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anghraine · 4 years

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pro patria, chapters 8-14

And more Chaucer meme-GW2 fic (though with fewer footnotes)

title: pro patria (8-14/?) stuff that happens: Althea questions the guests at Minister Wi's party and faces the consequences. verse: Ascalonian grudgefic characters/relationships: Althea Fairchild, Lord Faren, Countess Anise, Logan Thackeray; Julius Zamon, Madeline Zamon, Reth, others; Althea & Faren, Althea & Anise, Althea & Logan chapters: 1-7

EIGHT 1 Minister Wi greeted me with nothing short of delight. “Your name has been on everyone’s lips lately! Your presence honours me.” I doubted that my name had been on anyone’s lips; maybe the hero of Shaemoor, though. “Fights have a way of finding me,” I admitted. “Ah, if this city had a few more brave souls like you,” he told me, beaming, “the Charr would withdraw from Ascalon.” Oh, if only. 2 The minister’s wife fawned over me, which was far less pleasant than it sounded. She bombarded me with questions and compliments while the clock ticked on, and never said anything about Zamon. “I shall speak with my husband about securing you a position!” “Thank you, my lady, but please don’t bother on my account,” I said, and fled to the banquet tables. It was difficult to speak to the servants without drawing attention, but I managed it; most of them resolutely had nothing to say, just directing me to the cook, but one girl whispered that Lord Faren was (still) pining after Baroness Jasmina, while the baroness only seemed interested in—me! I suppressed a flicker of interest. I’d always liked Jasmina, and she was very pretty, but some things mattered more. 3 Faren, as if summoned by the thought, then strolled in from the east courtyard. When he caught sight of me, he grinned widely and waved, transparent as ever. I couldn’t help laughing and waving back; he might be a fool, but he was a loyal, good-natured one, and I had no intention of giving up a lifetime of friendship for a casual acquaintance’s infatuation. I headed across the room, still smiling, and found him healthy and immaculate. “There’s my heroic friend—say, could you hold off on the acts of valour for a bit?” he said, and promptly followed it with a tight embrace that lifted my feet right off the ground and just about smothered me to death in his cravat. I didn’t mind that much; it was Faren-ish for I missed you. He set me back down again with flawless grace and total disregard for how it might look to the others, then returned to his main concern: “Makes it hard to strike up a conversation with a pretty lass when she only wants to talk about you!” 4 Several minutes later, Faren was still monologuing: “I’ve been dying to speak with Baroness Jasmina all night, but she keeps talking about you and won’t believe we’re friends!” He looked deeply offended. “Can you believe that?” I could, honestly—we must seem an incongruous duo—but it was indeed very inaccurate. “Would you put in a good word for me?” he asked. All right, my plans for the evening had not involved smoothing Faren’s current road to romance, but he had said that he’d picked up some information, and—well, it was Faren. “Anything for an old friend,” I said warmly, and he hugged me again. 5 As soon as I greeted her, Jasmina gasped, her eyes wide; for once, Faren hadn’t exaggerated. “I was telling Lady Madeline I didn’t know if you would make it,” she said, “but here you are! I’m almost breathless.” No almost about it, but I forged on. “A good friend of mine said I should speak with you.” Doubtfully, she said, “Do you mean Lord Faren?” “Assuredly,” I told her, and not quite lying, went on, “He’s been my stalwart companion in all kinds of adventures!” 6 Within little more than a minute, I had Jasmina asking me to give Faren her regards. I gladly escaped her (and her definitely breathless maid) and headed back to my equally ridiculous friend. “Kormir strike me if she didn’t look impressed,” he whispered. “You’re a true friend!” “Think nothing of it,” I said, and then pressed on, “So what was it you wanted to tell me?” Remarkably, he managed to summarize; he remembered that I’d suspected a minister back when we cleared the bandit caves, and had since confirmed the suspicion, which sounded very competent. I eyed him skeptically. 7 “I was out with a, ah, a lady friend,” Faren explained (I rolled my eyes), “and I saw him leaving the woods near Gibson Portage. Alone, and most suspiciously!” “You’re certain he was alone?” I asked; those woods were seething with people, if not the sort that a minister (or Faren) would ordinarily condescend to notice. “He was dressed for a dinner party and sauntering through the woods like he was at a ball,” said Faren, and there I did trust his judgment. “Might that help your investigation?” I met his grin with one of my own. “It definitely does.” NINE 1 I drifted towards a nearby group of men, all of whom I recognized; they were, if not quite friends, familiar from any number of events, and rarely overawed by much. Currently, they seemed to be talking about an orphanage that had nearly burned down, apparently the doing of some arson-minded bandits. That seemed near enough my own investigation that I shifted uncomfortably; even Zamon would draw the line at leaving orphans to burn alive, surely …? "I'm appalled at the way our politicians turn a blind eye—someone should do something!" Faren said unexpectedly, and marched off towards nothing in particular. Nicholas Winters said, “I heard you saved that Faren dandy from ruffians—suppose you could let them hold on to him for a while next time?” “Really, Sir Nicholas,” I said coolly, “Lord Faren is my friend; I could never let them keep him.” Belatedly, it occurred to me that taking offense at every little thing—or anything at all—was a poor way to gather information. 2 I chatted lightly with the guests as I followed an indirect path towards Anise, picking up on nothing particularly valuable. She and I discovered an immediate need for punch. “I hope it’s everything you expected,” she said in her driest drawl. “Just be careful whom you trust.” “Tell me more about them,” I replied, and quickly added, “I know Lord Faren, obviously, but I want to hear what you know.” “A rascal and an incorrigible flirt,” said Anise, “but a good man.” I knew that much; she noted his brief flirtation with civic duty in the Ministry, and went on to tell me about Zamon’s sister Madeline (unmarried, waiting on their sick mother), Lord Benjamin (a gossipmonger), Sir Nicholas (nothing without money), Zamon (opportunistic but foolish), and Minister Wi, who turned out to be even richer and more powerful than I’d guessed—perhaps the most so in all of Kryta. 3 Corruption usually followed wealth, but I really couldn’t think it of loyal, good-natured Minister Wi—not without proof, anyway. “What can you tell me about Logan Thackeray?” I said; even beyond the investigations of the moment, I wanted more information about the man I was more or less taking orders from. “Charming and loyal, especially to his queen, but what you’d find interesting, I can’t tell you,” said Anise. “He comes from a troubled past.” Hm—I wouldn’t have expected that, if not for his odd reaction the other day in Seraph Headquarters. “Logan is in charge of the company that protects Divinity’s Reach,” Anise went on. “How fortunate that he’s near the queen, wouldn’t you agree?” 4 “Oh, very fortunate,” I replied, then took my leave to continue the hunt. I remembered the servants’ reference to the cook, and headed off to the kitchen. It took a little bit of work to overcome his surprise and general reservations, but the time proved worth it; when I mentioned Lady Madeline, he said, “I just saw her—she was arguing something fierce with her brother, the minister, and then he stormed off, yelling about ‘business to attend to.’ Something ain’t right there.” Indeed not. He also turned out to have suspicions about the presence of so many Ministry guards, which I thought wise, and remarked that Yolanda—one of my closer childhood friends—was on the hunt for conquests. “It’s a wonder Lord Faren hasn’t gotten himself in trouble there,” he said darkly, and I had to agree. 5 I left the cook to his meditations on the perfect process for making poached moa eggs, then decided to see if Yolanda had anything useful to say. She was an inveterate gossip, so one of the more likely to store up information that might seem useless to anyone else. “I thought you’d be doing gallant deeds with our own dashing Captain Thackeray,” she said. “Not at the moment, I’m afraid.” With a very little encouragement, she told me that our old friend Corone was furious over a theft—the latest of many in Salma—and offering a reward, and that Edmonds was drinking like the dragons would devour us before the morning. “What’s the story with you and Countess Anise?” she said, startling me more than Fursarai had. “I saw you speaking to her.” 6 It took a moment to grasp where Yolanda’s train of thought had taken her, as if it ever took her anywhere else. “She’s an old friend of my family,” I said repressively. Yolanda, who was genuinely good-natured beneath her gossip and various follies—very much like Faren, in fact—looked delighted. “I knew the countess had peers and admirers,” she said, “but friends? How enlightening! With juicy tidbits like that, you can trade gossip with me anytime!” “I … of course,” I said, and regretfully suspected that I would. 7 By then, I’d spoken with virtually everyone on the first floor. That only left Lady Madeline and Lord Benjamin, whom I’d noticed talking on the stairs, and anyone on the second floor who might know something. I withdrew to the (comparative) quiet of the courtyard, calculating my next step. Madeline was my best bet, but also the one that could most easily go wrong; she was well-known to be passionately loyal to her family. Jasmina’s handmaiden—Faren had sensibly left them to their own devices for now—shifted towards me while I thought, then blurted out, “I so admire the things you’ve done. Throughout the city, women like me wish they could be more like you.” I stared at her, then smiled; I’d never thought of that. TEN 1 “I believe you were at Lord Faren’s party,” I said to Madeline Zamon, determined not to fumble this opportunity. As a ‘hero,’ I had my weaknesses—a dependence on speed and cunning over strength, dodging and running to wear my opponents down, sneaking among my illusory selves, letting them absorb attacks that might have left Mother with two dead daughters. But I knew how to talk. Lady Madeline agreed that she had been there, and with a touch of wistfulness, added that she didn’t get the chance very often; she’d moved to the countryside to help her mother, although both she and her brother had been born in Divinity’s Reach. “Minister Julius Zamon is your brother?” I said, and smiled. “You must be very proud of him.” Madeline bit her lip. 2 “Yes, but I wish that … ah, forgive me, I shan’t burden you with my worries,” she said, her eyes dropping to the floor. Please burden me, I thought, but had the sense not to say; she already seemed to be wavering, clearly wanted to tell what she knew—but charm or her own caution wouldn’t bring it out. A direct approach, I decided. “I’m sorry to tell you this,” I said, “but I have reason to believe your brother is a traitor.” Her eyes flew wide open, lifting up to stare at me. “That can’t be—he wouldn’t … no—I’d like to believe he wouldn’t, but …” “I beg you, Lady, tell me what you know!” 3 Anise had taught me how to underscore or soften my words; I stepped fractionally nearer, not menacing, just earnest. “Lives could be at stake.” “What about my mother’s life?” demanded Madeline. “We must consider the greater good, my lady,” I said flatly. She flinched, but told me, “Gods, I knew it would come to this! He was visiting Mother when a strange man came by—Julius gave him some papers, but he wouldn’t say what the were, even when I asked.” I’d barely absorbed this when she took an uneven breath, and added, “It got worse.” 4 I nodded as encouragingly as I could, and it seemed to be good enough; she exhaled, then said, “Julius left more packages at our mother’s house for suspicious characters to pick up; I came here to confront him, but he refused to discuss it and stormed off.” Not proof, but certainly suspicious; I blocked all sign of triumph from my face, and asked, “Would you be willing to testify on this matter at a trial?” She blanched. “A trial? Oh, Julius, what have you done? May Kormir guide and Dwayna protect me—yes, I will testify.” “You are doing a great service to all Divinity’s Reach,” I assured her. 5 One of the Ministry guards took my questions poorly, assuming that I’d only doubted the necessity of such a large contingent because of someone called Reth. That seemed promising, so I casually searched the room for him to no effect, then accepted Minister Wi’s proud hint that he’d also opened up the upstairs for the party, and that other guests mingled up there. I climbed the winding staircase, meeting with a guard at the door. “How might I help you?” he said. I couldn’t see any others, so I took my chance. “Is it normal to have this many guards at a personal event?” He looked as uneasy as Madeline had. 6 “I … I’m afraid it is not,” he admitted, and now I felt sure it was Reth. “I’m not certain why we’re here, precisely.” “It sounds like you have your suspicions,” I said, keeping my tone neutral and courteous. “Perhaps,” allowed Reth, “but it’s risky for us to be seen talking.” He paused. “Also, I’m parched—it would look more natural if a kind noble simply offered a hardworking guard a drink.” Holy Kormir, I thought: I’d found someone competent. 7 Fetching a cup of wine from downstairs, I handed it to Reth and murmured, “To anyone watching, I’m just a kindhearted noble, and you’re just a grateful guard.” He nodded, looking at once hesitant and relieved. “Burglaries and kidnappings are increasing, yet here we sit, idle; lately, the Guard is never where it’s needed most.” I met his glance with an even stare; that couldn’t be all. “I heard what you did in Shaemoor,” he said quickly, “and I know you’ve got Thackeray’s ear.” I didn't know that. With a gulp, Reth went on, “What I’m telling you could get a man killed.” ELEVEN 1 “Our orders arrive just before the raids,” Reth whispered. “It’s as if someone is sending us away so bandits can swoop in unchallenged.” My mind leapt ahead, but I said cautiously, “You think there’s a deeper connection, someone in the Ministry Guard working with the bandits directly?” The caution paid off. Reth swallowed and said, “Higher than that; the orders come from Minister Zamon himself.” Three testimonies of Zamon’s guilt, I thought; that should be enough to seal his coffin. After a manner of speaking. 2 “Please do something with this information!” Reth pleaded, though still quietly. I let my gaze drift around the room, keeping my posture loose and idle; it was easy, with Faren as my best friend. Nobody seemed to have noticed the outburst, however, or anything else we’d said. “I will,” I told him. “Now, enjoy your drink. I’ve got someone I must speak with.” I couldn’t wait to see the look on Anise’s face. 3 I made my way downstairs, but couldn’t find Anise in the main room, and couldn’t appear suspicious; instead, I hovered by a refreshment table, trying to think of what she might be up to. “Oh, you’re here!” squeaked a familiar voice: Lady Mashewe, a sweet but painfully shy friend of my family’s. “It’s a pleasure to see you—I adore Minister Wi’s parties, but there are so many people talking, I’m afraid to strike up a conversation.” I blinked when I turned towards her; she’d chopped and curled her hair just like mine. Smiling, I told her, “Someone as charming as you shouldn’t be so shy!” Lady Mashewe flushed and said, “Flatterer—you’ve been spending too much time with Lord Faren!” I didn’t like her any less; it was only an awkward joke, and she meant well; but, gods above, could that be the last time tonight that someone felt the need to insult my best friend to my face? 4 The gods, as usual, weren’t listening. After wishing Lady Mashewe well, rather more abruptly than I’d intended, I headed to the courtyard where I’d left Jasmina and her handmaiden. Perhaps Anise had made some dazzling discovery there, or … Halfway down the path, I froze. I didn’t see Anise, or Jasmina, or even the handmaiden. Only Minister Zamon. He’d arrived at last. 5 At the sight of me, Zamon’s lip curled into something that couldn’t be called a smile. “The hero of Shaemoor deigns to join Minister Wi’s party,” he said coldly. “Is that your official title now? Has ‘Lady Althea’ lost its lustre?” The infuriating thing about Zamon was that, for all his many limitations, he had a truly uncanny way of scenting weak spots. “It’s an affectionate nickname, sir,” I said, and returned his sneer. “If you had ever inspired affection, you’d understand.” 6 “Did you just insult me?” he cried, as if I’d never done it before—and as if he hadn’t insulted my family for years. “Perhaps Minister Wi should hear about his guest’s rude behaviour.” High words from a traitor. I shrugged and said, “By all means, let’s see how he reacts to your childish, boorish blather.” Predictably, he backed off like the coward he was. “Bah! You’re not worth my time, you preening jackanapes.” 7 If he hadn’t betrayed the queen, he wouldn’t have been worth mine. I exhaled, repressing a flash of real anger, and arranged my features into polite contempt, no more. Before I could say anything, however, or even leave, he snarled, “Go wallow in the filth with that hedonistic pig Faren and leave me be.” Despite myself, my hands clenched into fists; for one wild moment, I longed to blast him off his feet, whip my magic right through him until he begged us both for mercy. I could; I had the clones, even had a focus hidden in my clothes— “Better a pig than a snake,” I said, and bowed with a smile. A pity we’d given up trial by combat.

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1) The gods, as usual, weren’t listening: the silence of the Six Gods is a major component of humanity's current struggle for survival.

