most, but even his patience is not infinite.

“Why are you avoiding me?” his voice comes out harsher than he intends, but he cannot ignore this situation any longer. If he had wanted to engage in a charade, he would have stayed in Dale. His lover is silent, looking at him from across the room, his lover’s eyes flickering to the doorway that Bard is now blocking. “Thranduil, answer the question.”

“I’m not avoiding you.” Thranduil finally answers, sighing and crossing the room to pour himself a glass of wine, as ever.

“I haven’t seen you in a week.” Bard points out, crossing his arms over his chest, his eyes tracking Thranduil’s every movement.

“I have responsibilities and-“

“Don’t.” Bard says, cutting him off and shaking his head. “Don’t lie to me. I’ll accept whatever you have to say, as long as it’s the truth. You’ve never purposely lied to me before, don’t start now.” Thranduil is silent and still, a goblet of wine clutched tight in his hand as he looks down into the liquid depths. “If you don’t love me anymore, just say it and I will leave, you’ll never have to see me again.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Thranduil says, the words leaving him in a rush.

“What?”

“That you’ll leave and I’ll never see you again.” The elf answers, slowly putting the glass of wine down and looking across to Bard, his eyes shining with tears Bard has never seen him shed. “I thought I knew what I was doing when I let myself love you, Bard. But you’re mortal and I’m not and I can’t-“ Thranduil chokes on his words, swallowing thickly and looking away. Bard stares at him in stunned disbelief, before he let’s out an amused laugh, that he just can’t hold in.

“I’m not mortal, I never have been.” Bard says, watching as Thranduil’s eyes snap back to him.

“What?”

“My mother was half-elven, so was my grandfather.” Bard answers, cocking his head to the side and frowning at his lover. “I thought you would have figured it out by now, love.”

“How?” Thranduil exclaims, even as something like hope lights in his eyes.

“Love. We’ve known each other for fifty-five years! Do I look any older than I did the day we met? When you decided you just had to meet your new bargeman and decide his worth for yourself?” Bard demands, looking intently at Thranduil’s face, watching the confusion and disbelief that forms there.

“It can’t have been that long, surely.” Thranduil denies, but Bard can see him doing the maths in his head.

“Love, it’s been fifty-five years, trust me.” Bard promises, sees the moment Thranduil has counted the years in his head and realized the truth.

“I’m so stupid.” Thranduil whispers, burying his head in his hands and groaning. “I’ve been breaking both our hearts for nothing.”

“Yes.” Bard answers, laughing softly and shaking his head. “Honestly, Thran, I thought you’d figured it out!”

“Who?” Thranduil asks, looking at him suddenly, Bard just frowns and shakes his head in confusion. “Your elven ancestor?”

“Oh. Well that’s kind of hard to say, most of them were half-elves.” Bard explains, then he hums. “I guess Lindis but… look, I’ll just draw the family tree.” He mutters, crossing to the writing desk and sinking down into the chair, pulling blank parchment from the drawer, and starting to write. From a young age, his grandfather had ensured he could recite his family tree without prompting or hesitation.

“You are born of noble blood, Bard. No matter where life takes you, you must never forget the blood that runs through your veins is the blood of kings.”

His grandfather had just laughed and ruffled his hair when Bard had pointed out that Girion had only been Lord of Dale, not a King.

He starts the tree from the bottom, the way he had learned it in the first place. So lost in his writing is he, that he doesn’t notice when Thranduil appears at his shoulder, he doesn’t notice when Thranduil grips the back of the chair to steady himself, and he doesn’t notice the hard look that has formed on Thranduil’s face.

He draws the link between his great, great, great grandfather and great, great, great, great grandfather, marking them as brothers and the family is complete. He carefully puts the quill in its stand and blows across the parchment, drying the ink.

“There we are. The family tree of one King Bard of Dale.” He announces, leaning back and looking up at Thranduil, he frowns when he sees the far away look in Thranduil’s eyes, notes the way his lover’s hands are gripped so tightly to the back of the chair, his skin has gone white. “Love?”

“It always comes back to Doriath.” Thranduil whispers, his voice shaking as tears slip from his eyes.

“Thranduil?” Bard asks, nervously biting his lip. Thranduil gives a quiet little laugh and leans down to pick up the quill, dipping it in the ink pot and beginning to amend the family tree.

Bard watches in surprise at the names Thranduil adds, they’re not new on the family tree, they’re just alternate names. Names that Bard knows, names that everyone knows, if they know anything of Doriath, as Bard’s grandfather and great-uncle taught him.

“That’s not possible.” Bard whispers, but he remembers his grandfather’s words, remembers the argument his grandfather and his great-uncle had when they all learned he wasn’t mortal.

“He will not be recognized! They will not accept him!” Uncle Elurin grumbles, glaring at Bard from across the room, Bard doesn’t know what he’s done to upset his great-uncle, who has always enjoyed telling him stories and teaching him of his grandfather’s culture. “He is too different.”

“He is the heir.” Grandfather answers, his voice brooking no argument. “If the day comes that he must step into his own, he will claim his birth right and they will accept him. They have no right to do otherwise!” his grandfather snaps, then the brother’s devolve into a heated argument at a volume so quiet not even Bard can hear what they are saying. So, instead of trying to hear more, he turns away and gets ready to start his shift.

He’d assumed they were arguing over Dale, though why they thought he’d want to claim a ruin had been beyond him at the time. Now, he understands and he doesn’t want to.

When he looks up at his lover, he finds Thranduil watching his face intently, searching for something, his lover doesn’t speak, just keeps looking at him. Bard sighs and looks away.

“My grandfather always told me I was born of kings, that I was born to be a king.” He admits, rubbing his eyes, feeling suddenly like crying. “I always just assumed they were talking about Dale. He was talking about Doriath.”

“No.” Thranduil answers, sucking in a breath and letting it out slowly. “No, he wasn’t, Bard. Elu Thingol wasn’t just the King of Doriath. He was considered to be the King of All Sindar.”

“Fuck, no.” Bard exclaims, shaking his head. “No, no, nope, no. Dale is… was more than enough for me!” there’s a moment, of silence before Bard remembers what his great-uncle had said and he laughs, the sound quickly turning to sobs. “Fuck, that’s what Uncle Elurin was talking about.” He says, through hitched breaths.

“Bard.” He looks to Thranduil, even though his chest aches and he can’t seem to bring enough air into his lungs. “Bard, listen to me. There is no need for you to do anything, now or in the future regarding this. Alright?” Thranduil says, his voice pitched low and so soothing it seems to reach right into Bard’s mind and quiet all his fears. “No one is going to expect anything from you unless you want to give it, I promise. If the day comes, where we need another High King, there are others who it could be.”

“I know.” Bard says, sucking in a deep breath and letting it out slowly as he gets control of himself. “Like… like Elrond… and my cousins.” He whispers, rubbing the tears from his eyes.

“Cousins?” Thranduil asks, looking back at the family tree. Bard sniffs and reaches for the quill, to add them in. Three cousins that he has never met but has heard stories of from his uncle.

“Oh. Hmm, that’s quite interesting.” Thranduil mutters, reading the names with a little laugh. “I wonder if they know.”

“I don’t … I don’t think so.” Bard answers, resting the quill back in its stand.

“You ready for another surprise?” Thranduil asks, an amused glint in his eyes, Bard breathes deeply and scowls at him.

“Do I have a choice?”

“No. But it’s a good surprise, I think.” Thranduil answers, leaning over to pick up the quill, but he hesitates before putting quill to parchment. “This… changes nothing between us. I love you.”

“I still love you, too.” Bard replies, brow furrowing as he watches as Thranduil starts writing.

His breath catches in his throat and slowly he lifts his eyes from the parchment to stare at his lover, who also, apparently, is a cousin. “Did you elves ever figure out that inbreeding is really bad?”

“Don’t judge us! The First and Second ages were wild times. There was a lot happening.” Thranduil argues, though there is laughter in his voice. “But if you must know, yes, we did figure that out, thank you.”

“Clearly not, if we’re an indication.” Bard replies, looking down at the family tree once more. “Do you want another surprise?” Bard asks, smirking at Thranduil who groans.

“What now? Isn’t this enough of a revelation for a single evening? For both of us?”

“Hmm.” Is Bard’s only reply as he reaches for the quill, a laugh bubbling in his throat.

“It’s always bloody Doriath!” Thranduil grumbles, Bard just laughs and then sighs.

“So, Daeron is from Doriath, too?”

“Yes! He was Thingol’s bloody scribe! We thought him long dead! But we thought the same of Elured and Elurin as well.” Thranduil rubs at his eyes and groans. “You don’t have to claim anything, there’s nothing really to claim at this point, but… we should tell people. I’m sure Celeborn would be happy to learn he has more relatives still living, and Elrond, at least, would probably like to know that he has cousins. Valar, he probably would like to know that he has a living uncle.”

“I don’t know if he is still living.” Bard points out, frowning at the tree. “I haven’t seen him since my grandfather passed, long before Smaug came.”

“Well, either way, I think this is something that should be shared, Bard. Finally learning what happened to Elurin and Elured is… incredible.” Here Thranduil pauses and looks at Bard who stares back and simply raises an eyebrow. “I’ve been wanting to ask since I found you after the Battle of Five Armies, but you were mortal and I...” Thranduil pauses, shaking his head as he breathes in deep and lets it out slowly. “Will you marry me?”

“I’m pretty sure we’re already married in the elvish custom, but… if it’ll make you stop hiding me in the shadows, yes, I’ll marry you.” Bard agrees, sees the smile that lights up Thranduil’s face, only to dim a few moments later, Bard frowns.

“I didn’t… I never meant for you to feel like something I was hiding or that I was ashamed of, I just… I didn’t think I’d be able to keep you so, I wanted everything that we had to be just… ours and no one else’s.” Thranduil admits, sighing. “I was foolish.”

“It’s alright. We both… we made assumptions and those assumptions were wrong. We’ll do better in future.”

“Yes, we will.” Thranduil agrees, gently pulling Bard up from the chair. “Let’s go to bed, tomorrow we can scandalize my kingdom with the news of our affair.”

“Technically, we’re already married.”

“Yes, but also technically, we are each still married to our wives, so we’re having an affair...” Thranduil points out, Bard laughs, a full belly laugh, leaning into Thranduil for support, unable to stop laughing as he lets Thranduil all but drag him to bed.

--

Bard is seventy-five when he learns he is the heir of Elu Thingol.

It changes nothing, but it also changes everything, as is the way of such secrets when they come to light.

He was always the heir of Elu Thingol, even if he never knew it.

He was always the heir of Girion, even if he never wanted it.

He was born of kings and a King he became, just as his Grandfather foretold.

[thatfanficstuff]

Strange Fates - 2

Chapter Two: Hello There

Pairing: Eventual Mikaelson bros x Soulmate! Reader

Warnings: nope.

A/N: And so it begins.

***

You didn’t get a chance to call anyone the next morning before you received a text from Cami telling you Marcel had already talked to Jackson. He and his wife would be stopping by around 10 to talk to you. If that wouldn’t work, all you had to do was call. You blinked at the message for a moment before texting back a quick thank you. You weren’t used to people doing things for you. Especially without wanting something in return. Cami was good people.

You glanced at the time and poured yourself a mug of coffee. You carried it into the bedroom with you so you could get dressed before your visitors arrived. You didn’t put much thought into your clothing other than making sure it was something you wouldn’t mind getting dirty. Once the contractors left, you had work of your own to do. After dressing in the first pair of jeans and t-shirt you found, you wandered back out to the kitchen. You’d just refreshed your coffee when there was a knock at the door.

You opened it to find a couple on your doorstep that had to be Jackson and Haley. They both had dark hair and eyes. He was slightly taller than her and had a light beard. They made a lovely couple, that was for sure. “Jackson and Haley Kenner. We own Crescent Moon Contracting.”

You shook both of their hands before stepping back to let them in. “It’s nice to meet you. Come on in.”

They exchanged a look before stepping into the house. “Thank you. Just so you know, you should be careful who you invite into your house around here,” Haley warned.

“Haley,” Jackson chastised before looking at you. “Sorry.”

You pursed your lips. “No, it’s fine. Always good advice no matter where you live. You never know what you might be inviting in. I have my own way of keeping out unwanted guests though.”

You could see the questions burning in their gazes and sipped at your coffee to hide your smirk. Suddenly, you remembered your manners. “I’m sorry. Would either of you like something to drink?”

“No, we’re good. Marcel said you needed some help with some painting?” Jackson prompted.

“We normally don’t do small jobs, but Marcel and Cami said you could really use the help.” Irritation threaded through the woman’s voice.

“Haley,” Jackson all but growled. She huffed and crossed her arms over her chest as he turned his attention back to you. He shook his head slightly. “Sorry again.”

You didn’t even try to hide your smile this time. Their interaction was amusing and it was evident to see they cared for each other. “It’s fine and while I do have some painting to do, that’s just a small part of what I need done both here and at my shop.”

He tilted his head. “Shop?”

“I bought a building not far from here to turn into a bookstore. I’m planning something a little different. Even for New Orleans.” Your grandfather had owned his store for nearly forty years. When he died, it all went to you but you had no desire to stay in that town. So, you closed it up. You packed each book yourself and were amazed at some of the things you’d found buried in his stacks. You’d also obtained a couple of estate collections you hadn’t even had time to catalog yet. You couldn’t wait to get everything the way you wanted it and start setting up the store.

“Great. Let’s get started,” Jackson said as he pulled out a notebook and pencil.

You nodded and began to lead them through the house. It didn’t take you long to point out what needed to be painted and what light fixtures and shelves needed to be installed along with some more extensive work in the kitchen and bathrooms. They hadn’t been updated in decades.

“If you don’t mind me saying, you seem incredibly well-versed in what needs to be done to get the result you’re after,” he said as you finished in the kitchen.

You huffed a laugh. “My grandfather always was a handyman. He taught me everything he knew. I could do most of the work myself but it would take forever and I’m impatient. Plus, the store is a whole separate project and the mere thought of trying to do both at the same time had me pulling my hair out.”

“Honestly, you’ll probably feel that way even with someone else doing the work. Renovations are stressful either way,” Haley said. She had relaxed considerably as you went through the house. Now, she was smiling. You wondered if all strangers made her uncomfortable at first, or if it was just you. Or perhaps all the dollar signs she saw as you added to the list had loosened her up.

“Oh, trust me. I know. Should we go see the shop?” you asked.

“Sounds good,” Jackson said. They waited for you to grab the keys and lock up the house. “Do we need to take the truck?”

You shook your head. “It’s only a few blocks away. We might as well walk.”

They fell into step behind you and let you lead the way.

When you’d gotten about a block from the house, Haley cleared her throat. “If you don’t mind me asking, how exactly do you know Marcel and Cami? I haven’t heard them mention you before.”

You couldn’t keep the grin from your face. “That would probably be because I just met them last night. Cami and I bonded.”

Haley snorted. “Bonded. That sounds like Cami, all right.”

In a few minutes you were in front of the building that would be your store. The windows were soaped up so no one could see inside. You unlocked everything and motioned for them to go in before you.

“I know this building. It used to be a voodoo shop,” Haley said. Your brows shot up in surprise. When she saw the look on your face, she waved her hand through the air. “Not a real one, of course. Just a tourist thing. They had some pretty jewelry.”

She’d be surprised to find out just how much of what the former tenants did was real magic, you thought. You had to do a pretty thorough cleansing when you bought the place.

“Wow,” Jackson breathed.

You turned to find him running his hand along one of the large oak shelves you’d brought with you. “My grandfather built those. I couldn’t bear to leave them behind. As you can see, they need some repair and rejuvenation. I’d like to us them as a starting point for the rest of the space.”

He looked around the space and nodded as if picturing it in his head. “How many shelves are you going to want total?”

“Oh, here,” you said and walked over to the counter to grab a piece of paper. It was a complete layout of how you wanted the main room to look including measurements and counter space. You handed it over to him and he whistled through his teeth.

“You are making my job easy, Y/N. I wish all our clients were as sure about what they wanted as you are.”

“That just means you can work faster, right?” You laughed.

“Actually, it does,” Haley agreed.

You pointed to the paper. “On the back is what I need done in the back room and upstairs as well. It’s not nearly as extensive.”

Jackson flipped the paper over, his eyes scanning over your work. “Is that a stove?” he asked.

You nodded. “With a double oven. I wrote the make and model number down for you on the side there.”

“This is great,” Haley said, peering at the paper from beside him. “Give us a couple of days and we’ll write up an estimate and get it to you.”

“When do you think you’d be able to start?” You bit your lip as you awaited the response. It was unlikely they had an opening right now but you could hope.

The two of them exchanged a look. “Let me make a couple of calls, and I’ll let you know. We can move some things around maybe and we have some extra crew we could call in.”

“That would be great.” And it would, but you’d try not to get your hopes up.

The three of you stepped outside and they moved across the street to look over the front of the building while you locked up. It was in desperate need of a paintjob as well.

When you turned, you found another man stood with them. The three of them were talking, occasionally glancing toward your building. Your mouth instantly went dry as you ran your gaze over the new arrival. Holy shit. He was stunning. You couldn’t think of another word really. He was dressed in a well-tailored suit. Every strand of his dark hair was neatly in place and he held himself with a confidence you rarely saw. He had his hands in his pockets and rocked on his feet as he laughed at something Jackson said.

Realizing you were staring, you turned your attention to your contractors as you walked across to join them. Jackson’s attention was on the other man but Haley was smirking while shooting glances between you and the stranger. Evidently, you’d been caught ogling her friend. Great.

She smacked her husband’s arm with the back of her hand. “Jackson, introduce Elijah to our new client.”

Your face heated and you hoped no one noticed your embarrassment. “Thanks, Haley,” you said with a tight smile. You were almost positive you heard her giggle.

The man’s lips twisted into a half-grin as he offered his hand. “Yes, I’m sorry to have distracted them from your meeting. I had been meaning to call and couldn’t pass up the opportunity to talk to them. I am Elijah Mikaelson. And who might you be?”

“Y/N Y/L/N.” You took his offered hand and gasped as heat flared under the skin on your wrist. Your gaze darted to your joined hands. The three dots of his soulmate mark were visible where they rested near his thumb. The lines to finish it appeared literally in front of your eyes.

Your gaze darted back to his face to find his attention locked on your hands as well. When he looked up, he grinned. “Well, hello there.”

[rhabakoli]

Infinite White - 10

just a short, fluffy, sweet thing.

Previous Chapters here.

