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sixpennydame · 1 year

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The Better Man | Chapter 8

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Read in AO3 here

Content/warnings: alcohol consumption, child abuse and neglect, mentions of death.

A/N: This is it..the final chapter! Thank you to everyone who has read, liked, and reblogged this fic. I hope you've enjoyed all the angst and drama!

There will be a final epilogue coming out next week.

Suggested music:

There’s not a sound around you as you walk through the dark, quiet streets of Trost, still too early for even the bakers and butchers to start their morning shifts. There was no way for you to get a hold of Lars’ horse, so you had to find other ways to get out of the city without Levi tracking you.

You knew he’d search for you.

If you can just get further into Wall Rose, you can make a new life. You’ve done it before.

When Levi said he wouldn’t leave the Survey Corps, you knew in your heart that being together - truly together - was just a dream. You couldn’t watch him go through that gate, wondering if he would ever return. The pain of losing someone again - the fear of losing their bodies or minds to the trauma - you’re not sure you can do it again.

And so this time, you left first.

You’d packed only a few change of clothes in a small pack, along with all the money and valuables you and Lars had.

All except one.

The simple gold band reminded you of the life you no longer had, of the love that was no longer with you. And so you’d left it on the table of your small home with the rent for the remainder of the month and a small letter explaining your departure to your landlady. You’d left nothing for Levi. What good would a letter do?

The easiest and fastest way out of Trost is the ferry that travels along the river, but if you do that, there would be a record of your departure. It wasn’t easy to find an alternative, but you were an Underground rat; your instincts helped you find a smuggler sneaking goods out of the city who was willing to smuggle you out as well. You hand him the payment and step onto the boat, holding the hood of your cape as close to your face as possible.

“You must be pretty desperate not to be found, if you’re leaving like this,” he snickers, but you huddle up closer in a corner, pulling your knees close to you and trying not to think of the hurt and anger in Levi’s eyes when he finds that you are gone.

“Levi…I’m sorry…” you whisper to no one but yourself.

_____

After your disappearance, Levi spent the rest of the week in a rage to find you. He searched every women’s boarding house, every small, forgotten apartment. He checked the ferry and stables for any woman leaving Trost fitting your description. As he searched for you, his heart and mind struggled to understand why - why you would leave, just as your lives could have started again. Had the moment you’d shared together just been a dream? Were the two of you destined to always be apart?

No, Levi didn’t believe that. He creates his own destiny, his own future. And he wants to share that with you. He doesn’t know why you ran away - maybe you’re scared - but he does know that he’ll search every goddamn town in this goddamn, walled world until he finds you.

But every day, every possible lead, gets him no closer from the truth of where you are. Since his search started, he’s barely slept, barely ate, and barely even been to Survey Corp Headquarters. He’s tasked Eld with keeping up the squad’s daily training routine, and although the team doesn’t question his actions, they know it’s only a matter of time until his absences will be noticed by more than just them.

Namely, Erwin.

Levi rides into headquarters disheveled and in a rush. After searching Trost with no sign of you, he suspects that you’ve somehow gotten out of the city undetected and have moved somewhere else within Wall Rose. Although you’re resourceful, he knows it’s not possible for you to have gotten very far with the limited funds you had, and if he leaves now, he just might be able to find some kind of clue in a neighboring town. He stables his horse and goes straight to his room, ignoring any and all corpsmen he passes by. As he packs a small bag, he hears a knock on the door. He ignores it, but the person behind it enters anyway.

“You’re squad tells me you’ve been busy lately,” the baritone voice remarks as the door clicks closed.

“Yeah,” he doesn’t even stop to look at Erwin standing against the doorframe, his arms crossed at his chest, “I have some personal issues to take care of. I’ll be gone for a few days.”

“You know there are certain procedures in place to request leave, Levi.”

“And I don’t have time for that bullshit right now, Erwin.”

“As apt as I am to let you have your way most days, I’m afraid I have to refuse this time.” His gaze was cold, serious.

Levi met his gaze with his own, his stormy grey eyes boring straight into him.

“We have an expedition in two days. Surely you didn’t forget.”

There’s only silence while Levi buckles his pack and slings it over his shoulder. “Eld can lead the squad in my absence. He’s more than capable.” He moves towards the door which Erwin is blocking. “Now get out of my way.”

“I can’t do that.” Erwin stands up straighter, his broad shoulders blocking the way entirely. “You made a commitment to the Corps and to your squad.”

“This is important.”

“More important than the lives of your squad, your comrades in arms?”

“Yes,” Levi replies sternly.

“I know that’s not true.”

Erwin’s right. The lives of the Corps weigh heavily on Levi. He knows the fate of many of them rests in his skill and expertise. His absence could mean many more lives will be lost. Lives like Lars’.

His heart waivers for a moment, torn between his duty and the urgency of finding you. He has to find you. “I have to do this,” he says. “Now move.” When Erwin doesn’t budge, Levi grabs the lapels of his jacket, jerking him down to face him. “I could easily force my way out of here, you know.”

“And you would be charged with attacking your superior officer and punished accordingly,” Erwin answers bluntly. “You’d be held in the brig until a punishment was decided.”

A few seconds pass as both men stare each other down. Then Levi lets go of his lapels and pushes him against the door. He drops his pack on the floor with a heavy thud.

“Fine. Have it your way.” His eyes darken with murderous contempt.

But Erwin doesn’t flinch, only straightening his jacket. “The 104th Cadet Corps is in Trost. When we return from the expedition, we’ll be enlisting new recruits and you can take leave at that time.” He turns his back on Levi as he opens the door. “Now we both have an expedition preparation meeting to get to.”

This bastard…

Levi straightens his ascot, takes a breath, and follows Erwin down the hall to the meeting room.

Two days later, The Survey Corps rides through Trost, to the usual fanfare. It irritates Levi, how fickle the crowd can be: loving them and singing their praises one moment, then cursing them the next. He can hear people talking about him. Fuck, he hates that.

But he looks out into the crowd, hoping you’ll be there, that you’re trying to catch his eye.

“Who ya lookin’ for?” Hange asks, riding beside him.

He snaps his head forward. “Nobody, Four-eyes.”

He’s going to hold Erwin to his promise. After this expedition, he’s leaving Trost to look for you. Nothing and no one is going to stop him.

_____

“Levi!” You yell out, jolting up from your bed.

It’s been the same bad dream the last few weeks since you left Trost, much like the bad dreams you had after Levi rescued you from that brothel so many years ago. But instead of hands grabbing you and clawing at your flesh, it’s titan hands grabbing at Levi and pulling him away from you. You just can’t shake this dark feeling of danger, like something bad is going to happen soon.

Like something is going to happen to Levi.

You wipe your sleepy eyes and find that you’d been crying, something you’ve refused to allow yourself to do since Lars’ death, in an attempt to build that wall up around your heart again. But in the loneliness of the night, your dreams reveal your true self.

The sun is just starting to rise over the wall surrounding Karaness. You’re not really sure why you decided to stop here, in your attempt to evade Levi; it seemed far enough, and you were so tired of hitchhiking. You ended up settling just outside the main part of the district. You’d had enough of walls on all four sides of you. Of being caged in.

And yet.

Your mind had often told you to return to The Underground. That maybe that was the place you truly deserved. You could sneak into Mitras and go back. Although impossible to escape, nobody would think twice if someone wanted to return there; in fact, they'd probably think you’re crazy.

But you couldn’t do it. Levi had sacrificed too much to get you here. You knew he was better off without you, but to go back to that place would be an offense to everything he’s done thus far. He’d told you that he let you go because he thought that was the best for you; that he didn’t deserve you.

Did he understand that your leaving was for the very same reason? Had he realized that and given up looking for you by now?

You got dressed and headed for your job at the local tavern. You never thought you’d be working at a place like this again, but there were no other options. It seems like there are some things you just can’t escape, no matter how hard you try.

As you wipe down the bar and tend to the customers, someone barges through the door.

“Trost has been attacked! That Colossal Titan reappeared and kicked a hole through the wall. It’s five years ago all over again!”

Everyone runs outside, as if expecting to see titans on their own doorstep. Raised voices and chaos are only amplified as the Garrison forces begin moving into the inner, walled district of Karaness, reinforcing both gates.

You run up to a soldier packing canon shells into a wagon to take into town. “What’s happening in Trost?”

“It’s too early to say ma’am. We’ve just been ordered to reinforce the Karaness gates until further notice.”

“But the Survey Corps…were they there? Are they fighting in Trost?” you press, desperate to know anything about Levi.

“Ma’am, I honestly don’t know. We’ve received no other updates,” his voice is stressed. “Now, please.” He gestures for you to move away from the wagon.

You know that if there was an attack on Trost, then more than likely the Corps was there, unless they were on an expedition. There’s a tightness in the pit of your stomach, fearing your dreams are coming true. You need to know if he’s alive.

No sleep comes to you that night, as you toss and turn, thinking about what might have happened to Levi and his squad. You know he’s capable of taking down any titan that crosses his path, but the Colossal Titan is not like any other titan. And if that hole isn’t closed up, then they’ll be overwhelmed with titans in a matter of days.

If Levi was dead, you’d know it, feel it somehow. He’s alive, he’s alive…

And the realization hits you: what a fool you’ve been, thinking you could leave him and all your love for him behind, as if that was a choice your heart even had. You’ve never had a choice when it came to him - even when he left, your love for him had never faded.

You need to see him and make sure he’s ok.

And so in the morning, you decide to leave for Trost.

_____

Levi watches you from the back of your father’s tavern. It’s where he tends to hang out whenever Kenny leaves him for days at a time. He’s a teenager now, so being by himself isn’t too big a deal, but it still gets awfully lonely. And your presence has always filled that loneliness for him, ever since he was a boy.

Word of Levi’s newly found strength had spread throughout the Underground, and so it wasn’t usual for men and women to challenge him to various feats of strength. Tonight, it was arm wrestling, and Levi beat every last one.

“How many have you beaten tonight? Six?” You ask as you walk by his table.

“Seven, but who’s counting,” he replies dryly, as he pulls his arm across his chest, stretching his muscles. You laugh, and he swears it’s the sweetest sound in the world. He wishes he could give you more reasons to laugh, but there were few opportunities in the Underground and it seemed as if it was your father’s goal to make you as miserable as possible.

You walk away from Levi’s table with a tray of beers, not looking at where you’re going and knock into another table. The beers spill everywhere as the pint glasses fall and break onto the floor.

Your father is upon you in an instant, face red from alcohol, anger, or both. “Stupid girl…Can you do nothing right?” He raises his arm and backhands you across the cheek, but before he can land a second blow, Levi is up out of his seat and punches him squarely in the jaw. The entire tavern goes silent when they see your father sprawled on the floor unconscious, then one by one, men start standing and making their way to Levi.

“Let’s go.” He grabs your hand and pulls you out of the tavern and into the dark street. You both run, hand in hand, hiding from the men yelling and running after you, until Levi pulls you into an abandoned building. As he leads you up the stairs and onto the roof, your heart is racing from the frantic running and from the fact that Levi is holding your hand. He doesn’t let go even when he’s decided that you’re in a safe hiding place.

Your hand is sweaty but you don’t let go either. “What are we doing up here, Levi?”

“I’m getting you away from your asshole father, that’s what. I’m tired of watching him hit you. I had to do something.”

“And what are we going to do now?”

Levi thought about it for a few minutes. Honestly, he hadn’t really thought it through when he grabbed your hand and started running. “We’ll run away together.”

“Run away? But where would we even go?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.” He turns to look at you, eyes full of determination. “I can protect you.”

“We’re kids. And my dad is just drunk…he’ll regret what he did when he sobers up.”

“No! It’s not ok, what he does to you. And I’m not a kid. I’ll take care of you.”

“Levi, I —“

You’re cut off by the voice of your father, yelling your name. You peek over the edge of the building and see him stumbling about, spouting half-drunken apologies and requests for you to come home. You look at Levi, defeated.

“Y/n, no.”

You move closer to him, then give him a kiss on the lips. It’s quick and awkward, but it’s enough to make Levi’s eyes go wide.

“I have to go. He needs me,” you say reluctantly. “But someday, we’ll get out of here and be together. I promise.”

You let go of Levi’s hand and walk out of the building, toward your father’s voice.

_____

You weren’t sure what to expect as you made your way to Trost, but the closer you get, the more chaotic it seems. Refugees from the fallen city and the towns surrounding fill the forests and roads. You hear them talk of a rumor that a soldier turned into a titan and was able to block the hole made by the Colossal Titan, but it was too fantastical to even believe.

The walls get closer and there are soldiers everywhere, creating a roadblock that hinders your entrance.

“Sorry, miss. Access to Trost is for the military only.”

“Please… I need to get in.”

“You live here?”

“Well, no, not anymore but -“

“No civilians are allowed until we can confirm the city is secure,” he commands, unmoving.

“Can you just tell me if the Survey Corp is there? Is Captain Levi there?”