-------------------------------------------------------- TWELVE 1 I just managed not to storm out of the courtyard. “Althea, you look like murder,” said Faren cheerfully. “I hope you didn’t leave any bodies behind?” “Not today,” I said. Not quite lying, I added, “Zamon’s out there—he must have returned while I was upstairs. You know how he is.” Faren, no doubt remembering what he’d seen, grinned at me and said, “Oh, I know.” 2 After exchanging a few idle nothings, I asked Faren and his pseudo-friends if they’d seen Anise; fortunately, she’d emerged from wherever she had gone, and stood near the entrance to the manor. Beside her stood Captain Thackeray. It felt as if tight bands had been wrapped about my lungs, only noticeable because they dropped away when I caught sight of my true allies. I made my way across the room without even trying for subtlety. “You’ve been a busy little bee, haven’t you?” said Anise, eyes sharp and focused. “I presume you’ve gotten the information we need?” Finally letting triumph break through my expression, I grinned at her and said, “More than I had hoped.” 3 “I’ve identified witnesses who will testify that Zamon had dealings with bandits,” I told them. Anise looked immensely satisfied, even smug—more so than usual, like a teacher showing off a prize pupil. I supposed that in a way, she was. Captain Thackeray gave me a respectful nod. “I’d love to throw Zamon in a cell, but politics have my hands tied,” he said. “At least with this evidence, we’ll be able to call him to trial.” I couldn’t wait. 4 Something beyond my shoulder seemed to catch Anise’s attention, amused anticipation filling her face. “Speak of the fiend and he appears,” she said. “Logan, it seemed Minister Zamon has arrived. You’re free to do your duty.” I turned about. Zamon stood near the center of the room, talking with a tipsy lady I didn’t know and Lord Benjamin. Captain Thackeray marched straight towards him, leaving everyone in the way to scatter out of his path. I suspected that people often scattered out of Logan Thackeray’s path. 5 “If it isn’t Logan Thackeray,” drawled Zamon. “I’m sorry, Captain Thackeray. To what do I owe this honour?” Captain Thackeray drew himself up to his full, towering height, and thundered out, “As Captain of the Seraph in the service of her Royal Majesty, Queen Jennah, I call you to trial!” Zamon’s jaw dropped, eyes bugging out in an expression that I immediately committed to memory. I might face darker moments in the future, but I would always have the look on Zamon’s face to comfort me. Wallowing in filth, indeed. 6 “What?” he sputtered. “This is an outrage! I demand to know the charge!” “Treason against the crown and citizens of Kryta,” said Captain Thackeray, voice touched by the same satisfaction I’d seen in Anise’s face. “May Kormir judge your words justly, and may Dwayna have mercy on you.” Kormir had blessed me all my life. I spared a moment to pray that she would grant justice to Julius Zamon. 7 A swarm of Seraph immediately marched inside, ignoring the gasps and exclamations of the crowd to march—nearly drag—Zamon away. I was going to remember that one for the rest of my life, too. “My, we’ve certainly gone and kicked the hornet’s nest here,” Anise remarked, sounding as unconcerned as she looked. “The moment we’re out of earshot, the place will be absolutely aflame with gossip.” “See you at the trial, then,” I replied, the corner of my mouth twitching up. “Thanks for a memorable party.” With a light laugh, Anise said, “Any time.”

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1) Kormir had blessed me all my life: the human PC is always blessed from childhood by one of the gods.

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THIRTEEN 1 In the babbling hubbub that followed Zamon’s arrest, I managed to forge a path towards Faren. For all my affection, I knew better than to trust his, ah, faculties in a crisis. “I knew it!” he said triumphantly. “I knew he was the one!” I patted his shoulder. “Hurry home and tell everyone what happened. I’ll see you soon.” 2 As I turned about, reassuring and shepherding the guests, a group of Ministry guards came trooping downstairs; the others marched off, but Reth halted, looking exhausted—was he thinking of rescinding his testimony? “I’m tired, hero,” he said when I approached, “tired of the lies and the politics, tired of seeing people like Zamon get away with everything. I hope you make these charges stick.” So did I; not sure what else to do, I promised that we’d do our best. “If you ever need a night off, Reth,” I told him, “there’s a little inn down at the Salma District—I’ll gladly buy you a beer.” I paused, then reached out and shook his hand gratefully. “Take care.” 3 And that was that. Minister Wi, capable as ever, restored order faster than I would have imagined possible, smoothly ushering the guests out with guards to protect them from any more of Zamon’s plots. I left him to it, returning to Salma and delivering a carefully edited account of the night's events to my mother. “If only I’d known!” she said, guilt all over her face. “I knew he was lying scum, but not a traitor.” “Nobody could have known,” I told her. “And I can take care of myself, Mama.” Even now, she looked unsure. 4 It was dawn by the time that my nerves relaxed enough for rest. I all but collapsed into my bed and let myself sleep a good ten hours; I suspected I’d need it. Sure enough, Minister Caudecus allowed only two days of preparation for the trial. I worked every moment of those days, preparing the witnesses and drafting my arguments and counter-arguments. But I forced myself to sleep through the second night; I wanted to be entirely alert for the trial. In the event, I was wiser than I knew. 5 At the Ministry, I immediately directed myself towards Anise and Captain Thackeray, who were talking about a pig for some reason. Anise, with her usual flawless instincts, turned the instant that I fell within earshot. “Now then, my young friend,” she said, “are you ready to present the case?” “I’ve gone over everything a dozen times,” I assured her. “Unless something goes horribly wrong, we’ll get our man.” Captain Thackeray actually looked pleased. “At this rate,” he said, “Queen Jennah’s sure to notice you.” 6 I started. I didn’t—but he knew the queen better than anyone, surely—but I hadn’t acted out of any expectation of royal favours, hadn’t so much as thought about it—but— “If nothing else,” he added, “I’ll make sure your name reaches her ears.” I eyed him doubtfully. With one of her wry smiles, Anise said, “Do you know her name, Logan?” “Of course I do,” said Captain Thackeray automatically. Then he paused. 7 “Lady A … Al …” He scowled, more at himself than us. “Sorry, I’m not very good with names.” Clearly—but that was, at least, better than I’d anticipated. Then he shook his head, as if clearing it of some fog. “What am I thinking? It’s Lady Gwen, isn’t it?” Anise and I just laughed.

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1) It’s Lady Gwen, isn’t it?: the original Althea and Gwen were probably the two most iconic Ascalonian women of the Searing era, with the saintly Althea burned alive, and Gwen enslaved before embarking on a path of bloody vengeance. So Logan actually does know the name at some level, enough for a vague association with the Searing, even though he selects the wrong namesake. The implacable Gwen just comes to mind more immediately in connection with this Althea, particularly as she's his own ancestress.

--------------------------------------------------------- FOURTEEN 1 “Lady Althea Fairchild,” said Anise, with a grandiose gesture at me. He snapped his fingers. “Lady Althea—that’s it!” “Althea,” I said firmly. On a whim, I extended my hand. He didn’t kiss it, thank the gods, as Faren or his companions would have done in his position, just clasped his fingers about it in a strong grip. “Logan,” said Captain Thackeray. 2 We shook hands, less like a court favourite to a subordinate ally than two warriors meeting for the first time. I was no warrior, certainly none to compare with Logan Thackeray, but it felt true in its own way. It also felt bizarre in its own way. Not that many weeks ago, I’d known him only as the great Captain Thackeray, hero of Divinity’s Reach, and rushed to the gates of Shaemoor for that reason. Now we stood together as Anise and Logan and Althea, plotting the downfall of a minister here in the very heart of Krytan politics. “Minister Caudecus is waiting,” Anise said, in her pragmatic way. “Good luck, and may Lyssa bless you with unparalleled eloquence.” 3 I’d never felt that Lyssa blessed me with much of anything, except a measure of cunning—and her magic, of course. Perhaps today would be different. “I’m a loyal servant of the crown,” muttered Captain Thackeray (Logan was going to take awhile), “but if Zamon gets off, I’m going to take matters into my own hands.” Anise and I had our own way of doing things, but still—it was good to know that, all else failing, we could depend upon the captain to solve problems with his sword and shield. It came as a relief, really. I’d known straightforward people, and I’d known competent people, but rarely both at once. “Good to know,” I said. 4 The trial of a minister had drawn so many observers that I didn’t see Faren right away; only the ripple in the crowd that accompanied Madeline Zamon’s arrival made him visible. As soon as I saw him, however, I headed through the crowd as determinedly as Logan himself. “What do you think they’ll do if Zamon’s found guilty?” someone said. Another replied, “Absolutely nothing—nobles never pay for their crimes.” We’d see about that. As soon as I emerged from the cluster nearest him, Faren grinned widely, his face lighting up; with nary a greeting, he exclaimed, “Don’t you worry one bit!” Well, that was reassuring. 5 “When it’s my turn to testify,” he went on grandly, “I’ll make your case for you—it’s going to be monumental!” Faren was, if nothing else, entirely Faren. I smiled back at him. “So, you feel ready then?” “I’m more than ready,” he cried, even more excitable than usual. Natural for the occasion, but I still wondered a bit until he added, “Zamon sent one of his sock puppets to try and bribe me away!” My eyes widened. 6 “I don’t think he realizes how rich I actually am,” Faren said disdainfully. “The nerve!” I hadn’t expected such … remarkable unsubtlety. Looking around, I could see that all three of my witnesses had arrived—and Reth wouldn’t have Faren’s and Madeline’s fortunes to fall back on. If Zamon had tried with all of them, he’d almost certainly failed. “You turned him away?” “Of course,” said Faren, with something like dignity. 7 Then he laughed, high and gleeful. “The big, stinky puppet tried to intimidate me, but I demonstrated my dexterity with the blade, and he went running back to Papa!” I decided that might fall somewhere in the proximity of a truth, anyway. “Ladies’ll do anything for a hero,” he went on, “if you know what I mean.” He gave a conspiratorial wink. I shook my head. “Whatever you say, Faren.”

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1) here in the very heart of Krytan politics: the storyline is officially called “Krytan politics.”

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astridxhofferson · 5 years

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❝ Don’t mistake my kindness for weakness. I am kind to everyone, but when someone is unkind to me, weak is not what you are going to remember about me ❞

𝑐𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑒𝑟⧸𝑓𝑖𝑙𝑒 : astrid hofferson ▸ viking ( haddock tribe ) ▸ lili reinhart .

❛❛ aesthetic . ❜❜ ― ◜ ❏ . ― dragons , scars , forests , wildfires , thunder && lightning , oceans , dragonflies , axes , knives , shields , swords , freckles , braids, campfires , hooded fur , bruised && bloody knuckles , campfires , ashes , leather , cuts , bruises . ― ✎ penned by gigi , 23 , est , she/her .

▐ ᴀᴛ ᴀ ɢʟᴀɴᴄᴇ ▸

[ NAME ] astrid hofferson . [ GENDER & PRONOUNS ] female ( ♀ ) she/her . [ SPECIES ] human ( hofferson bloodline ) . [ BIRTHDAY & AGE ] sept. 7th , AGE 21 ( twenty-one ) . [ VIKING TRIBE ] haddocks . [ KINGDOM ] dunbroch . [ FACECLAIM ] lili reinhart ( ♆ ) .

▐ ᴘᴇʀsᴏɴᴀʟɪᴛʏ ▸

courageous / competitive / loyal / spirited

input description

short-tempered / emotionally driven / stubborn / perfectionist

▐ sᴛᴀᴛs ▸

DRAGONS TOOK EVERYTHING YOU HAD

⚡ — THE TRAGEDY IS WRITTEN IN THE SCARS of the fallen born in an age of FIRE && s w o r d . murderous beasts . with their slaughterous talons && their razor-sharp fangs . generations have been spent drenched in blood && bathed in flames . with the snapping && cracking of bones still echoing in their nightmares as they watched comrades fall , sometimes helplessly , && other times despite every ounce of their heart-clenching effort .

a trespass terror in the kingdom of dumbroch’s sky that loomed in every shadow despite the blazes that never failed to lick their way through the wood && foundations that had only just begun to smell familiar to them . the first thing they took was their childhood , but this is the worst thing , because they didn’t even know it . they were so young when they were taught that valour && glory is shaped with a battle-cry, a shield && axe .

❝ when you carry this axe , you carry all of us with you ❞

your legacy , your family’s legacy , all rests on their shoulders . they're going to slay a dragon , the enemy of dunbroch’s kingdom , && take their place among the ranks of their viking warriors . carrying the name of the once fearless finn who froze at the sight of a DRAGON , bringing the hofferson name down in his shame ----- there was NOTHING more important than learning how to fight a dragon . but now , the enchanted world is in ruins . stuck in a war within a war BE FEARLESS , ASTRID , you’re a hofferson . YOU’RE A VIKING .

[ an unwritten tale of princess fishbone becoming a hero/villain the hard/easy way ]

DRAGONS GAVE YOU EVERYTHING YOU HAVE

▐ ᴛɪᴍᴇʟɪɴᴇ ▸

[ MONTH / DAY ] accepted into talehqs .

▐ ᴀᴘᴘᴇᴀʀᴀɴᴄᴇ ▸

[ BUILT ] athletic slender , lean && strong , fair-skinned , freckled ( beauty marks ) , a kaleidoscope of scars along her forearms && legs , calloused hands . [ DISTINGUISHED FEATURE(S) ] heart-shaped face , sharp jawline , high cheekbones , nordic nose , weathered , light freckles dusting across her nose && cheekbones ( more visible in the summer months ) . [ SCAR(S) ] small scrapes && burns littered across her body , numbing tissue , rough calloused hands , arrow gouge just above her right knee , tween sharkworm dragon bite imprint on the back of her left shoulder blade . [ HEIGHT ] 5′6 . [ HAIR COLOR ] weathered blond ( styled in a lengthy side-braid draped over her left shoulder ) . [ EYE ] really big , round , stormy bluish-green aquamarine eyes . [ VOICE ] rough , jagged && stormy . loud-spoken . [ SCENT ] campfire smoke , salty tides , a touch of eucalyptus-honey, fresh pine && wild bog myrtle . [ CLOTHING ] red chest binding , dark leather skirt , leg bindings , arm-wraps , yak fur boots && hood cloaked over her back && shoulders ( worn in the colder months ) , kransen .

▐ ᴀ ᴅᴇᴇᴘᴇʀ ʟᴏᴏᴋ ▸

[ ZODIAC ] virgo ( ♍ ) , RULED BY mercury && AFFILIATED WITH earth [ MOON SIGN ] ## . [ SEXUALITY ] bisexual . [ MARITAL STATUS ] single, clueless, and not ready to mingle. [ ABILITY(S)/SKILL(S) ] athletic prowess , melee fighting , combat , sailing , dragon tracker , the use of axes , shields , knives , swords && improvised weapons . [ THEME SONG(S) ] whats up danger - blackway & black caviar | born for this - the score | 1 800 273 8255 - logic

&&. / THE HOUSE OF HOFFERSON : astrid was born into the house of hofferson of the haddock tribe in the kingdom of dunbroch. &&. / DREAM : astrid dreams of creating a name for herself as a warrior . when she was younger , she dreamed of fighting dragons in the mists of the shores of dunbroch . she dreamed of valour && glory . dreamed of becoming renowned for her combative prowess && strategic mind , in honour of the family who had perished around her so quickly . but her dream has no future . she’ll die on the battlefield , which is the most honourable way to go for a viking warrior . &&. / INPUT : coming soon &&. / CURRENTLY : ( cause I couldn’t find a good angle this was the best I got ) with the whisper of war the chief stoick the vast && gobber the belch sent the haddock dragon trainees to collect intel && put their extreme survival skills to the test for the next couple of months in teams of two as they go about travelling from one kingdom to the next . &&. / SNOGGLETOG : when hiccup was 16 winters he gave astrid a knife ( that she still has to this day ) he forged himself && oddly after that every snoggletog they’d exchange gifts && sorta --- kinda -- talk &&. / WEAPON TESTER : hiccup lures astrid with his strange weapons as she honestly enjoys testing them out . her favourite invention thus far is his megapult ( ♆ ) . &&. / CHOICE : ( unaffiliated ) a model shieldmaiden && dragon trainee who sticks along with the viking status quo . she executes others plans && ideas . LATER; hiccup is the one who frequently comes along with the revolutionary ideas && out-of-the-box thinking . whenever he does so , astrid trusts his judgement && executes his plans && supports the plan that hiccup contrives . && like a general she chooses his choice of action rather heroic or villainous . for now , astrid is unaffiliated until hiccup decides what side of the war he’s really on .