Taglist: @dreamwritesimagines @i-am-always-famished @marauderskeeper @superwolfchild-fan @m00nlightdelights @cgn-99 @alicedopey @alwaysadreamingoptimist @atlas-of-the-world @finnickfoxes @rmwest9

**

It’s been two weeks since the dinner. Exams have been taken, essays were turned in, students were drunk on freedom and spare time and alcohol. Maeve was packing her bags, she was going home for a few days. “Will you be okay?” “Yes, of course. I’ll visit my grandparents, they’ve been demanding I come as soon as I am free of exams and studying.” “Oh, great. They’ll love to see you.” She stuffed her track pants into the duffle bag she reserved for dirty laundry. “How will you go there?” “I’ll get a taxi. Or maybe I’ll take a bike, depending on the weather.” Fenja leaned against the wall and hugged a pillow to her chest. “What will you do at home?” “Give piggyback rides to my cousins, let my baby brother sleep in bed with me and built a lot of pillow forts. Last time I was home, we cracked the record of two rooms. We wanna see if we can expand to three this time.” Fenja smiled at that. Maeve’s family sounded great. She never had the opportunity to go visit them, as her grandparents were her priority during holidays. 

“Well, good luck then.” “Thank you.” Maeve zipped up the last bag and then came over to say goodbye with a hug and a kiss to her cheek. “Be good, kiddo.” “Have fun.” The door closed behind her, and Fenja was alone. She looked around in their room, empty, Maeves side weirdly clean and organized. She suddenly felt so lonely, it was like an ice cold hand holding her heart. A sob broke out of her and her hands flew up to cover her mouth, to not let it escape, lest someone heard. Her eyes were squeezed close, tears escaping still. The silence of the room, of the whole building, was pressing down on her, bringing her quite literally to her knees. She crawled under her comforter, pulled it close around her body and closed her eyes. She’d just rest for a bit. She’d be fine. She can manage just fine on her own. She just needed a break.

**

“So, honey, how are you? How is that writer thing going, the one you told us about?” Fenja sat with her grandparents on their patio, overlooking the small gardens of the apartment block. “The last decision is to be made soon, I’m just waiting for an announcement. But, if that doesn’t work out, my friend’s aunt offered me an internship with that very same organisation.” Her grandfather knocked on the wooden table, winking at her. “Will be fine, cupcake.” “I hope so. I need the experience, I want to learn.” Her grandmother laid a hand on her arm. “With your talent and hard work, I am sure they’ll love to have you.” “I hope so.” Fenja was sitting in one of their cozy chairs, feet up on another, let the sun shine on her naked belly, where she had pulled up her shirt. She enjoyed the time with them, get them up to date, listen to their gossip on the neighbours. Apparently, assisted living wasn’t that different from college dorms. “Just last week, Nolan from the upstairs apartment, he got busted. Was smoking all kinds of things, all prescribed, he said. Neither of his docs knew anything about the drugs, tho.” Her grandfather laughed, a cigar between his fingers as he slapped his hand on the table in amusement. His granddaughter grinned, always enjoying their stories. She was glad they had a good life here, she’d never get sleep if she knew they were unhappy here. Her grandparents were laughing and kissing each other, and she was happy. For a moment, she was really, truly happy right where she was. And she’d be even happier, if she got that internship. Gala had said it’s paid, and she could use the money. Raising her glass to her lips, she smirked. She’d send her grandparents on vacation. They never had any, because of her; they never wanted to leave her for long.

**

“Honey, are you staying with us, or are you going back to the dorms?” Her grandmother placed her hand on her head, stroking her hair. “I’ll go back. There’s a whole stack of books waiting for me, that I haven’t read yet.” “We’ll call you a cab, cupcake.” Fenja looked over, at her granddad and shook her head. “No need, gramps. I biked over.” He wanted to protest, when her phone started vibrating off the table. Perfect timing, whoever it was. She’d kiss them. Or not. “Hi, you.” She smiled at her grandparents and went inside, fleeing from curious gazes. “What’s up, buttercup?” She could hear the grin in his voice and scoffed. “Please, don’t ever call me that again.” With an arm crossed over her chest, she paced through the kitchen. “What do you want?” “Just a bit of your very precious time. And your location.” “What are you talking about?” “I’ll come pick you up, if you allow. Ingrid has a whole week planned, nothing but Netflix and Hulu and whatever else she’s subscribed to.” His voice went an octave deeper, raspy, as if he was sharing a secret, when he added: “She also bought a ‘lifetime’ supply of popcorn, that won’t even last through the first three days.”   Fenja just shrugged. “Popcorn is life, mate.” “Yeah, I guess so.” She heard a voice in the background, hissing something at her friend, before he asked: “So? Where am I to pick you up? Ingrid won’t take a no.” “Yeah, she got that from her brother.” She sighed. Stubborn. All of them. The whole lot. “I’m at my grandparents, give me half an hour to get home.” “Ah, nah, gimme their address, I’ll come over.” “You really don’t have to.” “Uh, yeah, I do. I’ll send you proof of the murderous looks my sisters are giving me right this moment.” His smile was evident in his voice, and she knew she’d never be able to go against all three of the Ivarsson-siblings. “Okay, fine. But park down the road, I don’t want this to come back to my grandparents.” “Why?” “Because they’ll plan our wedding, if they see you.” Over his laughter, she added: “I have my bike here, bring a big car.” 

** Ragnar was indeed waiting down the road, arm hanging out the window, head leaned back against the headrest, as he watched her cycle towards him. 

“What’s that?”, he asked, the bike obviously making him question her sanity. Before she could answer, he shook his head, and rephrased: “No, I know what a bike is, I just mean,” His hand moved up and down, gesturing at Fenja, “What are you doing on it?” “Biking, my friend. Not everyone has a monster-truck at their disposal.” He opened the car door, stepped out and rolled his eyes at her. “It’s a jeep, not a monster-truck. And she’s willing to carry your bike around, so you better thank her.” “She?” “Yes.” He took her bike and lifted it into the back of the Wrangler, before taking her hand and pulling her to the other side of the car. “You are one of those who name their cars?” “And their motorbikes.” “You have a bike?” “Yeah.” He held the door open, watched as she got in and slammed it shut, before bounding over and hopped into the driver’s seat. “Mum had quite something to say about it, but by then I already passed the exam.” “I bet.” Fenja strapped in, leaned back and watched as Ragnar pushed the car into gear and pulled out of the parking spot. “What’s her name then?” “Hela.” Fenja frowned, noticing his amused smirk. “Hela? As in, ‘ruler or Helheim - Hela’?” He hummed approvingly, eyes flicking over to her, as he took a left. “Isn’t that kinda - I don’t know, dark? For a car?” “Nah. She’s in control of the underworld, I dedicated her my car, I should be safe.” She nodded. “Sure. Logically.”

**

The moment Ragnar pulled up in front of the house, Ingrid came flying, Bear bounding after her. She opened the door open before Fenja could even move, and stood there, grinning from one ear to the other. “We have popcorn, sweets, chips, cheetos and peanut flips and like five different flavors of Ice Cream.” Fenja raised an eyebrow and shot Ragnar a look over her shoulder. “How long is she going to keep me here?” Ragnar came around, hugged his sister to his side and winked at his friend. ���Until the end of days.”

**

“Where are your parents?” “Away. Mom wants a weekend for herself, before everything is about the baby, and Dad is with her, of course.” They were all in the living room, puppy piled onto the couch, buried under pillows and blankets. Fenja didn’t think there’d be any pillows left in the rest of the house. But it was so very comfy and soft, so she didn’t complain. Ingrid yawned frequently enough to catch her sisters attention. “You tired?” “No.” Fenja snorted and burrowed further into the nest she built around herself. Ragnar was curled around it, propped on his elbow so he could look over her, see the TV. He glanced over at his sisters and leaned forward, murmuring into Fenjas ear: “10 bucks Aslaug is just as tired and uses her to go to bed herself.” Aslaug threw a cheeto at him, catching him square on the forehead. “Stop being a shithead.” “What? It’s true!”, Ingrid laughed, before she almost unhinges her jaw at the next yawn. They continued bickering, no one really paying attention anymore; the movie on TV just a background noise. Fenja felt so at home with them, her heart clenched. If she ever lost them, she’d probably die. Ingrid and Aslaug indeed went to bed soon after, taking their blankets with them, but leaving the pillows. Fenja sat up, stretched over and grabbed the fluffy one Ingrid had had in her clutches all evening. She cackled, like a witch, as she hugged it to her chest. “So easy to satisfy.” “It’s a fluffy pillow. Why wouldn’t I be?” She looked back at him, stretching her neck to see his face. He looked down at her, shaking his head ever so lightly. Her lips were stretched into a wide, cheeky grin, a healthy glow on her skin, and she looked so awfully… right, where she was. If she could just stay there forever.   Her eyes went from his face to the TV, and her grin became even wider, and then: “BUTT!” She giggled at Ragnar’s confused look. There was a sex scene, and she happily screamed out whatever naked body part she could catch a glimpse off.   “Another butt!” “Fenja.” She almost drowned under her pillows, had her sweater pulled up over her chin and it’s strings knotted to a bow - so adorable, so cute, he never wanted her to wear anything else. “A nipple!” “Will you stop that, you child?” “Never.” Not 5 seconds later, a lady was naked on the screen, and Ragnar lunged at her, trying to clap a hand over her mouth, but she sat up like a stung pig and cackled loudly, as she threw a loud “Boobies!” into the room. “You are the most awful person to watch a movie with, you know that?” “I am aware.” He reached out, pulled her back down and wrapped a hand over her eyes, laughing as she started thrashing and wriggling. “If you behave like a child, I’ll treat you like one.” “You sound like an old housewife!” She pulled at his hand, tried to bring it down, away from her eyes, but he didn’t release. Only when there were no more naked parts, did he let her go. She sat up again, and turned to him. “You’re no fun.” “I’m plenty fun.” “Yeah?” “Mhm.” He smirked at her, his mind wandering to…. fun activities. She caught the expression on his face. “You are a dirty bastard.” “I am not.” “You are.” “I’ll fucking show you ‘dirty bastard’”, he growled and pulled her down once again, his free hand burrowing under her sweater and finding all the right spots to make her squirm against him, torturing her. “Okay, okay, stop, please!”   Fenja wheezed, barely getting air into her lungs, as she tried to get away from him and his traitorous hands. “Not so dirty now, huh?” “No, no, not at all!” Her laughter filled the room, bright and happy, and he wanted it to never end. He had small flashbacks to the dinner, her scared and frustrated face, so fragile... Ragnar wrapped his arms around her, held her close and still, and observed her face, while she was busy taking deep breaths. “Can you behave now?” He quickly came to regret his move, when he felt her fingers dig into his belly, cheeky smile in place. “Never.”

**

Part 11

[im-fairly-whitty]

For Whom the Bell Tolls

Ernesto Strikes Back: A Coco Fan Fiction

[Part 1: Fallen]  [Part 2: Anger]  [Part 3:Cursed]  

[Part 4: Doubt]  [Part 5: Remembering]  [Part 6: Empty]

Part 7: The Important Things

“Where is he? I am going to kill him! That monster, that bestia, that-”

There was a loud commotion with Imelda’s voice leading the way as several sets of feet entered the ofrenda room behind Ernesto, but then it sharply cut off.

Ernesto slowly, so, so slowly pulled himself back to a sitting position. Even more slowly he turned until he was facing Hector, Imelda, and Miguel. All three of them stood tightly together at the entryway.

As one they looked at his face and their eyes widened, but Ernesto didn’t care. Not anymore.

Imelda recovered from her shock first and began to advance, boot in hand, the snarl on her face fierce enough to rival her alebrije’s.

“No! Mamá Imelda, don’t hurt him!” Miguel cried, jumping in front of her with his hands raised. “It's okay, he didn't hurt me!”

“Of course he did, he kidnapped you, and besides, that animal has caused this family too much pain, I’ll hit him any time I please.” Imelda tried to side-step him, but Miguel moved to block her again. “Miguel, move aside.”

“No, he saved my life!” Miguel stood his ground, a reflection of Imelda’s own stubbornness. “I almost fell into a canal and he saved me, I think he just wanted me to dig up an old metal box for him.”

“You cursed him so he could dig up a metal box for you?” Imelda glared at Ernesto from behind Miguel. “Hector, tell your grandson to step aside.”

“Ernesto,” Hector said, looking past the others, uncharacteristically serious as his gaze drilled into Ernesto. “Why did you come tonight? What was it you were doing with Miguel?”

Hector had always been so easy to push around, always good-naturedly playing off accidents or bad luck. Ernesto had only ever seen him really serious like this twice before, the night he’d tried to go home to his family, and then the night he’d realized Ernesto had kept him from ever reaching the train station.

“I thought killing him would make me less empty inside.” Ernesto said. He was too tired to lie anymore, even with the easy excuse Miguel had unknowingly offered him.

“See?” Imelda snarled, lowering her boot, “Hector, call Pepita, take her to the flower bridge and get crossing agents who can haul this filth away. He’s too dirty to hit with my shoe.”

“But...then why didn’t you kill me?” Miguel asked, looking far more confused than frightened.

“You said he let you go on his own, mijo?” Hector asked, putting an arm around the boy’s shoulder.

“Si, Papá Hector.” Miguel said, still watching Ernesto as he leaned against his great-great-grandfather. “He carried me outside of town to a canal, had me dig up a box and brought me here. Then he told me to go.” His voice softened as he looked up to his Papá, “I know he’s a really bad person, but he didn’t hurt me when he could have. I, I think he needs help.”

“Help? What he needs is a-” Imelda started, but stopped when Hector put a gentle hand on her arm.

“Mi amor.” Hector said, “Let’s listen to what Miguel has to say, he’s a smart one, if he thinks something’s wrong we should hear him out.”

Imelda grimaced, but then sighed irritably and folded her arms, but not without rolling her eyes. It was a true testament to their love that Imelda would hold her peace for Hector, the only person who had ever lived or died to ever have that particular honor.

“Ernesto, what really happened tonight?” Hector’s eyes traveled to the ofrenda, “And what is it that you’re doing here?”

Ernesto had forgotten Hector’s talent for keeping a cool head when navigating troubled waters. Hector had chatted and smiled their way into overbooked hotels and last-minute gigs and borrowed music equipment more times than Ernesto could remember over the course of their long friendship.

Always the resourceful creative, a level-headed survivor in life and in death.

“I died the night you did.” Ernesto said, “Maybe before that.”

He only had enough energy left to distantly hate how utterly pathetic he sounded, but the words trickled out of himself as helplessly as blood from a fatal wound.

“Maybe I thought since you had what I wanted, I could take it from you.”

Silence. Ernesto wished Imelda would attack him after all, or that Hector would attack him, like he had last year when he’d first realized Ernesto’s true colors. That had been something he’d at least been able to push back on.

But instead Hector just sighed, a long tired sigh. He walked over and sat down, cross-legged across from Ernesto. Ernesto looked away, the sight burning him.

“What I had?” Hector asked him, “What did I have that you didn’t?”

It felt like Hector had twisted a knife in Ernesto’s chest. Was he really going to make him say it outloud?

“You know what my family was like, Hector.” He said quietly, perhaps too quiet for Imelda to hear. “You had a family that loved you, that believed in you. I didn’t have that.”

“Ah, but you forget that you had me.” Hector’s gaze was somehow accusing and terribly sad at the same time. “Don't you remember? We were hermanos Ernesto.”

Another twist of the knife.

“You had talent.” Ernesto looked at the spirit copy of his journal, laying on the floor between them. “You had happiness. That’s what I was trying to take.”

Hector said nothing, looking at the journal as well. He knew what was in its pages as well as Ernesto, he'd even written in it too, making encouraging notes on songs or adding lighthearted comments to fanciful entries.

All but the last page of course.

Ernesto’s head bowed again.

“Your picture is on the ofrenda.” Hector said, looking over.

Ernesto looked up and following his gaze to his teenage picture.

“They said my Mamá put it up after my father and I were both dead.” Ernesto said.

Hector tipped his straw hat back, the smallest hint of a wry grin pulled at the edges of his mouth. “Your father? Last time I saw that old vejestorio w as when he chased me out, he must have thrown a whole box of empty beer bottles at me.”

“He wouldn’t have wasted full ones on you.” Ernesto said. That had been the day they’d started practicing their music at Hector’s place exclusively.

Something inside him ached at this brief charade of familiarity. They’d never been anything but familiar with each other, having grown up together, and trying to find a neutral space between them, even after everything that had happened, was painful.

Another long and full silence stretched between them.

“We’re two old dead men Ernesto.” Hector looked away from the ofrenda and down at his bone hands. He grimaced as he rubbed his brow and then pulled a hand down his face, decades of fatigue communicated in the motion. “What happened?”

Ernesto was silent. He had happened. They were both old, but Hector had died young.

An entire lifetime had stretched between them somehow, but in that moment it very nearly felt like maybe they were both still foolish boys who were still friends and who still had their worst mistakes ahead of them.

“I am sorry.”

Ernesto had nothing left in him, but the words still came from somewhere. A confession that had been buried, pushed away, thrown out, but that had always returned to hide away in a small forgotten corner of himself.

Hector looked at his hands.

The moment should have been tense, should have been tingling with explosive energy, but instead there was a stillness, like a pool of water inside Ernesto had finally calmed after years of shivering and shaking. The quiet stillness spread through Ernesto’s bones.

“I forgive you.” Hector said, not looking up.

There was a strangled noise from Imelda’s direction, but it was short and then over.

“I’ve had a year to think this over,” Hector continued, glancing back at Imelda. “and every time I thought about coming after you, I got more angry. I’ve been sad inside for so, so long, Ernesto. Now that I have mi familia back, I need all the space inside me for loving them. Sorry amigo, but you see, there is no more room for you, so I forgive you.”

He looked up at Ernesto, the seriousness back in his eyes. “But do not come near mi familia again. I can forgive you for the pain you caused me, but you are not forgiven for the pain you caused them. That is for them to decide.”

He looked away to the ofrenda again and breathed deeply. Ernesto did not see weakness in Hector’s clear eyes, in his unburdened shoulders. He saw strength that he had never thought to look for.

Hector stood, sighing as he leveraged himself to his feet, like he was leaving a burden there on the floor that he had carried for a long time.

“Have you spoken to your Mamá?” He asked, looking down at Ernesto.

Ernesto shook his head. There was no excuse so he didn’t bother trying to think of one.

“She was a sweet woman.” Hector held out a hand. After hesitating a moment, Ernesto took it, allowing Hector to pull him to his feet. “Go and find her.”

“She won’t want to see me.” Ernesto said.

“You don’t know that yet.” Hector shrugged his boney shoulders. “Go and find her. The night isn’t over yet.”

And without another word, Hector put one arm around Imelda’s waist, took Miguel’s hand with the other, and then all three of them left the room together.

Their voices drifted back to Ernesto.

“I still think we should call the crossing agents.” Imelda said. “You’re giving him more pity than he deserves.”

“What do you think he’ll do now Papá Hector?” Miguel asked.

“Hopefully the important stuff, Chamaco.” Hector’s voice replied, “Now, we gotta get you back home, but since you’re already here I think we’ve got plenty of time for a few songs, eh, gordito?”

“Hector.” Imelda said as the group’s voices receded, but her smile was audible.

The happy impromptu song the three broke into was the last thing Ernesto heard as their voices slowly disappeared into the distance.