“Most of the Survey Corps left a few days ago.” He stands resolute. “It’s not safe here. You should go back wherever you came from.”

You can tell that this soldier is not going to answer any more of your questions. You look around, trying to find any uniforms with the Wings of Freedom emblazoned on the back, but you see none, only Garrison and Military Police.

If you can’t get any answers here, then you’ll just go to Survey Corps Headquarters. There’s a chill in the early spring air as you take the road you’ve traveled countless times. It’s getting dark, but the road is wide and you could ride there in your sleep; you think back to the last time you’d been there, when Lars was still alive.

As you enter the gates, there’s barely a soul to be found. Eventually, you spot a familiar face. “Wilhem…”

He stops when he sees you, a mix of surprise and confusion on his face. “Y/n…what are you doing here?”

“Where is Levi Squad? I need to talk with the Captain.”

“Sorry..I can’t tell you that. It’s classified information.”

“What do you mean?”

He tells you about the cadet who has titan abilities, and about the tribunal. You listen, in shock. It’s impossible.

“What happens next, not even we know. We’re just waiting for Commander Erwin to return with orders.” He pauses. “But everything has changed now.”

“I see.”

“Do you want me to relay a message to the Captain?”

You open your mouth to reply, but then stop and take a moment. “No..no, that’s alright,” and you turn to leave into the night, not really sure of where you’re even going. Wilhelm stops you and offers for you to stay there for the night. You tentatively agree, even though you haven’t stayed here since the argument with Lars, almost two years ago.

At dinner, the few Scouts you know tell you of the attack, of the confusion and devastation, and of the titan that seems to be on our side. They also talk about a rumor that Levi Squad has taken the cadet into their custody, but where and for what purpose, they don’t know.

As you sit there, slack-jawed, listening to their story, it confirms what Levi had tried to tell you before: this world needs him more than you do. If humanity is ever going to find freedom, then it needs Levi to keep fighting. You fear you’re just a distraction from his higher calling.

In the morning, you ride back to Karaness. Maybe it was for the best that Levi wasn’t here. Perhaps it’s time to truly make a life on your own.

_____

Levi wakes up to the sun shining on his face through the window of his cold, musty room. He’d fallen asleep in the armchair again, but it didn’t make a difference to him - the beds in the old Survey Corps Headquarters were barely usable, and he slept even less than usual lately. Each day, more and more Survey Corps members were showing up at the castle; most notably, the new recruits, who seem to know Eren well. Levi had been monitoring him closely these past few weeks, looking for any change in behavior, or any indication of a titan shift; at the surface, he seemed like any other big-eyed cadet with a yearning to make a difference, but Levi could see something else in him. There was a monster deep inside…and when it came out, would Levi really be able to control him? Would anyone?

But that wasn’t the only thing keeping Levi up at night.

He wondered where you were and if you were alright. Had he been wrong about you leaving Trost? What if you’d been hurt, or worse? He’d checked the dead and injured civilians list, and your name was nowhere to be found. You were alive, you had to be alive…

It was torture to not be able to search for you, but once again his duties pulled him away from you, his commitment to the Corps calling him. Erwin needing him.

But had he also not promised to protect you, to keep you safe? He couldn’t help but feel like he’d failed you in that regard; and yet, he told himself that in keeping humanity safe, he was protecting you, the one constant in his chaotic life.

He rubbed his stiff neck and rose from the armchair. They leave for Karaness District today and there’s still much to do. Erwin had arrived at the castle a few days ago and had informed his squad leaders of the deeper plan behind the 57th expedition beyond the walls, but Levi knew there was more he wasn’t telling them. There was a bigger plan at work here, and a look in Erwin's eyes that unnerved even Levi, who probably knew him better than anyone.

A two day ride brought the Corps to the inner gate of Karaness. Erwin thought it best for all squads to camp outside the enclosed part of the district in order to accommodate the large wagons they were hauling. Wagons which were being guarded day and night and that no one was allowed to touch. Soldiers were ordered not to enter the town, in an effort to keep Eren and their plans as guarded as possible.

That night, Levi was quiet, introspective. There was an air of anticipation throughout the camp, as there usually was the night before an expedition, but Levi knew there was something different this time - a new enemy, possibly amongst them. He should be thinking about the mission, about how he’s going to keep Eren protected, but as he cleaned and polished his blades, he looked up at the stars, and wondered where you were.

_____

It was one of the first warm evenings of the early spring, as you climbed the small ladder leading to the roof of your apartment. Whenever the sky was clear, you yearned to see the stars; the freedom and expanse of it all was such a stark contrast to the world you and Levi had been raised in. You smiled, thinking back to the two of you as children, straining to see the sky through a steep crevice opening to the world above, wondering what the stars were made of, straining to count how many there were..

And now, because of him, you were able to see them. You were thankful for the moments you’d been able to share with him in this life. He’d saved you, in more ways than one.

“Levi…wherever you are…be safe..” you said to the stars. They twinkled in response.

You awoke the next morning to the noise of wagons and horses, and the gate into Karaness opening. Confused, you walked downstairs to see what the commotion was about.

“That was the Survey Corps. Their next expedition is departing from Karaness this morning,” one of your neighbors mentions.

“What!?” Without even thinking twice, you begin racing down the street to the gate. If you hurry, you might be able to see them, and catch Levi’s eye. Maybe even get a chance to talk to him, to tell him that you love him, that you’re sorry for leaving.

Pain pierces your side as you run as fast as your legs will allow. But by the time you get there, the gate is closed.

There it is: that feeling of fear you had whenever you saw Lars and Levi ride out of Trost; of helplessness that you can do nothing but wait.

But your fear quickly turns to a bold determination that he will return, and when he does, you will be there.

Surprisingly, you didn’t have to wait long to hear the gate open for their return.

_____

Levi was used to the jeering and cursing of townspeople after an expedition; but this time, it was almost unbearable. His injured ankle was throbbing as he walked through Karaness; however, he refused to ride his horse. He wanted to feel the pain, wanted to feel anything other than this deep sorrow in his heart. The words stuck in his throat as he turned to face Petra’s father.

She was gone. They were all gone.

The noise of the crowd fades away as he continues to walk in a daze.

“Levi…”

The voice is soft and sweet against the ugliness of the jeers. Then a hooded figure comes into view as it quietly walks beside him from a distance.

And it’s like the whole world stops.

He doesn’t have to see your face to know instantly that it’s you. He keeps walking to avoid a scene, but your name escapes his lips in a barely audible whisper.

“I need to talk with you,” you plead, “please.”

If only he could leave with you now; if only you both could leave this place together, leave everything behind.

You tell him the location of your apartment and he promises to be there tonight.

A promise he intends to keep with every fibre of his being.

_____

You pace the floor as you wait for Levi, going over and over in your mind what you’ll say to him.

Then there’s a knock at the door. You take a deep breath and open it.

Levi stands before you, visibly shaken, which is a rare sight, even for all the years you’ve known him. For a moment, he just stands there, then walks past you and into the small apartment.

He’s never been one for words, but the weight of his silence now fills the space between the two of you as he looks around the room.

“You came..” you manage to finally utter.

“Of course I did,” he answers curtly, his voice stressed, “I want some answers.”

He turns to look at you, and you can see the pain on his face, the hurt in his eyes. He’s different.

What happened during this expedition?

“Why did you leave Trost?”

You swallow, mouth suddenly dry. “I couldn’t stay there anymore. I decided it was for the best if I left your life - for good this time.”

Before you can explain further, or apologize, he cuts you off. “I can decide for myself what I do and don’t need in my life. Noone gets to decide that for me.”

“No..” you shake your head, “you’re not listening - “

“And I told you that I would take care of you. Why would you run from me? Do you even know what you want?” His voice is raised, anger and frustration coming through in every word.

Hearing him reprimand you like this sends a spark of anger through you. “You’re one to talk, Levi. You left me first, remember? Don’t act like you’re blameless in all this.”

Hands clenched at your sides, you face him. “You once told me that you left me alone above ground because you thought it was the best thing for me. That you couldn’t give me what I needed or deserved. Well, that’s how I felt.” You struggle with your next words. “Humanity needs you more than I ever will.”

“I don’t care what humanity needs,” he cuts you off again, “I need you. Can’t you see that?”

Although his words are harsh, his face is pained, and so you move even closer to him and cup his cheek.

He needs you.

“Levi…I’m here. For all of my doubts, I’ve realized I need you too.” Your voice softens. Seeing his face, having him here, suddenly makes all your other anxieties about the future seem unimportant. You’re only thinking about him. “What happened today?”

You can feel Levi leaning into your hand. “They’re gone. Petra, Oluo, Eld, Gunther, they were all killed today.” He swallows hard. “And I couldn’t protect them.”

He sits on your bed and looks at his hands. “I don’t understand why I have this kind of strength if I can’t save the people I care about most.”

You sit next to him and take his hands in yours, feeling the rough calluses from years of using the ODM gear. For someone so strong, he has such slender, delicate hands, you’ve always thought. At this moment, he suddenly seems so helpless. “Levi..their deaths, Lars’ death, Isabelle’s and Farlan’s..it’s not your fault. Your strength has protected countless others’ lives.”

You shift your weight on the bed to look at him, then lift his hands to your mouth and begin kissing each finger. “How many times did you protect me when we were kids? When you saved me from that brothel?” You’re kissing his rough knuckles, “You’ve sacrificed so much for others…for me..”

“Y/n..” Levi utters, his pain changing to love and desire. “I’ve done it all for you.” He caresses your cheek, then moves his lips closer to yours. “And I’d do it all again, if it meant I could be with you.”

He kisses you and even though you’ve felt his lips a thousand times before, it feels like the first time. Those same rough but delicate hands move from caressing your face to unbuttoning your blouse, finally laying you down on the bed.

You look at him as he hovers over you; for almost his entire life, Levi has been seen as a weapon, his body used to intimidate and destroy. But you’ve never seen him that way; even now, as he unbuttons his own shirt to reveal his scarred body, you see him as a man with so much love and care for others. And how he has used his body to love you in ways that no other person ever could.

You pull him toward you and kiss him once more. “I love you, Levi.” The words you once had so much trouble saying now flow easily, unencumbered by pride or shame.

“And I love you,” he replies tenderly. “I always have, and I always will.”

_____

The two of you made love again and again that night, until your bodies were completely spent and the sun began to peek over Wall Rose. It was as if each time you both were discovering something new about the other; a deeper well of love and pleasure neither had experienced before.

And something else was discovered: the realization that you both needed each other; it had always been this way and it was always going to be this way; an irrefutable fact, like gravity. Fighting against it was a fruitless act, and so all you both can do is cling to each other.

As the sun moves higher in the sky and the town wakes up around you, you know he has to go. The Scouts are heading to Stohess District for the next phase of Erwin’s plan, and neither of you know when you’ll see each other again. He pulls you close as you see him to the door, then he moves back to look at you.

“There are only two promises I’ve ever made in my life, to take down the titans and to protect you. But I’ll make you another promise: I will always, always come back to you. Nothing and no one is ever going to keep me away again.”

His eyes…those same grey eyes you’ve known since you were both children, when he was helpless and alone; now, no longer helpless.

And never alone again.

“Yes, Levi, yes. I’ll wait for you. Until those gates open, until these walls come falling down, until you kill the last titan...I will be here waiting…. ”

“I promise you.”

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hylfystt · 6 months

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wip wednesday

i was tagged by @lilas & @lavampira!! thank you both! muah! i don't have a whole lot to share, but do i have the beginnings to a kiss prompt i got a bit back feat. hypatia (fallout 3 girlie) and harkness.

i think most of y'all have been tagged and/or shared already, but tagging (if y'all want!) @hythlodaes @coldshrugs @birues @scionshtola @myreia @galadae @impossible-rat-babies @thevikingwoman @verraising & @greaterportent

They don’t talk about it in the morning. They pack up camp quietly, keeping a deliberate distance between them as they work. It’s been weeks now since they fled Rivet City, and by now they’ve settled comfortably into routine. Harkness checks their supplies. Hypatia checks their heading. “We should reach the Hudson by tomorrow,” Hypatia murmurs, hunched over the worn map. Harkness grunts in return, slinging his pack over his shoulder. Hypatia’s gaze slides to his back as he wanders off silently, no doubt off to scout the road ahead before they depart. Her fingers itch for a bottle. Instead they trace the length of the river as she forces her attention back to the map, brow furrowed.