▐ ᴄᴏɴɴᴇᴄᴛɪᴏɴs ▸

x. HICCUP HORRENDOUS HADDOCK THE THIRD ( chasin’ all the wrong things most of my life been every kinda lost that you can’t find but I got one thing right, you ) the fishbone of a boy who cried dragon .

x. PRINCE ERIC ANDERSON ( lyric ) input .

#tw: not for the faint hearted / bio full of triggers / cautioned + warned.#tw: dark themes of war/death/dragons #tales.intro

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meditativeyoga · 5 years

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Awaken to the power of your thoughts

Often times, we pay scant focus to our thoughts. We claim, nevertheless, it was yet an idea. We need to always remember that ideas are things, ideas are forces, and ideas are the building blocks of life. With thoughts, we are constructing the habitation of our own life, constructing our own future. People condemn their kismet [good luck], their celebrities, and also their destiny. "Guy heap with each other the errors of their lives," claimed John Oliver Hobbies, "as well as produce a monster they call Fate." Destiny is not a matter of opportunity: it is a matter of choice.

We are constructing our own fate, everyday, with the ideas we think. An idea, if it is regularly held in the mind, will certainly own us to activity. An activity, which is repeated, develops a practice. It is our routines that form our character. It is character that establishes our destiny. If we desire to change our pattern of reasoning, we need to cleanse the mind of all the dust which we have actually collected via the years. Our minds need to be cleaned of thoughts of miserliness, avarice and also pompousness, envy and jealousy, bitterness and also ill-will.

William Phelps claimed, "That man is the happiest who thinks the happiest ideas." I would certainly include, "That man is the healthiest and most successful who thinks the healthiest and most successful ideas." There is a medical professional that informs her clients that her medicine will certainly function only if they provide their minds a good shampoo each day. Come down right into your consciousness as well as cleanse your minds of all those old, rotten, unpleasant ideas that maintain you undesirable, miserable, and not successful. There is another doctor that says to his individuals with a twinkle in his eyes, "Maintain your upstairs tidy as well as your downstairs will certainly be healthy."

There are those that nurture thoughts of hatred, of envy and also jealousy in their hearts. Exactly how can they ever wish to more than happy? Disgust and happiness can never stay together, even as darkness and light can never ever live together. There was a man that met me a very long time back. He stated, "There is a fire burning within my heart: it will certainly not be satiated till I have actually fired down the male that was indirectly in charge of the death of my papa." Just how real! Hatred is a fire which continues burning within the heart: it burns away all your happiness.

Take treatment of your thoughts and also needs, your impulses as well as ambitions, your sensations as well as wants. The forces that are around you have a magnetic power. They attract to themselves forms of a like nature. If we are bordered by angelic types, they draw to themselves numerous more angels. If we are surrounded by demoniac forms, they bring in to themselves a lot more demons.

We have actually come across literally weak people executing heroic acts of valour far past their physical stamina. I check out worrying a mother that considered only 41kg. Momentarily of situation, she lifted the wheel of an auto below which her youngster had been captured. Where did she obtain all that stamina? The relatively difficult is achieved when decision is accompanied by high purpose.

Conversely, reduced ideas have an evil and also troubling effect. Often, in a fit of mood, we do points which we are not or else qualified. Later, as we repent for bad actions, we exclaim, "Some adversary has to have tempted me!" We are not attacked by these entities: we attract them to ourselves. Allow us take care of our thoughts.

The mind is one of God's many fantastic gifts to man. "The mind," Diocesan Fulton J. Luster said, "is like a clock that is regularly diminishing and also have to be ended up daily with great thoughts." The minds of lots of, I am scared, contain unwholesome ideas as well as incorrect concepts. It is such thoughts that do not allow us live a healthy and balanced, happy as well as effective life. Toss the dirt from your minds and load them with ideas of love and also tranquility as well as joy, purity as well as petition, sympathy and service and sacrifice, success as well as success.

Scientists inform us we utilize just one-fiftieth of the mind power available to us. Let us train our minds and ourselves to utilize this incredible power in the proper way. Fill up the mind with worthy thoughts.

#Yoga

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thepurple-affair · 5 years

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A letter to my hero.

Dear you,

To commence and comprehend something as crucial as why I deem you to be my hero, one has to travel back to the origin of my thought. Most of the people I knew, grew up listening to heroic tales of valor, strength and determination- often times of a superhero and/or from a character in a fictional storybook. I, however, was surrounded by loud echoes narrating your rather excruciating journey. I painted you to be powerful but not a hero, not yet.

When those same loud echoes whispered how the night before the most important event- of yours and our lives- you sneaked into the hospital bathroom to smoke through the raging emotions, I knew I had found my hero in you. For it was in this moment, you taught me strength and the importance of remaining calm in the midst of volcanic eruptions. I aspire to live my life like you did- in that instance. You chose to be at peace and be mentally strong rather than cave in to the hopelessness that had almost substituted air, and let that deter you. I am able to recollect a huge chunk of my childhood, right from the moments after I was born. That, given the way it sounds, seems rather fictional. However, I am glad I do. For, I could see the echoes come to life right in front of my eyes. As a mere child, entering an unfamiliar setting was disturbing. What was even more disturbing was seeing an unfamiliar man- covered in tubes and enveloped in bandages- and being informed that that was my father. I had internally released a tiny laughter at this knowledge. I had seen my father and I had never seen him lay on the bed in the mornings. And, I for a fact, had never seen tubes snaking into his veins. The entire scenario seemed impossible and silly to me, honestly. And, because I was a child, I did the only thing I knew when pushed in an uncomfortable situation. I pointed at you and cried. I weeped and denied you- this unfamiliar man- as being my father. In the midst of all that unnecessary humdrum, I remember your arm-slowly lifting from the bed- opening up to me. A call for me to come towards you. Was that a smile that I saw? What would I know, I was a mere child. That imagery has been etched in my mind ever since for it made my resolution stronger- you were, in-fact, my hero. You taught me the power of love. You taught authentic and raw love. Even in torturous pain, you did your part in signalling your love towards me. I was foolish enough to not decipher that. The world has become mundane and monotonous and we fail to recognise and value the different, non-conventional, outlet of love.

You taught me the joy of taking risks- leap of faith- but being prepared enough to face the repercussions. Pursuing Masters in Microbiology, you chose to venture into IT without having any formal education in the aforementioned area. By possessing your own IT firm at the mere age of nineteen, you laid out a simple fact that life is all about the risks one takes. I have never been afraid of parkouring into whichever skyscraper my faith resides on ever since. If not for you, I would be leading an incredibly boring life. You taught me that it were our choices that defined us, more than anything. Moreover, it was crucial to have sheer and absolute belief in our choices- day after day. That made me surer and confident of myself. Ever since I developed independent thought processes, I wanted to resemble you, your intellect and your consistency. But, you taught me to choose a path that wasn’t paved already. You taught me to choose that path and pave it as I went. Hence, it felt fulfilling when I paved a barren land and reached a well-deserved stop along my way. I made it there despite the countless hurdles and one too many moments of uncertainty. Your life served as an inspiration to never- and, I do not say this lightly- back down regardless of the hundred bruises adorning the bodies. You, unknowingly, kept me going. Those loud echoes, consistently, narrated your heroic tales of valour, strength and determination. On days when I had made my mind that I couldn’t walk any further for my shoes had burning holes in them, the echoes mellowed down and served as a soothing lullaby. It kept me going. It will keep me going. You will keep me going.

Dear you,

One of my greatest achievement in my life would be the moment where I became worthy enough to make you don my graduation hat. It was a dream that I saw with open eyes and mouth wide open while it was a dream you envisioned- silently.

Dear you,

Today, my ink seems to have found a new name to imprint the pages with. It seems rather absurd, and alarming, the time it took for me to find my way to your name. I say that because yours was one of the first I ever learnt pronouncing. If our relationship has taught us anything, it is that time has a way of unfurling in a manner that is fitting. A little too soon and it would have been a forceful poetry recitation. A little too late and it would have been a letter of regret. Hence, it seems fitting that it took quite a journey to reach to your name but here we are and it couldn’t have been any more authentic, imperfect and genuine than this.

Happy birthday, my old man!

To many more.

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shadow-emerald-gold · 6 years

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Creation (Loki x Reader)

Like a mentioned, more family Loki and about how his son came to be. I feel like the expanding of the family for Loki would be a big thing, especially since he’s always felt like the odd one out.

Loki has come home from war and asks the reader about children.

Words: 1,132

Loki yawned quietly as he laid back against the bedhead. His whole body ached, though he would never admit it, and not even the hour-long soak in the bath, messaged with oils and creams, seemed to dull the pain. However, his mind was currently in other places as he twiddled with his long fingers, nails scraping along his palm in thought.

There had been a close call during the battle a week ago (a war that was now won by his words), a moment where he thought that he was going to fall onto the muddy battlefield and remain there dead amongst his soldiers. He watched as the enemy’s sword barely missed his abdomen, the metal twinkling in his eye as he took the opportunity to parry. That single second where his world was rattled kept replaying in his mind like a history lesson- the same story over and over until every single detail was memorised. His heart leapt into his throat when he realised what he could have lost. The whole of Asgard would have lost a vital power piece during the war with Svartalfheim, his family would mourn and his dearest beloved… He could not bear to throw her into the midst of despair with his death. The thought of (Y/N) being alone for an eternity broke his heart in two, considering that she was already isolated before they met. After that, his mind ran rampant with the things he wants to do with her, realising how quickly it could all come to an end. Loki wanted to have a child with her and as he watched her move about their room, closing the curtains in preparation for bed, he could not help but imagine what their baby would look like. Loki went through such lengths to try and conjure an image, but it always seemed blurred for there were too many possibilities and he did not even know where to begin. Would their first born be a girl? Would it be a boy? Maybe twins? Triplets? Quadruplets!

Loki sighed happily, a smile stretching across his face as the light of the fireplace allowed him to see the faint outline of (Y/N)’s body through her night dress. What a goddess, he proclaimed to Valhalla silently, any child of ours would certainly carry on her beauty.

“You have been very quiet tonight, my love. Is everything alright?” his wife whispered, and she glanced out the window to view the moon for the last time that night.

“Only thinking. It is what I do best,” he hears her chuckle slightly as he looked down at his hands, “(Y/N), if we were to have a baby, what would you name them?”

She paused and straightened up. For a moment, she believed she had misheard him but as the woman processed the question, her heart fluttered at the thought. A blush swept across her skin and a glimmer shone in her eyes that rivalled the moon’s. A child? (Y/N) had never stopped thinking about having a baby the day Grida had said that Thor was already planning his lineage and they weren’t even married yet.

‘Honestly, (Y/N), he can get so ahead of himself but, if I am honest, I have thought about it too. Two little children running about and climbing all over the palace. It will be utter madness! What about you? Have you and Loki discussed babies?’

She had wanted to talk to her husband about it but never found the courage to bring it up. It took Loki years before he had the valour to ask for her hand and that was with his brother giving him a nudge and Frigga threatening to send him to Helheim if he did not. Children was a whole other realm and one she didn’t know how to discuss. Running her hands along the fabric of the curtain, (Y/N) smiled whole heartedly.

“Well that depends. I like the name Asta,” she spoke sweetly, “but I also love the name Tyr.”

“Tyr? As in the God of Law and Glory?”

(Y/N) nodded and Loki looked down with a grin. He gazed at the dip in the silk sheets around him, outlining his legs, and wondered if someone so bold and organised could be the offspring of him- the God of Chaos, Mischief and Lies. Tyr was a heroic name whilst Loki’s was half casted in shadow when speaking with the Midgardians.

“Why do you ask?” (Y/N) questioned finally closing the curtain but still remaining with her back to him.

Loki shrugged and began fiddling with his fingers once more, a blush appearing on his cheeks as he attempted to find words. His silver tongue faltered as he stammered, unable to express the swelling glee in his heart at the thought of expanding the family.

“I- I was only wondering, my darling. Seeing that we are married and have been for a few years now-.”

“Ten,” (Y/N) interrupted.

“Yes, I thought we should take the next step in our conquest of the Nine Realms,” he chortled, “by having a… Child. I want to give you one. That moment when I could have perished, and left you, it put everything in hindsight and-.”

Loki was lost for words, his mind frozen on what has been, what is and what could be. In the sound of crackly fire, the prince noticed (Y/N)’s silence and turned to her with hopeful eyes; thinking that he might have raised a subject she was not yet ready to tackle. His eyes only widened when he saw his beloved’s dress pooled at her feet, a velvet circle, that surrounded her bare form. Loki’s heart began to hammer as she stood there with nothing but a smile and flames licking at her skin, urging him to come closer. She was the embodiment of passion, what it meant to be loved, and as she appeared to him in such an ethereal form, Loki could not help but smirk for she was all his and he was all hers.

“Shall we begin?”

The air caught her words and remembered them for they were the same words uttered always before a war, a battle of two sides for conquest, and a swift victory- a saying that was reserved for the gods.

“If that is what you desire, my queen.”

Tyr covered his ears and cowered away from his father with a frown, stumbling slightly as Loki smiled whilst reminiscing the night. The boy wiped his eyes, trying to get rid of the imagery that was shot into his head.

“And that, my son, is why they call you Tyr Lokison, The Peace-Bringer,” the prince beamed, clearly proud.

“You could have just said that I was made on the day the war ended. Now I’m scarred for life!”

#loki #loki laufeyson #loki fanfic #loki (marvel)#loki odinson #loki laufeyjarson #loki of asgard #loki of jotunheim #loki x reader #loki x you #imagine loki #loki imagine #god of mischief

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madscientistjournal · 6 years

Text

Old Mother Shudders

An essay by Old Mother Shudders, as provided by Tom McGee Art by Leigh Legler

There was a time when everyone knew to come to me for advice … but then my hair began to grey, my back began to stoop, my hands, once so strong, so capable, became frail and wrinkled. I began to shake, to tremble as my joints seized up one-by-one. Needed my ancient cane to prop myself up.

In a word, I got old.

“Old Mother Shudders” they began to call me. The kids at first, then the adults … then even I accepted it. If you live as long as I have, you carry many names: daughter, mother, wife … you come to realize that perhaps names don’t mean as much as we think.

What does matter is what we do.

I tell you all this, because I want you to understand what happened the night the women and children stayed home.

The night the lycanthropes returned.

The evening was bitterly cold, the kind of cold that gets deep into your bones no matter how much you bundle up, no matter how close you sit to the fire. There was an air of panic and agitation in our village. For years the mayor and the “elders” (a pack of ninnies several years my junior and very self-important) were convinced that the lycanthropes were gone for good. The last werewolf we’d seen had been in my youth, long enough ago that the hunters and village councilmen could pretend we were safe.

You live long enough, you come to realize we’re never really safe.

You learn to be ready.

When the first little girl went missing, the village councilmen were happy to concoct all manner of excuses and justifications, anything to avoid facing the truth: the monsters had returned.

Little girls don’t just go missing without reason on the night of the full moon around these parts.

Of course, when I told them that, they all ignored me.

“Crazy Old Mother Shudders,” they laughed, “Wants to live in the superstitious past. We’re modern people. All that unpleasantness is behind us.”

It took four more deaths before the word “lycanthrope” was even mentioned by anyone other than me.

We could hear them, stalking the woods. Howling. Waiting for the coming of the Long Night when the full moon would hang in the sky for hours and hours. It only happens once every seventy years … how could there be any doubt that the lycanthropes were just biding their time?

But now, of course, it was too late: they had claimed too many of our number, turned them. The remaining able-bodied men decided they had to take the fight to the monsters, before the Long Night began.

I offered advice on hunting the beasts as given to me by my grandmother, passed down from generation to generation, but of course they didn’t have time for me.

“Not now, Old Mother Shudders! The time for fables and fairy tales is over. Now is a time for steel and fire!” They declared, arming themselves and setting out to end the threat “once and for all.”

“The women and children stay home,” the lead huntsman declared and then they were gone, off into the woods.

The Long Night began early that year.

But where the men of the village had not the time nor care for the stories of an old woman, the women and the children listened. And listened well.