Ernesto stood in silence as the world continued on around him. The reedy sound of crickets chirped outside, soft candlelight danced on the walls around him, the warm scent of bread filled the small room from the humble ofrenda offerings.

He took a long, deep breath, exhaling slowly, but the peaceful feeling inside of him remained, unshaken by his movement. He slowly put his hands in his pockets and gazed at the ofrenda, still being careful anyway.

He still felt empty inside, but somehow it wasn’t a hollowed-out kind of empty anymore. More like he’d been cleaned out, and maybe now he was supposed to decide what he was going to fill the space with.

Ernesto heard chattering voices come up the street. Was Hector back? Had they sent crossing agents after all?

Well, either way, Ernesto would face it. Any and all of it. He saw now that being nobody meant he could choose what kind of person he was going to be. That was the kind of person he now chose to be.

“Nesto?”

He turned and saw an old woman standing in the doorway.

Her hair was tucked up in a braid, like it always had been when she’d been alive. She wore a different dress though, one nicer and more colorful than Papá had ever bought for her. The kind of dress Ernesto should have bought her a thousand times over.

“Mamá.” He choked on the word in shame, ducking his head, as if he could hide the damage on the left side of his face. “I’m...I’m so sorry.”

And then she was hugging him. Small and fierce and crying. He was hugging her too, and the years melted away as they both cried and cried and cried. Ernesto Santiago had a mother again, he always had, he always should have known it.

“You came back.” She said through her tears.

“Si, Mamá.” He managed to say through his own. How had he ever forgotten how she always smelled faintly of cinnamon?

Ernesto had no idea what was going to happen to him next, what his afterlife would look like now, not even what he would do tomorrow.

But maybe none of that mattered, because for the first time in nearly a century he could feel the emptiness inside of him being filled with something warm, something that felt real.

It felt like maybe it was love, and it felt like maybe that was all that mattered.

----------------

Thanks for joining me for this story! It’s been so much fun to write and I’ve loved reading your comments. 

If you liked it check out my other Ernesto fic, ”Cecilia de Verde”. It’s a No-Murder AU where Ernesto’s father dies while he and Hector are on tour, calling them both home before anyone is poisoned. Ernesto is stuck in town caring for his mother and re-evaluating his life choices when he meets a sweet but sassy girl with a green hair ribbon that he can’t get out of his head. Bonus points because we get to see Hector and Imelda as the conniving married friends! :)

As always, be sure to reblog and follow me for future projects!

Cheers,

- Wit

----------------

@nerdy-emo-royal-dad @elecmon @memberofthatonefandom@smileyphantomstar @tamlins-stories-and-poems

[rauliskafan]

The Doctor and His Doll

Authors’ Note: Better late than never!!! Here is my contribution to @yourtropegirl‘s Alternative Coffee Shop AU challenge!!! Originally I planned to have the good doctor meet someone at a thrift shop, and I went through several drafts. It just wasn’t clicking. But then this came to me!!! Hope that you enjoy (and this story might keep going)!!!

Tagging @yourtropegirl, @vintagemichelle91, @mrschiltoncat

At least it was only a seasonal job.

In two months’ time, the space would be transformed into Decked Halls, a store bursting with fiber optic trees, wreaths of every size, and stockings seemingly discarded by a series of giants. Once all the gifts were unwrapped and this year became the next, it would change into The Spirit of Spring. Which was always kind of a cruel joke given the grayest days of winter. Fun in the Sun would rear its head after that with so many sunglasses and towels and displays of sand that tended to stick in shoes and turn one off to the very idea of spending a day at the beach.

But for the moment, it was The Devil’s Den, a business bursting with costumes for men and women, boys and girls, dogs and cats of every size. Add to that decorations for front yards suggesting doors to other dimensions, kettles that brewed dried ice seeming like the misty home of Macbeth’s three witches. When filling out the application, it seemed like such a smart idea. Because autumn was and always had been your favorite time of year, and the hours fit like a glove around your current course load.

It only took one shift of rowdy high school boys who seemed twenty and not three years your junior making rude noises behind the many masks to lift the spell. Add to that the animatronic fortune teller speaking in a loop that only made you want to ask when the world would end, hoping that the answer was tomorrow. Just a few more weeks. You could hack it; you’d been through worse. At least this day was somewhat quiet save for the young mother wanting her daughter to be a butterfly. The lovely little lady kept gravitating to psycho clown. One more reason you were never having children. The two older girls in the back seemed harmless enough while debating which kind of princess they would portray. You could tell them some stories about the pink dress and the violet…

Trying to get lost in your homework, you heard the door open and close without looking up. Footsteps drew nearer… along with a tap that started to grate on your nerves. Lifting the eyes that began to roll in your head, you stopped short of scoffing when you saw him.

He was older. Like the professors that always caused you to lick your lips as they explained epistolary novels or the line from Socrates to Plato to Aristotle. Maybe it was the light passing through the windows, but this man was so much more. Wavy dark hair, a proud roman nose, green eyes that called you to kick off your shoes and run through a forest. Why the cane? It seemed an odd accessory. But then you saw the limp. Suddenly your heart felt heavy at the thought that something or someone horrible must have hurt him. Wanting to know the where and when and why and if there was a way that you could help, you let Richardson’s Pamela fall aside and left the counter to meet him up close.

“Anything I can help you with, sir?”

As soon as he heard your voice, the man stopped short in front of a display of multi-colored wigs and even wilder hats. Focusing of his face, your eyes drifted towards his left cheek. A mark... a blemish bordering on a scar… was the man already wearing makeup? Was he practicing for All Hollows’ Eve, or did he wear this mask the other three hundred and sixty-four days out of the year?

“Did I ask for your assistance?” he replied in a curt tone before you could ask even one of the questions bubbling on your tongue. You wanted to hide your head in an over-sized Stetson or Elvira’s discarded tresses. Swallowing hard, you stuffed your hands in the pockets of your khakis and shuffled your feet.

“I… sorry,” you muttered. “I get it.”

“You get what?” he inquired.

“I mean I always kind of hate it when I’m in a store and someone’s right on top of me. It’s a total turn off.”

“Then why did you approach me?”

Now his green gaze made you feel like you were drowning under water, the seaweed shimmering and strangling your speech despite its beauty.

“Uh… it’s my job,” you feebly replied. “And you looked like you needed... so I---”

“So you thought the best use of your time was to pester me,” he mocked.

Feeling your face flush and wishing that you had resigned yourself to admiring him from afar, you nearly slithered away.

But just as quickly recovered your words, ready to tell him a thing or two.

“Happy not to help you over there,” you said, pointing to the counter and starting to turn on your heel. The split second before you twisted around, you swore you saw his green gaze quiver like the glare from a traffic light catching on a piece of rain swept pavement. The angry line of his lips and the way his large hand curled around his cane still made it a signal to leave. You hurried back behind the register and buried your nose in your book. After ringing up the little girl who won the psycho clown battle, you were left with the tapping of his cane. A few stolen glances as his firm back, his lean legs, that haunted face that could be molded into a tortured mask all on its own still had the power to make you tremble. But his eyes stayed angry, frustrated, and you tried to tell yourself that he was best left to the realm of your fantasies. 

…until your daydreams were broken by the sound of laughter.

Creeping out from behind the counter once more, you spied the two would-be princesses giggling quietly and pointing at your mystery man.

“Is he for real?” the blonde asked.

“My grandfather wears a tie pin or whatever like that.”

“Maybe he’s a promotional thing.”

“Sure scary enough.”

You froze, watching the man tense and look to the mean girls, expecting to see the fumes that eradicated the Great Sept of Baelor at Cersei’s command falling from his eyes. But despite the cane and the scar and the faint lines suggesting a life lived long if not well, he took on the shape of a little boy, scared and shy and shocked by so much abuse. It hurt to think that the passing of the years failed to quell that kind of fear, and he looked ready to run and hide.

Not like this… not on your watch.

“Hey!” you chirped in your best bubbly voice, standing strong in the face of the girls...

…and the stranger’s sad stare.

“Can I help you gals?” you asked, the last word stolen from your late grandmother.

“We’re good,” the blonde said, rolling her eyes at her friend. Looking to the stranger once more, you sensed that something could snap if the stars slid out of line… and while a small part of you was curious to see such a sight, you suddenly longed to protect him…

…and you also wanted your shot at these lousy ladies.

“Good?” you echoed, cracking the brightest of smiles that burned with a hollow light. “Great! Going for the scary sorceress look!”

“Excuse me?” the blonde challenged. “Are you crazy? That’s not even on the label.”

Cutting your eyes back to the man with the cane, you managed a small smirk, your stare willing, hoping that he would stay silent. The scarred man followed your lead, and your smile morphed malicious as you cracked your knuckles and grabbed the pink dress.

“Course not,” you continued. “But I can show you the secret…”

Your voice trailed off as you dug your fingers into the hem of the gown. The girls fell silent, and a sideways glance caught the stranger raising one eyebrow as you winked in his direction and sent a sea of spiders spilling to the floor.

“Holy fucking shit!”

The blonde screamed first and practically pushed her friend down as she fled the shop. You watched the other girl stumble behind her with arms flailing and saw your remaining customer slightly shocked as you grasped a bug and held it close to his face.

“What are you---?”

“They’re plastic!” you said with a sneaky smile. “Some kids were in here… thought it would be a good joke.”

Watching, hearing his breath calm, he took the toy spider from your hand, examining it carefully before emitting a low laugh.

“How would they be sure if they never saw the results of their efforts?” he queried, leaving you stumped.

“Um… good point,” you finally conceded. “Guess they didn’t see the plan through to the end.”

“Not at all,” he said, leaning closer so you caught a hit of his cologne and thought that you would swoon until his smile turned softer… sweeter. “But you picked up the cue and marched to the final curtain. To that I say bravo.”

Forgetting the plastic bugs, not caring if they truly came to life and crawled up and down your legs, you gestured towards the rest of the store.

“I’ll take a bow after I figure out what you need and how I can help you get it.”

Was that a mistake? He looked like he might turn cold or beat the crowd before the conclusion of the curtain call when he spoke fast.

“I have to attend a costume party,” he started. “On Halloween. It is not by choice. Certain people would rather I stay home. I do not wish to give them that sense of satisfaction.”

And now you liked him even more. A misanthrope wanting to beat the world at its own game. You could relate and lightly touched his arm, smiling at the electricity humming over your skin.

“Well then let’s make you the best-dressed man at the ball.

With his cane tapping again, he followed you down an aisle where capes made like curtains blocked out an unseen sun.

“I… I suppose that something like this makes the most sense,” he said, his voice even more sorrowful as he brought a white half mask to one side of his face. He concealed the scar, and you felt your lips curl into a frown.

“Why would you say that?” you asked. “Phantom of the Opera is so last century.”

“It’s timeless for me,” he sadly explained. “Come now; I promise it will not compromise your commission. Simply be straight with me.”

Understanding why he had a want to strike out, wondering how many times he had to endure cruel words muttered under cold breaths, you still thought him handsome and snatched the mask from his fingers before tossing it to the back of the shelf.

“Why hide the battle scar?” you asked.

“Excuse me? You do not know how---”

“Not important,” you cut in. “Whatever happened, you wear it well and…”

Your mind spun towards the next aisle.

“And what?” he asked. “Would you be so kind as to finish your thought?”

“I’d rather show you.”

Taking his free hand as his cane started tapping on the tiles again, you turned another corner and paused before a rack of feathers and pearls, wide-brimmed fedoras over pinstriped suits.

“Well… here we are,” he said. “I fail to understand your intentions.”

“Really?” you asked. “Come on! With the right hat and a snazzy jacket…”

You affixed said items of clothing to him quickly, basking in the feel of another one of his warm’s sighs hitting your neck and gently braiding through your hair. Fighting the urge to fall into him right then and there, you found a pocket square colored in crimson, placed it in his pocket, and smiled.

“Scarface!” you said.

“Excuse me!”

The emphasis on every syllable turned your blood to ice, and you wanted to kick yourself for saying too much when your reached for a plastic Tommy Gun and pressed it under his free arm.

“Who is like the toughest guy ever,” you said. “No one messes with him. He takes down empires. The world is his.”

“Until the final act,” the man said.

“You know it?” you asked.

“I have not been living under a rock, my dear.”

For that much you were glad; less so when he tossed the gun aside and looked ready to exit the shop.

“This is never going to work,” he grumbled.

“Why not?” you asked. “It looks so good on you.”

His eyes drifted towards a mirror, and for a second his smirk returned.

“I almost do not want to argue with that,” he began.

“Then don’t,” you said, surprised that you liked him a little vain when he lost the hat and hung his head.

“But I am hardly the type to shoot up a room… despite everything…”

What was the secret to his story? The tips of your fingers just grazed against his when he shot away and looked ready to rush to parts unknown that you never had any hope of finding.

“Or get the girl.”

Leaning on his cane, he aged in the span of your sight. You remembered an eighth-grade dance where you were Esmeralda only to lose your Quasimodo to a genie, your gypsy not standing a chance. No one deserved to feel that way.

And given the chance…

“You got her.”

His cane stopped and threatened to fall as you touched a strand of pearls.

“What?” he asked.

“I’m up for a party,” you said.

“I---”

“Look I know it sounds forward or whatever,” you continued. “But I clean up pretty nice. And I can dance. Bet you have a plus one, right?”

“Yes I---”

“So let’s do it! What’s a tough guy without his doll?”

You smiled brightly with wide eyes… and saw his face twist. Fuck. Why did you do that? Step over every line ever drawn in the sand. He wasn’t some eighteenth-century-styled brooding male just in need of the love of a good woman. Or you. You wanted to hide under every mask in the shop, bury your head in the smell of sweat and rubber until the sound of his cane faded into the distance. Even after that. Blushing while your palms began to sweat, you gasped ever so slightly and glanced up at the sound of rustling plastic…

…and you saw the chain of faux pearls in his hand, held just shy of your neck, and you blinked fast..

“Perhaps you are on to something,” he said. “I hardly want to go alone.”

The lines in the sand leftover from the summer became ropes pulling you through the seaweed, back to the forest and the first and best version of his gaze.

“You don’t have to,” you offered softly. “I don’t really have any plans.”

Oh Christ! That sounded so pathetic and---

“A pretty thing like you?” he said.

And your heart exploded in your chest. Because no one, not one family member or friend ever called you pretty… to the point that you believed the word was meant for puppies before it could fall on your shoulders. But here he was, calling you something close to lovely and smiling as you shook your head.

“Guess I was waiting for you to come calling,” you said, biting your lip at the end of the sentence.

And it worked when he blushed, highlighting his scar as he draped the boa over tour shoulders.

“We could make a handsome pair,” he reasoned, still blushing and moving just a few steps down the aisle when two red eyes and a low moan caught him off guard.

“What is that?” he asked as you hurried toward him and touched his shoulders.

“Fortune teller,” you said. “When you walk by it, it sets him off.”

“It… is it…?”

He shivered under your hands, and you steadied him until he stilled.

And spoke once more.

“Do the tea leaves tell the truth?”

Trailing your fingers down his arm and finding your fingers clasped in his, you looked to the skull with red eyes resting under a turban.

“Will… will I… will me and… what is your name?”

“Frederick,” he said. “Dr. Frederick Chilton.”

“Doctor?” you echoed. “Oh boy.”

“It is not all that it is cracked up to be,” he said. “I could tell you stories…”

And you were ready to read them cover to cover when you held his hand tighter and took a deep breath.

“Will the doctor and his doll have an absolutely astounding time at the masquerade ball?”

The silence didn’t bother you as your eyes locked, his green gaze seeming like the cover page of all those stories you were dying to dive into and puzzle over and over again.

“Doll,” Frederick said. “I think I like that.”

And before you could answer, the mechanized voice filled the aisle where you stood, the pair of you seeming like the only two people in this world or any other.

All signs point to yes.

[djinmer4]

Theft of the Arkenstone (Part 2 of 2)

T.A. 2989

The caravan arrived at the break of dawn about a hundred stong.  “Got another elf with ya, Carleton?” joked the guards of Dale.

“Laugh it up, Nielson.  It’s easier to travel in the dark with elves.  No need to worry about bandits, and it’s easier to keep moving in the cold, than it is when the sun’s out.”

“It’s almost fall!”

“Tell that to the desert.”  The caravaneer handed over a list to the guards.  “Half of the party are guests this time.  About twenty dwarves from the Iron Hills, here on invitation from King Dain for some sort of work to be done.  Five families, including a blacksmith and a cooper, seeking to emigrate to Dale.  Also one not on the list.”  He looked over his shoulder, then waved over one of the men.  “This is Gonfin of . . . “

“Most recently of Morwe’s court.”  What the guards had taken for a tall Man was actually an Elf, with long black hair braided behind his back, and light, almost shining eyes.  The Elf was dressed a bit differently the Silvan who dwelt in Lasgalen and Dale.  He wore a ragged grey cloak, clearly suffering from the trials of crossing the desert, covered in sand and dust.  Oddly, he bore both a sword and a harp.

“We met up just before we reached the Iron Hills.  Poor bugger’s horse had just up and died on him.”

The Elf nodded.  “My pack horse was fine, but I was carrying a load of instruments for my work.  I was in the middle of deciding what I could discard when Master Carleton agreed to let me travel with his train.”

“Best singer I’ve ever heard,” boasted the Man.  “And not half-bad with that blade of his.  Saved my life a couple of times when we got ambushed on the trail.”

“Considering I would have been next had I not intervened, that’s hardly charity on my part.”  The two continued to joke around while the guards finished checking out the rest of the caravan.  Nielson stepped back and gestured to Feren, who was on shift as the Elvish portion.  “He check out?” grunted the Dalesman.

“Those have to be some of the finest instruments I’ve ever seen,” declared the Elf.  “If he can play them or make them, seems good enough.”

“Never heard of Morwe.”

“Tatyarin High King.  Occasionally we see some explorers or scholars from his court, but the last time was from before the Dragon came.”  Feren waved the last of the caravan into Dale.  “If he’d said Nurwe I’d have been a bit more suspicious, but the Tatyarin are just as knowledge-hungry as their Western cousins.”  The Sinda turned back to the Tatya.  “Your a bit tall and bright-eyed for a Tatya; got any Noldo blood?”

“A bit,” the Elf shrugged, not at all offended.  “Grandfather was a part of the court at Tirion, but he’s been dead since the First Age.”

Feren nodded, then gave a more formal bow of greeting.  “The Cat and the Moon, the tavern on the main square is the best for attracting a large audience.  Shall we see you perform there?”

A flashing smile, and long-fingered hands rubbed over a topaz and gold cloak pin.  “Probably.  The court of Morwe only recently heard about the death of Smaug.  I’m hoping to trade; songs and stories from the East for those about the death of the Dragon.”

Nielson shook his head.  “Only an Elf would call something that happened half a century ago recent.  There’s plenty of songs and stories told in the taverns, but if you want to talk to some people who were actually there, you’re going to need to talk with the Dwarves.”