#oc: hypatia corrigan #writing tag #wip wednesday

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thelustybraavosimaid · 2 years

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George clearly has a fascination with cannibals and cannibalism lol

In that darkness, the Others came riding, she used to say, dropping her voice lower and lower. Cold and dead they were, and they hated iron and fire and the touch of the sun, and every living creature with hot blood in its veins. Holdfasts and cities and kingdoms of men all fell before them, as they moved south on pale dead horses, leading hosts of the slain. They fed their dead servants on the flesh of human children… (Jon VII, AGoT)

Arya would have given anything for a cup of milk and a lemon cake, but the brown wasn't so bad. It usually had barley in it, and chunks of carrot and onion and turnip, and sometimes even apple, with a film of grease swimming on top. Mostly she tried not to think about the meat. Once she had gotten a piece of fish. (Arya V, AGoT)

And there were folks fiercer even than Varamyr, from the northernmost reaches of the haunted forest, the hidden valleys of the Frostfangs, and even queerer places: the men of the Frozen Shore who rode in chariots made of walrus bones pulled along by packs of savage dogs, the terrible ice-river clans who were said to feast on human flesh, the cave dwellers with their faces dyed blue and purple and green. (Jon II, ASoS)

"Give him three days, then inform him that Hamish the Harper has broken his arm. Tell him that his clothes will never serve for court, so he must be fitted for new garb at once. He'll come with you quick enough." He grimaced. "You may want his tongue, I understand it's made of silver. The rest of him should never be found." Bronn grinned. "There's a pot shop I know in Flea Bottom makes a savory bowl of brown. All kinds of meat in it, I hear." "Make certain I never eat there." Tyrion spurred to a trot. He wanted a bath, and the hotter the better. (Tyrion IV, ASoS)

When the flames were blazing nicely Meera put the fish on. At least it's not a meat pie. The Rat Cook had cooked the son of the Andal king in a big pie with onions, carrots, mushrooms, lots of pepper and salt, a rasher of bacon, and a dark red Dornish wine. Then he served him to his father, who praised the taste and had a second slice. Afterward the gods transformed the cook into a monstrous white rat who could only eat his own young. He had roamed the Nightfort ever since, devouring his children, but still his hunger was not sated. (Bran IV, ASoS)

"Shade-of-the-evening, the wine of the warlocks. I came upon a cask of it when I captured a certain galleas out of Qarth, along with some cloves and nutmeg, forty bolts of green silk, and four warlocks who told a curious tale. One presumed to threaten me, so I killed him and fed him to the other three. They refused to eat of their friend's flesh at first, but when they grew hungry enough they had a change of heart. Men are meat." (The Reaver, AFfC)

"One of the captives was always begging food," Rafford admitted, "so Ser said to give him roast goat. The Qohorik didn't have much meat on him, though. Ser took his hands and feet first, then his arms and legs." (Jaime III, AFfC)

"My old ma used to say that giant bats flew out from Harrenhal on moonless nights, to carry bad children to Mad Danelle for her cookpots. Sometimes I'd hear them scrabbling at the shutters." (Brienne II, AFfC)

Biter's mouth tore free, full of blood and flesh. He spat, grinned, and sank his pointed teeth into her flesh again. This time he chewed and swallowed. He is eating me, she realized, but she had no strength left to fight him any longer. She felt as if she were floating above herself, watching the horror as if it were happening to some other woman, to some stupid girl who thought she was a knight. It will be finished soon, she told herself. Then it will not matter if he eats me. (Brienne VII, AFfC)

Their cold flesh would be taken to the lower sanctum where only the priests could go; what happened in there Arya was not allowed to know. Once, as she was eating her supper, a terrible suspicion seized hold of her, and she put down her knife and stared suspiciously at a slice of pale white meat. The kindly man saw the horror on her face. "It is pork, child," he told her, "only pork." (Arya II, AFfC)

Meera Reed was turning a chunk of raw red flesh above the flames, letting it char and spit. "Just in time," she said. Bran rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand and wriggled backwards against the wall to sit. "You almost slept through supper. The ranger found a sow." Behind her, Hodor was tearing eagerly at a chunk of hot charred flesh as blood and grease ran down into his beard. Wisps of smoke rose from between his fingers. "Hodor," he muttered between bites, "hodor, hodor." His sword lay on the earthen floor beside him. Jojen Reed nipped at his own joint with small bites, chewing each chunk of meat a dozen times before swallowing.

...

"You said no fire," he reminded the ranger.

"The walls around us hide the light, and dawn is close. We will be on our way soon."

"What happened to the men? The foes behind us?"

"They will not trouble you." (Bran I, ADwD)

The wedding guests gorged on cod cakes and winter squash, hills of neeps and great round wheels of cheese, on smoking slabs of mutton and beef ribs charred almost black, and lastly on three great wedding pies, as wide across as wagon wheels, their flaky crusts stuffed to bursting with carrots, onions, turnips, parsnips, mushrooms, and chunks of seasoned pork swimming in a savory brown gravy.

...

True to his word, Manderly devoured six portions, two from each of the three pies, smacking his lips and slapping his belly and stuffing himself until the front of his tunic was half-brown with gravy stains and his beard was flecked with crumbs of crust. (The Prince of Winterfell, ADwD)

Asha had been as horrified as the rest when the She-Bear told her that four Peasebury men had been found butchering one of the late Lord Fell's, carving chunks of flesh from his thighs and buttocks as one of his forearms turned upon a spit, but she could not pretend to be surprised. The four were not the first to taste human flesh during this grim march, she would wager—only the first to be discovered. (The Sacrifice, ADwD)

And almost every day they ate blood stew, thickened with barley and onions and chunks of meat. Jojen thought it might be squirrel meat, and Meera said that it was rat. Bran did not care. It was meat and it was good. The stewing made it tender. (Bran III, ADwD)

At Hardhome, with six ships. Wild seas. Blackbird lost with all hands, two Lyseni ships driven aground on Skane, Talon taking water. Very bad here. Wildlings eating their own dead. (Jon XII, ADwD)

The largest and oldest of the wild dragons was the Cannibal, so named because he had been known to feed on the carcasses of dead dragons, and descend upon the hatcheries of Dragonstone to gorge himself on newborn hatchlings and eggs. (The Princess and the Queen)

A huge, hairy, foul-smelling folk (some maesters believe the Skagosi to have a strong admixture of Ibbenese blood; others suggest that they may be descended from giants), clad in skins and furs and untanned hides, and said to ride on unicorns, the Skagosi are the subject of many a dark rumor. It is claimed that they still offer human sacrifice to their weirwoods, lure passing ships to destruction with false lights, and feed upon the flesh of men during winter. (The North: The Stonemen of Skagos, TWoIaF)

Farther south, the trappings of civilization fall away, and the Brindled Men become ever more savage and barbaric. These Sothoryi worship dark gods with obscene rites. Many are cannibals, and more are ghouls; when they cannot feast upon the flesh of foes and strangers, they eat their own dead. (Beyond the Free Cities: Sothoryos, TWoIaF)

Lo Tho, called Lo Longspoon and Lo the Terrible, the twenty-second scarlet emperor, a reputed sorcerer and cannibal, who is said to have supped upon the living brains of his enemies with a long, pearl-handled spoon, after the tops of their skulls had been removed. (The Bones and Beyond: Yi Ti, TWoIaF)

#grrm: you're a cannibal! and you're a cannibal! EVERYONE'S A CANNIBAL!#asoiaf #cannibalism

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foodandfolklore · 5 months

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The Grimm Variations, Episode 2

A new Netflix Anime has caught my eye. It's Called the Grimm Variations; which feature retellings of Original Brothers Grimm fairytales. But rather be a beat for beat, they are more reimagined. A "What If" kind of thing. I figured I'd share the original Fairytales these stories are based on for those interested.

The second Episode is based on the Story of the Pied Piper. Which wasn't first created by the two Brothers Grimm (Jacob and Wilhelm Grimm) but was first a Pome by Robert Browning. However, it latter became a Brother's Grimm story when the Grimm Brothers added it to a published collection of stories. With Browning's Credit of course. Here is the Original Pome, translated into English.

The Pied Piper of Hamelin (Also Called the Children of Hamelin) Hamelin Town's in Brunswick, By famous Hanover city; The river Weser, deep and wide, Washes its wall on the southern side; A pleasanter spot you never spied; But, when begins my ditty, Almost five hundred years ago, To see the townsfolk suffer so From vermin, was a pity.

Rats! They fought the dogs and killed the cats, And bit the babies in the cradles, And ate the cheeses out of the vats. And licked the soup from the cook's own ladles, Split open the kegs of salted sprats, Made nests inside men's Sunday hats, And even spoiled the women's chats, By drowning their speaking With shrieking and squeaking In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body To the Town Hall came flocking: "Tis clear," cried they, "our Mayor's a noddy; And as for our Corporation—shocking To think we buy gowns lined with ermine For dolts that can't or won't determine What's best to rid us of our vermin! You hope, because you're old and obese, To find in the furry civic robe ease? Rouse up, sirs! Give your brains a racking To find the remedy we're lacking, Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing! "At this the Mayor and Corporation Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council, At length the Mayor broke silence: "For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell; I wish I were a mile hence! It's easy to bid one rack one's brain— I'm sure my poor head aches again, I've scratched it so, and all in vain Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!" Just as he said this, what should hap At the chamber door but a gentle tap? "Bless us," cried the Mayor, "what's that?" (With the Corporation as he sat, Looking little though wondrous fat; Nor brighter was his eye, nor moister Than a too-long-opened oyster, Save when at noon his paunch grew mutinous For a plate of turtle green and glutinous) "Only a scraping of shoes on the mat? Anything like the sound of a rat Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!"

"Come in!"—the Mayor cried, looking bigger: And in did come the strangest figure! His queer long coat from heel to head Was half of yellow and half of red, And he himself was tall and thin, With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin, And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin, But lips where smile went out and in; There was no guessing his kith and kin: And nobody could enough admire The tall man and his quaint attire. Quoth one: "It's as my great-grandsire, Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone, Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!"

He advanced to the council-table: And, "Please your honours," said he, "I'm able, By means of a secret charm, to draw All creatures living beneath the sun, That creep or swim or fly or run, After me so as you never saw! And I chiefly use my charm On creatures that do people harm, The mole and toad and newt and viper; And people call me the Pied Piper." (And here they noticed round his neck A scarf of red and yellow stripe, To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;

And at the scarf's end hung a pipe; And his fingers they noticed were ever straying As if impatient to be playing Upon his pipe, as low it dangled Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

"Yet," said he, "poor Piper as I am, In Tartary I freed the Cham, Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats, I eased in Asia the Nizam Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats: And as for what your brain bewilders, If I can rid your town of rats Will you give me a thousand guilders?" "One? fifty thousand!"—was the exclamation Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept, Smiling first a little smile, As if he knew what magic slept In his quiet pipe the while; Then, like a musical adept, To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled, And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled, Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled; And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered, You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling; And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling; And out of the houses the rats came tumbling. Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats, Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats, Grave old plodders, gay young friskers, Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins, Cocking tails and pricking whiskers, Families by tens and dozens, Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives— Followed the Piper for their lives. From street to street he piped advancing, And step for step they followed dancing, Until they came to the river Weser Wherein all plunged and perished!— Save one who, stout as Julius Cæsar, Swam across and lived to carry (As he, the manuscript he cherished) To Rat-land home his commentary: Which was, "At the first shrill notes of the pipe, I heard a sound as of scraping tripe, And putting apples, wondrous ripe, Into a cider-press's gripe: And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards, And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards, And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks, And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks: And it seemed as if a voice (Sweeter far than by harp or by psalteryIs breathed) called out, 'Oh rats, rejoice! The world is grown to one vast drysaltery! So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon! 'And just as a bulky sugar-puncheon, All ready staved, like a great sun shone Glorious scarce an inch before me, Just as methought it said, 'Come, bore me!'— I found the Weser rolling o'er me."

You should have heard the Hamelin people Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple "Go," cried the Mayor, "and get long poles, Poke out the nests and block up the holes! Consult with carpenters and builders, And leave in our town not even a trace Of the rats!"—when suddenly up the face Of the Piper perked in the market-place, With a, "First, if you please, my thousand guilders!"

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue; So did the Corporation too. For council dinners made rare havoc With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock; And half the money would replenish Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish. To pay this sum to a wandering fellow With a gipsy coat of red and yellow! "Beside," quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink, "Our business was done at the river's brink; We saw with our eyes the vermin sink, And what's dead can't come to life, I think. So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink From the duty of giving you something to drink, And a matter of money to put in your poke; But as for the guilders, what we spoke Of them, as you very well know, was in joke. Beside, our losses have made us thrifty. A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!"

The Piper's face fell, and he cried, "No trifling! I can't wait, beside! I've promised to visit by dinner-time Bagdad, and accept the prime Of the Head-Cook's pottage, all he's rich in, For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen, Of a nest of scorpions no survivor: With him I proved no bargain-driver, With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver! And folks who put me in a passion May find me pipe after another fashion."

"How?" cried the Mayor, "d' ye think I brook Being worse treated than a Cook? Insulted by a lazy ribald With idle pipe and vesture piebald? You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst, Blow your pipe there till you burst!"