And so when the lycanthropes came for us, we were ready.

“Like this, Mother Shudders?” The little girl with flaxen hair handled the herb carefully, wearing gloves and placing it into the small stone basin. I nodded to her mother, who began grinding the herb with the pestle, into a fine powder–fine enough to be inhaled. We should have enough wolfsbane powder to defeat the creatures, but a little more can’t hurt.

“Just be ready to throw when you can smell the rot of their breath,” I told them. “It’s vital you wait until they are that close before you throw.”

The little girl nodded very solemnly. She would do well tonight.

We could hear them, in the woods, getting closer. The wolves had seen the hated fire leave held aloft in the hands of our clueless husbands, brothers, sons, and fathers. Fire is effective, to be sure, but it’s too obvious: every creature, living and undead knows inherently to avoid flame, why rely on something we fundamentally know to fear?

Better to hit them with the things do not yet know they should fear.

Amongst the sewing, weaving, and leatherwork the women of the village do, I’ve been having them make these pouches out of scraps. They’ve been doing it since the first little girl went missing, and now we have plenty. The powder bombs will buy us vital time to close the distance.

Then comes the silver.

The night is long, The wolves are fierce, Hands be strong, Their hearts to pierce.

When the children came to me and asked to hear the old tales, the ones that about monsters and genies and witches and faeries … the tales that actually teach you the important things in life, I made sure to always stress the importance of silver. Their parents would covet silver for status and vanity–mirrors and utensils, mostly. Nary a dagger or sword left amongst them–nothing so practical left unsold since the olden days.

And so, I told the children: when the day comes, when the monsters step out of myth and onto our doorstep, you must run and bring all the silver you can, no matter how unlikely its shape, for it is the silver that will save us all.

The children listened.

When the Long Night arrived, they brought it: spoons, forks, mirrors, combs, and best of all, knifes. We made a grand pile, and each person in the village took one. The one they’d use, when the time came.

I had already showed them how to use it, how to press it to the heart of the wolf and say the rhyme the whole way through. The one I’d taught them as it had been taught to me. As I had taught it to their parents, not that they’d remember it now.

The night is long, The wolves are fierce, Hands be strong, Their hearts to pierce.

It was the exact length of time it took silver to burn through a lycanthrope’s chest and into its heart. Decapitation works too, but takes more work than is strictly necessary.

And so, armed with powder bombs, silver, and tales of monsters defeated and vanquished through valour and bravery by clever little people just like them, the children stood side-by-side with their mothers, grandmothers, and a little old lady, who shook gently and leaned on her ancient cane. My ancient cane.

Made entirely of silver.

In our lives, we carry many names–I am told that the monsters still have many for me. To the lycanthropes, I am Wolfsbane. They made a mistake, coming back here; I have killed hundreds of their kind.

It would seem that the lycanthropes have forgotten that their monsters, too, are real.

Together, we spend the Long Night reminding them.

The men returned in the morning, having gotten lost in the woods, to find their women and children enjoying breakfast, telling tales of our heroic exploits, and drying dozens of wolf pelts by the fire.

To say our heroic huntsman and the village council were humbled would be an understatement, but true nevertheless.

They were eying our food hungrily and our wolf pelts sheepishly. We’d made enough for them, of course.

We’re good at planning ahead.

As we ate, I agreed to tell them the stories they had forgotten if they vowed never again to disregard the lessons of age and the wisdom of stories.

Gathering at my feet as they did when they were young, we defenders of the village shared our stories and laughed and cried.

Together.

So that, little ones, is why you must carry garlic in your pockets tonight and help your parents sharpen the stakes. You know the story of the night the women and children saved home, but now it will be up to you. When the Long Night comes, the undead will follow. Wrap yourself tight in your wolf cloaks, they will keep you warm and make you brave.

Oh, do be a dear and bring the silver.

It works on vampyrs, too.

Once a feared and fearsome monster hunter, Old Mother Shudders now spends her times teaching the children of her village the important stories (which is, of course, to say the ones about monsters, genies, ghosts, and faeries), ensuring that whenever evil rears its head, her people will be ready. If you were to ask any of the monsters of the realm their thoughts, you’d hear all manner of fables about Old Mother Shudders as well … after all, even monsters have a boogeyman.

Tom McGee is a Toronto-based writer, playwright, producer, dramaturge, and puppeteer. If you enjoyed this story, check out Tom’s first novel, The Bloody Lullaby, on Wattpad! He is the co-founder of Theatre Brouhaha and Shakey-Shake and Friends Puppet Shakespeare Company in Toronto. He is also the show runner and Game Master for Dumb-Dumbs and Dragons and Star Trek: Redundancy, two narrative podcasts where comedians play RPGs for the first time with hilarious, disastrous, and occasionally heartbreaking results. Both podcasts are available at GarbageProductions.net and on iTunes. For more of Tom’s writing, go to WhaHappen.ca.

Leigh’s professional title is “illustrator,” but that’s just a nice word for “monster-maker,” in this case. More information about them can be found at http://leighlegler.carbonmade.com/.

Old Mother Shudders was originally published on Mad Scientist Journal

#Cryptozoology #Leigh Legler #Lycanthropy #Old Mother Shudders #Tom McGee

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sian22redux · 6 years

Text

Entanglements

by sian22redux

For @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan ‘s Angsty writing challenge: Star’s Marvel Mayhem

Prompt: ‘He was acting like our kiss had broken him, and his reaction was breaking me.’

Bucky x reader

Rating: M

Summary: The fight for love is sometimes harder than the mission.

How Bucky and Y/N of Private Party came to be together.

Timeline: After Wakanda of Black Panther end scenes, but assumes IW is over and he’s safe.

Tags: oral sex-mentioned, het, canon-compliant mayhem, hurt/comfort, angst, angst, angst

Thank you so so much to the heroic @wheelrider for expert beta’ing, even in a fandom that is not hers!! And to awesome @theycallmebecca for checking it worked!

—————————————-

The first time it happens, it is just a drunken hookup.

The party at Avengers Tower is star-spangled, loud, and pulsing fun; rare vodka fueled and graced by the hottest DJ in New York. You’ve left your uniform and new medal of valour in the hospitality suite Miss Potts has thoughtfully laid on. Donned a slinky black cocktail dress and four-inch heels and walked into the space on Mr Stark’s arm, blushing at his gushing praise.

Thank heaven this evening event is more relaxed than the White House’s lavish ballroom. Your knees had knocked so loud you were sure that the President had heard. Visibility is not your thing. Or speeches. But your few heartfelt words had tumbled out, applauded by brass and dough-faced senators and Bucky had stood, smiling, looking oh so perfectly edible in a charcoal suit. He’d winked at you, a shining in his eyes that was almost as bright as in the moment your marksmanship had saved his life.

Perhaps you hadn’t imagined his yearning after all.

Tony plies you with whiskey sours, and sometime after the fourth (or fifth?) Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson coax you out onto the dance floor. Time for some fun. Bucky stands and stares and takes it in: Steve’s hilariously sloppy groove, Sam’s easy sway. He’s frowning adorably, critiquing every move until he’s had enough of watching amateurs. He sets down his beer, absolutely murder struts out onto the dance floor, and with a ‘my turn punk’ rips you from their arms. The music settles into something smooth and slow (has Steve’s had a hand it that?) but then suddenly Bucky leans in. Cheek to cheek and hip to hip. There’s a fire blazing up inside that takes the pair of you by surprise, and when Bucky whispers, voice molasses dark and slow, “Doll, let’s escape,” you go.

Oh god.

You wake up so hung over it feels like you need to shave your tongue. Your dress is nowhere in sight and Bucky is sprawled out on his stomach. The bedclothes are mostly on the floor, his evening tux makes a trail of black and white against cream carpet and your (only) lacy underthings dangle off the lamp.

Fuck, what were you thinking?

Weren’t, obviously. You’d let the heady abandon of the evening, the crackling electricity between you both mess with your hard-earned self control, but it just can’t be. This man is your assignment, the one you are set to guard from the tentacles of a wounded, dying global empire that is trying to grab hold.

Best not to stick around. You lever upright, stagger to the washroom, run a wet hand through your tangled hair and try not to notice the lurid hickey on your collarbone.

Your dress is underneath the dresser (?), you slip it on without a sound, but ugh, the shoes are a pain: your feet are swollen from dancing for so long and so you fumble, trying to do up the flimsy straps. Finally, the prong slots through the tiny hole. All set.

Just as you find your purse and reach across the bedside table for your thong, a silver hand shoots out and clasps your wrist.

Gently.

But not planning on letting go.

“Doll, where ya going?” Bucky cracks one eye open and the corner of his mouth quirks up. “No one’s on this morning. Tony promised.”

“Got a briefing,” you lie, wincing internally, hating yourself for doing it, but this is a one-time thing and you do not plan on speaking of it.

Again.

Or ever.

The disappointment that clouds the lazy sparkle in his eyes is something to avoid. You hastily turn away, but at the door you pause guiltily for far too long. At last, you speak to the quiet resignation from the bed.

“Thank… thank you.”

Safe. Or almost. Steve Rogers wakes up early. He’s showered after an early run, set up in the kitchen; got french toast frying and washed wineglasses in the drain tray. He’s grinning. Wide and hopeful just like an excited Labrador.

“Breakfast will be ready in a jif.”

You blink in the too=bright space and think, Fuck my life.

“Captain… uhh.”

What the ever lovin’ hell should you say??

Sorry, can’t stay after banging your best friend. Can’t eat cuz I might just puke. Or better yet…yes I have read DAOD 5019-1 but this does not constitute inappropriate fraternization across the ranks.

“Not hungry, Corporal?” Steve shrugs those massive shoulders and flips a tea towel across his arm, peeking at the toast’s browning underside. “Suit yourself.”

You do.

But no regrets.

It had been too wonderful for that.

—————-

The second time it happens, you tell yourself it is just the frantic release of relief.

It’s been another too-close-for-comfort call. Six months past cryo in Wakanda and the insanity that was the Infinity War, and you’d think in the aftermath the remnants of Hydra would no longer care. But they do, and can’t help but see he’s back, and if they can’t control the Asset, they want him gone.

There is a careful balance between keeping Bucky safely whole and actually giving him a life.

You’re walking up out of the subway into Battery Park’s wintery sun, a hologram cover hiding your M24 because you just can’t saunter past New York’s Sunday shoppers and happy families pushing strollers openly armed to the teeth.

Bucky’s a block in front, sunglasses on and hood of his dark puffy jacket pulled right up because camouflage is necessary and the stiff southwesterly off the Hudson is cutting through the naked trees. He’s heading for the SeaGlass carousel where he will stand and smile, hands sunk deep in pockets, remembering the original aquarium he and Steve delighted in another lifetime ago.

After two months of tracking him on every outing, you know him well.

James Barnes loves plums and granola bars. Extra whip at Starbucks and hunting for old comic books. The Hayden planetarium and giant, hairy, slobbery dogs. A fresh trim means things are good because Nat can get close to him with shears. A fringe of days-old stubble means he’s having harder nights. The triggers are gone, but not the memory of what he’s done. When he stops, stock-still in the middle of the sidewalk, lips moving and new hand clenched into a fist, you know he’s centering. Running through a routine in whatever language comes to his head.

At least he is a better subject than most. Always watching. Baseball cap or hood pulled down, changing his route each day, not making it easy on the goons who might dog his steps. Or you.

It’s part of what makes this detail fun. This day he’s slid into an empty booth at Gigino, near enough the front for light but not so near he hasn’t a good view of the door. The notebook’s out, bristling with sticky tabs like a multicolour hedgehog. You are sitting diametrically across, scanning everything around but him, cuz hit men don’t all look like Brock Rumlow after all and folks carrying things in bags make a prickle at your nape. Your unobstructed view down the gravel walks is good, but somehow, a figure by the Liberty dock sets the hairs rising on your arm. Hunched. Looking back too often to the restaurant. Arm akimbo and hiding something.

You whisper urgently into the comms, hustle out of the doors and fire on the run. It’s a challenge but not long range, nothing like the shot before, but precision is the thing. You have no intention of damaging any of the good folk around.

The subject drops. Bystanders freak, scattering in all directions, and even as two agents materialize to cluster around Bucky as a precaution, he looks unerringly across at you, recognition and open longing on his face.

Yeah. Well. Me too, pal.

You melt away into the shadows, and after the NYPD have it all locked down, you find yourselves thrown together back at the Tower for a hastily convened debrief.

Coulson’s reviewing footage and Fury’s frowning, tapping impatient fingers on the tabletop, talking about the need for better eyes, but you’re having trouble focusing.

There’s a thirst in Bucky’s eyes that matches the one making your nether regions throb. God, how good would it be to strip off the Stark body armour underneath his vest. Press your skin along the length of him and feel every hot, hard inch. Too good. To be avoided, but beside you the metal hand flexes back and forth. As if he’s read your mind.

“Soldier?” Fury’s question drops like a bomb into your awareness. Neither of you are listening, too aware of each other to focus on mundane things like strategy.

“Umm, yeah…” Buck licks his lips and starts again. “I mean, no, I don’t know any more about that sleeper cell.

Fury turns to rake you both with his good eye. After one eternal minute, he shakes his head, looking more bemused than mad.

“Get outta here. Both of you.”

You don’t need to be told a second time.

Buck stalks out into the hall and you follow, thinking how it was too close a call and you are pissed Hydra’s not backing down and goddammit why are the other agents letting these shitballs get so very close and it’s almost like you are vibrating

Fuck. Wrong choice of word.

Your skin is positively alive with how aware of him you are, nerves jangled, sparking white hot arcs of lust, and then he has to make it worse. He turns and devours you with those ocean eyes as he slams the button for the elevator.

Hard.

With his prosthetic hand.

The thought of it on you again makes your bones almost liquefy.

“Steve’s off doing PR.”

The few spare words are said with a crooked grin, eyes challenging, and like lightening you are both struck on. Somehow, your legs are wound about his waist, lips locked, your back up against the cool mirror of the elevator wall, so engrossed you don’t notice when the motion stops. His metal arm bangs through the apartment and bedroom doors, makes the hinges scream in protest, and then without warning the axis of your world flips over. You are both horizontal. On the bed, frantically shedding clothes until his cock sinks into your molten core. You arch your back with the utter bliss of it, strokes hard and fast and frenzied, rising higher and then, inexplicably, he stills; drags his lips off your nipple to stare intently at your face.

“Y/N I ain’t gonna last. I…”

You open your eyes and catch his gaze. His eyes are dark and wide and filled with wonder. As caught off guard as you by the pure fury of the need– but oh you are not going there. Not thinking about how right this feels, how close and perfectly in tune you are. Nope. Nuh unh. This is sex, not making love. Scratching an itch. Purely mechanical.

“Bucky, move!”

You flip up your hips just so, knowing instinctively what it will do to him, and pull his hip bones closer, tighter, until you’re both grinning and he’s moaning, long and low, shuddering as he spills and you come apart, shining in the afterglow.

This time you deliberately stay the night.

You curl up into the crook of his flesh arm because you’re weak. Just can’t pull yourself away. It’s warm. And easy. And some part of you wants the peace—for him and you.

When you eventually awaken, stiff and achy, smelling of sweat and musk and the haute perfume of the disguise you never bothered to wash off, the sun hasn’t risen yet. Bucky’s dead to the world, face soft and slack in sleep, so beautiful and vulnerable it almost hurts.

For a moment, breakfasting together flits across your brain, but no. Way too risky. Too much like normal couple life.

You slide out from under a heavy bicep and set your feet soundlessly on the chill of the floor, ignoring a lazy snuffle, but, by the time your shrug back on your (ridiculous) Dolce coat, the worry line has settled on his brow again.

Damn. For a few precious hours, the perennial mark of his mistreatment had erased. You want to run a finger down it, smooth away the shadowed ridge with a soft caress, but you do not dare. That is exactly how another bonfire could ignite.

Instead, you gather up your rifle, activate the hologram and tip-toe away. Like a thief in the night or a spy who’s set a honey trap.