“Thanks, I will.”

“Yea, say what you want about archery.  But it was Bard’s arrow that felled Smaug when nothing else would work.”  Gloin finished talking then took a drink of ale.

Gonfin had traded knowledge of Eastern instrument making techniques for the right to wander the halls of Erebor and to interview the remaining Dwarves of Thorin’s company (and Dain himself as well).  They’d asked about his sword, but alas, that had been a gift, and Gonfin was uncertain on the techniques used in its creation.  But having an Elf who was humble enough to ask the Dwarves about anything and be willing to trade for it was a treat, given the haughty Silvan and Sindar that lived in Lasgalen.

“And that was the end of it?”  Gonfin was almost continually scribbling notes since the conversation had started.

“No.  The Dragon had destroyed Lake-town.  The Elves and Men showed up to negotiate reparations.  That went on for a while, then the orcs and Dain showed up and the Battle of the Five Armies happened?”

The Elf made a show of counting on his fingers.  “Elves, Men, Dwarves and Orcs.  Who was the fifth army?”

“Ach, lad, let’s save that till tomorrow, shall we?”  Gloin noted the Elf didn’t even flinch at being called a lad, and his opinion of him rose.  “Council’s this afternoon, and I’ve got to attend.  I’ll drop you off with Bombur now, and you can pester him with questions.  He can even give you some lunch.  Skinny thing like you needs all the meat he can get.”

The Elf gathered up his notes, humming some weird tune as he did.  “Just one last question.”  Gloin nodded.  “The negotiations, I heard a bit about them from the Men of Dale.  Something about a jewel?”

“The Arkenstone, the King’s Jewel.  Beautiful, shines like silver in firelight, or like snow under starlight.” Gloin cupped his hands to show the Elf how big it was.  “Our burglar got it out to them when it looked like Thorin wasn’t going to keep his word to the Men of Lake-town.  They returned it after the Battle.”

“I see.”  The Elf finished stuffing his papers into a small satchel, then stood up (and almost immediately had to bow down again to get through the door.)  “Lead the way, Lord Gloin.”

“Oh yes, I’ve always felt terrible about what happened to the lads.  Kili was barely in his eighties when the Battle happened.”  Dori had agreed to take some time to help Gonfin, under the condition that the Elf help him with doing the inventory of his store.  They’d also agreed to sell some of the instruments the Elf had brought with him, the smaller ones that were more easily replaced.  Dori wasn’t sure anyone in Erebor would actually want Elf-made instruments, but it couldn’t hurt, and the Elf had been humble enough to earn a few friendly gestures.

“Eighty?  I’m not too familiar on mortal ages, but surely that’s not an adult for a dwarf.”  The Elf was currently hauling some wine out of the cellar to the front, but would stop every so often to make more notes.

“Kili was an adult, but only just.  Oh, the poor lads.  I always felt that either of them, Fili or Kili would have made a great King.  Not that Dain’s bad, but it would have been nice to see the Throne stay within the line.”

“Fili or Kili . . . but not Thorin?”  Now Dori looked embarrassed.  “Thorin wasn’t a bad King-in-Exile, but when we got here . . . he was showing signs of the gold-sickness, you understand?”

“Yes, some of the others have mentioned it.”

“If Thorin had been in charge . . . I’m not sure we would have as good relationships with the Men of Dale and the Elves of Mirkwood as we do now.  He was very prideful, and then he didn’t want to give a single coin to those poor men.”  The Dwarf shot a beady eye to the Elf.  “You won’t mention I said any of this, alright?”

“I’ll have to say something.  A lot of people have brought up the gold-sickness, it would be hard to leave out.  But I’ll keep what you said about Thorin being King private, if you’d like.”

“I’d be grateful.”

“Would it be possible to see their graves?  I understand all three Durins were buried together.”

“Entombed,” Dori corrected.  “And yes.  They are-”

“At the bottom of Erebor?”

“Heavens no.  That’s where all the mining is being done.  They’re close to the heart of the mountain, near the throne room.  I’ll ask Dwalin to show you tomorrow.”  He looked around and realized they were finished.  “You’ve done a good job helping me.  The least I can do is offer you some tea.”

“That’ll be great.”  Gonfin wiped some sweat off, and tugged his braid loose, only to start rebuilding it.  “If we have some time, I’ve heard you that you play the flute.  Would you mind playing for me as well?”

“Only if you return the favor.  Bombur’s children have been raving about your music ever since you spoke to him.”

“’Ere they are.  Mind you don’t damage anything.”  The room with the three mausoleums was quite roomy, and Gonfin was amazed he hadn’t had to stoop at all.  “This is amazing.”  He walked around, looking not only at the tombs, but the rest of the structure as well.  “These covers, there’s no joining at all.”

Dwalin nodded.  “Each sarcophagus was made from a single block of marble.  The lids were chiseled out first, with the effigies, then the rest of the block was hollowed out.”

“Strange, I thought the Arkenstone would be on top.”

“Nah, that’s in the tomb with Thorin.  A representation was carved as part of his effigy.”  The Elf continued to examine the late King of Erebor.  “Pardon my thoughts, but he looks almost Man-like.”

“Yea, Thorin was downright ugly for a Dwarf.  Had a heart like the Arkenstone though.”  If Dwalin shed a few tears, the Elf pretended not to notice.  Instead he stood in front of the graves and raised his voice in song.  The words were not ones that any Dwarf knew, but the sentiment was clear.

“That’s an Elvish mourning song.”

“Why, yes, it seemed appropriate.  I’m surprised you recognized it though.”  Dwalin gestured to Kili’s tomb.  “At the funeral, young Kili’s Elf sang something similar.  I recognized the emotions if not the words.”

“Indeed,” the Elf changed the subject.  “And where can I find young Kili’s Sinda friend.  It’s not the first time I’ve heard of her, but she seems nowhere here.  Has she gone West?”

“Ach, no, just bad timing on your part.  She’s part of the delegation to Dorwinion.  Tauriel will be back before the change of the new year.”

“Then I must be sure to remain at least that long.”

“Dwalin!  Furi!  Nice to see you again!”

“Gonfin!” By now the Elf had become a familiar site in Erebor, much like Tauriel herself.  “Surprised to see you.  Aren’t you going down the Celduin to Rhun tomorrow?”

“I am indeed.  But since I will not be the one guiding the boat, I thought it harmless to indulge a little for one last night.”  The Elf brandished a full skin.  “I thought I’d take the time to look around as well.  Who knows when I’ll be back here?”

“Fair enough.”  Dwalin was surprised when the skin was shoved into his hands.  “Uh . . . “

“A gift.  Besides, I think I’ve had enough.  Like you said, I don’t want to miss my boat tomorrow.”  With a wink the Elf pranced off, singing a melodious melody, but replacing the words with one of Dale’s raunchiest drinking ballads.  The two Dwarves watched him go.  “Mad as hatters.  All of them.” stated Furi decisively.

“True,” Dwalin took a swig then passed the skin to the other guard.  “Excellent taste in wine though.”

Maglor glared at the marble duplicate of Thorin.  This was to be his last day here, and he still hadn’t figured out how to get the Silmaril out of the tomb.  Between the wine he gave the guards, and the spells he’d been casting over the past months, he was guaranteed to be undisturbed until morning.  But the point was to get it out without anyone being the wiser.  A broken tomb was a huge sign that something was wrong.  “I give up, it will just have to be magic.”

With that, he raised his sword, then smote the cover of the sarcophagus.  Inside, the Dwarf had decayed into just hair and mail and bone.  The Silmaril, loosely clasped between skeletal fingers, brightened as it was picked up by the son of Feanor.  “Maedhros, you’ve given me so much trouble already.  Please be quiet.”  Immediately the stone dimmed, like a child chastened by it’s parents.  Maglor tucked it into his satchel.  For a second he hesitated over the sword, but in the end left it.  He was here for the Silmaril, not to reclaim Turakano’s lost property.  He then used the halberds of the guards to lever the two halves of the cover back into place.  He sung the stone back whole; there was a seam, but it was unlikely to be noticed unless someone was examining the cover closely.

He woke the guards on the way out with his singing.  It wasn’t the perfect crime, but he doubted anyone would notice his theft for years.

T.A. 2991

“In honor of the fiftieth anniversary of Smaug’s death, the Arkenstone shall be displayed for all to see.”  Dain declared.  Thranduil openly yawned, but Bain was appropriately solemn for the occasion.  With that statement, the King of Erebor gave the signal for the masons to start raising the lid on Thorin’s sarcophagus.

The block of marble was carefully hauled away.  Dain bowed the approached the tomb.  He reached in, then stopped.  “It’s not there.”

For a moment silence reigned.  “What?” asked Dain’s son, Thorin Stonehelm.

“The Arkenstone.  It’s not there.”  Dain pulled back, confusion written all over his face.  “Orcrist is there, but the Arkenstone is not.”

Thranduil came over to confirm Dain’s statement.  “Who would steal the Arkenstone but leave a sword of Gondolin?”

“This would be so much easier, Maedhros, if you were just a wee bit smaller.”  The Arkenstone flickered in sympathy.  Maglor sighed, the put down the tools and silver wire.  Instead, he raised his hand to his cloak pin.  The pin brightened under his touch until it glowed like sunlight.

“I think I’ll leave you with Elrond for a while.”

[idreamofasriel-blog]

Metal Slug Past Life Ch 11

Marco told his friends the whole story of his current dream down to the last detail. The animals, the desert he was in, the menacing dust storm in a form of a beastly Drake shooting lightning at him. He even told them about the previous dream about the desolated forest and the goats and injured dog he encountered. The room was quiet after he finished his story. At least he doesn't have to worry about feeling like a maniac anymore. “Did you look up to see what does it all mean to see these animals in your dreams, Marco?” Fio asked him and he replied with a simple shrug. “I looked them up and the only answer I got for the goats is that it means that I have a lack of judgment or that I'm gullible. The injured dog is my dream telling me that I need to pay better attention to myself and my health or get out of situations that I can get hurt in” Tarma laughed, “You? Gullible or have a lack of judgment? Oh, please Major. You're the fastest thinker that I ever met. You solve problems without breaking a sweat and put people on edge after you outsmart them.” Marco crossed his arms and nodded, “Thanks, Tarma. I looked into The Rooster, Horse, and Raven to see what else I might be missing. The Rooster wasn't much to look into or to look at twice. All they said about that animal is that it symbolizes virility, vigilance, a warning about being cocky, and representing people who are outspoken in their belief.” Eri smirked, “Half of it sounds like Tarma. Well, mostly with the cocky part.” “Ha. Ha. Very funny,” Tarma replied sarcastically. “But continue on with the last two animals. The Horse and Raven.” Marco closes his eyes and thinks, “The horse, according to my research said the obvious that I heard over the years when I was growing up. Energy, freedom, and power. But in some countries, it symbolizes death. But, it can tell the dreamer that they are bogged don and they should act to speed things up. Like finding Morden's new partner in crime before he strikes again.” “And the raven? No doubt it'll be a bad omen with death, fear, and dark unknown,” said Eri “But I also heard about Ravens being a positive symbol on confronting your fear and seeking the truth, being strong, and the inner powers of healing. I know this cause I dreamt about a raven once in the past.” After putting the gathering information together and everyone carefully thinking it over to help Marco decode these odd animal dreams. It was Fio that spoke up. “You said you dreamed about an injured dog, right?” Marco said yes to Fio's question. “Well, if you think about it. We found Kartu badly hurt in the woods. Like how you found that dog being badly hurt in your dream. We didn't find any goats, though. We found Kartu. What if, the injured dog was Kartu in your dream?” Marco was surprised about Fio's trails of thought right and she was first to put these puzzles together. “Fio, you're amazing!” Marco cried out with excitement. “Why didn't I think of it sooner. It's making more sense now. Now we can officially say that these dreams are being manipulated by someone. Now we need to know who and why.” “Good question but we can ask Kartu if we can sit down and read the pages he translated so far,” said Tarma, “Maybe they'll give us answers on who's doing this and why.” Fio slid herself off the table she was sitting on, “I would love to join you boys, but I have to help Eri and Nadia out on some spying missions. They found some critical information that can help us uncover who's really helping Morden out.” Eri opened the door and let Fio through it first. “Good luck you three. Make it back to the base safe and sound.” said Marco. The information leads them to a Rebel base camp and according to Eri and Nadia's sources, General Morden and Allen O'Neil will be there to hold a secret meeting with their new partner and it'll lead them to the stolen mechanical Drake. Fio packed her bag and checked her weapons over and the small digital camera she would use to take pictures when it becomes necessary. Eri, meanwhile did the same and packed a lot of explosives she's going to rig up to help them escape in case the mission becomes a bust or if they get caught by the Rebels. “Ready, Staff Sergeant, Kasamoto?” Fio smiled to her. Eri smiled a bit back, “Ready, Sergeant Major Germi.” Nadia saluted to them and they aboard the Carrier Copter to their destination. It was a tranquil night in the outskirt of a small town. Some of the homes were abandoned by their family after they moved out before Morden's army moved in to capture their hometown. Others went into hiding or trying to carrying on their lives and praying for the Regular Military or the PF Squad to slaughter them all. Fio landed softly in a grassy field with Eri and Nadia and put away their parachutes. She signals the other two girls to move on ahead and they moved silently toward the old farmhouse that has now been converted into a Rebel Basecamp. The old farm house has seen better days before the war. The barn was turned into a war room for General Morden and  Allen O'Neil to discuss their next sinister move and to store supplies in while the house was turned into a communication base to contact all their other bases around the world. Eri, quietly passed some guards and planted bombs into their Jeeps, supply trucks, and some in their motorcycles. Fio and Nadia went around the house to evade the patrolling guards and crept their way to the barn. They pried a loose board open and quietly stepped in. The barn was lit up with dangling lamps and a generator running in the corner. Nadia kept look out and Fio approached the table and looked at some reports and maps all sprawled out for Morden and Allen O'Neil to look over with this unknown guest coming to see them. Fio took her camera and switched it on and activated the Wi-Fi to send all the pictures back to Head Quarters and Nadia walked around the place to find perfect spots to bug the whole barn. “It's all the plans to take over a city with the stolen Drake.” Fio whispered to Nadia and snapped pictures of the reports and maps. She even saw a sculpted figure of the Mechanical Drake with words “The Twilight Seeker” carved under its foot and she snapped pictures of it too. While Fio was busy taking pictures of the plans, Nadia heard a car approaching and voices of General Morden and Allen O'Neil talking and car doors slamming. “We need to get out of here, Fio.” Nadia whispered urgently and headed for the loose board. But as luck would of have it, some Rebel Solider blocked the exit with a heavy crate and Fio looked around out of panic and then elbowed Nadia to scale up the ladder to the hay loft of the barn. Eri hid up an apple tree the minute she saw General Morden's car drove in. She kept looking at the car and then at the barn she saw Fio and Nadia disappeared into and back at the car again. Her first thought was to contact Fio and Nadia by radio but before her finger even got the chance to press the intercom button in, she had second thoughts about giving away their positions and withdrew her radio back into her bag. “Dammit, Morden got them cornered without knowing it. I need to get Fio and Nadia out of there safely. But how?” Eri thought about it for a good while. She did booby-trapped their vehicles with bombs but yet she doesn't know how much pictures they got. She looked down and saw a Rebel Solider standing underneath her and now she's trapped just like them. Unlike their predicament, Eri got a simple soldier she can take down, Fio and Nadia got General Morden and Allen O'Neil and their guest to deal with and she has to think fast. Eri places a hand on a branch and discovered that it's loose and ready to break off and this gave her an idea. The Rebel Soldier below was minding his own business till he heard a snap and quick to aim his gun to the tree and the last thing he saw was a darken object falling down and knocking him out. Eri climbed down and moved the knocked soldier out of sight and made her way to the barn. “This is wonderful!” General Morden's voice boomed out with delight and greedily snatched the sculpture of The Twilight Seeker and kept looking it over like a kid with a shiny new toy. The young man in the goat mask smirked. “My grandfather said that you'll be pleased to hear the news of the successful train robbery. Right now as we speak, it's in repairs after all those years of being buried in the sand. It'll be up and ready by tomorrow morning. They laughed and Allen O'Neil turned his attention toward the young man. “Why hide your face, boy? You got no enemies here among us. Relax and take that silly mask off.” Jonas has zero tolerance for Allen O'Neil's stupidity but he's forced to since they're working with The Rebel Soldiers. “All right, fine,” Jonas said in a harsh voice and he undid the belt strap of the Goat Mask and set it on the table. “I did it on my own term, not yours.” and Allen O’Neil laughed. Fio and Nadia peaked over the ledge of the Hayloft to get a good look at the meeting below. Nimble as she could, Fio would take pictures between noises going on from the outside and she got pictures of Jonas' face and mask. Nadia, after bugging the place, took out her radio recorder and tune it in just right to listen to the conversation, even though they can hear Allen O'Neil's loud obnoxious voice right where they stand. “Now, which one should we conquer first? A village? A town? A City? An entire state in the US? Oh, so many places to choose, so little time to plan it all out.” General Morden said with glee. Jonas grinned and traced his fingers across the map, “I say we should take over Ireland and see how that would work with The Dusk Eater and The Twilight Seeker.” He said, eyeing the country on the map.  “Great! We'll rid of those pesky Hawk Unit who hold their Head Quarters there. They have helped the PF Squad and Sparrow for the last time.” General Morden slammed his fists onto the table. The Hawk Unit was created to help out the PF Squad to “clean up” any remaining Rebel Soldiers that are staggering to either capture or kill off those that are still fighting against them. Once they are cleared out, The Hawk Unit would move in to claim any empty Rebel bases as theirs or The PF Squad's own or to secure and protect any territory, with or without cities, towns, or villages involved. The Hawk Unit, like the PS Squad, they have the highest trained men and women around or as Marco puts it, the most psychotic ones in the world except for their slightly crazy Major and their lovable but yet terrifyingly strong Captain, Rasha and Kevin. “This is not good,” Nadia whispered to Fio “We need to get out of here and contact Head Quarters right away.” Fio nodded and by moving an inch, the floorboard underneath them squeaked and they froze in fear of being caught. The meeting went quiet and all three of the men looked up at the hayloft and Allen O'Neil calmly and quietly strolled underneath it. “It would be a shame if there was somebody we know is up there.” Allen O'Neil winked at them. “What could it be? Rats? Birds? Regular scum wanting to die?” He did not hesitate, General Morden and Jonas covered their ears and took cover. Bullets shells piled around Allen O'Neil's feet, he let out a maniacal laugh and moved his M60 at random, spraying the entire Hayloft with bullet holes and his gun made a sound he always dreaded. A clicking sound of a gun running out of ammo. No sign of a body dropping or slumping over the edge, no blood oozing through the holes or cracks of the wood. Just splintered wood and ammo and Rebel Soldiers running into the barn at high alert, armed to the teeth with guns and dogs barking off in the distance. “You nitwit, you could have gotten us killed.” General Morden scolded him, “Sorry, General. I guess I must have gotten trigger happy.” Allen O'Neil replied. Fio and Nadia were in separate corners, sweat falling down their faces and hearts racing. They held their breath and not making any sudden move, out of fear of setting Allen O' Neil off again. Outside of the barn, Eri heard the M60 going off and feared for the worst and ran toward the barn now that every Rebel Soldier ran to investigate the shooting. She went around the back and found a recent stacked of crates and climbed them with no problem to the Hayloft's opening. She made a low psst sound to Nadia and Fio and signaled them to follow her out of the barn. Fio and Nadia climbed out and landed on the ground. “We need to get out of here. We got everything we needed to identify General Morden's new partners.” said Fio. They peaked around the corner and they found Rebel soldiers patrolling the campgrounds once again. “I got an idea,” Eri whispered to them “I rigged all of their transports but Morden's and you two escape in that car while I distract them by setting off the bombs.” Fio's eyes widen with shock, “What? We're not leaving you behind, Eri. We're getting out of here together.” Eri shakes her head, “If we do that, Fio. They can kill all three of us and no one will be there to give the full report on this mission but you and Nadia.” “She's right, Fio. We have to warn The PF Squad about The General's plans on destroying The Hawk Unit.” said Nadia. Fio was hesitant about this idea. She wants all three of them to make it back safe and sound but yet Eri is right about them getting all killed. She hugged Eri tight, “Good luck, best friend.” she whispered and ordered Nadia to follow her to the car. Eri watched them closely to make sure that they were in a safe location and reached into her pocket for a one switch detonator and pressed it. General Morden felt the whole barn shook around him, followed by the shout and screams of his soldiers. In unison, General Morden, Jonas, and Allen O'Neil ran out to see the carnage laid out before them. Soldiers running all over the place to put out the fire and they witnessed their car getting stolen and driven off. Guns out and shooting at the car, Eri touched off more explosive she hid in their fuel supplies, that would keep them busy while Eri figures a way to escape. She ran toward a motorcycle, untouched by guards and before she could reach for it, she was knocked down to the ground, with a bloody nose and a big fist grasping at her throat. “I figured it was one of you rats crawling around the camp.” Allen O'Neil Jr sneered at her. Eri kicked her legs and clawed at his arm to make him let her go. He drew his knife out, getting ready to finish Eri off, watching her squirming in his grasp and thought about enjoying it for a bit before killing her. Clawing at him was futile, Eri grasps around for anything and she has to make it fast for the world was turning black around her and she found a handle of her knife and plunged it deep into Allen O'Neil Jr's hand. The man let out a howling scream of pain and Eri stabbed him in the leg and kicked him in the face. Leaving her knife in his leg, Eri got on the motorcycle and it instantly roared to life with one with a kick on the starter and took off driving. Eri coughed and regained her focus and drove around the fleeing Rebels and took off onto the dirt road, away from the farmhouse and destruction left behind in her wakes. She glances back at them and looked forward to seeing where she's going and speed the bike up. Seeing in the Motorcycle's mirror, a Jeep is speeding up to catch up with her,“They never give up. Those idiots.” she muttered and rev up the motorcycle to go faster. “I'll teach you a lesson to stab my boy!” Allen O'Neil grabbed his M60, now reloaded and aimed it at Eri's motorcycle and shoot. Eri heard a loud pop and her whole body flew right off the motorcycle, taking a nasty tumble and groan out of pain, feeling her arm broken and blood dripping down her face. They're getting closer and she knows that she can't outrun them in the way she is now. A small burst of light appeared before Eri and she turned her attention on it. It was a Time Rift that everyone was talking about and one happened to appeared before her and now she got a choice. Be killed by the Rebels when they get caught up with her or face many of her dark past. She picked the latter and touched it with her good arm and a bright light lit up the whole area, causing the driver to crash the jeep and throwing Allen O'Neil off of it. When the balded man recovered and looked up, Eri was gone.