Once more he stept into the street, And to his lips again Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes

(such sweet Soft notes as yet musician's cunning Never gave the enraptured air)

There was a rustling, that seemed like a bustling Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling, Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering, Little hands clapping and little tongues chattering, And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering, Out came the children running. All the little boys and girls, With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls, And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls.

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood As if they were changed into blocks of wood, Unable to move a step, or cry To the children merrily skipping by.— Could only follow with the eye That joyous crowd at the Piper's back. But how the Mayor was on the rack, And the wretched Council's bosoms beat, As the Piper turned from the High Street To where the Weser rolled its waters Right in the way of their sons and daughters! However he turned from South to West, And to Koppelberg Hill his steps addressed, And after him the children pressed; Great was the joy in every breast." He never can cross that mighty top! He's forced to let the piping drop, And we shall see our children stop!" When, lo, as they reached the mountain-side, A wondrous portal opened wide, As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed; And the Piper advanced and the children followed, And when all were in to the very last, The door in the mountain side shut fast. Did I say, all? No; One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say,— "It's dull in our town since my playmates left! I can't forget that I'm bereft Of all the pleasant sights they see, Which the Piper also promised me. For he led us, he said, to a joyous land, Joining the town and just at hand,

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew, And flowers put forth a fairer hue, And everything was strange and new; The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here, And their dogs outran our fallow deer, And honey-bees had lost their stings, And horses were born with eagles' wings; And just as I became assured My lame foot would be speedily cured, The music stopped and I stood still, And found myself outside the hill, Left alone against my will, To go now limping as before, And never hear of that country more!"

Alas, alas for Hamelin! There came into many a burgher's pate A text which says that Heaven's gate Opes to the rich at as easy rate As the needle's eye takes a camel in! The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South, To offer the Piper, by word of mouth, Wherever it was men's lot to find him, Silver and gold to his heart's content, If he'd only return the way he went, And bring the children behind him. But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour, And Piper and dancers were gone for ever, They made a decree that lawyers never Should think their records dated dulyIf, after the day of the month and year, These words did not as well appear, "And so long after what happened here On the Twenty-second of July, Thirteen hundred and seventy-six: "And the better in memory to fix The place of the children's last retreat, They called it, the Pied Piper's Street— Where any one playing on pipe or tabor, Was sure for the future to lose his labour. Nor suffered they hostelry or tavern To shock with mirth a street so solemn; But opposite the place of the cavern They wrote the story on a column, And on the great church-window painted The same, to make the world acquainted How their children were stolen away, And there it stands to this very day. And I must not omit to say That in Transylvania there's a tribe Of alien people that ascribe The outlandish ways and dress On which their neighbours lay such stress, To their fathers and mothers having risen Out of some subterraneous prison Into which they were trepanned Long time ago in a mighty band Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land, But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let me and you be wipers Of scores out with all men—especially pipers! And, whether they pipe us free from rats or from mice, If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise!

#food and folklore #fairytale #folktale #folklore #brothers grimm #grimm variations #Pied Pipper #Pied Piper #pied piper of hamelin #classics

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vvatchword · 1 year

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Mnemeros

Rural Texas is just rotten with ghost towns. I’m tempted to say that the past dies hard, but the truth is that it’s more forgotten than anything else. Folks just have more to think about than the ramshackle farmhouses in their pastures.

Now, seeing as it was a two-hour drive to town, entertainment had to be found and it had to be made. That’s why I started thrusting open the doors to dilapidated shacks, armed only with a pocketknife and a few vague stories from octogenarians. If I was lucky, I’d come back home with some kind of treasure—a chipped knick-knack, a bent branding iron from some long-dead ranch, severe brown medicine bottles stuffed with earth. We’d clean them up and stack them on top of the fridge. Humor me; there was no such thing as the Internet back then, and only two television channels to boot.

I used to get some real quality leads out of an old River Rat, a friend of my father’s, who had zero qualms about closet skeletons.

“Wanna see something crazy? Then go down to the river,” he told me. “There are carved stones down there that’ve been around since before the Comanches.”

“Where at?” I asked.

“Not too far from your place. You take the farmer’s road down past the Ross’s pasture, the road by the old church, right? When you get down the cliffs, just go upriver. You’ll find them. But I gotta warn you. You don’t touch those stones, and you don’t touch the tar coming out of them. Some kinda poison. And then there’re the River Things. They’ll drag you underwater if they can catch you.”

The hair stood up on the back of my neck. Usually, nobody ever talked about the River Things; they only talked around them. You didn’t go down to the river after dark. You didn’t go to certain parts of the river without your gun—and other parts you didn’t visit at all. Official reasons were quicksand, rattlesnakes, rabid wildlife, and, sometimes, a long, pointed silence. If you were a kid or an outsider, you had to learn for yourself: there was no mountain lion half as bad as what lingered in that silence.

The River Rat kept talking. “Back in 1876, when old Rath built his saloon, he used the stones off the river. Made the Comanches furious—they attacked ’im for it, and we sent an expedition as far as Lubbock to teach them a lesson. Never could catch them, though. At the time, Rath City folks thought it was some religious tomfoolery. It wasn’t; turns out those Comanches were wise to something we didn’t know. Whole town of Rath City disappeared in a night. Gramps said you could hear screaming down on the Brazos for weeks.”

By “whole town,” he meant a population of about two hundred or so. We can’t keep them much bigger down here.

“Then they took all the stones back, one by one,” he said. “And it was like Rath City never was.”

“And by ‘they,’ you mean the River Things, right?” I asked.

“Yep!” he said. Before I could ask him anything else, he turned on the TV and shooed me off.

If you don’t think I planned to go down to the river that very Saturday, you don’t know me at all.

~*~*~*~

No one blinked twice when I said that I was taking the scenic route around the Brazos. I braided my hair and packed the saddlebags with a simple lunch as usual. However, when it came time to saddle the horse, I nabbed Pistol, Mom’s blocky bay. He was a racetrack reject who could cut cattle as quick as a wink. And although I’ve always been a believer in leaving a creature alone if it’s minding its own business, I brought my brother’s .22 and a box of shells along. If Mom had been paying more attention, she might’ve asked me what the hell I was doing.

I rode down the dirt road to the river, which snakes across the landscape like a groping alien limb. I still remember how fresh the day was—one of those clear, cool days in the late spring, just before the summer sun baked the soil into crackled plates. We’d had buckets of rain and hail and a couple of tornado watches just the day before, and the road was rutted with murky puddles. The distant skies were still bruised black-blue and forked with lightning. As for me, I was lost in my own thoughts: meditating on the squeak of the saddle, the healthy scent of the horse, and the slop of mud beneath his hooves.

Before long, Pistol and I drew up to a rusty gate leading into the overgrowth that clusters ’round the Brazos. I had just dismounted to unlatch the chain when I heard an engine rumbling down the road behind us. I couldn’t get over into the ditch because it was steep and slick and full of water, so I leaned over to see which farmer it was. I figured they’d probably stop to say hello.

I had to blink hard and squint. Churning tortuously between the ruts was a gleaming black Fairlane spattered liberally with mud. I pulled Pistol over to the far left so the stranger wouldn’t have to pass us, but to my displeasure, the car dragged to a stop beside us and the window rattled down.

A little old man sat in the front seat with the kind of face I’d only seen on Sunday-afternoon movies. He had a neatly groomed mustache and goatee, wore round gold-rimmed spectacles and a threadbare tweed suit, and carried an old-fashioned briefcase stuffed full to bursting. His eight-track tape player was going full tilt—Strauss, “On the Beautiful Blue Danube,” same recording as the one on a record back home. He struck me as one displaced in time, from his shining Oxfords to his spotless pair of driving gloves. I had the thought that if I touched him, he might pop like a soap bubble.

“Excuse me,” he said. “Is this the way to the Brazos River?”

“It is,” I said. “But you have to go through Ms. Ross’s and Mr. Greentree’s pastures. You get permission?”

“Oh, of course!” he said, and patted a couple of signed papers sitting beside him. “By the way, I don’t believe I’ve introduced myself. I’m Dr. Arnold Peaslee from Miskatonic University in Massachusetts.”

Massachusetts! A far-off salmon-colored state I’d only seen in Social Studies. Suddenly I had a place to put with his accent.

He extended his hand, and we shook.

“My name is Leah Byrd,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “What are you doing out here?”

“I’m on the trail of some fascinating local folklore,” he said. “Have you, by any chance… ah… seen any remarkable stones down on the river bank?”

I bit my bottom lip and glanced back at Pistol, who was eyeballing the Fairlane.

“Stones like these,” he said, and rustled around in his briefcase.

He pulled out a series of fuzzy photocopies: stones of every size and shape and persuasion. Stones jutting above the waterline, stones eclipsed by thorny bushes, stones that still stood in some semblance of walls. Some of them were big enough to build a house with; others, no bigger than your fist. Many bulged and bubbled in organic shapes, while others were graced with bas reliefs. Tarry seepage trickled from broken corners.

I nodded. “Yeah, I’m… I know about them.”

“My specialty is archaeology,” he said. “And of course, I dabble in folklore and myth on the side.” When he saw my expression, he smiled. “If you’re worried, I assure you that I won’t disturb the location.”

“You couldn’t touch them if you wanted to,” I said. “It’s been raining hard and the river’s overflowed its banks. We may not see anything at all.”

A flash of panic crossed his face, and he sagged through the window. If I had been wise, I would have jumped up on Pistol and spurred him the whole way home—it would’ve saved me a lot of trouble in the long run. Instead, I hesitated. I can’t help liking earnest people. It’s a curse.

“Ms. Byrd, I beg of you. It’s a cosmic stroke of fortune that I have discovered you at all,” he said. “You know what I speak of and you know where to go. It seems you may even know the same stories. If you do, then you know what day this is, and why it is so important that I visit the stones at once.”

“Are you sure you’re dressed for it?” I asked. “There’s gonna be mud up to your ears.”

“Yes, I’m prepared,” he said.

“I’m saying this because the road ends in a bit and you’ll have to walk the rest of the way. If I were riding China I’d say we could double up, but Pistol’s a drama queen, and I don’t want you falling off.”

“I see,” he said, and looked a bit relieved.

“Your car doesn’t have four-wheel drive, either,” I said.

“Ms. Ross said that I should be fine,” he said.

I shrugged. “All right, if you want. But if you get stuck, you’ll have to walk back to her house.”

So he rumbled through the gate, and I shut the gate behind us. I swung my leg over Pistol’s back, and together we descended into the knotted mesquite thickets.

Dr. Peaslee drove alongside me and Pistol down the road, car groaning over the ruts. The blessed silence and rain-perfumed air was gone, exchanged for the rumble of the engine and the stink of exhaust. Dr. Peaslee turned to smile at me every now and then. I smiled back, but I won’t lie; I was a bit nervous. The River Rat gave me stories because he knew he could trust me, and it felt like betrayal to bring an outsider.

“Do you know anything about archaeology?” Dr. Peaslee asked.

“I like reading the National Geographic,” I said. “And I’ve got some arrowheads in my jewelry box.”

“How much do you know about the local area?” he asked. “Do you know anything about the end of Rath City?”

“A little, but it’s a ways out south,” I said. “It didn’t last too long.”

“Yes, only four years, from what I’ve heard,” he said.

The hair stood up on my neck. It’s one thing to discuss Rath City in a house, quite another when you’re nearly at the Brazos itself.

His voice took on a slightly fretful tone. “It seems everyone has a different story to tell about it. Some say the Comanches had something to do with its end…”

“Sir, all due respect, but we shouldn’t talk about it here,” I said.

He nodded and withdrew, and there was silence for a while. We weaved between the tortured trunks of the mesquites, last season’s blackened beans swiveling in the wind. Branches squealed against the Fairlane’s flanks, and the horse’s ears rotated idly. The incline grew steeper, and the branches around us knotted tighter and grew higher—a jumbled mass of root and branch and thorn and leaf, stained dark from the recent rainfall. A bobwhite called from far away and went silent. I remember feeling oddly lonely.

Soon we sloshed up to a cul-de-sac dug out by decades of truck tires. The last gate hung there, paint peeling, its faded “No Trespassing” sign glaring wearily at us.

“You can’t take the car any further,” I said, jumping off the horse. Mud squelched beneath my boots. “Take what you need and I’ll show you the rocks.”

Just as I pulled on Pistol’s reins, the stupid horse laid his ears back and put on the brakes. I had to drag him all the way and knot his reins around my arm so I could undo the latch.

“Is there something wrong with your horse?” Dr. Peaslee asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I don’t think he likes your car.”

“But I turned it off,” he said.

“Pistol is a special case,” I said. “I probably shouldn’t have ridden him today, honestly.”

Dr. Peaslee opened his door and perched on the edge of his seat, staring down into the mud. Very methodically, he unlaced his patent-leather dress shoes, so glossy I could see my reflection in them, and donned a pair of neat old hiking boots. I almost laughed—each boot was big enough for him to put both feet in. With that, he withdrew a camera case and a satchel bulging with god-knew-what.