You text him ‘sweet dreams’ because this is not the bitch you want to be…

————————-

The third time it happens—well, it’s just pure weakness…

You are, of necessity, an expert at disguise. Part of a scout-sniper’s training is advanced stalking skills, keeping yourself hidden from a target just five feet away in rough open bush; you’ve done that and mastered alternate camouflage for downtown New York. Four changes of outfit a day if Bucky’s going far. Rocker grunge in ripped jeans and blue streaked hair. Finance exec in Burberry trench and heels. Thank heaven platform sneakers with lace and skirts are a thing; easier to run in those.

Bucky may not pick you out, doesn’t know exactly where you are, but he knows you’re there. Today, your hair is brown, next week redhead, after that could be pink: anything but your natural, and naturally noticeable, pale blonde. It’s like a game—you hiding and him guessing where you might be. He shows it (and how he’s memorized every conversation that you’ve had) in little actions meant just for you.

One morning, he ‘just happens’ to be forgetful and leaves a cup of mocha/hold-the-whip on the bench where he just sat. Another scorching afternoon, he buys your favourite Oddfellows miso cherry cup and leaves it safely in the shade of a blue postbox. Once, he spends two hours stalking every exhibit at the Met’s armory museum because you’d admitted you’ve never been. (You like old rifles. What can you say?)

How can you not fall for this man? He’s sweet and kind and deadly. Wants the best thing for everybody if not for himself, and will soon become impossible to resist.

Scratch that. Is. Is impossible to resist.

Damn his super hearing. One lunch strolling past Agent Provocateur, he catches your quiet sigh at something flirty but way, waaay out of your snack bracket and, the next thing you know, he’s marching into Victoria’s Secret. Cruising the racks in exactly your right size. Leaving the pink bag wedged behind a subway seat.

Collecting it is just not wasting money, right?

It goes on like this for weeks, until the day the teasing shit walks into Narcisse, buys chocolate body paint and leads you straight back in the direction of the Tower.

Oh god.

This necessitates yet another reconnoiter with wardrobe at the safe house. No one thinks twice about a well-groomed Chanel-suited woman visiting Tony Stark.

When the morning comes and you crouch, hand poised above the new skimpy scrap of lace, silently agonizing whether to bring or leave, Bucky sits up in bed. Confused. Dark hair temptingly messy and fingers reaching out.

“Y/N? Where’s the fire. It’s early yet.”

Fuck, he makes this so very hard. Bucky wants something for himself and you want to give it, but this is, if not exactly wrong, so far from right.

“Ah…” You don’t know what to say. The sheets are rumpled low about his hips and the comforter sprawls across the floor. He’d shoved it off. Kneeling between your legs to plunder you mercilessly with his tongue.

Oh, Christ, Y/N, don’t think of that.

“I want to get in a run.” The lie comes easily. You hate running, but he doesn’t know that yet.

“Gonna hafta change those heels,” he chuckles, stretching languidly. “You’ll need your coffee first. Steve said he’d put some on first thing.”

You pretend to relent, smile and plant the softest of kisses on the knotted scars of his shoulder.

“See you later,” you murmur, intending to go straight on home, but Steve Rogers has other plans. Ever the gentleman and always up with the birds, he’s made pancakes. And sausage. And fruit salad with blueberries.

The table is already set for three.

In the awkward silence, he misunderstands why your mouth is open.

“Syrup or sugar and lemon juice? Buck’s mom was British.”

The assumption you don’t understand the condiments is just too much. Turning him down again would be far too rude.

You sit, wrinkled disguise and all, and take a bite of bacon, realizing you have slept with the subject eight times over three different nights and you had no clue what his mother’s background was.

The fact you want to know is somewhat startling.

From down the hall, you hear the whoosh of water beating down and an adorably off-tune whistle. Your faithless libido says if you’d played your cards just right you’d be in there too. Soaping up his six pack and the dimples in his butt cheeks. Going yet another round.

Desperately, you hide your flaming cheeks in a perfectly foamy cappuccino, but Steve isn’t fooled.

“You know,” he remarks, casually forking up the detritus of an entire fluffy stack. “Buck never has nightmares when you are here.”

It’s a hard lesson, but one you obviously have to learn.

Again.

Never, never underestimate Captain America’s mastery of tactics.

———————————–

A week, a month, and you fall into a routine. Bucky’s shadow in the day and his teddy bear at night. A watcher on his six. Fire when he needs it and softness when he does not. That he’s let down his guard and become intimate with someone shows just how far he’s come. A growing part of you wants to do this, cheer on every little bit of taking back himself; but another part says stop.

You pride yourself on your skill and professional approach. Dispassionate execution. It is part of the reason you are so very good. You do not get distracted. At all. You’ve got no baggage. No serious exes clutter up your past. You have not spoken to your folks in years (their commune frowns on ‘making war’).

It comes as something of a shock to need your daily dose of Buck. Sarcastic jokes. Lips like silk. Muscles rippling underneath your touch.

It shouldn’t matter but it does. The mission is to protect him.

Even if it means from yourself.

———————————-

It is the shot, just a few centimeters stray, that settles things in your mind.

Sure, everyone has rougher days. Aim a little off. Skin jumpy and so tight it messes with your zen. But not you. Never you. Your concentration is absolute. You just can’t miss and that is exactly why Coulson first brought you in. Ms. Hill, in charge of Stark’s security, wants the best of the very best and you are it.

Next to the man you are sworn to protect.

Barton’s grinning and looking at the minor spread on the target sheet, leaning casually on his bow. “What are you thinking of, Y/N?“ he laughs, blue eyes sliding up to your face. “Sure ain’t your work.”

Your cheeks flame up. He doesn’t mean it. This is Clint never passing up a chance to take the piss but still it gets your brain cells firing. What were you thinking of? Slim hips in black tac pants. A stubbled, chiseled jaw. Silver fingers cradling the barrel of a gun.

Shit.

Bucky’s standing not ten feet away in the next corral and, fuck, you can’t help yourself. It’s the first time you’ve seen him all that day and the need flares up; wild and feral and messing with your head. You want to know how he’s doing. Ask about his bout with Steve, see if he wants to grab some lunch, make sure he’s eating right because he’s looking a little hollow in the cheeks and…

Stop.

You’re shocked and frankly terrified. Is this love? Infatuation? A school-girl crush? Your heart is raw but what is this for him? A diversion? Something steady? You have no idea, you don’t get much time to talk but you know what it shouldn’t be: too serious. He is still recovering. You’re his rebound and it isn’t healthy. Buck needs to date casually, get a better sense of himself and Jesus fucking Christ he is your job.

If Coulson or Fury find out, they’re entitled to put you on report. A black mark on your copybook. Though that isn’t what’s got you truly rattled.

You have to be a perfect shot.

For him.

His life depends upon it.

When you finally find the courage to rip the bandage off, you learn first hand that bullshit in Russian has an awfully familiar tone.

Bucky’s a solid wall of disagreement, arms crossed over his chest. “Babe, it doesn’t have to be this way.”

“It does.” You raise your chin. “I am here to protect you. I can’t do that when my focus is…distracted.”

“It’s not that way for Nat and Clint.”

Really? You file that new tidbit of gossip away for more analysis, but still have to regretfully shake your head. “Not the same. They’re a team, trained to work in tandem. This is different.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Not true.”

His certainty that you’ll relent begins to melt away. “Y/N, don’t do this. I thought we had something. Were working on it. Can be something more.”

“Please.”

He falls silent in the face of your hard bitten stare. Lost eyes dark and pleading. More like a kicked puppy than a famous murderbot, but still you hold.

You can’t. You wish you could, but no.

“It has to be this way for me.”

To blunt the hurt, you stretch up on tip-toe to press a delicate apology to his lips.

Bucky flinches, acting like your kiss has broken him and his reaction is breaking you.

‘I thought we had something?’

The accusation rings in your ears all the days to come, but even tears don’t put the heart fires out.

——————————-

You do your job. Break down and reassemble your gun for the soothing repetition. Keep well away. Do exactly what you need to do and not one iota more, but watching him all day is torture.

Both of you are miserable.

You hide it. Bucky not so much. His blue eyes lose their spark; become haggard and bloodshot. You know you’ve put the dark bags there, but at least they’re there, you tell yourself when another hit gets foiled.

Everybody notices. On those rare times you have to be in the Tower, Steve remains so professionally polite and clipped it’s just like being shot. Next to him, no one knows. You sit, mute and hurting, inconveniently placed beside Pepper and Maria at a SHIELD event, taking in Natasha’s blistering attack on ‘the gold dipped bitch’ who’s hurt her friend. They know Bucky, too. How much the silent, morose Soldier is a capitulation; how working through hurt makes it harder for him to keep the last dregs of Hydra programming at bay. You hate yourself for it. But there really is no other way and now you realize, it’s getting harder. Your concentration’s worse if anything and it would be kinder to stop torturing you both.

The sick reality falls like lead into your stomach.

You can’t be there at all.

————————-

You never planned to work for SHIELD.

You’d enlisted at age eighteen because with no formal schooling and no degree, Uncle Sam was the only outfit that would promise you a job. Your long-honed hunting skills were evident in basic; refined in sniper school until you were something of a legend. You’d set your heart on Special Ops, did every extra ribbon and rotation but still were not sent to the front. Women were not then given combat roles. It sucked. And if your superiors were sympathetic, they still attached you to endless close protection details. Sent you to the AMU competitions. Ignored your increasingly strident, respectful pleas for reassignment until you’d thrown your resignation papers down and marched straight off the base.

Seemed like just minutes passed before a bland, grey-suited man tapped you on the shoulder.

“Miss Y/N?” said Philip Coulson with a smile. “Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

Nick Fury is the best boss you’ve never officially had, because sometimes your Army cover is somewhat helpful and Phil swiftly arranged for your resignation papers disappear.

The rest is history.

——————————

“You want to be reassigned.”

“Yes, Sir.”

You will not squirm, but the Director, away from prying ears in his secure coordination room, is fixing you with his patented thousand-metre stare. “You really want to go back to Fort Bragg and do paperwork? Get trotted out when they need an affirmative action photo shoot?”

You groan. Ugh. They will and you know it, but anywhere than SHIELD is the objective. Better a clean break, you think, but Fury’s not done with you yet.

“I hear the First Daughter had some death threats. FBI’s asked us if we can spare a gun. We could reassign you to Sparrow’s detail.”

Oh fuck no. The President’s petulant and self-absorbed teenager burns through agents faster than she raids Bloomingdales.

It takes everything in you to do that nod.

Fury’s one visible eyebrow nearly hits the roof. “You are serious.”

“Sir. I am.” You’ve called his bluff. You stand to attention and wait for it. The serious suggestion you know is coming.

“Thing is, Y/N, we were going to recommend you for a new assignment,” Fury paces, hands behind his back and shoulders to the view. “It involves training. As hard as anything you’ve done.”

Really? You’re skeptical. You’ve done the Rangers even if they didn’t let you in the field. Toughed it out with the toughest the Army had.

What he says next, nearly has your jaw upon the floor.

“We want you permanently cross-posted to the Advanced Threat Containment Unit. Watch Sergeant Barnes full time. Close in as he transitions to his next new role.”

Surprise makes you blurt out the first thing in your head. “You can’t mean on combat missions?!”

“Mhmm.”

But that means… “You’re sending Bucky back into the field!”

“Got a problem with that, Corporal?”

Your mouth is hanging open. “But you can’t…”

‘I don’t do that anymore’ rings in your ears.

“You’re going to let him…”

Fury looks, not mad, but entirely amused. “Not do assassinations, no. But let him train and participate.”

“You can’t,” you stubbornly repeat. He’s stupidly reckless. Prone to throwing himself headlong into everything. Not completely healed. “Not ready,” you finish lamely.

“You disagree with the psych eval?”

You shuffle your feet. This is thin ground. SHIELD does not employ folks with fake degrees. “No, Sir.”

The Director smiles, as warmly as you’ll get. Which is to say, about as a warm as a melting icecube. “Good. Sergeant Barnes needs someone who has his back and Captain Rogers can’t do that leading from the front.”

So true. But also why Bucky shouldn’t be out at all. “Sir, he forgets…” To care about himself enough.

“Precisely why I’ve suggested you be assigned. You are the best markswoman we have got. Look, I’m not entirely happy with this either, but he can’t sit and knit forever. Stark says he’s ready. The -ologists say he’s ready. And he’s spending his days moping around the compound too much.” You wince inside, knowing the cause of that. “Getting some of his own back might even help.”

It might.

And someone will try to take Bucky out again.

And he will be focused on everything but himself.

Shit.

There is no choice.

You know you can keep him safe.

Fury, the bastard, just stands and cracks his deaths-head grin.

———————————

Training with the Avengers is more brutal than anything you’ve done.

Steve’s in charge, and Nat. Both merciless. Both focused on honing you into something more than a gun. It’s brutal and physical but that isn’t the hardest part.

Bucky is there training, too.

It feels like being a cat on a hot tin roof. Circling each other. Carefully. Two negative terminals on a magnet—repelling as far away as they can get.

“Corporal.”

“Sergeant.”

You’ve said no and Bucky is bending over backwards to be polite and perfectly correct. No physical contact outside sparring. No first names unless you can help it. No interaction at all, outside missions, to be honest. Tony, oblivious (at least you think he is), organizes movie nights and BBQs that you mostly miss. You follow Buck’s lead, keep yourself more closed than usual. Socialize with your old SHIELD squad when you can, haunt your room when there is no time.

It takes a toll.

You are not, by nature, a recluse but this is how it has to be. You can’t stand the brief flashes of disappointment in Bucky’s eyes, the wariness with which he interacts. They cut at your resolve. Shred it, until you’re forced to shut out everything but mission goals.

They come and go. Days. Weeks. The strain coils higher, but you tell yourself you are doing it for him: the man whose eyes haunt your waking moments. You become a shell, sapped of life and desiccated, but each shot is crisp and clean. This makes it right, but not natural. Eventually, you switch roles like understudies in a play. He is the pro, silent and efficient as he does his job, while you are the damaged one, snapping at every little thing, recklessly taking risks, heedless of your own safety.

It all seems worthwhile until the day you walk silently up the empty ramp for the Quinjet and find Steve and Sam huddled by the cockpit.

They don’t hear you slide like a shadow into your berth.

“His nightmares are getting worse.”

Sam whistles low. “Worse? Man, they were bad before.”

Steve slowly shakes his head. “It’s like Wakanda before he went in cryo. I honestly don’t know how he is even functioning.”

“Yeah. But the shit truth is there nothing you or I can do about it.” Sam sounds resigned. “Unless he comes clean on what it is that’s eating at him, and you know he won’t do that easily. Dude’s too stubborn.”

“He’s not the only one.”

Steve, you realize later, says this for you. His eyes bore like a laser into your forehead when he comes over to sit down, shrugging his five-point harness on.

“Corporal.”

“Captain.”

“You good?”

“Yes, Sir.”

You fiddle unnecessarily with the heat shield on your stock. Out of the corner of one eye, you can see him frown, loop his fingers into his belt and sigh, but you know he won’t call you out, won’t give away your private business to anyone. Still, the optimist in him can’t help but hope. Steve Rogers is really like a giant collie dog that shepherds a whole flock of misfits—he isn’t happy unless everyone’s set right; and you and Buck are waay out on the fringe. It feels as if the solid, brooding bulk of his suit is willing you to change your mind. But you are stubborn.

(A trait that you and Bucky share, along with snark and an obsession with perfect lattes.)

While you wait for everyone to load, you keep your head down and bite your lip, worrying about what you’ve heard. Fuck, if Buck’s not sleeping that makes both of you, and to do this job you need to be on. You’re good. You’re fine, you can tolerate a little sleep deprivation, but Bucky—that’s not right. Years of cryo and mind-wipes have messed with the circuitry. He needs sleep to heal, more than most, and you shake your head, knee vibrating like Clint’s bowstring, dreading but anxiously awaiting for him to load.

You don’t have long to wait. Nat and Clint clatter past and take the pilot seats, Tony swans through and starts briefing Steve with last-minute intel and then Bucky’s there. Stowing his gun and hiding behind a fall of dark, lank hair. You’re shocked. It’s been a week since you saw him last, in the common room, but oh god he is worse. Clearly. He barely responds when Clint does a system check. Grunts at Steve’s chirpy welcome. Falls into his seat across from you and that’s when it starts. The sense of failure. The hurt that the brutal truth is you are making this all worse; doing exactly what you had wanted to avoid.