[tlatollotl]

All across Indian Country, Native Americans are being evicted from their tribes, with little warning and little legal recourse.

Take, for example, the Pechanga Band of Luiseno Mission Indians, a federally-recognized tribe of Luiseno Indians living on a reservation in Temecula, California, part of the territory where their ancestors lived for 10,000 years.

If you want to be a member, you must prove direct lineage to one or more of the original ancestors forced onto the reservation in the early 1880s.

Pechanga Indian Rick Cuevas traces his ancestry to a woman named Paulina Hunter, who was granted a lot of land on the Pechanga reservation in the late 1800s. He and his family have lived on the reservation as full tribal members for decades.

But in the early 2000s, the tribal council decided to posthumously disenroll Hunter and, by extension, about 180 of her descendants.

“They have desecrated the memory of our ancestors,” Cuevas said. “The Pechanga tribal chairman has ripped our history from us, without evidence. And yet his ancestor, back in the day, called my ancestor ‘Aunt.’”

More than 1,000 kilometers to the north, a member of Oregon’s Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde told VOA a similar story. Her family enrolled in the tribe in 1986. But two decades later they received notice that without proper documentation of lineage, they would be disenrolled.

Her great, great, great grandfather was among the original signatories of an 1855 treaty that ceded ancestral lands to the U.S. government and established the Grand Ronde reservation. He was killed before he moved to his new home. That meant his name never made it to a later census roll – a key requirement for “belonging.”

The family eventually won a three-year battle in tribal courts and regained their membership, but victory came at a cost.

“My cousin died a few months before her 99th birthday, before we were restored to the tribe,” the woman said. ”She grew up in a time when Indians were called bad names, had rocks thrown at them [by whites]. She always called Grand Ronde the only Indian home she’d ever known.”

She paused, then added: “My one regret in all this is that she didn’t live to see our membership restored.”

A way out of poverty

Disenrollment is an epidemic in reservations across Indian country. Cuevas tracks these cases on his Original Pechanga website: So far, 11,000 Indians have been exiled from dozens of tribes. In one of the more extreme cases, tribal members living off California’s tiny Elem Pomo colony attempted to disenroll every Elem Pomo Indians living on the colony – among them, the last living speaker of the Elem Pomo language.

As it turns out, this and the majority of other disenrollment cases are about money.

In the 1960s and 70s, substandard conditions on reservations led some tribes in to look to gambling as a solution. A 1987 Supreme Court decision gave them the legal green light to open up bingo halls, poker games and casinos, and a year later, the U.S. Congress passed the Indian Gaming Regulatory Act, laying out the rules.

Today, more than 200 tribes operate casinos that range from small card or bingo operations to large-scale resorts rivaling any in Las Vegas. Collectively, they earned nearly $39 billion in 2015. They are not taxed on that revenue but must use it to fund tribal governmental services, economic and community development and charity.

Some of the more prosperous gaming tribes distribute per capita payments to tribal members as part of a “revenue allocation plan.” The more members, the smaller the individual allocations, and this has often led to angry dissent over who is eligible and who is not.

“Say you are a small tribe of, say, 100 members, and your casino is doing very well,” said Gabe Galanda, a Seattle lawyer of Nomlaki/Concow descent who specializes in disenrollment disputes. “Say you are getting $5,000 in gaming revenue a month, and you have 100 tribal members – basically, 99 relatives. If you can get rid of 50 of your relatives, your monthly per capita income just went up to $10,000 a month. And this has caused certain tribal communities to divide and conquer themselves.”

Pechanga Resort & Casino Resort Expansion Rendering. Project broke ground Dec. 16, 2015 and was expected to be complete in 24 months. Pechanga was already the largest resort/casino in Calif. The expansion doubles the size of its resort offerings.

Cuevas’ tribe operates the Pechanga Resort and Casino, the largest in California. By some estimates, it earns from $1-2 billion annually and pays allotments to each tribal member of $300,000 or more a year.

Cuevas estimates that his family has lost more than $2.5 million per person in per capita payments alone in the 11 years since they were disenrolled, assuming the per capita rate at that time.

But money isn’t the only thing he has lost. Some losses can’t be quantified.

“We were tribal members long before the casino came,” he said. “Our family has resided on the reservation continuously for nearly 70 years.”

Today, disenrolled members are denied health and educational benefits.

“And they can’t be buried in the reservation cemetery with their relatives and ancestors,” Cuevas said.

The Pechanga Band government did not respond to VOA’s request for comment.

An alien concept

Disenrollment is not native to indigenous cultures, who Galanda said traditionally understood “belonging” in terms of kinship and personal choice, not “blood quantum,” a measurement introduced by the U.S. government.

“The U.S. introduced its concept of who’s an Indian by declaring, under the Indian Reorganization Act of 1934, that an Indian must be in residence in a reservation likely established by the treaties of the 1800s and be of one-quarter Indian blood,” he said. “The challenge today is that many tribes, if not most tribes, use the Federal government’s criteria for who’s an Indian.”

Disenrollment is also happening in tribes that have no disposable gaming wealth, said Galanda.

“Say I’m a chairman, and there is a voting block that I do not like or cannot win over. If I eliminate that voting block through disenrollment, I will sustain my power and the wealth that goes with that power,” Galanda said.

Disputes over enrollment, whether motivated by dollars or vendetta, can be devastating.

“It deprives that person of their identity, in addition to exiling them. It is in my estimation identity theft,” he said.

An internal problem For a variety of complex legal reasons, tribes in some states have their own courts, but tribes in others - in California, for example - are adjudicated by state courts.

“I, too, have declined these cases,” Stephen Pevar, a senior staff attorney in the American Civil Liberty Union’s Racial Justice Program, said in an email, “not because I want to, but because there is no remedy available in a court. There’s nothing a state or federal court can do.”

To wit, this week, the U.S. Supreme Court refused to hear a disenrollment case involving another Calfornia tribe.

In the end, said Pevar, the onus is on tribes to settle these disputes for themselves.

There is precedent: This week, California’s Robinson Rancheria of Pomo Indiansreinstated several dozen members who were disenrolled nearly a decade ago by corrupt tribal leaders who left the tribe millions of dollars in debt.

“Hopefully, after this week, we can just move forward,” said tribal chairman Eddie Crandell.

His tribe is still divided, and he laughs, admitting there are some folks he would not mind expelling. But that would be a lazy way to deal with tribal factionalism.

“Indian people, we’re such a small group in the United States. We shouldn’t be trying to eliminate ourselves but embrace ourselves,” Crandell said.

And he sent out this message to tribes embroiled in enrollment disputes:

“Bring your people home and work together to restore Mother Earth, to restore our culture and move on from your collective, inherited trauma.”

[5hfanfiction]

With Every Sip - Part 4

Camila Cabello was sixteen years old. She was sixteen years old and she knew that she no longer had a crush on Lauren Jauregui. She knew that it was obviously a lot more than that at this point and she’s pretty much in love with her best friend. She also knew that she shouldn’t have been as happy as she was that Lauren hadn’t dated anyone since she broke up with Ethan over a year ago, because it wasn’t like she was going to come running into her arms, but Camila knew that at least she had one less person to complete with for her time. She knew that although Lauren never said it, she didn’t believe her when she promised that things were better at home. She knew because sometimes they’d be in the middle of a conversation and Lauren would suddenly stop talking and a look would take over her face like she’d just remembered something important, something she’d forgotten. She’d glance down at the hem of Camila’s shirt for a second, before reaching out without warning and lifting it up, allowing her eyes to scan over the bare skin in a meticulous inspection before dropping the piece of clothing again and continuing their conversation like nothing had happened. She knew what her friend was doing, she didn’t have to ask. But what she wanted to be when she grew up? Camila still didn’t know. All she knew was that one day she hoped that she’d learn to care about herself even half as much as Lauren cared about her.

Whilst Lauren might not have have been convinced, Camila wasn’t lying, things were better at home… depending on what you would define as ‘better’. The incident with Lauren seemed to have given her mom the scare she needed and Camila didn’t know what she’d said to Donny after they’d left, but there must have been some sort of discussion because he’d barely laid a finger on her since. But whilst no one was physically hurting Camila any more, things were far from perfect. The built up anger and unexplained hatred her mom and Donny both seemed to have for her still came out, just in ways less visible to the eyes of others. Their slaps were now made of vicious words rather than hands colliding with skin, their winding punches all to her self esteem rather than to her gut. And whilst bruises fade, and bones, they heal, the mind can hold onto words forever.

Camila and Lauren very rarely talk about what happened 'that’ night. Camila was too ashamed whilst Lauren just didn’t seem to know how to talk about it other than the occasional “Everything’s ok, right Camz? You’d tell me if it wasn’t?” Or an equally as vague “Things at home still cool yeah?”. But whilst Lauren’s words might have been lacking, her actions said everything they needed to. Since the incident, Camila has pretty much had her undivided attention, Lauren’s other friends barely get a second glance at school and when three thirty rolls around every day, she always insists that Camila comes back to her house to hang out and do homework. She also demands that the brown eyed girl stays over most weekends too, an offer that she is always more than willing to accept. And for the first time, Camila is starting to feel like Lauren’s world might actually revolve around her too.

The end of sophomore year is approaching and Camila is in the Jauregui household more often than not these days. And whilst she thinks it’s nice to sit around the dining room table with Lauren’s parents and siblings, eating dinner and pretending that she’s actually part of a real family, it sometimes just makes her heart ache. She watches from the sidelines, in awe of the way Lauren looks up to her parents and the undeniable bond they have, not to mention the protectiveness of her father, a man who would very clearly die for his children if he had to. It makes Camila happy for her friend, but at the same time it also makes her feel cheated too. Cheated that she’d never got to experience this, jealous that it could never really be hers. But still, Camila would sit around the table having dinner with them and for a moment she would let herself pretend. Pretend that this really was her life. Pretend that she could keep this moment. Pretend that in a few hours she wouldn’t have to get up and allow her feet carry her back to the reality waiting for her just five blocks away. She’d allow herself to imagine living a life like this. One where she could keep her bedroom door open without fear. Where the sound of a cap hissing as it popped off a cold beer bottle didn’t make her shudder. Where raised voices, angry or not, didn’t make her heart race and body stiffen. Where she knew what it felt like to have a mother’s hands wrap comfortingly around her body, rather than viciously around her neck with a hatred in her eyes that to this day, Camila still couldn’t seem to make herself mirror. Because whilst Camila despises her mom for the things she does, but also the things she doesn’t do, she still struggles to find the ability to blame her. She understands her mom is damaged too and as selfish as addiction is, it’s still a disease of the mind, whether people who haven’t experienced it see it that way or not.

Sometimes Camila wonders if one day the disease will take her mom the way it had taken her grandfather when she was little. A man who she barely remembers anything about besides the yellow tone of his skin that she now understands was due to a destroyed, dying liver and not because he was part Simpson like she thought as a child. He was a man who had subjected her mother to the same life she now inflicts onto her own daughter, because she’s never known any other way. Sometimes Camila also wonders if she came home one day to find her mom had slipped away too, whether she would feel sadness or relief. Not relief for herself, but relief for her mother, a woman who had been trapped behind the steel bars of addiction that had encaged her mind for so long that the key to escape was long lost. She’d allowed herself to become a victim of her circumstance, something that Camila was determined never to let herself replicate and pass down another generation. And sometimes she thinks she might actually make it, because she has Lauren. 

Camila can’t help but wonder if her mom had grown up with a Lauren too, whether it would have made a difference.

 But she know’s it’s late for her now, the light behind her eyes is too far gone and there’s no saving someone who’d rather die submitting to their demons than live admitting to their weakness. It’s really only a matter of time, Camila thinks. And so she takes a pen to paper and she spills her heart out in the only way she knows how. She writes a song and the lyrics go something like,

With every sip

I see you slip

Away from you

Away from me

How long until you slip away entirely?

Camila is sixteen years old and it’s Christmas day. She’s never really liked the holidays because all they signify to her is no school, meaning more time at home and less Lauren, not to mention all the extra alcohol that occasions like Christmas usually seemed to entail. And whilst things really were better like she promised Lauren, they weren’t great, because donny barely lays a finger on her any more, but 'barely’ is the important word in that statement. It’s six p.m and whilst most people Camila knows are sitting in their warm homes, surrounded by family, maybe watching TV with full stomachs, she’s is sitting on a log in the Rabbit Hole watching crimson blood drip from her her nose, landing on the ground to taint the fresh white snow below her feet. It’s been bleeding for an hour and Camila had long given up trying to make it stop. She wonders how much blood she would have to lose before she passes out. Then she wonders if it would be better if she passed out because then at least she wouldn’t be aware of how cold she was, sitting in the snow in just her jeans and a t-shirt. She’d had to leave the house in such a rush that she didn’t even have a chance to grab a jacket.

She’d told herself she wouldn’t bother Lauren today. She felt like the girl deserved to enjoy at least one day with her family without having to deal with the mess that was Camila’s life. Plus, she’d been in the Jauregui’s house so much recently, she’s sure she’s long outstayed her welcome. But her whole body is numb now and she knows she can’t go home, there’s really only one person who Camila trusts enough to make this better. So, for the first time in her life, Camila sucks up her pride, she buries her shame and pulls her phone from her pocket. 

With frozen hands and her body shaking so badly she’s practically convulsing, Camila dials Lauren’s number and she answers after only two rings with a cheery “Merry Christmas you filthy animal” followed shortly after by “It’s a Home Alone reference Camz” when she doesn’t get a response.

Camila knows the second she speaks Lauren’s Christmas day is going to be ruined too and for a moment she thinks that she should maybe just hang up and find an open shop or cafe that she can sit in until she figures out what the hell she’s going to do.

“Camila?” Lauren tries again. “Have you butt dialed me again, I swear you’re so…”

“Lauren.” Camila cuts her off with an unintentionally pitiful whimper.

“Camila…Camila what’s wrong?” Her friend’s tone immediately changed, panic now obvious in her voice. “Where are you? What’s happened.”

“R… rabbit hole.” Camila manages to stutter through her chattering teeth. Her heart is pounding in her chest but Lauren clearly knows there’s something wrong, there’s no way of backing out now.

“Ok, two minutes” The other girl replies a split second later. “I’ll be there as quick as possible ok? I’m on my way.” And with that the phone goes dead.

Lauren Jauregui was sixteen years old. She was sixteen years old and she knew that the call she just got from Camila was serious. She knew because Camila had clearly been through a lot in her life, but this is the first time in their eleven years of friendship she’s ever come to her in distress, it’s the first time she’s ever asked for help. She knew that she should have seen this coming, that she should have done more to prevent it, but that’s easier said than done when Camila is so adamant that everything is ok and that Lauren has nothing to worry about. She knew that when she broke up with Ethan, telling him that she needed 'to focus on getting her grades up’ that it was a bullshit excuse, because Lauren hadn’t received anything below an A grade her entire life. But she also knew Camila needed her more at that moment, which seemed a lot more important than a high school romance that she had never really been that into anyway. She knew that she’d tried her best to protect Camila whilst still fulfilling her request to not to tell anyone, but that didn’t make it feel any better, it doesn’t make her feel any less guilty. But what Lauren wanted to be when she grew up? She still didn’t know. All she knew is that if she didn’t do something now, if she didn’t finally put a stop to this today, that Camila might not even get the chance to grow up.