I eyed the doctor’s shoes. “Are you sure you don’t need to go back for galoshes?”

“I’m perfectly sure,” Dr. Peaslee said, lifting his chin, and stepped off into the mud up to his shins. He paled a little. Cold water in his shoes, I guess. I knew right then that I was probably going to bring him home so he could shower.

As for me, I was a little nervous about getting on Pistol again. He had progressed from mild distaste to insistent refusal: he strained away from me, lips pulled back from his thick, flat teeth. A chill ran down my neck; the silence seemed heavy and oppressive, and in the distance, the thunder was oddly muted. Don’t know why I didn’t stop right then; I guess Dr. Peaslee’s presence kept me going.

While Dr. Peaslee picked his way around the edge of the cul-de-sac, where the mesquites and weeds clumped the earth together, I dug my pocketknife and spurs out of the saddlebag. I tucked the knife into my pocket and I donned the spurs—usually unnecessary on Pistol, who would take off at the least insistence—and finally managed to remount. When we passed through this gate, I didn’t close it. This is the height of bad manners since it might free livestock, and it was the first time I hadn’t done so since I was a little girl.

I urged Pistol out through the gate and into the pasture beyond. The doctor lurched alongside us, picking his way along the side of the road. Finally, we broke out of the undergrowth and slopped to the edge of a cliff. Below, the Brazos had clawed a ragged red canyon into the earth. The old river was swollen, churned up into a dirty gray color, choppy with a rough current. Dr. Peaslee withdrew a camera with a lens jutting out of it as big as a pepper-grinder and snapped a few shots of the landscape. The snapping and clicking sounds were unpleasantly loud.

I pointed upriver. “The stones are that way,” I said. “Are you sure you want to head out? It might be flooded.”

I gotta admit, by this point, I wasn’t thinking about betraying the River Rat. I was thinking how weirdly silent it was out there. Usually, all the little frogs come out after a storm, but they were quiet as the grave.

“That’s all right,” he said. “I’ve come this far.”

“All right,” I said. “Watch your step. And don’t follow Pistol too closely. He might kick.”

We padded carefully down a steep incline toward the canyon floor. I kept an eye on the doctor as he stumbled behind us. He was covered in mud: mud up to his knees and mud all over his hands and sleeves, and a streak of mud on his forehead from where he had wiped away sweat. I was a little worried about him. He was a desk-job type, and I doubted he did much more than toddle to the mailbox every day.

The incline flattened out at last and we were safe on the level valley floor. It was easier going down on the winding hog paths between the mesquites and cactus; the roots kept the soil firmer there. We passed some hog wallows circled by prints—cattle, deer, hogs, coyotes—wild things all sleeping somewhere in the dripping foliage. As we passed further into the brush, I started smelling a sticky musk, something reminiscent of the stink of a skunk and a garter snake put together.

Dr. Peaslee covered his nose with a handkerchief. “What is that?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

All of a sudden, Pistol spooked something awful, dancing sideways as though he’d seen a rattlesnake. I scanned the underbrush and saw nothing, and that just scared me more. You don’t understand, coming from the suburbs, how easily a wild thing can just disappear into the underbrush. All it has to do is stand still, and nine times out of ten, you can stare directly at it and see nothing.

Then we rounded a thick stand of mesquites and saw the hog traps.

The hog traps were built out of obsolete cotton-bale trailers with makeshift one-way doors welded on. Everyone in the area used them; feral hogs could obliterate whole fields in a night, and they were a ready supply of pork, so they were free game. What we’d do is pour feed corn inside and prop the makeshift door open with a stick. The hogs would funnel in, knocking out the stick in their eagerness, and bang! The door would drop and the pigs were stuck. Next morning everyone would come out with their guns of choice, climb to the top of the trailers, and take aim. We’d eat hog for weeks.

Normally, when the trapped hogs hear humans coming, they’ll start charging from one side of the trailer to the other, and can be heard tramping and squealing and banging into the walls. Today, I heard nothing. Pistol’s ears were flat, his eyes rolled back, his chin thrust skyward. He danced in that unpleasant half-hopping way that preceded a bucking fit.

There must’ve been hogs in the trap at some point. I say that because there was blood and hide everywhere. Fresh yellow bones striped with raw flesh lay jumbled in roughly sorted piles—ribs with ribs, vertebrae with vertebrae, femurs with femurs. Droplets glistened redly on the steel mesh, and the mud was churned up until it had the consistency of a milkshake. Here and there was an almost intact head with the eyes, tongue, and ears cored out. The mud was scored with tracks—not the tracks of the hogs, nor boot prints, but whip-like arcs like those made by serpents. I couldn’t get Pistol much closer and frankly, I didn’t want to.

“Shit,” I said.

Quivering, Dr. Peaslee sloshed over and lifted his camera.

“Gross!” I said. “What are you taking pictures of them for?”

“Surely you know what day it is!” he said.

“April 15?”

He leaned down to take a close-up. “You mean you don’t know what this means?”

“That we should leave?”

Dr. Peaslee laughed up at me. His teeth were very white. “Oh, no!” he said. “It means that the stars are favorable, and they’re here.”

I turned white as a sheet. Wrong action. His face lit up and he clapped the camera to his chest.

“Then you know! Where? Where are they?”

Shit!

“I don’t know. Holes in the cliffs, below the waterline. They stick around the stones, generally.” My tongue felt stiff. “But if what you’re saying is right, if you’re trying to tell me they killed these hogs, then we shouldn’t go anywhere near the rocks.”

His eyes settled on the .22 hanging on Pistol’s hip. “But you are armed.”

I shook my head. “No, no, no. You’ve been watching too many cowboy flicks, man. I’m not looking for trouble here. Self-defense only.”

He relaxed. “You’re right. They might turn violent at the sight of weaponry.”

“'Might'? What stories have you heard where they brought us bouquets and chocolates?”

“Communication of the proper kind might solve everything,” he said. “That’s why I have taken the time to learn their tongue. There are books…” He licked his lips. “Very old books transcribing the language and the methods necessary to its mastery.”

My jaw dropped. He might as well have grown an extra arm right in front of me.

“Why would you do that?” I asked. “The Things’ll kill you before they stop for a chat. Didn’t you see those hog bones back there? Hogs are not easy to kill, and they fight back. What do you think the Things will do to you?”

He stretched himself up to his full height and lifted his chin.

“My dear, I must try,” he said. “For you must understand that if I can speak to these creatures, it will advance our comprehension of both human civilization and the universe. Besides, I am quite old, and have lived a full life; if I died like this, seeking the knowledge of centuries past, it would be a fitting end indeed.”

My god. Yanks have got only sentimentality where their brains should be. It’s because they watch so many movies.

“Okay,” I said, “but if we need to run, you’re out of luck. I don’t think I can keep Pistol in line long enough for you to jump on.”

“I am prepared for that!” he said, touching his heart. “Please, Ms. Byrd. Let’s go on.”

My brain was awhirl with possibilities; the possibilities of seeing the stones and the creatures versus the possibility of real trouble, perhaps death. When I didn’t reply quickly enough, Dr. Peaslee trotted up to us. Pistol backed away stiffly. Not that Pistol was a judge of character; at that point a branch in the wind would have set him off. I was trying to calm him down when Dr. Peasley pulled out his wallet and started peeling out tens and twenties.

“Doctor, no,” I said. “I don’t want your…”

He grabbed my hand and stuck a whole wad of cash in it, and when Pistol jerked away he doggedly doddered after us and stuffed some bills in my boot. I think he would have dumped his change in there if he felt it could have swayed me. God! I felt absurd, clenching that money in my hand, money balled up on my shin. For some reason, god only knows—I nodded and stuck it in my pocket. It burned against my hip.

I twisted Pistol ’round and jabbed him with my spurs. He took off at a fast trot with flattened ears and bulging eyeballs. Without a word, we ducked down the labyrinth of hog and cattle paths toward the river itself. I didn’t look to see if the doctor was following, but every now and then I heard the click and whirr of his camera. I propped my .22 on my knee, popped the safety off, and kept my eyes peeled on the brush.

We were hemmed in by a jumble of thorny branches that dropped our visibility to two or three feet at best. Every corner was a blind one, and often paths split into three or four branches that led off into winding ways unknown. The landscape was full of watchful eyes we could not see; I could feel them boring into us. I looked for shapes and shadows in the brush and strained for the sound of snapping branches, rustling leaves. Over time, the strange stink grew so powerful I could taste it. I hoped the hogs had been killed sometime in the night, when the River Things are most likely to come out of the water, and prayed that the sunlight would keep them underground.

I should’ve known from the dampness of the blood that they hadn’t been gone too long.

“So… you know about them?” Dr. Peaslee asked. “The amphibious people of the Brazos?”

“I don’t know if I would call them ‘people,’” I said.

“Well—I suppose you’re right in the technical sense.”

He was smiling about something at my expense, and I can’t say I liked it much. So I didn’t say anything.

He cleared his throat. “But you’ve seen them.”

“No,” I said. “All I know is that they move the stones around.”

“And do you know why?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“Have you heard of Mnemeros, by any chance?” he asked.

That name! It was the first time I’d heard it and I didn’t ever want to hear it again. Some names are like keys; they swing doors wide open that are best left shut.

“It’s all right if you haven't,” he said. “He’s a beautifully kept secret, preserved for only the select few. An ancient god, you see, from the faraway stars.”

Prickles ran down my spine. “You’d better not be a Satanist.”

“Oh, no! Absolutely not.” His smile was expansive and bright. “There’s nothing to be afraid of, I assure you. I refer to him as a ‘god’ only to refer to his power and scope compared to ours. Here, let me explain… ah… you are a Bible-fearing type, aren’t you?”

I nodded—easier than telling the truth.

“Then you’re aware of ‘principalities and powers,’ ‘princes of the air’?”

“You mean demons?” I asked.

“No, I mean things outside of your god.”

“Yeah, demons.” I was a big book reader even then, big on apologetics in particular. No way was some lukewarm scholar going to trip me up with something as silly as semantics.

“Well, dear, imagine, if you will, these demons. Not little demons, no, but rather, awesome interdimensional lords with shapes and voices that would blast a man sightless and raving, if the experience didn’t kill him outright. Creatures on par with Beelzebub and Apollyon and Azrael.”

“Still demons,” I said.

“But demons exist, do they not?” asked Dr. Peaslee, and lifted his chin.

I went silent. I couldn’t bring myself to say yes.

“Would you care to hear a story?” asked Dr. Peaslee. “A story about the Great Old Ones, who flung themselves down to Earth when the stars were right?”

It took me too long to process the sentence. My loss. He kept talking.

“Many millions of years ago, the Great Old Ones descended to our world in a curtain of fire and built their holy city,” he said. “R’lyeh, a city of extraterrestrial stone and alien geometry, peopled with beings of unspeakable shape and size. For many millions of years they ruled there, lords of the Earth… until the stars were closed to them and they fell into a vast darkness like death.”

His voice quavered, but there was a richness in it, the kind of timbre born of passion. You know that dramatic way that a writer recites what they’ve written? I could tell he’d written about this, over and over and over again in a million different ways, and said it to himself like a mantra.

“But one of their brothers was late,” he said. “Whether it was from arrogance or misreading the signs, no one can say. Sixty-five million years ago, he hurtled from the sky, and because he did not arrive when the path was open, he burned the whole way down.”

“Lucifer,” I said. My words fell flat.

But Dr. Peaslee’s eyes were closed, and he did not appear to hear me.

“His smoldering remnant crawled with torturous slowness from the crater he had made, the god of a thousand faces and ten thousand hands. But the stars had not forgotten his insult; they say he burns still, and writhes as he burns. He calls and calls, casting his dreams out to his kin in R’lyeh and to the nameless, formless ones past the veil, but he is corrupted. They will not answer.”

His eyes opened. There was a light there that I did not entirely like.

“But there is a boon in this for mortal man,” said Dr. Peaslee. “For in becoming corrupted, Mnemeros became more like us. He can speak to us and we will not die. And what fortune! He contains more in one thimbleful of knowledge than twenty Libraries of Alexandria. Knowledge of hundreds of different cultures and times and locales, an intimate understanding of the natural world and realms unspeakable, all gleaned with his roving, dreaming mind. This, my dear, is as close to God as one can get!”

“So you’re going to ask him questions?” I said. “For what?”

“The expansion of history and the sciences,” he said, “for which mankind must only pay a small price, compared to what others might offer. You see, he is broken, almost past salvation; he was incinerated and shredded on his long fall, and was scattered all over the Earth. Some of his detached organs have grown conscious to help him, but they require constant access to water. That is where we come in: to find those pieces, and to find parts that can replace what he has lost, and finally, to provide the labor necessary to put him together again. His reward to us is knowledge unsurpassed.”

“Oh my god,” I said. “You mean you’re going to put a demon back together? What if he goes on a rampage or something?”