Bucky’s not safer with you there. He’s more in danger and the knowledge of it sucks out all the oxygen.

You spend the three-hour trip and first half hour of the ensuing firefight under water, surfacing for precious gulps of air between the mounting pressure in your chest; like your harness is strapped down way too tight.

You thought that you’d be helping him, but oh, Y/N, you are really not.

You need to leave.

Entirely.

Goddamn it hurts, but you have no time. The heinous bastards who have grabbed a SHIELD tracking station have their dander up, are resisting with all they’ve got and you need to be on your game following as Bucky’s cover. You leap and sight, neutralize another target still feeling like you can’t get air, watching his lithe form duck and roll, mercilessly slamming a terrorist to the ground.

His face is all dark angles and unhappy shadows. Lined and smudged, a ghost of the man who’d smiled, run his fingers through your hair, gently nuzzling at your neck

“Babe, I could stay this way forever.”

The flash of memory is like a sucker punch to the gut.

You’ve screwed this whole thing up.

Can’t do your fucking job cuz you gave in and slept with the man who is your mission and now you’re… what?

Miserable in his company. Miserable without.

In love.

Fuck.

This is not how things should be.…

You’re drowning in the unhappiness, but even with a red haze of doomed understanding filtering across your gaze, you can’t not see it.

The motherfucker three hundred yards away taking aim at Bucky’s head

You need to pot the asshat now–but your view is obstructed by the base’s cell tower and, so, you leap out, aim and squeeze, heedless of your own back. The concrete behind the man’s dead eyes neatly disintegrates in a spray of elegant debris and your world dissolves in a rain of stabbing hurt, like a whole river of gravel is fired from the sky.

You fall.

There’s a roaring in your ears and the breathlessness is getting worse. Iron and smoke tinge the soup of dust and rock and gas that your lungs don’t want to breathe. Concussion grenade, must be: and, at first, you struggle, but the twisted beam that roofs your little world won’t even shift. It’s close, pressing on your chest and you will yourself to fight the panic down. Don’t disturb it. Don’t make the situation worse. You want to laugh at that—fuck no—all you do is make situations worse— but the breath in hurts like full-on hell.

That has to be good, doesn’t it? It’s when you don’t feel anything you’re going down…

Ok.. just…lie. Breathe… take inventory. There’s a trickle of blood running from your hair down through your eyes: you can taste it upon your tongue. Your left hand stings, but your right is just lying here. Numb. Not moving. Broken probably, but that is the least of your concerns.

The pressure of the beam bears down steadily.

And with it your space to get some air.

“Y/N!”

From somewhere to your left there comes a voice. Faint and muffled. As if someone is shouting way way far away and you realize—this is it. You are going to die. No ones gonna arrive in time but weirdly you are ok. Bucky is allright. You saw him flip and roll away. That’s good…that’s everything. You cough on the settling dust and steel and try to take shallower breaths. Your heart’s too fast and the air’s too thin and you close your eyes. Float, indistinct at the edges. Nothing hurts too much right now. It’s good. You can close your eyes and drift away.

“Y/N!”

This time the call is muffled but louder: anguished, as if everything in the world is wrong.

A chunk of steel is wrenched away and for the first time a patch of light shines through the dim.

“Y/N, are you hurt?!”

You blink through the blood that gums your lashes. Bucky’s there. Shoulders wedged into the impossibly tiny space, eyes wide with something you are sure you have never seen.

Fear.

You want to ease his mind, but words are a little hard. “I’m ok,” comes out more wheeze than whisper.

“Hang on, we’re gonna get you out.” Bucky barks into the comms for Sam, and help, and oxygen. He turns and gingerly shoves aside the loose jagged chunks of steel to make a little space. When there’s a hand’span of pavement clear, he dips down on his left, grimacing and flexing up against the beam.

There’s a slow metallic groan, an endless pause, but eventually it lifts just barely.

But sadly not enough.

The fuzzy world is whiting out, dissolving in a ring of sparks.

“Y/N!” He frees a hand, shakes you roughly and sends a lance of agony through your chest. “Stay with me, babe, stay with me. Cavalry is coming.”

But we don’t have any horses…

The wry smile on his face is blurry. You must have whispered this out loud. He closes his eyes, resets his metal hand down against the pavement. Flexes up again. “Aiighhh!”

The monumental effort gains another precious millimeter and the sparkly whiteness starts to fade to the indigo of his vest.

“What? Can’t you hear the hoofbeats?” Bucky is shaking, sweat beading on his brow but above there is a whoosh and the carbon ion smell of repulsor jets.

“Got it, Barnes!”

“Took you long enough!” Bucky sags just slightly, protecting you in case something shifts, but mercifully the metal does not move.

Sam is crouched behind. You dimly hear his coolly calm instructions. “Barnes, don’t let her move. Pretty sure those ribs are broken. Can’t risk a pneumothorax.” Bucky squeezes out, disappears through the gap but is quickly back again, metal fingers softly pressing a cannula to your nose. The dizziness fades some more.

“Better?” His Brooklyn accent aches with hopefulness.

You nod, warily taking a deeper breath, feeling clean, cool air rush in. Fuck its good but lord it hurts. At least the world does not swim. Bucky reaches to brush some damp strands from off your brow and Sam passes a pad into the gap. You hiss as he presses the treated gauze over the worst of the cut. “Sorry. Sorry.”

He glances around the narrow space. You’re basically in a coffin. Just wide enough for your hips and long enough for your feet. When you flex your foot, your toes touch something that feels smooth. A dish? A beam? The girders of the tower have toppled like a marionette’s arms and legs when the control strings have been cut. “Gonna take a bit to cut this mess. Properly, so it doesn’t shift.”

Bucky’s right, but you’re worrying about the waste of time. “Is it safe? The cell?”

You mean the rogue Hydra group, the reason why you’re here, because if it’s not, Jesus, you are going to thump him hard. You’re useless pinned. But if there’s shooting still going on…

“Relax, babe, we got ‘em. That grenade was their hail mary pass and it’s failed. Steve and Clint and Nat are mopping up.”

Thank God. Some of the tension bleeds away, like steam from a radiator. You shiver, shock starting to set in, and, tenderly, he drapes you with a silver thermal blanket. It’s better, but now it’s time to wait. Bright arcs of light shine through the cracks and you know Tony is working as fast as he can, but still it’s hard. You’ve been strong forever, but the fear you’ve held a bay is now too much with Bucky near.

A whimper escapes your lips.

“Shushhh, baby,” he croons, leaning near to cup your cheek with a warm hand. “I’m not going anywhere. It’s all gonna be ok.” But it really isn’t. His other one, metal reflecting Tony’s blazing work, keeps stroking your tangled hair. This close you can see a forest of tiny scrapes and nicks and cuts upon his dusty skin.

And the ever present smudges of tired grey below his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” You’re stammering. You’ve been selfish, you see that now. Doing what you thought right and best for him. Totally certain you had to be the one to help and all the time the ache of want has never stopped.

It doesn’t matter. You need to be strong for him. Move on and let someone else have the watch.

“I can’t do this anymore.”

You’re not sure what you are speaking of: holding yourself together while he kneels and strokes your face, or staying at his side. Both make sense. The sounds of working are getting louder. “Barnes, I’m almost through,” crackles through the link.

A cool metal finger strokes your brow. “Hey, not much longer now.”

You turn your head, catch the light in his worried eyes. “No..us, side by side.”

There, you’ve said it. SHIELD med will patch you up. Ship you out to base where you can crumble into dust somewhere on your own.

It’s brutal but better than being an irritant. Scratching endlessly at the scab of him.

“Goddammit, Y/N. You don’t have to go.”

His growl is not hurt but sheer frustration. There’s a storm in his eyes and in the flat set of his frown. Bucky wriggles a little closer in, cradles you like the most precious thing in all the world. “Fuck, it takes this battered brain a while, but, babe, you gotta hear me out. I get it now. You’re terrified that serving alongside someone who means too much makes you vulnerable. Messes with your skills–but it doesn’t have to be that way. There’s a shakedown sure, for a little while, but Clint and Nat–they manage. Wanda manages with Viz. Steve works alongside me and we may not be lovers but our bond is just as strong.” His lips pull into the saddest smile. “I fucking need you. You. Y/N. Not the Corporal with the medals. I need you everywhere. At night, when the monsters in my head crowd close and, in the day, when I need a snarky smile. You are best thing I have had in my life and I can’t let that go.”

Bucky’s face is almost pressed against your cheek. It’s that smile, soft and warm, and just for you.

Fire in the night and a watcher on your six.

“I’ve tried, Doll, I really have, but it just doesn’t work. I need you, complicated as it is. And I won’t let you give up on us. Not without trying, anyway.”

His whisper is rough with meaning. He huffs out a little sigh and presses an achingly gentle kiss across your bloodied lips.

This time his kiss breaks you….

——————–

tags: @star-spangled-man-with-a-plan @theycallmebecca @mewsiex @emilyevanston @mycapt-ohcapt @pegasusdragontiger @winters-beauty

@badassbaker @heather-lynn @saffreelove @loricameback @nomadicpixel @missfirstavenger @prplprincez @marvel-lucy

#star’s marvel mayhem challenge #sian22redux #engtanglements #bucky barnes #reader #prequel to Private Party #angst #smangst

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fantroll-purgatory · 6 years

Text

Kilius Koplan

I’ve been saving this boy up.

@ancientvacation usual disclaimer that I don’t have a lot to say besides oooh and ahhhh

Alternian OC

Name:Kilius Koplan - Kilius comes from Achilleus, also known as Achilles, one of the great Greek heroes. It also sounds close to ‘Kleos’, a Greek concept of glory. Koplan is from Adam Copeland, the real name of the wrestler Edge, who’s finishing move is The Spear, the same characteristic weapon of Achilleus.

Also indicates he might have a soft spot somewhere…

Strife Specibus:

grapplekind/2xspearkind - The spear is a common weapon for ancient Greek heroes to use. Furthermore, The Spear was the name of Adam ‘Edge’ Copeland’s finisher. He uses two as to be like a pair of beetle pincers. He mainly uses grapplekind as it’s what he’s trained the most in, but aspires to finally use his ancestor’s spears passed down to him, so he always keeps the card on him as a little bit of motivation.

Fetch Modus:Apronmodus - Kilius stows and fetches things from underneath a curtain-like structure, much like how foreign objects are taken from under a wrestling ring. This means that he can use the underside of his kilt as a kind of hammerspace. It’s very silly.

hlkgjkaerhwr yeah it is! I love it so much.

Blood color:He’s an Indigoblood. The hex I use for his text is #0021bc whereas his blood, symbol and blood-coloured garments are a darker shade. I kinda run with the HC that there are set colours for each blood caste, but individual trolls type darker or lighter than those colours as a personal thing.

I think that tracks especially given that Equius used a markedly different text color than his blood color.

Symbol and meaning:Kilius’ symbol has gone through an evolution. The symbol I used for the longest time was the Hercules constellation, mainly because of it being a heroic figure and tying to him nicely. After the EZ came out, I redesigned a lot of aspects of my trolls, most importantly their symbols. As such, I recreated the Hercules symbol using the sign language of the Indigo caste. If I had to give it a name, I’d use Hercinius. The symbol also resembles a Greek pillar, which is neat.

Oh man yeah I love that.

Trolltag: perfectPankrator - A pankrator is just to describe someone who takes part in pankration, a gladiatorial style of combat where physical attacks with the use of punches and kicks are emphasised. Perfect is just to show Kilius’ ego and ‘better than you’ attitude. Instead of the negative words often found in trolltags, Kilius uses a positive one to stand as some kind of paragon to other trolls, fulfilling more ego-wankery.

Quirk:He replaces [hH] with ’]~[’ as to represent his symbol. Kilius’ ego would certainly lend him to shoehorn his symbol in wherever possible. As for his tone of voice he’s actually pretty verbose, but doesn’t use large words all that much. His kind of verbose is just being able to talk for ages and ages. He has a kind of mental rhythm when he speaks and isn’t averse to using spur of the moment rhymes. This is mainly to evoke the kind of promos popular in pro wrestling as well as thematically fit with the poems of the ancient world.

Design:I wanted to get a good fusion of Ancient Greek aesthetics along with modern professional wrestling outfits. So he wears a singlet, elbow and kneepads, and ring boots to represent the former, and over his singlet, a kilt commonly worn by ancient warriors, and atop his head rests his headband. His hair is meant to be a kind of unkempt curly mass, and his missing tooth is a reference to Chris Benoit, who I recommend not googling because it’s a nice day. The face plaster is mainly meant to exhibit a kind of roughboy demeanour.

“Don’t google it” you say, to a person who definitely googled it and now wishes they didn’t and has to pass the warning on to others. (note: it’s not just a minor thing it’s a major thing and will probably take you to a dark place)

Special Abilities (if any):Winning Smile. (Joking.)

Lusus: A rare lusus, the Bipedal Musclebeetle, named Beeteokles. His species have strong fatherly instincts, and Beeteokles in particular is doing his best to teach Kilius in the ways of the Palaestria, combat, and traditions. Which is impressive considering he has no mouth or discernible way of communication other than Beetle skrees and rhythmic flexing. His picture is a little inaccurate, as he should have the head of a Hercules beetle instead. His relationship to Kilius is meant to evoke the strong presence fathers played in Ancient Greek epics, as mentors and goals for their sons.

AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH. I fucking love this and I have an addition because I’m still playing with the idea that indigobloods have hooved lusii so consider keeping everything the same except to change his lower half to a minotaur bottom. Oh my god I love this beetleman holy shit

Personality: Kilius is a pretty great guy to be honest. He doesn’t hold himself to modern-day hemorelations, instead finding solace in working off the ancient values taught to him by his lusus, more or less. He’s open and friendly to most, if not a little much to digest all at once. He often invites people back to his hive, all even before learning their name or where they came from. This is supposed to tie into the Ancient Greek value of ‘Xenia’, where a person is expected to be a good host to visitors, most of all strangers, and for visitors to behave properly when in a host’s home. This also ties into my interpretation of Kilius as a Knight ‘serving’ others in a sense by being such a good host.

However, Kilius may be friendly but he certainly isn’t a pushover. He’s up for a scrap or brawl often, and getting into arguments with him often results in the other party just letting things slide with how bizarre arguing with Kilius can get. He’s a very physical person, often acting on a whim, with enough cunning and battle training to be able to formulate plans under pressure. He’s also kind of a glory-hound, his acting on a whim for some more prestige often bites him in the ass, not that it dissuades him from trying some more.

He can be irritating to be around, as he can seem like he’s not taking things too seriously or genuinely. If met with someone who actively dislikes him and lets him know, Kilius will take it as an opportunity to gussy it up and make some long poetic speech about the fire of their rivalry or such. Going from his poeticism, that’s also a big part of Kilius. He has a flair for the dramatic, developed from both instincts and the theatrical nature of wrestling. He’s very well-read, so long as they’re either ancient epics or professional wrestling annuals.

Any other ideas or such would be appreciated!

I…I actually have one because you went and named him after goddamn Achilles. This dude could be a classical wrestler by day…and a heel by night! He could especially play up being the big, bad indigoblood beating up on the poor, defenseless lowbloods. He’s got the extra strength at hsi advantage and he plays dirty??? How dare he??? It’s a fun little contrast to his at-home personality and may get him some shit even when he’s out of the ring!

Interests: Wrestling, surprisingly. It’s his main hobby, passion and potential career in the fleet if he works hard enough. His passion for the classical world, which I’m not even gonna begin to try and explain for Alternia, is another major interest of his, specifically heroes and their glorious adventures.

Other than his two core themes, Kilius doesn’t really go for much else. Fitness is important to him, though that’s mainly to get better at wrestling, and epic poetry is more of the classical stuff. Some ideas would be helpful, as whilst his themes are strong and handy, I don’t want him to just be the wrestling and classics troll lol.

Hm.

I mean modern wrestling is commonly called “soap opera for men,” (whether the folks who watch wrestling like that comparison varies lol) and to tie back to both the classical version and the modern one how about he’s into nice-smelling soaps, classical opera, and soap operas? Gives him a little more dimension, and gives him something to do around the house besides watch wrestling.