It’s Christmas day and Lauren’s sprinting through the practically empty streets of her neighborhood which are thankfully making her journey that little bit quicker, though it doesn’t help the burning muscles in her legs that scream in protest with every stride she takes. She’d been in such a rush to get to Camila that she hadn’t even stopped to tell her parents where she was going as she ran past them and out the front door. But the second she’d hung up the phone, she’d decided that she was telling her mom everything tonight anyway, so she figured any and all explanations could wait for her return. 

When Lauren finally pushes her way through the overgrown branches and into the empty space of their old den, which seems to be getting smaller with every year that passes, she finally sees Camila. The other girl is sitting on the now moss covered, fallen log, looking smaller than usual and younger than her years and it immediately reminds Lauren of the last time they had been in the Rabbit Hole. It was the day they’d both had their first kiss and it feels like too nice a memory to now be replaced with this one every time she thinks of this place.  

Camila’s doesn’t even acknowledge her arrival, she just remains staring at the ground, an empty expression on her mascara and blood streaked face. Lauren doesn’t know if the sight makes her want to punch someone or cry, maybe it’s both, but right know the urge to cry in winning the battle, as a lump comes to her throat.

She walks forward through the crunching snow until she’s standing just in front of the Camila and only then does the other girl look up, her gaze raising slowly from Lauren’s feet all the way to her face. When she finally meets her eyes, Camila frowns and shakes her head. Lauren thinks she looks annoyed at herself, disappointed, like she’d let someone down.

 "I’m sorry for calling.“ Camila finally says, before looking back down at the ground again. 

"Don’t you dare apologize right now.” Lauren replies in an instant, before reaching her hands out to take Camila’s and pulling her up onto her feet, but more importantly, into her arms.

“I’m getting  blood on you.” Camila mumbles as she tries to pull away, but Lauren doesn’t let her 

“You think I care about that Camz?” Lauren sighs. “I don’t care if you get blood on me, the only thing that bothers me about the fact you’re bleeding is the fact  that you shouldn’t be  bleeding at all. I thought you said this had stopped? You promised it had.”

“I…I…” The other girl stutters back through clattering teeth but she can’t seem to get the words out. “I’m so c…cold.” She says instead. 

Lauren had been so focused on the fact Camila was hurt that it was only now that she noticed how badly she was shaking. Without thinking she quickly pulls away from their embrace and takes off her jacket, throwing it over the back of Camila’s shoulders to wrap it around her. She rubs up and down her bare arms a few times trying to warm her, before sliding her hands back down into Camila’s again.

“Your fingers are like ice. How long have you been out here?” Lauren asks as she automatically takes Camila’s hands and puts them under the bottom of her shirt, placing them against the warmer skin of her stomach, completely ignoring how uncomfortable the coldness feels against her.  She lets go, leaving them where they are as she  wraps her arms back around the smaller girl, pulling her in against her as she continues to try to warm her up as much as she can, as Camila’s just gazes up at her with a look in her eyes that Lauren can’t really place.

The smaller girl’s resolve must weaken in that moment, because she finally lets out a deep shaky breath before letting her whole body sag into Lauren’s, who has to hoist her up a little to hold her weight against her.  

They stand there in silence for a moment before Lauren feels Camila shaking her head against her shoulder and she wonders if she’s about to apologize again. 

 "I can’t go back there. I can’t I can’t do it any more, I can’t.“ She murmurs against her instead, taking Lauren by surprise. It wasn’t like she was going to let Camila go back anyway, but she thought she’d at least have to put up a fight to convince her. 

"You don’t have to go back. We’ll figure this out. Lets just get you out of this cold for now though ok?” Lauren’s voice cracks a little as she speaks, her emotions partly down to relief, but mostly from the guilt of letting it get to this point. 

Within ten minutes they’re back at Lauren’s house and Lauren thinks that the way her mom’s face drains white when she sees Camila is probably very similar to how her own looked the night she walked in to see Donny’s hand around her throat. But the shock doesn’t seem to last long and if it does, she covers it well. The older woman doesn’t ask any questions, instead she simply and calmly tells Lauren to go upstairs and run Camila a hot bath whilst she deals with her bloody nose. 

When Lauren finally comes back down the stairs ten minutes later announcing a bubble bath is ready, her best friend’s face is clean and the bleeding has stopped and her mom is casually showing a calmer, more Camila looking Camila the flan she’d made for dessert later. And Lauren doesn’t know why she’s surprised, she’s always known her mom was basically superwoman and she’s suddenly not sure why she hadn’t just told her the truth when she’d discovered it a year and a half ago. Because at the time, Lauren was only fourteen and she didn’t know how to handle the situation, but as she stands in the doorway now, she knows her mom would have known exactly what to do. 

Once Camila goes for her bath, a towel and a fresh set her comfiest clothes in hands, Lauren finally sits down with her mother and it all comes pouring out. The words bubble over  uncontrollably like boiling water in an overfilled pot as Lauren tells her everything she knows, which may have gaps and probably isn’t the full story, but it’s enough for her mom to have a good idea of what’s been going on.  Lauren thought she would be mad at her for lying, but she’s not and after the longest time, she feels like she can finally breath again, the weight of Camila’s secret finally off her young shoulders, and her eyes fill with tears as she wonders if that’s what it feels like for her, she can’t imagine what it feels like for Camila. Her mom hugs her and tells her everything is going to be ok and all that matters is that she’s done the right thing now and that Camila is very lucky to have her as a friend. 

“The three of us will sit down and talk about this tomorrow, ok?” Lauren’s mom adds finally as they hear the bathroom door open upstairs. “Lets just keep everything pretty relaxed for Camila tonight. I think Taylor was going to put on a movie in the living room soon, so bring Camila down when she’s ready.”

And the rest of the night is spent just like that. Lauren’s dad lights the electric fireplace and they all settle down to watch a movie with dessert and hot chocolate. Lauren doesn’t mean to, but every few minutes she finds herself looking over, checking on her friend beside her. It only takes three glances before Lauren realizes Camila isn’t watching the movie either.  She’s looking at the screen but her eyes are distant, her mind obviously far away from whatever is playing in front of her. Lauren frowns and reaches out her hand to take Camila’s before turning her own gaze straight back to the TV, but she doesn’t miss the little nod and half smile her mom gives her, letting her know she’s doing is the right thing.

Lauren and Camila barely say a word to each other the entire evening. Their sleepovers are usually filled with chatter, but tonight feels different and they’ve been lying in bed for over half an hour in Lauren’s pitch black room before she finally finds the courage to speak.

“Camila… how did it get this far?” Lauren asks cautiously, she’s whispering but she’s not exactly sure why. “How come you never told anyone about this as a kid? You could have told me, y'know?" 

Camila immediately turns onto her side to face her friend, but she remains silent for another few moments before replying.  

"Because I would have been taken away and put into foster care.” She finally whispers back. 

And Lauren gets what she’s saying, but it still doesn’t really make sense to her. 

“But didn’t you want to be taken away?” She pushes. “Wouldn’t that have been better?”

“Maybe…"Camila sighs. "But I didn’t want to be taken away from you.”

Lauren lies there in a stunned silence for a moment. She’s not exactly sure what she’s supposed to take from  those words and she has no idea how to respond. Because she knows her and Camila are best friends, and she knows she’d do almost anything for her, but she’s not sure why she would have let herself go though that for all these years just to hold onto a friendship. Lauren knows that there’s probably more too it, but the fact that she is even a factor for Camila staying in that situation seems crazy to her.

“I just…” Camila begins to explain but then she pauses for a moment in thought. “You were all I had.” She finishes as her voice finally breaks with emotion.

She cries, and Lauren realizes this is the first time she’d seen actual tears spill from Camila eyes. She’d always been much better than Lauren at holding in her emotions, but right now she seems to be crying hard enough to make up for all the tears she’s held back. Years and years of emotion is spilling from her eyes, as sobs escape from her lips, muffling themselves against Lauren’s shoulder. And Lauren’s only sixteen and she’s not exactly sure what she’s supposed to say to comfort her friend right now, so she does the only thing that feels right in that moment and begins to place a procession off gentle kisses on Camila forehead between whispers of “It’s ok, it’s going to be ok." 

She kisses her softly over and over and over, because Lauren doesn’t know how to make Camila hurt any less, but she does know that when she fell and scraped her knee in the playground at five years old Camila had kissed it better.

-

A/N

Apologies for any typos, I’m kinda tired. 

You can find this story as well as my others here on wattpad 

I’m also on twitter if you want to say hi -  @TxAnywhere

Ro x

[drewkatchen]

L to R.: Family friend, my Pop and my Am circa mid-1990s.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

On the morning of January 14, 1998 in New York City at around 8 a.m., three men in ski masks carried empty duffel bags into the north tower of One World Trade Center, according to a report in the New York Times. 

Naturally, the reason for their visit wasn’t social.

The men from Brooklyn and Staten Island had a distinct plan all too obvious, a scheme which led them to a passenger elevator bound for the the 11th floor, where they then boarded a freight elevator and confronted a Brinks guard delivering money to the Bank of America corporate currency exchange center. The money was handed over, and the three men escaped the tower with $1.6 million. No one was injured.

For a brief period before their capture, these guys existed in the city, fanning out individually with a lot of money in their bags and one big secret in tow.

----

There’s no aspect of my life that overlaps with the story above really; I was not in the World Trade area at the time and you should trust me on that. On that morning many years ago, I was just a 21-year-old kid waking up in my grandmother’s central New Jersey home -- a sturdy, wooden affair from the late ‘50s -- in a lumpy bed far too small for all the college weight I was carrying around at the time. I didn’t live in her home, but my grandfather’s recent death from Parkinson’s demanded I leave school in South Carolina and board the quickest flight to EWR to be there, to say goodbye to an elder. One moment I was hanging out with my roommate in our spacious and rundown university apartment as a new semester started up, and the next I was in a crush of family -- great aunts all the way down to cousins -- all at different stages of sadness and relief. I hadn’t seen some of them in over a decade, and a few still longed to pinch my cheeks and or ruffle my curly kid locks. Like a lot of people, I didn’t know my Pop well; he began deteriorating when I was still a boy, and because I lived nowhere near him for most of my youth. Pictures show me as a chubby kid smiling in his lap, but I don’t remember much about him really. I remember his sideburns, bushy and gray and smelling of cigarette smoke. I know he had a flair for natty suits and sipping martinis during the day and that he had a full head of white hair. I know my grandmother loved him more than anything, and while she was happy he was no longer in the locked, debilitating prison of his disease, her primary reason for living had now gone away with a whimper. There’s apparently a legendary picture of him mowing the lawn in formal attire. Everyone still talks about it. And that was him, a man who left Irvington to give his wife and three kids a solid middle-class Jewish existence in the burbs.

The house in Bound Brook is now gone. Sold to a young couple.

---

I’ve been thinking a bit lately about the process of coming out. What coming out in my younger years meant to me, how the art I found at the time taught me to be fearless in the face of people waiting to strike me down, what being outed by taunting high school students meant to my emotional development, how the support from friends and the punk community buoyed me and who I told and when and why and the tension and joy and happiness and sadness that all came with this thing that some of us in the world have to do in order to break through to a new stage of living and truth. It honestly feels like a blur and then it also feels like I can call up every nanosecond, speck of dust and conversation from those times, because living through them was so arduous and exhilarating. I’m probably thinking about this now mostly because I just married and I’m old and boring now and I’m stricken with that thing people in their forties get when they maybe do too much reflecting, but it’s such a curious thing, this heavy soul-baring that has to pass your lips, and if you’re lucky this happens to you at a young age with little to no damage incurred. But it also means there’s a bold declaration you must make in order to be fully healthy, whether or not you want to make a bold declaration in order to be fully healthy. It’s not one a lot of the friends around you have to make, but it’s one you do.

I never came out to him, my Pop, and I don’t have any real feelings about it. I’m sure my Am -- a fervent and socially progressive Jewish woman until her dying breath -- holding onto his still hand as he sat in a chair in the nursing home, shared the news with my grandfather at some point before he passed.

At the time, death was still somewhat abstract to me, which is a luxury not everyone can claim, I know. Pap, the grandfather I had on my mother’s side, an irrepressible alcoholic, was mostly someone I didn’t know, and he died alone in his crumbling apartment in a nothing Pennsylvania town when I was still in high school. I got the call about that while at band practice, and I didn’t feel sad. One minute I was home, the next I was stuffed into a car with my mom, stepdad and two siblings headed to bid him goodbye. Later in 1998, I would find myself openly grieving with most of my community for Matthew Shepard, a complete stranger to me in life but who in essence was me and my friends, was any gay kid in America, really. At the time of his death he was 21 just like me, and his murder reminded me the unthinkable was still very much on the table. Yet I felt safe as an out college student in Columbia, but what did that really mean? What was I safe to do or not do? Safe from what?

---

On January 13, we buried my Pop next to his mother and father at a Jewish cemetery in Clifton, New Jersey -- the one behind the diner. My grandmother would join them all in just under ten years. I remember her in the limo ride back to her home; she was holding a relative’s hand and just staring out the window with a very small smile on her face as we drove south on the Garden State Parkway. For the moment, she wasn’t crying or saying anything. She just looked out the window as we drove past the neighborhood of her youth -- its current state of disrepair evident from the highway -- I don’t know if she ever went back to visit in her life. I wonder now what she saw looking out the window or if she could make out the day she met my grandfather as the blocks went by in a blur. I won’t ever know.

I only had a day left in Jersey before I left for home. Old friends and family were around sitting shiva and plying my grandmother and uncles with more lox, pastrami and matzo ball soup -- the usual elixirs -- than she knew what to do with. There were some things I wanted to do outside of the house, beyond the radius of sympathy flowers and bunched tissues deployed to fight the raw grief, and I set out to accomplish one of them.

There was a cafe in the West Village with my name on it; I just had to get myself there and experience it again for a few hours.

On that same night in the city as Port Authority police searched high and low for the men who made off with Bank of America’s money, the day after the funeral, I had my own little secret, one that came with me on the Manhattan-bound NJ Transit line from Bound Brook, New Jersey and into the mouth of Penn Station. Mine didn’t involve weapons or large sums of ill-gotten gains and police in hot pursuit, but it still felt like a weighty one a the time. I also had someone I wanted to share it with. Matt, who grew up down the street from my grandmother, came along, suspecting nothing more was up than a quick traipse around the city.

It’s not accurate to call Matt my best friend, whatever that means, even with three decades of a certain bond under our belts; the only times we’ve really spent together were my summer vacations and the holidays and by the time I was living in the north, he was long gone, first for a finance job in San Francisco and then permanently to Hong Kong for another finance job. Aside for the first few years of my life, we’ve never lived in the same town or close to one another. Yet I’ve known Matt since kindergarten, the longest I’ve known someone not in my blood family, and the fact that his home was just a few doors down from my grandmother and thus a refuge to a bored kid away from home helped a firm bond develop over toys and MTV. I can vividly recall us, complete first grade dweebs in short shorts, playing cards on his living room floor while Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger played on the turntable. And if Matt wasn’t my best friend, he was still someone who meant a lot to me, just because of the sheer longevity, and he deserved to know what was up with me.

He also still does matter to me even if I haven’t seen him in years.

---

For someone who enjoys getting lost in the land just beyond the tracks, an evening train ride to the city from Jersey is never as good as it could be; the blinding fluorescence inside the car at night turns the windows into mirrors. While everything outside is basic and flat, I sometimes cup my hands just to get a look at the row houses and sleepy towns. Just to see. I don’t remember anything about my ride with Matt into the city that night, but I’m sure there were nerves running through me as the towns rolled by me unnoticed.

By 21, I was just about totally out. I’d already had a boyfriend before moving on to a devastating grad school crush that about broke my heart into a million pieces. Maybe the more conservative elements in my family didn’t have confirmation but suspected it due to my lack of a girlfriend, but that wasn’t a concern of mine. Matt didn’t know either, a fact having more to do with geography and not wanting to bare my soul to him via a land line than anything else. He was a Catholic school jock though, so it could end up being not great. Had I heard him make gay jokes? Did he ever use the F word? Maybe it wouldn’t be alright, and if that ended up being true, I needed to prepare for the possibility. In the late nineties, coming out to the wrong person could still be a damning line in the sand, effectively ending relationships or familial bonds, and while I know that still applies in 2017, perhaps less frequently, I did feel the sting of rejection from a few people, people who really mattered. It was mostly temporary, but it still happened. Back then, sharing who you were even to a sympathetic ear still felt monumental. Just ask Ellen. I suspect for the person coming out now, either at 16 or at 80, it still feels that way.

--- 

The city always held an undeniable allure for all the obvious reasons: not far but seemingly unattainable and dangerous and exciting and where everything happened, from Gorilla Biscuits gigs to Keith Haring exhibits. I guess I reasoned that regardless of what happened, Matt still had to ride home with me, so he was basically stuck accepting it whether he liked it or not, and together we’d work through whatever stages of whatever he was feeling. And maybe more than that, it was perhaps a subconscious wish to connect myself to the activist community of the city, and to allow myself to be tethered to their stories and lives in the most superficial of ways, to have told someone within the confines of New York that I am out and gay, to feel the strength of the West Village at my back for a quick moment. To have a story of my own anchoring me to the fight for equality, even if mine were really small and mostly only significant to me. Back then I had no idea I would be spending most of my adult life working in and hovering around New York, so I imagined this might be the last time I would be in the area for some time.

Or maybe I just thought Matt needed a night in the gay part of town.

And if I knew what made the city famous culturally, I certainly knew nothing about getting around, and neither did Matt. At the time, the map of the city in my head looked something like “CBGB A7 ACT UP VENUS RECORDS CHRISTOPHER STREET AVENUE A BLEECKER STREET YOUTH OF TODAY RECONSTRUCTION RECORDS,” which isn’t really a map at all, or not a real one on paper. But having no working knowledge of the city then is what makes the night so memorable now, and it’s why in part I still reflect on it so much. Even now, whenever I’m in the Penn Station area, I can see Matt and me emerging from the escalator, still two dorks, and I can see the gears working in my head. I’d been to the West Village maybe twice prior to this night, but where it was on a map I didn’t know. The subway was out of the question because I’d never been on it and I didn’t know how to find it or where it went. The one thing I did know was I needed to get there, find this beacon in the night that was a cafe on Christopher Street, open my mouth a little and then somehow get back to Jersey unscathed.

The distance between Penn Station and Christopher Street isn’t really all that significant, but to a rookie kid without a map and with nothing more than a mere hunch, it may as well have been a thousand miles from one to the other. I don’t know what it’s like anymore to walk for twenty blocks wondering where the street I need is: I’ve been working in the city now for 13 years, so I know the basic lay of the land and even in the rare case now when I don’t, my phone does. All I remember of that walk is basically telling Matt every few blocks “It’s coming up soon; I promise.”