“This is not Godzilla,” said Dr. Peasley sharply. He paused and appraised me, as though looking at me for the first time. “Well, if he grows capable of it, he might move to more populated areas to harvest the organics he requires, but that requires the opening of the second gate—that is to say, the proper alignment of certain constellations. Besides, his ultimate goal lies elsewhere. He believes that, should he be returned to his glory, he will be accepted back into R’lyeh. I, on the other hand, have reason to believe he would be cast screaming into the abyss. Which means that we have a limited time if we wish to consult him before he is remade and crawls to his doom.”

Now, if I had still been devout, I might’ve said Dr. Peaslee was a devil-worshipper and ridden off fast. But I had been harboring some doubts lately—like I said, I was into apologetics—so all I said was, “Who’s crazy enough to believe all that?”

Dr. Peaslee raised his hand and ripped his glove off. Pistol and I recoiled. At a first glance, it looked like Dr. Peaslee was wearing another glove. But he wasn’t; his hand was as wet as if he had dipped it in tar.

“There is nothing to be afraid of,” said Dr. Peaslee gently. “I know that for the uninitiated, it must seem terrible. And I will not lie: it does burn so! But it is a mark that I will be one of those to whom great things are revealed.”

Now, I’ve always been poor as a church mouse, doubly so when I was a child, but it was without hesitation that I pulled the cash out of my pocket and threw it. I threw it fucking everywhere. I turned my boot over and dumped Benjamins in the mud. I noted in an offhand way that the bills were all that darker, more florid green of an older design—like Dr. Peaslee had been storing them under his bed for two decades. But Dr. Peaslee didn’t jump for the cash. He simply stared at me with that gentle old-man’s smile.

I urged Pistol away from him and we sidled down the hog path. Dr. Peaslee followed behind, tucking his hand back into his glove.

“Please don’t be afraid, Ms. Byrd,” he said.

I didn’t say anything. I was all choked up. Pistol was frantic and growing more so by the minute, but I didn’t dare let him go. I knew he’d take off, and I wasn’t sure I could control him. Dr. Peaslee walked after us—or did he herd us? It was hard to say. Suddenly I couldn’t think of the way back; as though by default, Pistol and I kept just ahead of Dr. Peaslee, taking the turns one by one. Perhaps we thought, in that simple bestial logic that panic grants us, that if we gave him what he wanted, he would leave us alone.

The roar of the river grew louder and louder. Soon we started seeing the stones. Once, perhaps, they had been stacked and sorted; now they tumbled in wild disarray, and the hog paths wandered all around them. The photocopies hadn’t done them any justice—the sheer number, I mean. Stones, stones, stones, as far as the eye could see, of every composition you could imagine, and carved in a multitude of shapes and for a multitude of purposes. Here and there they bled black soup into the undergrowth.

Dr. Peaslee stopped several times to take notes and pictures. I didn’t stop for him; Pistol and I jigged onward like a pair of idiots. It occurred to me that the doctor seemed rather quick for an old man. Whenever I looked over my shoulder, he was always standing somewhere behind us. I started harboring this fancy that he would appear suddenly in front of us and touch us with that horrible black hand of his.

Finally, we broke through a heap of cactus and caught sight of the river. Normally the bank was visible, a pale sandy quagmire, but the waves had washed over their boundaries and foamed among the cottonwoods and mesquites. A combination of rain and current had crumbled part of the cliff, revealing a gaping cave mouth.

Dr. Peaslee scurried past me, camera clutched in his hands.

“Hey!” I said. “Don’t!”

For a second, both Pistol and I froze. As for Dr. Peaslee, he stood at the edge of the river. I could see the gears turning in his brain. The only way up to the cave entrance was a ramp of jumbled stones, and its base had long been swallowed up by the river. No telling how deep the water was there. Every now and then I saw a dark shape bob by, usually a drenched branch or the rolling, bloated body of an animal.

“You’re going to drown!” I shouted.

He dropped his satchel beside him and opened it. Oh my god! Black syrupy stuff spidered out, stretching for the ground and groping at the air. Without hesitation, he jammed both of his hands in it until it poured out in thick goopy rolls. He lifted out a stone as big as a Thanksgiving turkey. It bled tar everywhere, and where the black syrup touched his clothes, blue flames licked up. Straightening up, Dr. Peaslee heaved the stone over his head and sang out in a weird ululating tongue.

Far off, I heard a big splash. Then another. It was the same sound I associated with a frog jumping into the water, except magnified. Whatever had fallen into the river must’ve been at least the size of a mid-sized dog. Immediately, Pistol jolted with terror and swung around. Thrusting my .22 back into its holster, I jerked on the reins. Soon we were spinning in circles, he straining to race back the way we came, I trying to restrain him.

I saw the scene in flashes with each rotation: Dr. Peaslee lowering the stone. Dr. Peaslee turning to regard us with knotted brows. Then, behind him, a long, sinuous arm lifting, dripping, from the water.

“Dr. Peaslee!” I shouted. “Watch out!”

Black, shining cords lashed around Dr. Peaslee’s throat and legs and arms and yanked him backward. He didn’t even have the chance to cry out. Down he went without a sound into the brown foam of the Brazos, stone and all.

With a choking cry, I let go, and Pistol bolted.

Pistol’s ears flattened against his skull, his neck stretched out, his hooves pounded against the hog paths. Low-hanging branches lashed us. Mesquite thorns scored us. The stacked stones stared as we galloped by. I strained to hear beyond my own heartbeat, but all that followed us was the roar of the river and the intermittent grumble of thunder.

When we burst through the brush into the clearing where the River Rats kept their hog traps, I heard it: a rattling, clattering sound, one I had long associated with a hog’s headlong flight. When I looked over my shoulder, I saw the mesquites shuddering from a pack of unseen pursuers. The wind breathed an overpowering, musky stink into my face.

The steep incline rose above us, scarred by a single narrow path. Pistol took it without hesitation. Now, if it had been dry, this wouldn’t have been a problem, but down near the Brazos, the earth is a slimy red clay. Every second step was a slip or a stumble. When we were halfway up, his hoof slid in the mud and he pitched forward and down onto one knee. For a breathless moment I hovered over a dizzying drop into a cactus patch. I clutched at the saddle horn, grabbed Pistol’s mane, and clung for dear life as he struggled to his feet. I cast a frantic glance over my shoulder.

Plunging through the careless weed were sleek black shapes, glistening like frogs, slithering and crawling in turns, some as large as cattle. And then, to my horror, a monster hog crashed through the branches, utterly black with matted hair, its barrel body pulsing with sickening throbs. Before I could see the whole of him, Pistol took off again, thrusting with his powerful hind legs. His headlong sprint had slowed only a little; he was dark with sweat, and his breathing was rough and tattered.

As we flashed through the first gate, a sudden sickening thought occurred to me. The other gate was latched shut, and Pistol was no jumper. My guess was that he’d see the closed gate and veer alongside it into the underbrush, and if that happened, we’d be caught for sure. My mind spun, my heart sank. I’d have to stop a thousand pounds of panicked prima donna to open a gate, and there was a chance he’d take off without me if I timed it wrong.

I jerked Pistol to the side of the road, where the earth was more solid and the branches slashed us, and thanked god that the road was straightforward. Pistol slipped once or twice on the mud, but foot by blessed foot, he put the distance between us and our pursuers. When I saw the gate coming, I wrenched him back, using all of my weight.

Pistol strained against me the whole way. The more he fought, the more of a hold I took, until I thought his head would end up in my lap. My arms burned; I gnawed a bloody wound in my cheeks. His nose slowly tilted toward the sun, and his spittle was pink with blood. A few yards from the fence line, his haunches finally dropped and he skidded to a stop. I dove off, praying he wouldn’t run, and hobbled to the gate. I had clenched my legs against Pistol’s sides so hard and for so long that they didn’t want to bend.

My fingers slipped on the links. I didn’t bother looking behind me, but I could hear it: the rattling, snapping sound of unseen Things breaking through the underbrush, and not far down the road, the rhythmic drumbeat of the monster hog’s hooves. His silent pursuit unnerved me. Hogs are usually such vocal creatures.

I slung the gate open. Without closing it, I hopped into the saddle and kicked him so hard that he jumped. Off he sprang again, again at a full gallop. We broke out of the brush into flat, furrowed pastureland, where you can see twenty miles to the horizon on every side. Ahead of me, a mere six miles away, I could even see the abandoned church and someone’s pickup zipping along the road. I could have cried. Instead, I dared to peek over my shoulder.

The brush shook and shuddered, but the movement stopped at the fence-line. I thought I saw the glint of feral eyes, wet, bulging bodies, and writhing limbs. Then a keening went up, a terrible screeching cry, and the monster hog shot out of the gate behind us.

God, he was huge! Freed from the blinding brush, he was much easier to see. I regretted looking at once. His sides heaved not with regular breaths, but with a weird undulating motion similar to the pulse of maggots in roadkill. His stride was almost mechanical, as though he had no joints. Sticky black strings and tendrils streamed out of his nostrils and between his blackened tusks, and every now and then I fancied that they moved of their own volition, like the searching heads of blind worms. The only points of color were his eyes: bloody, rheumy, and red.

As we fled from him, a cold wind enveloped us. A few heavy raindrops burst on my shoulders. I had neglected to watch the sky: the faraway storm had rolled toward us with unprecedented speed and we could hardly outrun it. Back in the brush, the keening transformed into a triumphant howl.

Abnormal twilight cloaked the landscape and the wedge of rainfall struck us. The keening sound fell away and was replaced by slapping, slipping sounds. In a lightning flash, I saw dozens of amorphous shadows tumbling toward us. Pistol stumbled and his breath hitched. I leaned over him, shielding my face with the hat, and peered off into the distance. I didn’t dare look over my shoulder. All I could look forward to was breaking out of the rain or hitting the paved road. One way meant better vision and less pneumonia; the other meant that we could reach a neighbor’s house in only ten minutes or so.

Thunder rumbled, lightning flashed, and a multi-legged shape slithered out of the ditch in front of us. I jerked the .22 out of its holster, whipped it to my shoulder. The thing zigzagged toward us, slinging its ropy arms out as though to drag us down. I pulled the trigger. The muzzle flashed, the shot cracked out.

Wop! Black blood spurted across the road. Screeching, the River Thing recoiled directly into our path. Pistol darted hard right when the gun went off, but I ripped him back to the road and gouged him with the spurs.

What I had hoped would happen: Pistol would run the Thing over like a car in an action movie.

What actually happened: Pistol stabbed his front hooves into the ground, his head went down, and he launched me right over his neck. There was a sickening lurch and I was weightless.

The next second, I kamikazed that River Thing so hard that the breath was knocked out of me. I wasn’t sure if I saw lightning or stars. My .22 cartwheeled off somewhere into the dark. I wish I could say I was back up on my feet in a second, brandishing my pocketknife, but all I did was gasp and flop around in a puddle. Pistol galloped away, stirrups banging against his sides, and disappeared.

I rolled onto my knees. Through what may have been fortune, I had flipped over the River Thing and landed on the other side of it. It pushed itself up on its terrible long legs and panted, stinking, sloshing, ululating in a language I didn’t understand. I couldn’t see it well in the darkness; all I saw was a suggestion of countless arms, dozens of blinking eyes in every size and shape and color.

It should’ve killed me. Instead, it hesitated, then threw its arms out. A stream of garbled English poured from its mouth. The voice… sounded familiar.

I thrust myself up to my feet and took off running.

My legs were stiff from the ride and even with my hat I could barely see anything ahead of me. It didn’t matter; I put everything I had into that run. The roar of the rain, the slopping slushing sound of the pursuing River Things, the rapidly approaching hoofbeats and tortured breathing of the monster hog—all these things ran together until they were a terrifying singularity. For a while I had no past and I had no future; I was a runner, I had been born running, and there was no future that did not involve running.

I don’t know how long I ran, only that I was winded, aching, and exhausted. The rain slackened a little, and a building coalesced out of the darkness. I couldn’t see it well in the dark, which seemed strangely deep for the afternoon. How long had I been running? Ten, fifteen, twenty minutes?

I dashed across the paved road. Offhand, I noted that it seemed strangely worn down, weeds growing out of faults in the cement. Then I stumbled down into the ditch and over the barbed wire fence. Ms. Ross’s husband had hung coyote carcasses on the fence posts, and the stink of their rot followed me all the way to the steps. It was only then that I recognized the building. Of course: the abandoned clapboard Baptist church, a single-room affair I’d visited once to look at the owl nest in the belfry. The windows had been boarded up decades before I had been born.

I stumbled up the steps, jiggled the knob. It gave. I thrust it open with my shoulder and slammed it shut behind me, then felt for the deadbolt and twisted it with all my strength. It should’ve been rusty; it should’ve been broken. But against all reason, the bolt slid and the door locked behind me.