Title: Remember, different verbiage and +/- skews. I have Kilius as a Knight of Hope, in that he passively serves others Hope. This kinda ties into how I see pro-wrestling, but I feel it works for Kilius even in the mindscape that Knights actively exploit.

This is kinda where I’m struggling honestly, to properly put into words why he’s a Knight of Hope. I’ll give it a shot, but I’d like to keep the classpect. That being said, I’m open for insight or suggestions/modifications to help him better fit this title or another similar one.

Kilius is kinda caught in an interesting quandary with his classpect. On the one hand, he has very strong beliefs that he has complete commitment to and uses them as a positive force in his life. On the other hand, as a Knight he’s being disingenuous in some form thanks to the mask he adopts for others. In the weirdest sense, Kilius’ mask is himself, that is, the idealised version of himself that he aspires to be, and presents himself as through his speech (the third person thing is a sort of showing of this, a trait that would be dropped as he goes through the revelations and lessons of his character.)

His main struggle is that he’s not living up to the idealised vision he’s made for himself. His mask is like a professional wrestling gimmick, Kilius the brave and bold, flexgrappler champion and future immortalised in epic tales of valour and etc etc. Some larger than life figure that he keeps stoking. He’s essentially made his mask some kind of Platonic form, the ultimate greatest version of him. This is why that he seems like he has it made from outside perspectives as he’s friendly, has conviction, goals, a sweet hive, etc etc.

Ugh, I’m really struggling with this honestly. So long I’ve mainly focused on the abilities part of his classpect, which is stuff like ‘serving’ others his faith in pro-wrestling conventions that he forces them to obey to them. I have a whole post on that which I’ll link here. Sorry if this kinda meanders, but Kilius is an older character of mine, and also one very close and dear to me, so I love the bugger.

Honestly I feel like the powers you gave him would work well regardless of whether he’s a Knight or Page? There’s a pretty fine line between the two.

I feel like maybe the “heel” storyline drives that home even further? Because now that conflict rears its head in multiple ways, both with his “Kilius the brave and strong” persona and the “Kilius the evil indigoblood” one. They’re both these really hamfisted attempts to shoehorn himself into a role that maybe doesn’t fit him all that well. And with the added interests I mentioned above, maybe those are things he keeps really private because they don’t mesh with either of those personas.

And I think I can make the argument even under the Knight verbiage CD and I use because this is a case where he’s so immersed in a profession that’s Hope personified that he’s feeling choked! It’s difficult to grow when you spend so much time doing something that requires you to suspend disbelief so much.

Land:Back when he was a Rage player, ‘The Land of Quakes and Kayfabe’, but since he’s Hope, I think I had ‘Rings’ as one of his words. The idea being that there were Hope-y wrestling rings around the planet, and upon entering them some shit happens. I’m not sure on this lol.

Hmmm. What about Land of Faces and Rings? Obviously referring to faces in wrestling, but the aesthetic could be that of Majora’s Mask-style makss that grant the wearer the abilities related to them upon donning one.

That’s the consort mythology, of course; it’s not actually real. Until Kilius believes it is.

Lots and lots of tournaments, with the promise that upon completing the necessary fights he will be able to reach his denizen. But that’s nonsense! Wrestling goes on forever and plotlines rarely have a conclusion! Kilius needs to will himself to the denizen if he wants to reach them.

Dream Planet:I think Prospit may be a given. Despite his struggles with his heroic fantasies, he IS very get-go and take-charge generally.

D/Ancestor: Kilius’ dancestor is Turnus Koplan. Whilst Kilius represents the Greek ideal of a hero, cunning, individual, glory-seeking, Turnus represents the Roman ideal a little more, in that he’s direct, professional and looks to the group more. That boy is here. Kilius’ ancestor was a great hero, aptly titled as 'The ]~[eroic’ (I love quirk-y ancestor titles). Upon a fall from grace, and enslavement into the gladiatorial rings, he quickly became known under a new name, 'The Crippler’, another reference to Chris Benoit.

Love this dude.

All in all, Kilius is a very special and sentimental fantroll for me, and one that despite working on a lot of stuff for him, hasn’t had much in the way of deeper personality or narrative arc developed. He’s mainly been used for roleplay, which doesn’t exactly support SBURB arcs. Plus I’m a very improvisational person in those types of settings, meaning I can often just roll with random info or ideas for Kilius without thinking about it. Hope you enjoy this boy!

i did! And tbh I think he’s basically good to go? I can’t even think of any redesign suggestions for him.

Thanks for sending him in. I hope the few extra details I provided can help!

#ancientvacation #kilius koplan #kilius #koplan #indigoblood #review #tr review #submission

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heartofoshun · 7 years

Photo

Only three days of artwork and stories left out of 40!

As early as 1917, a young J.R.R. Tolkien began writing down the myths and stories that comprised his imagined world. A century later, here we are, four decades after the publication of The Silmarillion on 15 September 1977, still enjoying to read those earliest stories. Our love for the archaic language or people with indistinguishable names, for the grim yet majestic nature of the tales, for the quest for the Silmarils and the characters who find themselves swept up in it, has brought us together. Our views of the different characters and events, of Tolkien's style or overall themes may differ - often vastly - but we have all found something in The Silmarillion that captivates and moves us. More, we feel inside us a need to engage with the texts more deeply, writing our own take on its events, filling the gaps, fixing the bits that irk us, or giving a voice to characters previously unheard. Through our fannish activities we continue to breathe life into the "stillborn postscript"1; we are the "other minds and hands, wielding paint and music and drama" that Tolkien once ("absurdly") hoped would continue to contribute to his Legendarium.2

An anniversary is always a good occasion for celebration – a celebration of the book that we love, and a celebration of the community that has grown out of this love. How better to combine the two than by creating a compilation of fanworks that follow the timeline of The Silmarillion? One (sometimes, two) such fanworks will be revealed on this site each day for the next 40 (what else?) days. From the creation of Arda to the creation of the Rings of Power, from glory to tragedy, despair to hope, we are going to re-experience the great tales through the eyes of our fellow fans. Many minds and hands have been hard at work to put this collection together with more than eighty fanworks submitted by three dozen different writers and artists. If you enjoy their work, please consider leaving them a comment!

Table of Contents

Star Kindler

by FeanorusRex

Varda creates the stars. (Artwork)

Subcreation: A Collection

by SWG Authors

Tolkien's theory of subcreation states that it is part of our deepest human nature to create secondary worlds. This collection of drabbles, ficlets, one-shots, and sketches follows the thread of subcreation across the span of the legendarium. (Ficlet Collection)

Young Gods

by Fernstrike

It began in Almaren - when the world was new, and the gods were young, and the World seemed full of possibilities. It began beneath the earth, under great halls, inside a dark mirror. (Short Story)

And She Slept

by LadyBrooke

As Valinor is created, there are those who stay behind in the darkness to wait for those that come. (Ficlet)

Turn All Your Flesh As Gold

by anthropologyarda

Aulë's expertise does not lie in lungs and sinews. Mairon teaches his Master more than he intends. (Short Story)

We were not born in Cuiviénen

by Lyra

Morwë tells Oromë about the origins of his people, contradicting some stories the Vala has heard earlier. (Ficlet)

Paths of Good Intentions

by just_jenni

Melian is bored and travels to Arda to see the Quendi. She meets Elwe. His people wonder where he is. (Short Story)

Bewildered

by Dawn Felagund

Not all of the Eldar believed Valinor would be superior to Middle-earth. Having followed the man she loves from the land she loved also, Míriel struggles to cope with a strange life in a strange new land. (Short Story)

Fëanor Makes the Silmarils

by alikuu

Fëanor experiments with the light-retaining properties of Silima in the privacy of his forge. (Artwork)

The Creation of the Silmarils

by amyfortuna

Fëanor's creation of the Silmarils, in the form of a sestina. (Poetry)

Dwarves Come into Beleriand

by Robinka

The Dwarves arrive in Beleriand. (Artwork)

The Fates of Our Kin

by LadyBrooke

It is an ill omen when a Prince of Doriath appears in the tent of a Dwarf without any weapons and lowers himself to sit beneath her while they speak of important matters. (Short Story)

Melkor Stirs Strife among the Noldor

by Nixie Genesis

Melkor weaves his lies, especially between the sons of Finwë. (Artwork)

A King Unkinged (For the Love He Bore Feanor)

by Himring

Finwe arrives in Formenos. (Short Story)

This Time It's Different

by Nixie Genesis

Melkor meets Ungoliant within her lair in order to fulfill his plan. They both converge on Aman and Melkor takes his revenge. (Short Story)

Approaching Darkness

by ryesil

Melkor, Ungoliant and the darkening of Valinor. (Artwork)

The First Kinslaying

by fortunaavversa

The first kinslaying. (Artwork)

Exodus of the Noldor

by Writing Gecko

After the Exile of the Noldor, Arafinwe and Aule reflect on things which can be fixed, and those that cannot. (Ficlet)

The Remnants of a Person

by LadyBrooke

After the battle, too few of Denethor’s people remain to search through all the bodies alone. (Ficlet)

Burning

by feanorusrex

Arien's experience following the death of the Trees. (Poetry)

The Guides

by Hrymfaxe

Arien of Anar and Tilion of Isil. (Artwork, NSFW)

One Last Spring

by anthropologyarda

The world is changing. Strange dreams drive an Avari chieftain to embark on a quest, where he unknowingly stumbles upon his people's doom. (Short Story)

Helcaraxë

by hennethgalad

Fingolfin, his family and friends, confront the ice and the unknown, and are drawn closer together by their feat of endurance. But Fingolfin suffers bitter loneliness and only the great valour of the other Elves gives him the strength to keep moving. (Short Story)

The Grinding Ice

by fortunaavversa

The Grinding Ice. (Artwork)

Mereth Aderthad

by Grundy

"When twenty years of the Sun had passed, Fingolfin King of the Noldor made a great feast; and it was held in the spring near to the pools of Ivrin, whence the swift river Narog arose, for there the lands were green and fair at the feet of the Mountains of Shadow that shielded them from the North. The joy of that feast was long remembered in later days of sorrow; and it was called Mereth Aderthad, the Feast of Reuniting." (Short Story)

Of Linguistic Preferences

by Robinka

Some of the Sindar may have practical reasons to like their king’s edict that banishes Quenya from Doriath. (Drabble)

Eöl and Aredhel

by feanorusrex

And Aredhel strayed from her companions and was lost. (Artwork)

Lady Aredhel's Decision

by Scribe of Mirrormere

The account of Lord Eöl and Lady Aredhel, from the perspective of two of Eöl's smiths. (Short Story)

No One

by Dawn Felagund

Idril sits down to dinner with her cousin Maeglin shortly after the deaths of his parents. What begins as an uneventful meal dominoes into resentment and defensiveness as her own traumatic memories of her mother's death surface. (Short Story)

This Mortal Coil

by hennethgalad

The reflections of Bëor as he is welcomed to Nargothrond. (Short Story)

Darker than Night

by Luxa

While hunting, Amlach and Maedhros are pulled from their excursion by a surprise messenger, who asks them to take on a task great than either of them realize. They should have realized that finding traitors is no small task. (Short Story)

Red Sun Rising

by Amy Fortuna

Fingolfin passes on the crown to Fingon his son and heir. (Short Story)

Through the Morning Mist

by StarSpray

At long last, Emeldir leads her people into the forest of Brethil. (Ficlet)

The Duel

by lightofthetrees

The (in)famous song duel at Tol-in-Gaurhoth, as told by Finrod. (Short Story)

The Dead That Live

by fortunaavversa

Beren and Lúthien win a Silmaril. (Artwork)

Fewer Words, Without Song

by IgnobleBard

The story of Beren and Lúthien told as a fairy tale. (Short Story)

False Spring

by oshun

The story of the Union of Maedhros, the great alliance of Elves, Men and Dwarves organized by Fingon and Maedhros, is the prelude to the Nirnaeth Arnoediad. It is the return of hope for my protagonists and yet the beginning of the end of the struggle of those rash and heroic Noldor whose deeds made me fall in love with The Silmarillion. (Short Story)

Follow Me Home

by Robinka

Beleg meets his doom. (Ficlet)

Dagnir Glaurunga

by Robinka

The dragon and his executioner. A take of the death of Glaurung, but with a twist. (Artwork)

Strife about the Nauglamír

by Robinka

Strife about the Nauglamír. (Artwork)

A Dwarf's Memories

by LadyBrooke

An excerpt from the memoirs of a Dwarf of Belegost, concerning her childhood in Menegroth. (Ficlet)

Too late to go in peace

by mangacrack

Dreams tell Dior to stop the madness, but the young king doesn't listen. (Short Story)

Ravens over Doriath

by Hrymfaxe

In the aftermath of the Second Kinslaying (some gore and horror themes). (Artwork)

Escape

by hennethgalad

Tuor meets the messengers of Círdan and passes through the mountains to the sea. At Vinyamar he comes face to face with Ulmo. (Short Story)

Beyond the Cirith Thoronath

by Robinka

Death of a Golden Flower. (Poetry and Artwork)

A Tyrant Spell Has Bound Me

by Independence1776

After an ambush by Morgoth’s army destroys the Fëanorian camp, the survivors seek refuge in the Havens. Dark AU. (Short Story)

We Will Be Who We Are

by Lotrfan

The Army of Valinor has come to Beleriand. Maedhros and Maglor feel they must join in this battle against Morgoth but are reluctant to bring Elrond and Elros into the conflict. War of Wrath prompt focusing on the relationships between the surviving sons of Fëanor and the sons of Eärendil they are fostering. (Short Story)

There was battle in the air

by Lyra

"But Eärendil came, shining with white flame, and about Vingilot were gathered all the great birds of heaven and Thorondor was their captain, and there was battle in the air all the day and through a dark night of doubt. Before the rising of the sun Eärendil slew Ancalagon the Black, the mightiest of the dragon-host, and cast him from the sky; and he fell upon the towers of Thangorodrim, and they were broken in his ruin." (Artwork)

Bright Star - An Exile into Paradise

by Oshun

Elros is preparing to leave behind the land of his birth, everyone and everything he has known, to become one of the founding settlers and the first king of Númenór. Elrond is not ready to let him go. (Short Story)

Roads Not Taken

by anthropologyarda

With Tar-Ciryatan's crowning, Númenor takes the well-traveled path – but it wasn't the only one. His sister held other dreams. (Short Story)

The City Lights Burn

by Tyelca

Elrond and Gil-Galad discuss Annatar’s presence in Ost-in-Edhil. (Short Story)

Introduction by Lyra.

1 As one disenchanted reviewer called it. 2Humphrey Carpenter, Christopher Tolkien (eds)., The Letters of J.R.R.Tolkien. Letter 131.

#silmarillion fanfiction and fanart #silmarillion writers guild

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theclaravoyant · 7 years

Note

FitzDaisy centered about post-framework after what he had done to her in there?

AN ~ What’s that sound? It’s more Fitz Daisy Framework-related hurt/comfort!

For some others see:

platonic, set post-Framework, but written before end of season: x x

FitzSkimmons set post-Framework, but written before end of season: x

platonic FD + romantic FS (Bus Kid) written & set during 4x21: x

This one focuses much more on what happened to Daisy than the above ones; Fitz approaches her to help them both truly forgive & move on.

(title from Hey Brother - Avicii)

Read on AO3 (~1500wd)

if the sky comes falling down

It was a cold morning on the Space Prison. It was so cold, in fact, that Daisy had given up on sleep and sought out her warmest jacket and a long walk – as long as she could get, in this place. It was early morning, or so she guessed from the dim lighting, since it was always night out here. It was early enough, she knew, that she was surprised to find Fitz awake in one of the hallways, scratching at the wall with what appeared to be a knife. Slowing down, concern clutching at her chest, Daisy tried to catch his eye.

“Hey…Fitz…” she greeted slowly, not sure what state she’d found him in. “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” he assured her, so calm it was in itself unnerving. He turned to her with a soft smile on his face and she glanced at the wall where he’d been carving; not symbols, but a word. Vijay Nadeer.

“Are you sure?” Daisy checked. “Because this place…”

“I really am okay,” Fitz promised, standing up and looking a little less crazy when the light hit his eyes a different way. They were still haunted and heavy, but no longer seemed so distant. “It’s actually kind of therapeutic up here.”