The things I remember about the night all this time later: Matt’s look of surprise when we got to the Factory Cafe and I sat him down and said what I had to say. He didn’t reject me or panic, and I’m sure it was no big surprise to his ears. But I remember he needed a minute to adjust, and he laughed a lot. Not at me, but as a response to new information.

“I remember that it really didn't matter, black, white, purple, bi, straight, gay,” Matt recalls over email. He lives in Hong Kong now, so it takes him a bit to respond. “You were already my friend and a close one at that.” 

All around us, couples were on dates and people were catching up with friends or were lost in books, and I felt plugged into something -- a confidence? a safety? -- I didn’t normally feel in South Carolina...or...anywhere else really. Maybe everyone thought we were a couple sharing coffee before heading out for the night.

There’s no big dramatic conclusion to this other than we eventually finished our coffee and ended up playing pool at Stonewall before catching the train back. I kept my friend, and I still have him. For all the unknowns, Matt rolled with it and only later admitted he was stunned at what I told him. There are a million reasons why coming out to Matt, and to anyone, mattered. This isn’t abstract to me. Like I said, he wasn’t my best or closest friend, but he was the closest thing I had to a brother my own age, someone who knew my history and his support was vital in a bigger sense.

I think about my night with Matt often as I walk past the old Factory Cafe, which is now a clothing store. When I pass those big windows, I think about a younger me (a me with a full head of hair), nervously fidgeting in his seat near the front, working up the nerve to tell my oldest friend something that was both weighty and trivial. Trivial because I was still me; I hadn’t changed. I see myself laughing once it left my mouth, and I see people next to us turning pages of their New Yorker or brushing the hair out of their spouse’s eyes. I obviously see the ghosts others all around me doing the same thing, with their declarations sometimes being met with mixed results.

It’s been a long time since I felt I had to come out to someone; I’ve been me for what feels like forever, and so has my husband. But for a kid from South Carolina, that night in the Village at Stonewall -- a place that still remains a vital gathering ground -- helps remind me I’ve always had people on my side and always will. I came out to many many people when I was young, but I only came out once in New York City, and that somehow feels important to me in a way I can’t fully quantify.

I’ll close with some further bits of Matt’s email to me, because they’re fun and illuminating and characteristic of his open jocularity: “I certainly didn't expect it, but it did clear some things up in my head. All my friends had always been into sports, girls; you never seemed bothered by that, and you never even tried to hide or fake it. Hell, I remember you drawing on your Dad's Playboys, I'm thinking ...’Is this dude nuts????? He drawing on Ms Novembers double DD's’”

I’m glad Matt’s still out there and that he’s still with me.

[coeurdastronaute]

The District: Chapter 7

“I have been driven many times upon my knees by the overwhelming conviction that I had nowhere else to go. My own wisdom, and that of all about me, seemed insufficient for the day.”-  Abraham Lincoln, Third Debate against Stephen A. Douglas, 1858.

The city happened. The uncharacteristically warm day of mid-January erased the slate and flushed free the gutters and streets until it was a constant river of frozen trash and saltwater feeders. The sun came out and blinded everyone who grew accustomed to the overcast sky of December, attempting to convince everyone that they could trust it, that this was here to stay, and so eager were the inhabitants to accept it, that they foolishly fell into the trap despite the warnings of every morning weatherman’s smile.

The anomaly of the weather distracted the sad wanderer of the oddly familiar streets, though she did not allow herself to think of it longer than just a moment, a stray thought about how odd the course of events of her week had been that a day like today seemed almost normal. She wished it had been the standard blustery day, that would hurt and make her bones ache, so it would fit her mood. Instead, she got the sunshine and timid people who wanted to enjoy it but couldn’t allow themselves. 

Cars and buses rowed down the rivers of avenues, kicking up wakes in their passing while everyone marveled at the gushing of water and overflowing of sewers, as if the island itself was sinking into the ground. All breathed a sigh of relief, and the streets became alive again of people who met each other’s eyes and did not remain bundled up with heads bent low. 

The house had been too stifling, and Lexa too hungover to be able to tolerate it for too long, and so she relegated herself to wandering the streets in search of memories, while simultaneously attempting to avoid them, as if she had a chance in it, as if it were an option. It was a tough line to balance atop, and she failed at every turn, but still she tried because at home her mother was sad and hiding it, and her siblings were loud and loving, and all that she wanted was a moment of quiet and bitterness without infecting them. 

He made it exactly three days after everyone returned home and life went back to the post-holiday normal. Stroke they said. Quick, they told her mother. Painless, she had explained to her children. 

Lexa heard the words and wondered how it could be true, how ceasing to exist could just happen, how leaving could be painless, because she was damn near certain this pain of being left was unbearable to mere mortals. The doctors didn’t talk about that part. Leaving felt like a relief and being left felt like being stabbed with dull knives continually. 

Her shoes kicked along the soggy sidewalks, while her mind raced too quickly to focus on anything particular, instead jumping from one topic to the next because if she thought too hard about one thing, she would lose it. 

When she was fifteen, her grandfather taught her to drive in the parking lot she refused to look up at as she walked past on her way home. When she was twelve, he was ready to beat her raw for stealing baseball cards from the convenience mart on the corner. Instead, he marched her up and had her return them, shamefully. When she was eight, he showed her how to fix her bike chain in the park a few blocks from home. When she was seventeen, she saw him cry when she walked across the stage because when they met, she couldn’t read and nine years later she got a diploma. 

For every important moment, he was there, and he was vital. She picked up his crossword habit, and his love of complaining with his hands held up, and she inherited his distrust of good things and his good-natured welcoming of adversity. And he was gone, when she was certain she would need him most, and she hated him for it. 

There was never going to be a time in her life when she wouldn’t need him, she realized, and this hatred was inevitable because it was born from love and admiration and selfish need. He would have known what to say to her, she decided with a sigh. 

The entire day passed in a hapless kind of meandering around the city. Lexa didn’t want to go back to the house. At the house, plans were being made. In the kitchen, her mother wasn’t crying, but she did occasionally bury her face in her husband’s chest and let her shoulders rock with tears that were forbidden to fall. In the living room, calls were being made to relatives abroad and at home, bringing the troops around. In the yard, neighbors traipsed through the mounds of pent up snow and dropped of plats and apologies. In the garage, an alarm clock remained open and waiting to be fixed. 

This was a time to step up, and Lexa knew it, though every time she lapped back around to her street, she couldn’t do it. And so she took another and hoped it’d be easier next time around. 

As the city appeared, Clarke leaned against the window for a moment, her phone slipping a little from her ear as she hardly listened to her colleague explain something. For a moment she doubted herself, and she panicked. Just a few hours before, and she’d been having a shitty morning. Now she was having a shitty afternoon, and was far away from home in more ways than one. 

“I don’t know. Maybe I’ll be back tomorrow,” she shook her head from the revery and sighed, catching half of the conversation. “I’ll email whenever I get set up.” 

She’d been to the city a few times, but she never left Manhattan. When she stepped off the train in Washington Heights, the Christmas lights were still strung up and the snow was gone. Backpack filled with work and a duffle slung over her shoulder, Clarke took a deep breath and resigned herself to it. 

Lexa had been right, that she’d hid and been afraid, shirked her responsibilities, and not been an overall good girlfriend. The lawyer only wondered if she was too late in realizing it, if this wasn’t enough, if this was the right way to handle it. 

By the time she got a taxi to take her to Lexa’s home, the nerves were over the moon. Cars were parked out front, filling the small driveway. The smushed together houses seemed even more cramped on the busy street. Kids played where they could, still in their winter clothes despite the warmth that allowed the world to thaw for just a second. 

Standing on the front stoop of the house Clarke was just now realizing was Lexa’s childhood home, her hands felt empty. People always brought things for funerals. When her dad died, they filled the house with casserole dishes and cards. Clarke looked at her empty hands and cringed. 

“Clarke?” Gabby opened the door before she could raise her hand to knock, catching her off guard. 

“I am so very sorry for your loss,” she sputtered, catching herself in the midst of a large hug. “I was about to knock. I didn’t make any food.” 

“We have more than enough food,” the mother murmured, squeezing Clarke until her bags fell to the ground. 

Though it took a moment, Clarke finally relaxed into the surprised arms. She closed her eyes and hugged her back. The smell of something wafted through the house, billowing out warm and delicious. Something about a mother’s hug was too much. 

“Lexa’s not here,” Gabby finally sighed, pulling away and holding Clarke’s cheeks, eyes glassy and proud. “She’s out walking around the neighborhood.” 

“We, uh, we...” the newcomer fumbled. “She... we fought. Things are... I’m here for her. She didn’t know I was coming.” 

“Are you staying?” 

“I didn’t mean to impose. I know things are... I did not come to get in the way. I came for Lexa. I have a hotel. If she wants me.” 

It was a mess of nouns and verbs and pronouns, but Clarke hoped she got near a tangible point as they barreled out of her mouth with alarming veracity. She argued with lawyers and strangers with more grace than she found herself exhibiting to the mother of the girl she refused to acknowledge that she loved. 

“She was close to my father.”

“I know,” Clarke offered a small smile. “All of the stories she told me... he sounded great, and I’m sorry I didn’t get to meet him.” 

Noises inside brought them back to their moment, and the kindness of the introduction was warm and Clarke bathed in it, hoping the same would be the same for when the daughter returned from her walkabout. 

“Come on inside,” the mother smiled. “Come on, come in. Warm yourself up a bit.” 

As soon as she walked inside, it was an inundation that made her head spin. Brothers and sisters and noise and people and yelling and living, it all happened right there, and Clarke was swarmed. Every person she’d heard stories about was there, jammed into every available nook and cranny. 

Sheepishly, Clarke accepted hugs and offered her condolences, trying to keep everyone straight. Aunts and Uncles who didn’t even make it to stories appeared, and she did her best to keep up, but it was like one of those math problems that covered and entire blackboard, expanding out in all directions with no beginning or end. 

Her coat and bags were taken, and her cheeks blushed with the heat of the rooms. It took a lot of angling around different questions, answering as best she could, before she was able to take a breath. Another hour, and she was able to sneak outside and make a few work calls, to catch her breath from the insanity. 

The sun started to set as she helped around the kitchen. Lexa’s brothers sat down with her and made her help with paperwork, when all she wanted to do was peel potatoes. But she didn’t have those skills. She could read a life insurance policy though, and understand legal paperwork. So she did that because they had questions, and that was how people grieved. 

“Can’t you wait?” Gus complained, waiving a knife as he chopped and prepared food. 

Tall and broad and huge, Lexa’s brother was the only one who could keep up with their mother in the kitchen. He did it all day, chef at some restaurant downtown. The seemingly moral standard of the group, he waved a knife as an extension of his hand, bothered by the legality of death.

From what Clarke could remember, he was the stern one. The oldest, with the responsibility. The stoic one. But the one with a laugh that came straight from his belly whenever it was allowed. 

“We’ve never had a lawyer in the family. I have questions,” Abe ignored him, flipping through documents. 

“I’m not in the fam--”

“Plus, if we get it done, we don’t have to think about it,” Anya ventured. 

“I really--” Clarke tried.

It was nice to have at least one familiar face when Gabby disappeared to execute the duties of the matriarch, attending to phone calls and sorting out the rest. Anya hugged Clarke tightly when she arrived, and it gave Clarke a little hope. 

“One less thing Mom has to deal with,” Aden piped in from his stool as he crunched on the veggies his big brother cut. 

The youngest except for Lexa, the soldier was much quieter than the rest of the siblings. His hair was a little lighter than her girlfriends, though she recognized him instantly from Lexa’s descriptions. 

“We can really--”

“You’re making a complete stranger read important family documents,” Lincoln argued, grabbing himself a beer from the fridge as he balanced a newborn on his chest. “Maybe let her settle in a bit first.” 

“I would be happy to--”

“Like I said, if we finish it now,” Anya reiterated. 

“One less thing Mom has to deal with,” Aden helped. 

“Mom is going to lose it soon anyway,” Gus shrugged as something sizzled. “It’s coming.” 

“You know she has your wife picking out clothes?” Luna asked Lincoln as she strolled into the kitchen. 

Just half of them were in the room, and Clarke was overwhelmed, and so she gave up trying to have a voice. She could understand how Lexa was quiet, and how she learned to be stubborn and scrappy. She could also see how a family of kids who didn’t look anything alike was closer than she ever thought her own could have been. 

Her esteem for the mother of the brood only grew as the kids, with their loud opinions and certain kind of mischievous smirks got together. It would have been enough to make a saint pull their own hair out. 

“I had some questions for you as well, Clarke,” their father pulled up another chair.

He was not as tall as his oldest son, though he was taller than Aden, Bill Brady was quiet and polite, and Clarke had no problem imagining him to be the best kind of balance for his wife. Angry when she wanted to be calm, peaceful when she was inevitably feisty, Clarke enjoyed his presence, for what she knew. 

“Again, I don’t specialize in contracts or policies,” Clarke offered weakly. “I can try to remember the classes, but I--”

“She works with the Constitution,” Ellie interrupted. “You have the poor thing reading a Will. In Portuguese.”

“I can peel potatoes,” the lawyer offered, earning some chuckles. 

“Get her a drink, son,” Bill called Aden, looking down the bottom of his glasses at the tiny words. “We’re getting this done so we can tell your mother not to worry about it. So we have time to grieve and celebrate properly. First comes--”

“The climb,” the kids all echoed with various methods of rolling their eyes. 

“And then comes--” he smiled, not even looking up. 

“The view.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Congress?” 

The kitchen grew quiet as Lexa walked inside and paused at the entrance. Just down the hall, the living room continued to play host to kids and cartoons, to cell phones ringing and people talking while footsteps upstairs paced and debated. The siblings in the kitchen grew quiet and looked around at each other while Lexa couldn’t look away from the girl who sat at her kitchen table, surrounded by paperwork and her father and brother and sister. 

“Hi.” 

It was weak, but it was all Clarke had to offer at the moment. The eyes of the family ricocheted back and forth between the two as if it were the US Open. 

“What are you doing here?” Still frozen where she first laid eyes on the guest, Lexa wanted so desperately to move, to go back and wonder the streets a little while longer. 

“Your grandfather died, and you’re important.” 

No one knew what it meant, but the father saw how his youngest shuffled slightly and set her jaw before shoving her hands in her pockets defiantly. 

“Why don’t you two go talk? We can write down our questions for Clarke,” he offered, setting his glasses down. 

“I want to see what happens,” Aden grinned, earning a gaggle of kitchen towels swatted at his shoulders. 

Lexa waited until Clarke stood up and took a few steps before hugging her tightly. She knew they had to talk, but it didn’t matter at that moment, because as much as she walked around outside in the city, she realized she was chasing this exact feeling, and so she buried her nose in the familiar hint of strawberry hair, and she let her cold nose earn a flinch from Clarke’s neck as it took up residence while she closed her eyes and clung. 

“I’m so sorry,” Clarke whispered, arms wrapping around Lexa’s neck as she felt her ribs squeezed by inked ones. “For all of it.” 

“You came.” 

“Yeah.” 

A chorus of awe’s and kissy giggles began behind them despite their father’s insistence that the reset of the brood stop mocking their sister. Lexa allowed herself a full minute of clinging and inhaling before finally pulling away. She kissed the girl that travelled this far just to make sure she was alright, even with her family watching. 

“Thank you,” Lexa sighed. 

“I’m so sorry. I’m trying to figure it out. I don’t know how,” she confessed, hands hanging on Lexa’s biceps that held her cheeks. “But I have priorities.” 

She earned a small smile there, not the whole, cocky, definitely Lexa smile, but it was still something and Clarke felt a relief sink into the muscles of her lungs and chest. As if they hadn’t in weeks, both took a deep breath and caught themselves feeling oddly alone. 

It was short-lived, but it was needed. The world impeded upon them, while the relief was a drug that did not wear off as easily. 

“You���re frozen through,” Gabby came into the kitchen with a grandson on her hip. 

“I’m fine,” Lexa shook her head, growing embarrassed with the fretting. 

“Go shower and change. Take Clarke’s bags with you,” the mother ordered, easily taking control of the situation. “I’m sorry honey, but we’re full. The basement will have to--”

“No, no that’s... I can go to a hotel. It’s not--”

“We stay together,” Lexa stopped the protest. “Mom doesn’t believe in giving away money when we have space here.” Clarke waited and measured her options, watching her girlfriend for an idea of her own thoughts on the subject. “I’ll put your bags in my room, Congress.” Clarke smiled and nodded. 

“Thank you.” 

The basement was a collection of lives and times. The stairs creaked, well-worn and used from a stomping heard of kids up and down it all day. The pool table tucked beneath the stairs was covered in Christmas decoration boxes. Clothes hung from the line above the washer and dryer in the corner. 

The cemetery of mismatched furniture created a little living room in one corner, a grandmother’s couch, a neighbors old futon, spare tables for holiday gatherings. 

From the pull out sofa bed, Clarke sat on the edge and waited. Upstairs, the house quieted and the squeals of floorboards as the last siblings awake cleaned up and snuck to their rooms so as not to wake up their parents. 

“I thought you’d be asleep,” Lexa smiled as she made it down the steps to see her girlfriend reading through something while the old television on the mismatched table flashed colors on the walls.

“I had a few things to catch up on.” 

Lexa nodded and pulled her shirt over her head. She had a few drinks under her belt, and that helped. It helped that Clarke kissed her cheek and let her family bombard her with questions. It helped that suddenly Lexa didn’t feel terrible when the lawyer approached.

The ink flashed different colors on the new skin presented. Clarke loved watching it move, watching it shift and change. 

The bra went next, and a shirt covered it again as pants disappeared. 

“I wanted to talk about... the past few weeks,” she broached, swallowing the sight in and shaking it away. 

“I said some things I shouldn’t have,” Lexa acknowledged. “I don--”

“No, you were right. And I have priorities. Your family is... big, and I’m not used to it. I want to... I want to be--”

“I know,” she smiled and crawled onto the wobbly bed. “You’re here.” 

“I took you for granted, and I was self-absorbed.” 

“Yeah.” 

“I wasn’t trying hard enough. It’s hard work, and I didn’t know that it takes constant kind of--”

“You’re here. We can figure it out,” Lexa promised. 

“I thought it might be too much, me coming, but I was already on the train when I figured that out, so it was too late, and then I ended up here--”

“I’m glad you’re here.” 

Clarke let Lexa toss her reading to the side, let it flop onto the concrete floor. She let her crawl onto her legs and let her drape herself across her lap. 

“I’m glad I’m here,” Clarke realized, pushing the messy hair from Lexa’s temple. “Are you okay?” 

“No,” she swallowed and dug her nose into Clarke’s stomach. 

“Want to talk about it?” 

“I just want to be quiet with you.” 

“Okay.” 

It took a second, but Clarke laid back against the pillows in the warm sheets and let Lexa use her like a pillow. She wanted to say a lot more, apologize for even more. But that would be for her, and right now she only wanted to be something good for Lexa. 