I whirled around, waiting until my eyes grew accustomed to the dark. Outside, the sloshing sounds grew nearer and nearer. Whatever I did, I couldn’t stand there. I shrank down against the floor, prayed the building wasn’t full of snakes, and crept toward the belfry.

Eventually my eyes adjusted. Pale light floated through the chinks between the boards. The pews were still lined up, heaped with refuse from the collapsing ceiling. A thick miasma of mouse urine and dust filled the air, and rodents skittered unseen in the rafters. All I could hear was the roar of the rain on the roof and the jingling of my spurs.

Then something wet slapped on the wall. Another joined it, and another, until uncountable creatures drummed together with uncoordinated limbs. The building groaned; a window cracked; dust hissed from the ceiling.

“Leave me alone!” I shouted.

But the drumming only intensified, and as did the unspeakable babbling. I clapped my hands over my ears and screamed back at them: swear words, Bible verses, a few lines from classics. Lightning burst nearby and illuminated the church in broken slashes. Printed painstakingly on the wall in magic marker were careful squares filled with hieroglyphs, written by an unknown hand. In the shifting blue light, each thick squiggle was a worm twitching. The more I looked at them, the hazier and uglier I felt. A weird effect passed over me: I could almost imagine a deep, chanting voice in a guttural language unlike any from a human throat.…

I whirled and stumbled—fueled solely by terror, and not by conscious thought—up to the belfry. I registered the cold and wet only dimly, as though from a memory, and my movements grew sluggish and poorly defined. The world seemed unfocused and I had the odd sensation that my consciousness was off-kilter from my body. Worst of all, the chanting I thought I had imagined was growing louder, so deep that it vibrated through my body. I jumped when I heard the bell tolling—an awful, warped, discordant sound.

In that instant, I totally despaired. My tongue clove to the roof of my mouth. In the Pentecostal tradition, I should’ve been able to use the name of God like a hammer, but never before had he seemed so inadequate. I longed for the solid grip of my gun.

When I stepped up into the belfry, I crunched over the abandoned owl’s nest and was stricken silent. An uncountable horde of River Things swayed around the church, and just past them… Let’s just say that the church as I had known it was out in the middle of nowhere, a broken edifice with boarded windows. Somehow, during my headlong flight up to the belfry, a small town had sprouted around us. I could just see the hints of right angles, the rooftops of amateur shanties, and the glitter of manmade lights. Shadows in the shapes of men wavered down unseen roads, hunched beneath invisible burdens.

When the lightning flickered again, I thought I saw the entire countryside overgrown with the specters of long-abandoned farmhouses and churches and post offices and grain silos and Comanche tipis, some juxtaposed over each other and semi-transparent, all crumbling and half-dead in the dark. It was as though I stood over some terrible vision of the past and the present and the future, all coinciding in the same space.

I rushed back down into the church. To my horror, I stepped into the dull yellow heat of some other time. The interior had been swept, the roof patched, the windows covered with tarps. The pews and pulpit had been stacked on top of one another and thrust to the walls. There in the center of the room, bulging grotesquely and stinking of rot, was a throbbing, humming mass of flesh. By its blackened head and miserable eyes, I recognized the monster hog, but something terrible had happened to its body.

God, the smell! Like burning hair and burning meat and burning plastic. The sound! A steady, omnipresent pounding, a series of singular words chanted below a level I could detect. As for what it looked like, I can’t quite tell you. The texture was a confusing patchwork of prickly, smooth, hairy, and feathered, all tarred down. It was a bulbous shape, a fat swollen boil—a heart? A tumor? A fetus? If a fetus, it was doubled up within a thick translucent sac, many-limbed, many-faced, and sported a dozen oblong black shapes that suggested undeveloped eyes. If a tumor, it bubbled all over with irregular growths—cauliflower-like, fluid-filled bubbles heaping ten feet high. If a heart, it sprouted with rubbery arterial branches and pulsed in regular beats, roughly and with great struggle. The chanting I had heard seemed to originate from the torn arterial mouths. As for the hog himself, he heaved with uneven breaths and uttered nothing.

Lying beside that heaving alien mass were carefully arranged organs and limbs and hides, laved in that peculiar tarlike substance I’d seen bleeding from the rocks near the river. Piles of the selfsame rocks had been heaped in that room as well, cracked open with hammers. Here and there a fleshy organic substance jutted out of a broken stone. Other samples of their kind were stitched together like living carpets, quivering in terrible synchronicity with the mass in the center of the room.

Squatting near the door was a group of River Things, sopping wet and singing. Some were stitching up the fleshy pieces with big bone needles and hemp rope, both they and the fleshy pieces twitching with every jab; others were bathing organs in black soup; still more were pouring buckets of water on their fellows in an assembly-line fashion. They throbbed in time with the beating tumor, thrown into shadow by its weird yellow glow.

The hog’s mouth opened and exhaled; the three mouths hummed something low, too low for me to hear, and all of those River Things looked up and regarded me at the same time. You know how old medieval artists depict saints with haloes as a sign they’ve been touched by god? Well, that monster hog and those River Things had some kind of halo, something I couldn’t see but could feel, like they had been touched by some baleful intelligence.

I flipped out my pocketknife and backed up the stairs. Ha! Like threatening a bull with your pinky finger!

The front door broke open and two River Things slithered into the building. They dragged with them the poor broken body of their brother, the one I had shot. When it saw me, it raised its pathetic arms to me, turned two strikingly human eyes to mine, and said in a strangled voice that I still recognized: “Ms. Byrd! Please don’t be afraid.”

The unspoken truce broke. River Things dropped their burdens and charged, and I spun on my heels and raced up into the belfry. Crunching through the owl’s nest, I ducked through the open window and jumped out onto the roof, which had been hastily patched with black garbage bags and rusty tin squares. I saw two things in a flash: first, that there was a truck roaring along the road, the phantom buildings rippling around it like mirages. Second, that dozens of River Things were sluicing out of the belfry like a swarm of octopi.

I sprinted across the roof, tiles splintering underneath my heels. Over my shoulder breathed an overpowering musk; the whole building shuddered beneath dozens of beating feet. My heel stabbed through the roof and I staggered. Wet, burning cords lashed around my wrist and calf, but I dragged my captors with me through sheer force. From behind me, another familiar voice called out.

“Wait! Wait! Come back!” it said.

Terror jagged through me. I didn’t dare stop to think about it. Instead, propelled by sheer terror, I drove forward, over the church roof, and sprang free. For a second I hovered over a rolling black sea of arms and legs. The next, the cords snapped taut and I swung back toward the building. I smashed into the church wall. At the same time, the River Things fished for me with long, ropy arms, snagging me ’round my arms and legs and throat. I clawed madly for handholds under the eaves and jammed my boots into the overhang. It didn’t matter. Inch by inch, they pried me out.

They had just managed to jerk my legs up onto the roof when someone leaned on their car horn.

I lifted my head. It was the truck I had seen from the top of the church, parked half in the ditch. Illuminated by an unseen sun, Shelly Ross stood out in the unreal darkness, substantial in jeans and faded flannel. Up went her rifle, relaxed against her shoulder.

The muzzle flashed. Thunder rumbled.

A wet pop. The River Things recoiled altogether, the cords loosed, and hot tar sprayed over my back. There are no words for how hot that was. Like lying on a stove-top. But the shot was the distraction I needed; the River Things released me. I rolled over the roof, hit the ground, and staggered straight for the fence.

The rifle cracked out again. Seven yards away, a River Thing went down in a blossom of black syrup. I felt that shot all the way through my back and staggered back from the force of it. Around me, River Things reeled. A wordless hate rolled out of the church, followed by a low moaning sound like an organ out of tune. But I kept going. Even as Ms. Ross fired into the horde over and over again, and I felt the phantom bullets ripping through my spine, I kept going. River Things parted around me, darting in every direction, fleeing to the river. I was forgotten.

White-faced, I lunged to the fence-line. Two bedraggled coyote skins hung there, facing inward; with a start, I saw them not as lifeless skins, but two grinning gatekeepers. The illusion faded as swiftly as it had materialized. I became aware of a growing light and warmth; I vaguely recall tumbling over the fence and being bundled into the warm cab of a truck.

“What the hell have you been doing?” Ms. Ross asked.

I would’ve been glad to tell her, honestly, but I passed out instead.

~*~*~*~

I had terrifying dreams, most of which I forgot before waking up. The ones I recall include vivid images of the Brazos River valley, black and lonely, viewed from a dozen different viewpoints at once; nervous hogs stared at me from the riverbank. My hunger and emptiness were bottomless, and I blazed with flame from the center of my soul to the tips of all my fingers.

I was in the hospital a long time. I won’t bore you with the details. The real story is the black goop that had hit me in the back. The doctors couldn’t wash it off—in fact, water only seemed to encourage it. It stretched out dozens of groping fingers and clung to everyone who touched me. That’s how I had all the skin chopped off from the back of my neck down to my shoulder blades. My surgeon complained that it had been spreading faster than he could operate and sent several samples up north for study. I never did hear back about the test results.

Here’s the clincher: afterward, everyone told me I hadn’t been gone for a Saturday afternoon jaunt, but for two weeks. Pistol had raced home with both an empty saddle and holster, and everyone feared the worst. They had been combing the countryside for me ever since—including several large parties that had gone riding down to the river itself. I couldn’t begin to account for it. I started combing through my memories, trying to fit days into minutes.

It only got worse when I asked about Dr. Peaslee.

“Yeah, I remember a Dr. Peaslee,” said Ms. Ross. “Sometime in ’71, I think? He wanted to see the stones down by the river. Last sign we found of him was his car sitting in front of an open gate. Strangest thing was that he’d left his shoes in the cab. We had no idea what to tell his family.” She’d narrowed her eyes. “Why do you ask?”

She was the first person I told the full story to.

Not long afterward, Ms. Ross burned the church down. Sometime later, I heard she went down to the Brazos with dynamite. Nobody will tell me what happened after that. I’m not sure anybody actually knows, but I’ve got my theories.

I’ve since moved far away from that rural wasteland, but it has never moved away from me. The dreams came back in later years, and sometimes I am possessed by an intense longing to head down to the river and check on the rocks.

As bad as that is, nothing haunts me more than the memories I have of that voice I heard on the church roof. No, it wasn’t Dr. Peaslee—although it was definitely his voice I’d heard in the sanctuary. It was my voice that I had heard on the rooftop. It was my own voice, calling me back to the patchwork god. There’s work to be done, it says, before the Lord can swim down to the gulf. There are bones to splint and there are muscles to weave and there is a coat to stitch. There’s so much work to do before the third gate opens.

So much work. So little time.

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Afterword

Originally, I published this piece in Dreams from the Witch House, produced by Dark Regions Press and edited by Lynne Jamneck. It was a wonderful experience and I learned a great deal. However, in light of recent events, I wished to make this piece public domain. I edited it only to tighten up the prose; the heart of it remains unchanged.

This is based on my childhood in rural West Texas in the early 90s. Sometimes reviewers call it a "Lovecraft western," which is a bit annoying, considering the less-fantastic elements were a literal part of my life--including the River Rats, Rath City, hog traps, and coyote corpses hanging on fence-posts. Even the names are taken from real people, although the characters are their own creatures. Pistol was a real horse and a dream to ride, and this story is dedicated to him.

Thanks to Jamneck, I had the benefit of a copy-editor with ranching experience who was deliciously helpful. This editor found the gate locks less than believable--gates in ranch country are often engineered in such a way that they are easily operated by people on horseback--but this is set in the wilds around Rochester, Texas, located in Haskell County, where everyone was poor and everything was slapped together with duct tape and redneck ingenuity. To ensure I got details right--for my time in Rochester, although formative, was literal decades in the past--I consulted with my parents on numerous occasions.

At the time I wrote this, I had only read halfway through Lovecraft's collected works, and thus was unaware of Yig. Unfortunate, considering how close he is.

Someday I may turn this into a novel. A reviewer once described this story as afflicted by Cartoon Bulldog Syndrome--in which a story is front-loaded with detail before easing out into the story at hand--which I both found extremely funny and very apt. Although I was not a new writer at this point, I was still very fresh and coming out of what I like to call my "purple phase." One might argue that this was fortunate, considering Lovecraft's style.

One of my favorite elements of Lovecraft's fiction is his settings, which did wonders for immersion and were often more effective characters than those of the cast. I thought of setting the story in New England, but quickly discarded the idea--I didn't want to emulate Lovecraft too closely and I wasn't familiar with the area. It was then that the lightbulb popped on: why not set the story in the wind-swept wastes of rural Texas, a place I knew well? Texas is typified by long stretches of unpeopled farmland and thorny scrub, lonely back roads, dangerous wildlife, far-flung neighbors, and fickle weather--perfect ingredients for eldritch shenanigans. In turn, this setting influenced my choice of characters and the social setting--small rural towns which amble far behind modern society.