“Really?” Daisy frowned. “I’m still pretty sure it’s some kind of messed up social experiment.”

“Actually,” he said, “maintenance, life support… it’s very calming.”

Daisy nodded. She was glad he hadn’t said it was what he deserved or some rubbish like that. Although, given the nature of the names he’d been carving – and the fact that he’d been carving them at all – still gave her cause for concern about his guilt levels.

“What’s that about?” she wondered, gesturing toward it.

“It’s a Wall of Valour. Sort of,” Fitz explained, and suddenly it made sense. “I mean usually, the Wall of Valour’s just for certified Agents but… it felt right. It’s helping me feel better.”

“And our beloved overloads haven’t smote you for damaging their property or something?”

“I don’t think our ‘overlords’ care what we do here, Daisy,” he pointed out, laughing a little at the name she’d given their faceless commanders. “We do the work, we get to therapise ourselves on our own terms.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Sure it is. I mean, none of us is ever going to go to a real therapist, are we? So instead, we get months of monotony in Space Prison to sort ourselves out.”

Daisy narrowed her eyes.

“You know prison is… a punishment, right?”

“It doesn’t have to be.”

Daisy wrapped her arms around her torso as she followed Fitz down the Wall- past Jeffrey Mace and Lincoln Campbell and a few others she didn’t quite catch - to where he must have started. A small bag rested there, leaning against a blank space, and Fitz dug inside it and pulled out a sketchpad. A drink bottle and charcoals threatened to spill out too and Daisy’s frown deepened.

“Where did you get all that?”

“I told you,” Fitz insisted. “They don’t care what we do, as long as we do the work. I told them I needed a sketchbook, they gave me one. I didn’t tell them what for and so far, nobody’s asked.”

Daisy pressed her lips together.

“Well, that’s just a tee-up, isn’t it?” she pointed out.

“I’m glad you asked.” Fitz smiled. It faded quickly, though, as he returned his attention to the content of the book. He paged through it with focus, but not much subtlety, and Daisy caught a few screaming faces, angry scratches, twisted trees. A few kinder things too, though. A stream in a forest. Jemma’s face. Her own.

“Fitz…”

Daisy trailed off as Fitz began to carefully tear a page from the book. It bore a surprisingly realistic likeness of her face, smiling a little, with her nose crinkling not unlike it did as she first took in the image.

“Why are you showing me this?” she wondered.

“Not showing,” Fitz corrected. “I’m giving it to you. It’s… a therapy technique.”

“You went to therapy? I mean. Sorry. But.” Her eyes couldn’t help asking, and Fitz brushed her off.

“I did, for a while after the uh, the Pod, but I picked this up before that. Believe it or not, I used to be quite the problem child. Yeah. I can feel the shock radiating off you.”Daisy smirked. She didn’t know much about Fitz’s background, but somehow, she’d picked up enough not to be surprised. And, she could relate.

“Anyway, it really taught me a lot about handling my emotions and all that. One of the things that stuck was art therapy. Another was – when I’d hurt someone or done wrong by them I’d apologise through action. Through an act of service. Because of what you said before, I didn’t know if you’d accept an actual favour, so I decided to give you the picture instead. Though of course, you’re welcome to the favour as well.”

“It’s beautiful, thank you,” Daisy said, but she kept her eyes on Fitz. He didn’t look like he’d finished what he wanted to say. After a while, she probed him about it and, with an expression very much like he’d been caught out with a troubling secret, he looked up at her and asked quietly:

“Can I show you something else?”

Daisy led the way back to her room, since she assumed he wanted privacy, and Jemma would be in his bunk. Once inside, Fitz let out a deep breath and turned the sketchbook back toward her. On a page separate from the one he’d torn out, there were more pictures of her, most of them more stylized and roughly drawn; all of them, struggling, suffering or in pain. Climbing up a steep cliff, in a pit, tied up, bleeding, calling out for help. Calling out for him. There was a double spread of it, and another double when she turned the page and the only relief was a standing figure with a fist raised to the sky, light shining around her, victorious.

Daisy’s jaw hung open, tears seeping down her cheeks as she felt the visceral pain that Fitz had laid out before her, and in turn was pulled back into her own pain from the Framework. Falling down the stairs. Unable to stand. Bleeding, bloody, dizzy and enraged, and more scared than she had remembered being at the time. Everyone was trying to kill her. Everyone she knew was evil. It hadn’t been real, but it had happened. It had hurt.

She looked up at Fitz with quivering lips, the question hanging in her mind again, why are you showing me this?

“I know I hurt you,” Fitz said. “I know you’ll keep telling me it’s not my fault and eventually I’m going to have to accept that you’re right but the reality is, you got hurt and you wouldn’t have if not for me. So, for what it’s worth, I am sorry.”

Daisy pressed her lips together and nodded, blinking back tears.

“It’s worth a lot. So much. Thank you.”

“Thank you for getting me out of there.”

“That was Jemma, and Radcliffe,” Daisy corrected.

“They couldn’t have done it without you. And even though Jemma’s been trying, she couldn’t have meant what you meant when you said that we were going to stick together through all this. I know you’ve been here before and to come back to these feelings again, for me, it’s –“

“It’s what friends are for, Fitz.”

“Sorry I haven’t been a very good one lately. Including the way I treated you when you came back. Honestly, if it hadn’t been for you, and this place, I’d be tempted to run away myself. It’s not as easy as it looks, to stay.”

“That it is not,” Daisy agreed. Her eyes trailed back to the heroic picture in the corner of the horrors, and Fitz noticed.

“That one’s because I was proud of you,” he confessed softly. “I mean, I always am, but in there… Everything and everyone was messed up and trying to kill you and you still wanted peace, you still had hope. You persisted even when you could have died. For real. I thought that was pretty cool. So I drew it as a reminder, to myself. And to you, if you like.”

Daisy smiled, tearing up now beyond sense and vision.

“Come here.” She opened her arms, beckoning, but before he could fall into them she stepped up to him and wrapped her arms around him firmly. “I forgive you. Of course I do. But thanks for apologising anyway.”

“Love you,” Fitz murmured.“Love you too.”

Fitz tightened his return hug and then they stood together for a long while in the silence, warmed by mutual understanding, forgiveness, and love.

#daisy johnson #leo fitz #fitzdaisy #brotp: a tonne of weird crap #aospositivitynet #aosficnet #fitz #clara's fic tag #prompt me stuff #Anonymous

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redwallthoughts · 7 years

Text

Lament of Sword and Rose

Pseudo prologue to my fic Redwall Midwinter Miracle.

Setting: A warm summer night two seasons before RMM, Martin is the last beast awake at Redwall, Rose cannot sleep and wanders the paths of Noonvale.

This song operates on the headcannon that Martin is actually a decent singer, despite him saying otherwise.

(Martin)

Empty rooms,

Empty halls,

Day is done,

Night has come,

And I am left wond’ring once again,

Are my mem’ries gone until the end?

Once I loved,

That I recall,

Still I wonder,

Where did she go?

Did we talk often?

Could I make her smile?

One thing’s certain,

I’ll never know.

(Rose)

Quiet paths,

Quiet town,

All others now,

Have bedded down,

Yet I’m left searching for that I lost,

After all this time has passed.

My love has gone,

Down wand’ring roads,

Seeking solace,

From his pain.

Where dreams that torture,

Can find him not,

Sometimes it seems,

I search in vain.

(Martin)

Heroic deeds,

Acts of valour,

Yet I can't recall,

The day or hour,

A life spent searching,

Would be in vain,

So much time spent,

For just a name.

(Rose)

I thought my love for you was fleeting,

Like a sudden summer storm,

Swift and unexpected,

Yet still gone by break of morn.

But now that all these seasons,

Have gone and passed us by,

Still my heart beats strong for your love,

Oh where did you go and why?

(Martin)

What crime did I commit,

For what deed do I still pay,

That I should remember all about her,

Except her face and name?

Oh, an empty mind is torture,

To not recall what came before,

But for dreams that fly in,

Then go vanishing once more.

(Both)

The moon hangs bright now in the sky,

Shining like a silver eye,

And as I stare in wonder,

Are you looking at it too?

It’s strange to think,

I realize,

That just like the distance sunrise,

The same silver moon shines down on you.

And time goes on just as before,

Each season changing slow,

(Martin)

Still I’m left wond’ring...

(Rose)

...Still I’m left searching,

(Martin)

If only I knew your name.

(Rose)

If only I knew where you are.

#Redwall #Redwall Midwinter Miracle #Midwinter Miracle #Lament of Sword and Rose #Martin the Warrior #Rose #Martin

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ehmerapunjab · 7 years

Text

The absence in Punjabiyat’s split universe.

The partition of Punjab in 1947 created a paradoxical situation that Punjabis had never experienced before: they were one people, but with two mainlands now — India and Pakistan. In that sense, Punjab ceased to exist; by and large, Punjabis took to perceiving their world through the prism of nation states and national boundaries, shaped by whichever side of the divide they found themselves in.

In the process, the self became the other. The universe of Punjabiyat — a shared way of life — was marginalised. It was replaced by perceptions of contending identities, which have found an echo in the dominant power politics of east Punjab these past 65 years. However, the idea of Punjabiyat has not been totally erased. In ways seen and unseen, it continues to inhabit the universe of the average Punjabi’s everyday life, language, culture, memories and consciousness.

Living paradoxes

Born almost two decades after Partition, my first realisation of a composite Punjab, ironically, was through the presence of absences. Behind my grandparents’ house in our village Akalgarh, in district Ludhiana, is a narrow street. To this day it is called Rajputan de Gali (the street of the Rajputs). This is where the influential community of ‘Rajput Muslims,’ as they were addressed, lived before Partition. The villagers’ reference to the Maseet Wala Gurdwara (literally the mosque turned gurdwara) is yet another symbol of the once powerful presence of Muslims in Akalgarh.

Similarly, there is a pond called Taru Shah da Toba , named after a wandering fakir Taru Shah , who preferred to stay on in our village. Over the years his shrine in the old graveyard has grown in size and stature. Yet there are no Muslims in the village.

To me, these living paradoxes spoke unequivocally of the presence of an absence of Punjabi Muslims from east Punjab. It was a reminder that any imagination of Punjab which excluded Punjabi Muslims would only end up ghettoising east Punjabi society.

The last six decades have witnessed two parallel trajectories in east Punjab as a response to Partition. One trajectory is defined by a dominant mode of politics in the domain of national contestations; the other, reflecting an organic response of people in their everyday lives, emphasises local continuities.

Contestations & continuities

In spite of occasional expressions of bonhomie during a cross-border cricket match, offerings of prayers at each other’s holy shrines for the benefit of competing media cameras, or photo-ops centred on prisoners granted amnesty across the border, it is a fact that politics in east Punjab has always engaged with west Punjab strictly within a nationalist framework — just like India would deal with Pakistan.

Strangely, the State’s Akali leadership, which is never shy of confronting the Centre on any issue, big or small, imagines Punjab no differently. Such is the influence of national boundaries in imposing constricting visions that Punjabi Muslims and west Punjab have been rendered completely invisible in the conceptualisation of the Punjabi self by this brand of politics in east Punjab.

For instance, the complete silence over the killings of Punjabi Muslims in east Punjab during Partition could be explained away by the nation state as a “side effect” of the birth of a nation. But, equally, east Punjab’s political class has chosen to be silent on this issue of Partition, which had a totally different meaning for Punjabi Hindus and Sikhs who shared so much in common with Punjabi Muslims in terms of culture, language, traditions and spirituality.

In all these years, the same east Punjabi political class has shown little interest in articulating any expression of regret for the killings of Muslims during Partition. As for the idea of a reconciliation which would help recover the self banished as the other in 1947, that has never been part of any political agenda.

This gives rise to a significant question. If this is how the State’s political leadership has envisioned Punjab, how is it any different from the Hindutva politics of Hindi , Hindu , Hindustan ? Often, the justification of this silence stems from a positioning based on playing the blame game. It is a political stance that has been used by the likes of Gujarat Chief Minister Narendra Modi to invoke Newton’s third law of motion during the killings of Muslim minorities in his State in 2002.

In the year of the Gujarat killings, the Rashtriya Sawayamsevek Sangh (RSS) held a massive function in the heart of Amritsar to honour its cadres who had actively participated in the genocide of Muslims in 1947, ostensibly to protect the Hindus and Sikhs in east Punjab. At this Shaurya Smriti Samman function, (honouring the memory of valour), the RSS made an audacious attempt to appropriate iconic Punjabi revolutionaries of the anti-imperialist movement like Shaheed Udham Singh and Kartar Singh Sarabha.

The counterpoint to this trajectory is to be found at levels closer to the ground, in the responses of the Partition generation that witnessed the genocidal violence of 1947 in east Punjab. In the villages straddling the Malwa region of Punjab, people of this generation can often be heard talking about the fate of the perpetrators of the killings, the accounts disturbing in their sharp details. They never fail to describe how the perpetrators, who were from their own community, met with miserable ends. The widely shared faith of this generation in a morality based on the belief that those who commit inhuman acts, suffer in their own lifetime, that there is always a payback, carries within it a great humanist and universal message.

While shooting my documentaries in this region over a decade, rarely did I come across anyone valorising the killers of Muslims. This fast fading generation’s expressions of guilt and remorse seem to be a way of cleansing the soul, with the potential to heal the scars of a traumatic past and show the path to reconciliation.

Memorialising — what and what not

Yet there has been no acknowledgement of this articulation anywhere on a formal level in east Punjab. No memorials have been erected for the one million people who perished in 1947. At the same time, building memorials has been an unceasing political activity in the State. The pertinent ones in this context are the memorials of Wada Ghalughara, Chhota Ghalughara and the Banda Bahadur War Memorial. They are largely meant to invoke the heroic battles of the Sikhs against the Mughal state’s oppression. The point worth pondering is that these acts privilege a memory that is exclusivist, selective and sectarian, over the historical pluralist ethos of Punjab. This act of institutionalisation of memory is not very different from the manner in which Hindu nationalist forces and the RSS invoke the memory of Maharana Pratap and Chhatrapati Shivaji as saviours of Hindus from Muslim oppression.

Away from the glare of such grandstanding lies the universe of the common Punjabi. In so many villages across east Punjab, people throng the shrines of Sakhi Sarvar — Lakh Data Pir or Nigaha Pir as he is called, whose main shrine is located near Dera Ghazi Khan in Pakistan. This is a vibrant living tradition outside the domain of the dominant faiths of east Punjab that has survived Partition — and is evident in multiple spaces of shared spirituality, especially Sufi shrines.

The political class has never bothered to argue on behalf of such cross-border traditions which speak of multiple expressions of identity. It is more interested in picking and choosing elements which have the potential to harden the identity politics of Us against the Other.

The silencing of language

There is one more interesting dimension to this rubric and it has to do with language. Post-Partition, in west Punjab, the imposition of Urdu virtually decimated the Punjabi language; in east Punjab, Urdu became a casualty of Punjabi. I remember having an animated conversation about Urdu with four elderly men under a pilkhan tree in a village in Ludhiana some years ago. “A beautiful language, with nuances neither Hindi nor Punjabi can equal,” said one. “It’s our language, forged from Arabic and Punjabi,” said another. The third one remembered how, when Partition was announced, “all of us in Class III, studying lesson number 14 in Urdu, threw our Qua’ida in the air and said, ‘ Urdu ud gaya, Urdu ud gaya ’ [Urdu has flown away].” The fourth friend ruminated: “We used to think Urdu belonged to Muslims; nobody knew it was a language.”

Here, too, the dominant trajectory of politics, with a skewed sense of Punjab’s history, continues to deny the organic links between Persia and Punjab — cultural, spiritual and linguistic. It has ghettoised the Punjabi language by keeping Urdu and Persian at bay. Ironically, while people in villages celebrate Gaus Pak Pir from Baghdad, students in Punjab are denied the option of studying Persian or Urdu as a second language.

This underlines the nationalist perspective echoed by east Punjab politics; it is certainly not a Punjab perspective.

By Ajay Bhardwaj a Delhi-based documentary filmmaker. The Hindu.

#Punjabiyat #Article #Punjab #Punjabi #This is my Punjab #Eh Mera Punjab

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