“Your family is nice,” she whispered. 

“I can’t believe they didn’t eat you alive before I got here.” 

“They basically did.” 

“I’m so tired,” Lexa shook her head and confessed. 

“You can sleep,” Clarke whispered. She ran her hand up Lexa’s back, rubbing soothing circles there. 

“How long are you staying?” 

“Until we go home.” 

Eyes already shut, Lexa hummed slightly and smiled against Clarke’s ribs. It was nice and warm in their little bubble. Clarke wanted to tell her it was going to be alright, and that things were going to be different, but all that Lexa needed was sleep and to feel safe and like someone was fighting for her, so she kept quiet and she rubbed her back. 

The clouds hung heavy in the sky, dragging thick through the afternoon, slowly twisting themselves empty with a thin kind of rain that was consistent and unrelenting. It felt like the day for a funeral. 

Unsure of her place or her job, Clarke remained quiet, helping the wives of the siblings who were distracted with their grief, each handling it differently, yet ridiculously similarly. All became chickens with their heads cut off, unable to focus on anything, unable to really do anything. Abe lost his tie, Gus broke a crate of eggs, Anya went to the store and returned with nothing on the list, Lexa could barely sit still, and yet couldn’t accomplish a thing. 

And so Clarke followed behind, cleaning up, making breakfast, washing dishes, making sure everyone ate and drank water. It wasn’t much, but she ran out and bought a tie, and she got the stain out of Lexa’s dress, and that was what she had. 

“It was a really nice service,” Clarke offered as she held Lexa’s hand and they made their way to the house. She held the umbrella as best she could, though her girlfriend didn’t seem to notice anything. 

“Before I ended up here, I lived with my mom.” Clarke watched Lexa bring a cigarette to her lips and light it despite the weather. “I don’t know who my dad was. I don’t remember any pictures. But I remember the day I came home and she was gone. She just packed up and left me. And then I came here, and Vô, he found me trying to run away one night, and I don’t remember why, but my voice didn’t work. So he figured out what I wanted, and he drove up and down the streets with me, for weeks, every night, looking for her because I was convinced she was lost.”

She didn’t have any words, but Clarke just held tighter to the umbrella. Bitterly, Lexa inhaled and let smoke drift up into the clouds. Of all the stories she heard of the man who loved her girlfriend, they all ended in this feeling that he was a beloved hero to each person he came in contact with, and that was a lot. 

“He would talk to me, stop and get me a snack, and every night, when we didn’t find her, he’d put me to bed and promise we would try again, but no matter what, I could stay with them.” 

“He sounds amazing.”

“The world feels different without him.” 

“It is different, but if you think it’s without him, you’re very wrong,” Clarke promised. “I never met him, but he made you, and that is no small feat.” 

They lingered in the front yard, taking their time already on the return trip, everyone was already piled inside. Clarke sensed the way Lexa avoided going in, but she was there, and she was good, and so Lexa tossed the butt across the yard and sighed before making her way inside. 

In the kitchen, Lexa helped her mother while Clarke changed clothes, and she shoved up her sleeves and dug into the water, her hands moving as they knew ow after years and years of practice. Clarke absently ran her hand along her back and hugged her, looking over her shoulder at the progress she made at chopping. 

The inhabitants fluctuated through the room, tugging at ties and growing antsy, and Clarke held on for dear life. 

“I’ll get it,” she offered when the bell rang, kissing Lexa’s shoulder and earning a small smile and nod at the offer as she disappeared. 

“I like her,” Abe nodded, stealing some of the veggies his sister cut. “She’s good people, Lex.” 

“She’s a nice girl,” Gabby nodded eagerly while Lexa focused intently on her task. “It was a nice service.” 

“It was,” Lexa agreed, hiding her blush. 

“These are for you, Lexa,” Clarke breezed in again, hidden half behind the bouquet. “From Justice Jameson.”

“You told your boss?” 

“He asked why I wouldn’t be at work,” she shrugged and placed the flowers down on the counter, handing the card to the artist. 

“Who is it?” her mother interrupted. 

“Clarke’s boss. He sent his condolences,” Lexa muttered, reading the note jotted there quickly. “Though I did not meet the man you mourn, having met a single flash of his legacy in you showed me how great your loss must be. Your family is in my prayers during this difficult time. From one vexillologist to another, I know he would be honored by your continued dedication to what he loved.” 

“That is from your boss?” Aden  asked as Lexa tucked the card back into the flowers. 

“My boss, yeah,” Clarke nodded. “I don’t know how he found the address.” 

“That was very kind of him,” the mother smiled fondly. 

“Her boss is a Supreme Court Justice,” Anya reminded the group. 

“He’s just a guy that likes flags,” Lexa shook her head. “Like Vó.” 

It took hours for the house to empty. Well-wishers and supporters, people who were touched by the doting grandfather, friends and relatives, the extended family all lingered and helped clean and helped eat, and they all took their time leaving. Babies were put to sleep, exhausted from being dressed up and passed around. Ties were undone and tossed on door knobs and heels were kicked off while music muffled through the old stereo. 

But once it did, once the door shut and everything quieted, the vodka came out, and the kids gathered in various states of disarray. Clarke sat back and observed because suddenly Lexa became clearer, and more abstract, more unknown. 

As an only child, it was overwhelming, to say the least. As much as she wanted to sneak away and finish the work that piled up in her inbox, Clarke was too distracted and enjoying herself much too much. 

Lincoln’s wife kissed his cheek before disappearing to deal with the crying heard over the baby monitor. He smiled and drank from his beer, solemn and strong for his siblings. 

“I’m going to bed,” Gabby finally wiped her hands on a dishtowel before tossing it on the counter, surveying her full kitchen, the large table filled and added to with mismatched chairs. “Don’t stay up too late,” she warned, earning a kiss from Aden who put his arm around her before he dug for more leftovers. 

“Please don’t make a mess,” she asked, looking specifically at Lexa who shrugged. 

“Love you, Mom,” a chorus of different goodnights mumbled from the table. 

“He loved you all so very much,” the mother paused, watching her grown up kids together at the table, grown from such tiny, scared things to such full, conscious, kind adults. “He would be very proud of you.” 

The table was quiet for a moment while each took in the words. Ellie was the first to move, pouring herself another drink. Her husband put his arm around her chair. 

“Boa noite, Mãe,” Lexa offered. 

The kids watched their mother disappear down the hall, listened to her climb the steps, waited until the door shut. 

“Okay, give me five minutes,” Lexa smiled, standing suddenly, surprising her girlfriend slightly. “Who’s first?” 

“Me, before Jess comes down and tells me no,” Lincoln decided. 

“I have to get across town,” Gus shook his head.

“I’m the youngest,” Aden tried. 

“Me, before Jack loses his nerve to watch,” Ellie chuckled and patted her husband’s cheek. 

“What’s happening?” Clarke furrowed, leaning toward Anya as Lexa slid around the chairs, moving toward the basement. 

“Do you know how rare it is to get all of us together like this?” the nurse scoffed, pouring herself more before adding some to Clarke’s drink. “Luna’s down in Texas. Aden is God knows where half the time. Both can’t get home on leave often. Abe lives out of a suitcase practically, traipsing all over. Gus is on the other side of the city, working every night. Ellie is two hours away. Lexa is about five. Lincoln has the kids and Jess’ family and work. I mean, it’s tough.” 

“Right.” 

“So, we have to celebrate.” 

“Oh no,” Clarke sighed. 

“Oh yeah,” Jack nodded, commiserating. “Welcome to the club.” 

Reluctantly, Clarke clinked her glass with him and swallowed as she surveyed the table. She was the partner, she was Jack and Jess and Tara and Tom, and when she saw their resigned faces with their part of the brood, she realized what a commitment it was. 

“We’re getting jackets made,” Tom offered, earning a pat on the chest from his fiancé. Anya kissed him a second later and laughed. 

“You just have to let them be them,” Tara shrugged and sipped from her wine glass. 

“We’ll send you the checklist for the proper handling and care of your puppy,” Jess smiled, taking her seat again. 

Clarke sipped and felt her eyes grow big with the realization of all of it. It wasn’t terrifying, but a great responsibility. 

The order got figured out through fights and yelling, and she wondered how the parents could sleep through it, but she was certain it was practice. Lots of practice. 

There was something about watching Lexa work though, that dulled the inherent panic of how she ended up in this kitchen, with this vodka, this late at night. Clarke liked the process of it, the business of it, the demeanor that came in Lexa’s face when she sketched and placed and sized, when she prepared the ink and put on the gloves, pushed up her glasses, tested the machine with a few light buzzes. 

Tiny, little flags appeared on different spots on different bodies. Clarke was distracted with watching her girlfriend do her job, watched her grieve in the only way she knew.

“I’m really glad you’re here,” Lexa murmured as she cleaned up and tugged off her gloves, in a quiet moment between it all. 

It was small, and it was honest, and it was all that was needed. 

Somewhere on the fourth night after the funeral, after everyone went back to work, back to their houses, after a few trips to the airport and station, Clarke stole away a few hours to catch up on work. Gone from the office for just two days, all other emails seemed negated after and email from her boss telling her not to mention it when it came to his note and flowers, and to take care, because work could wait. 

It was true, and she knew it, but Lexa told her to go ahead, and so she did. In reality, it was an excuse for the artist to run away and play with her old rag tag group of friends and Clarke took it as a good sign. 

It was deep into the night when Lexa crept down the stairs toward the tiny bed set up in the tiny available space. She did not bother much with changing, but tugged off her pants and slid in beside the girl who read from her laptop and waited up. 

It was such a wonderful thing, to be waited up for, and Lexa knew it. 

“Hi,” she whispered, settling atop the lawyer, closing the laptop lid and setting it on the dryer. 

“Hey,” Clarke cooed, adjusting to allow the new blanket. “Did you have a good time?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Good. You needed it.” 

“I needed this,” Lexa disagreed, tucking her head into Clarke’s collarbone with a hum. 

Hands moved up and down her side, touched her bones until they slipped beneath her shirt and warmed her skin. Their breathing evened out and only the hiss of the boiler kicked on as someone showered upstairs. 

“Are you ready to go home?” the artist asked, closing her eyes and hearing heartbeat. 

“Whenever you are. I’m here for you.” 

“I’m sorry for how I acted...”

“No, that was needed,” Clarke stopped her. “We have a lot to work on, I think. But so long as we’re each other’s priority, I think it’ll all average out.” 

“Not too good at math, are you, Congress?” 

“I cheated on my Stats final in college.” 

“Shame.”

“Well, it got me here, so I’m okay.” 

Lexa smiled and kissed her shirt before inhaling deeply. It was a lot, all of it, and she was so very tired from existing for the past week. While most of the time days just stacked and stacked, bleeding into another, there were weeks, she knew, that were just exhausting marathons of living, truly living, and coming to the end of one was too much for her. 

Clarke felt the tears on her shirt, against her neck, murky and tepid there, creating a rainforest on the equator of her shoulders, but she let Lexa remain still and she let it happen. Only once did she pause to kiss her head. 

Nothing deterred Lexa, and she cried because she couldn’t grieve before, and because she didn’t know how to stop. And now, when she cried, the first honest cry of Loss, she wanted to be done. 

“It’ll be better after you sleep,” Clarke promised. 

“It won’t.” 

“It will,” she swore. “Because you’ll wake up with this fire for life, and I’ll fall madly in love with you, just like I do every day, and that’s something.”

Lexa sniffled and dried her cheek with her hand. She did not move to sit up or to shift off of her girlfriend who was a pillow now. Slowly, she put herself back the way it was supposed to be. 

“I’m glad you came.” 

“I met your family. Now nothing can scare me.” 

“I can be a handful.” 

“Good.” 

[autolovecraft]

Out of the silence in that aged town of curious customs.

The upper part overhung the narrow grass-grown street and nearly met the over-hanging part of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the madness of my heritage, and the people had come, I flung myself into the swarming temple of unknown darkness, which player thereupon changed its feeble drone to a scarce louder drone in another key; precipitating as it did so I shuddered. Everything was wrong, with the low stone doorstep wholly free from snow.

But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote genially on the ghostly spire. It was the only one who came back booted and dressed in a tunnel, with the throng was sliding, and shared only the clamminess of death and corruption. I thought the room and the aged clock had been summoned to this place, since I saw some side passages or burrows leading from unknown recesses of blackness to this shaft of nighted mystery.

There was nothing I could hear the creaking of signs in the dark, stiff, sparse furniture of the hill; and as they flowed near a sort of focus of crazy alleys at the door creaked open. The church was scarce lighted by all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal.

I could not deny it.

Amid these hushed throngs I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed abnormally pulpy; but something I cannot and must not recall.

Again I shivered, for the outer door; the primal rite of the seventeenth century. This was not much, though, for not an attribute was missing.

For it is of old rumor that the myriad footfalls made no sound eye could ever wholly remember. I could have better care. As the steps and into the swarming temple of unknown darkness, I turned once to look at the old man, after picking up the very ancient town; went out as the thing piped I thought of the solstice and of spring's promise beyond the snows; the primal rite of the house when I still hesitated he pulled from his loose robe a seal ring and a few windows without drawn curtains.

But the flabby hands, curiously gloved, wrote genially on the ghostly spire. It was the true deputy of my heritage, and pressed by chests and stomachs that seemed preternaturally soft, and the skin was too much like wax. There was a cavernous fireplace and a legend too hideous for sanity or consciousness, but I only shuddered, because that nightmare's position barred me from the library of Miskatonic University. There were lights inside the house opposite, so that I was eager to knock at the lichens, and I saw the lurid shimmering of pale light, and even lent me their influence in obtaining the carefully sheltered copy of Alhazred's objectionable Necronomicon from the diamond window-panes that it was I had not left much snow, and got two hooded cloaks; one of the vaults which yawned loathsomely open just before the pulpit, and shared only the clamminess of death and corruption. Then I thought the room; and where it was a silent, shocking descent, and evil the mind that is held by no head. I can make from the stone staircase down which we had come in the wind had not heard any footsteps before the door of my heritage, and people in the elder time. For though the wind, and the lonely remember. No one spoke to me, perhaps because of phrases I dare not quote. I knew we must have lied when they said the trolleys ran to this place, and I saw that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask. Wisely did Ibn Schacabao say, that happy is the tomb where no wizard hath lain, and partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and fallen over the hill's summit and watch the glimmer of stars on the settle faced the row of curtained windows disappeared one by one, and knew where to find the home of my people, the unmentionable Necronomicon of the things that the hospital they told me I must wait a while a lantern bobbed horribly through serpentine alleys on its way to overtake the throng of celebrants the cowled figures seized and mounted them, and people in the cold dusk to join Orion and the spell of the viscous vegetation which glittered green in the foetid darkness where I could not see him.

There was nothing I could have better care. At certain stages of the beasts were patiently standing by.

Great holes secretly are digged where earth's pores ought to crawl.

It was the only one who came back booted and dressed in a very ancient hand, and the whir of the evening, but that two of the seventeenth century. This was not sure. It was a cavernous fireplace and a watch, both with my great-great-great-great-grandfather in 1698. When eleven struck, however, the old fishing town as legend bade, for the gowned, slippered old man in the wind outside, and saw the cloaked throngs forming a semicircle around the church. After that I could say, because that nightmare's position barred me from the awkward Low Latin.

I did so I shuddered. Though it pleased me, and shared only the rituals of mysteries that none living could understand. So I read that hideous chapter, and I had refused when he held above his head.

And against the clearing sky and the blasphemous book in my hands made it doubly so. The man who had brought me now squirmed to a massive carved chest in a very ancient hand, and happy the town was invisible in the cold dusk to join the blackest gulfs of immemorial ocean.

As I hung back, and were old even when this land was settled three hundred years before. It was told that I lost the feeling that there were persons on the hilltop pavement. The nethermost caverns, wrote the mad Arab, are not appear to men as if they were scattered, and the books were hoary and moldy, and felt again the fear I had taken with him; the primal rite. There was nothing I could not see. Soon they became excessively numerous, like impious catacombs of nameless menace; and I saw Kingsport outspread frostily in the new dusk, and the archaic iron knocker I was eager to knock at the lichens, and dizzy church-crowned central peak that time durst not touch; ceaseless mazes of colonial houses piled and scattered at all angles and levels like a child's disordered blocks; antiquity hovering on gray wings over winter-whitened gables and gambrel roofs; fanlights and small-paned windows one by one, and I could not deny it. I followed my voiceless guides; jostled by elbows that seemed abnormally pulpy; but my dreams are filled with terror, because they had commanded their sons to keep festival once every century, that the night before, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the semi-circle he faced.

There were lights inside the house opposite, so that the amorphous flute-player in the salt breeze, and I saw that it was a burying-ground where black gravestones stuck ghoulishly through the snow like the rest.

This was not of this or any world, but only of the unimaginable blackness beyond the gangrenous glare of that incredibly ancient town I had been gathering in me, perhaps because of phrases I dare not quote. It was certainly nervous waiting, and I shivered that a town should be so aged and maggoty with subterraneous evil.

The old spinning woman had gone with the stylus and wax tablet he carried. Fainting and gasping, I looked at that unhallowed Erebus of titan toadstools, leprous fire and slimy water, and the archaic iron knocker I was far from home, and evil the mind that is held by no head.

An indefinite dampness seemed upon the place of the eastern sea was upon me. After more aeons of descent I saw that all the charnel legions these pest-gulfs might conceal. I sounded the archaic stars. Then I saw, and a few patches did remain on the settle, and wished bitterly that no fire should be known and welcomed, for only the poor and the aged clock had been gathering in me, but I could say, that men call Christmas though they know in their hearts it is of old rumor that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what should have been kept very close to its antique state.

Out of the old man came back booted and dressed in a very ancient hand, and I saw that the memory of primal secrets might not be forgotten. I disliked it when I staggered to my troubled eyes that see; for their marvels are strange and terrific.

What mainly troubled me was that flaming column; spouting volcanically from depths profound and inconceivable, casting no shadows as healthy flame should, and made stiff ceremonial motions to the drifting spar that accident sent to save me.

For in all that seething combustion no warmth lay, but many houses had high doors reached by double flights of steps with iron railings. It had seemed to be performed. I saw that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what had before lessened it, for the doctors were broad-minded, and seemed to my feet that the suddenness of his motion dislodged the waxen mask from what had before lessened it, and partly a churchyard with spectral shafts, and the old man made a signal to the family resemblance in his face, but a fiendishly cunning mask. Out of the windows that the night before, and I saw something amorphously squatted far away from the stone staircase down which the throng had already vanished. An indefinite dampness seemed upon the place, and in a corner, and I observed after a horrible interval that the walls and steps were changing in nature, as if chiseled out of sight, but did not listen for merriment or look for wayfarers, kept on down past the hushed lighted farmhouses and shadowy stone walls to where Green Lane leads off behind the Market House. It was a hideous proof, because everything was wrong.