One of the strangest things about growing up in a rural area was feeling as though I lived fifty years or more in the past. Our main street had sprouted up sometime in the early 1900s, complete with brick facades. Cowboys in well-worn hats and boots spat tobacco juice out into the street; trucks trundled by with wild hogs stacked in the back like cordwood; it wasn't uncommon to see our neighbors riding their horses on the side of the road. The only signs of technological advancement were the vehicles and farm equipment.

When I wrote this story, I found myself thinking about that dichotomy in time--that although we lived in the same year and month and day as a multitude of other people, a visit to the city was like hopping into a time machine. And for me, "the city" was dusty little Snyder! Much, much later, when I would go to Austin for UIL events, I felt a whiplash like you wouldn't believe.

A big part of that dichotomy was the understanding of death in all its forms. We hunted and we ate what we killed; no one ever had to explain death to me. The landscape died and was reborn over and over again; the landscape was ancient past understanding. I formed a particularly strong memory when I was a child. At about five or six, I hitched a ride with our neighbor, a withered old rancher with enormous glasses. He pointed out into a field where a rotting farmhouse leaned against a tree.

"That's where I grew up," he said.

I was deeply disturbed. I couldn't imagine watching a meaningful place die away. Surely every time he saw it he compared it to the mental image of what it had been initially. Worse, there was a point where he had to realize that it couldn't ever be put back together again. Horrified, I suddenly realized that my own home would befall the same fate. Someday I would be the one sitting in the rancher's seat.

This story became an homage to this memory.

Other Notes

The fact my character knotted the reins around her arm is the dumbest goddamn thing. If Pistol took off she'd get dragged to death.

Some of you may find the spurs distasteful. Something important to remember about rural areas is that they retain older viewpoints--one of those viewpoints is that animals are tools to be used. One can love one's animals and kill them the next day--and if they don't perform, well. In the same way you use a belt on your kids, you use spurs on your horses. (Don't do this lol)

In very early drafts, there was an antagonist based on a real event. We had an escapee from a mental hospital come down to the Brazos and break into houses to steal from refrigerators. I even had a close call with him once. I turned him into a character in early drafts; in this fiction, he's the one who wrote on the walls of the church.

#lovecraft #hp lovecraft #h.p. lovecraft #cthulhu mythos #fanfiction #fiction #public domain #short stories #writing #vvatchword

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your-lovely-rose · 2 years

Text

“The Pied Piper of Hamelin”

Robert Browning's poem (published in 1842 in the volume Dramatic Lyrics) is based on a German legend written down by the Brothers Grimm, and recounts events that took place in the town of Hamelin on June 26, 1284.

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Hamelin Town's in Brunswick,

By famous Hanover city;

The river Weser, deep and wide,

Washes its wall on the southern side;

A pleasanter spot you never spied;

But, when begins my ditty,

Almost five hundred years ago,

To see the townsfolk suffer so

From vermin, was a pity.

Rats!

They fought the dogs, and killed the cats,

And bit the babies in the cradles,

And eat the cheeses out of the vats,

And licked the soup from the cooks' own ladles,

Split open the kegs of salted sprats,

Made nests inside men's Sunday hats,

And even spoiled the women's chats

By drowning their speaking

With shrieking and squeaking

In fifty different sharps and flats.

At last the people in a body

To the Town Hall came flocking:

'Tis clear, cried they, our Mayor's a noddy;

And as for our Corporation — shocking

To think we buy gowns lined with ermine

For dolts that can't or won't determine

What's like to rid us of our vermin!

Rouse up, Sirs! Give your brains a racking

To find the remedy we're lacking,

Or, sure as fate, we'll send you packing!

At this the Mayor and Corporation

Quaked with a mighty consternation.

An hour they sate in council,

At length the Mayor broke silence:

For a guilder I'd my ermine gown sell;

I wish I were a mile hence!

It's easy to bid one rack one's brain —

I'm sure my poor head aches again

I've scratched it so, and all in vain.

Oh for a trap, a trap, a trap!

Just as he said this, what should hap

At the chamber door but a gentle tap?

Bless us, cried the Mayor, what's that?

(With the Corporation as he sate,

Looking little though wondrous fat);

Only a scraping of shoes on the mat?

Anything like the sound of a rat

Makes my heart go pit-a-pat!

Come in! — the Mayor cried, looking bigger:

And in did come the strangest figure!

His queer long coat from heel to head

Was half of yellow and half of red;

And he himself was tall and thin,

With sharp blue eyes, each like a pin,

And light loose hair, yet swarthy skin,

No tuft on cheek nor beard on chin,

But lips where smiles went out and in —

There was no guessing his kith and kin!

And nobody could enough admire

The tall man and his quaint attire:

Quoth one: It's as my great-grandsire,

Starting up at the Trump of Doom's tone,

Had walked this way from his painted tombstone!

He advanced to the council-table:

And, Please your honours, said he, I'm able,

By means of a secret charm, to draw

All creatures living beneath the sun,

That creep, or swim, or fly, or run,

After me so as you never saw!

And I chiefly use my charm

On creatures that do people harm,

The mole, and toad, and newt, and viper;

And people call me the Pied Piper.

(And here they noticed round his neck

A scarf of red and yellow stripe,

To match with his coat of the self-same cheque;

And at the scarf's end hung a pipe;

And his fingers, they noticed, were ever straying

As if impatient to be playing

Upon this pipe, as low it dangled

Over his vesture so old-fangled.)

Yet, said he, poor piper as I am,

In Tartary I freed the Cham,

Last June, from his huge swarms of gnats;

I eased in Asia the Nizam

Of a monstrous brood of vampyre-bats:

And, as for what your brain bewilders,

If I can rid your town of rats

Will you give me a thousand guilders?

One? fifty thousand! — was the exclamation

Of the astonished Mayor and Corporation.

Into the street the Piper stept,

Smiling first a little smile,

As if he knew what magic slept

In his quiet pipe the while;

Then, like a musical adept,

To blow the pipe his lips he wrinkled,

And green and blue his sharp eyes twinkled,

Like a candle-flame where salt is sprinkled;

And ere three shrill notes the pipe uttered,

You heard as if an army muttered;

And the muttering grew to a grumbling;

And the grumbling grew to a mighty rumbling;

And out of the houses the rats came tumbling.

Great rats, small rats, lean rats, brawny rats,

Brown rats, black rats, grey rats, tawny rats,

Grave old plodders, gay young friskers,

Fathers, mothers, uncles, cousins,

Cocking tails and pricking whiskers,

Families by tens and dozens,

Brothers, sisters, husbands, wives —

Followed the Piper for their lives.

From street to street he piped advancing,

And step for step they followed dancing,

Until they came to the river Weser

Wherein all plunged and perished

— Save one who, stout as Julius Caesar,

Swam across and lived to carry

(As he the manuscript he cherished)

To Rat-land home his commentary,

Which was, At the first shrill notes of the pipe,

I heard a sound as of scraping tripe,

And putting apples, wondrous ripe,

Into a cider-press's gripe:

And a moving away of pickle-tub-boards,

And a leaving ajar of conserve-cupboards,

And a drawing the corks of train-oil-flasks,

And a breaking the hoops of butter-casks;

And it seemed as if a voice

(Sweeter than by harp or by psaltery

Is breathed) called out, Oh rats, rejoice!

The world is grown to one vast drysaltery!

'So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon,

'Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!

And just as one bulky sugar-puncheon,

Ready staved, like a great sun shone

Glorious scarce an inch before me,

Just as methought it said, Come, bore me!

— I found the Weser rolling o'er me.

You should have heard the Hamelin people

Ringing the bells till they rocked the steeple;

Go, cried the Mayor, and get long poles!

Poke out the nests and block up the holes!

Consult with carpenters and builders,

And leave in our town not even a trace

Of the rats! — when suddenly up the face

Of the Piper perked in the market-place,

With a, First, if you please, my thousand guilders!

A thousand guilders! The Mayor looked blue;

So did the Corporation too.

For council dinners made rare havock

With Claret, Moselle, Vin-de-Grave, Hock;

And half the money would replenish

Their cellar's biggest butt with Rhenish.

To pay this sum to a wandering fellow

With a gipsy coat of red and yellow!

Beside, quoth the Mayor with a knowing wink,

Our business was done at the river's brink;

We saw with our eyes the vermin sink,

And what's dead can't come to life, I think.

So, friend, we're not the folks to shrink

From the duty of giving you something for drink,

And a matter of money to put in your poke;

But, as for the guilders, what we spoke

Of them, as you very well know, was in joke.

Beside, our losses have made us thrifty;

A thousand guilders! Come, take fifty!

The Piper's face fell, and he cried,

No trifling! I can't wait, beside!

I've promised to visit by dinner time

Bagdat, and accept the prime

Of the Head Cook's pottage, all he's rich in,

For having left, in the Caliph's kitchen,

Of a nest of scorpions no survivor —

With him I proved no bargain-driver,

With you, don't think I'll bate a stiver!

And folks who put me in a passion

May find me pipe after another fashion.

How? cried the Mayor, d'ye think I'll brook

Being worse treated than a Cook?

Insulted by a lazy ribald

With idle pipe and vesture piebald?

You threaten us, fellow? Do your worst,

Blow your pipe there till you burst!

Once more he stept into the street;

And to his lips again

Laid his long pipe of smooth straight cane;

And ere he blew three notes (such sweet

Soft notes as yet musician's cunning

Never gave th'enraptured air)

There was a rustling, that seem'd like a bustling

Of merry crowds justling at pitching and hustling,

Small feet were pattering, wooden shoes clattering,

Little hands clapping, and little tongues chattering,

And, like fowls in a farm-yard when barley is scattering,

Out came the children running.

All the little boys and girls,

With rosy cheeks and flaxen curls,

And sparkling eyes and teeth like pearls,

Tripping and skipping, ran merrily after

The wonderful music with shouting and laughter.

The Mayor was dumb, and the Council stood

As if they were changed into blocks of wood,

Unable to move a step, or cry

To the children merrily skipping by —

Could only follow with the eye

That joyous crowd at the Piper's back.

But how the Mayor was on the rack,

And the wretched Council's bosoms beat,

As the Piper turned from the High Street

To where the Weser rolled its waters

Right in the way of their sons and daughters!

However he turned from South to West,

And to Coppelburg Hill his steps addressed,

And after him the children pressed;

Great was the joy in every breast.

He never can cross that mighty top!

He's forced to let the piping drop,

And we shall see our children stop!

When, lo, as they reached the mountain's side,

A wondrous portal opened wide,

As if a cavern was suddenly hollowed;

And the Piper advanced and the children follow'd,

And when all were in to the very last,

The door in the mountain side shut fast.

Did I say, all? No! One was lame,

And could not dance the whole of the way;

And in after years, if you would blame

His sadness, he was used to say, —

It's dull in our town since my playmates left!

I can't forget that I'm bereft

Of all the pleasant sights they see,

Which the Piper also promised me;

For he led us, he said, to a joyous land,

Joining the town and just at hand,

Where waters gushed and fruit-trees grew,

And flowers put forth a fairer hue,

And every thing was strange and new;

The sparrows were brighter than peacocks here,

And their dogs outran our fallow deer,

And honey-bees had lost their stings,

And horses were born with eagles' wings:

And just as I felt assured

My lame foot would be speedily cured,

The music stopped and I stood still,

And found myself outside the Hill,

Left alone against my will,

To go now limping as before,

And never hear of that country more!

Alas, alas for Hamelin!

There came into many a burgher's pate

A text which says, that Heaven's Gate

Opes to the Rich at as easy a rate

As the needle's eye takes a camel in!

The Mayor sent East, West, North, and South,

To offer the Piper, by word of mouth,

Wherever it was men's lot to find him,

Silver and gold to his heart's content,

If he'd only return the way he went,

And bring the children behind him.

But when they saw 'twas a lost endeavour,

And Piper and dancers were gone for ever,

They made a decree that lawyers never

Should think their records dated duly

If, after the day of the month and year,

These words did not as well appear,

"And so long after what happened here

"On the Twenty-second of July,

"Thirteen hundred and Seventy-six:"

And the better in memory to fix

The place of the Children's last retreat,

They called it, The Pied Piper's Street —

Where any one playing on pipe or tabor

Was sure for the future to lose his labour.

Nor suffered they Hostelry or Tavern

To shock with mirth a street so solemn;

But opposite the place of the cavern

They wrote the story on a column,

And on the Great Church Window painted

The same, to make the world acquainted

How their children were stolen away;

And there it stands to this very day.

And I must not omit to say

That in Transylvania there's a tribe

Of alien people who ascribe

The outlandish ways and dress

On which their neighbours lay such stress

To their fathers and mothers having risen

Out of some subterraneous prison

Into which they were trepanned

Long time ago in a mighty band

Out of Hamelin town in Brunswick land,

But how or why, they don't understand.

So, Willy, let you and me be wipers

Of scores out with all men — especially pipers:

And, whether they pipe us from rats or from mice,

If we've promised them aught, let us keep our promise.

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wickedsrest-rp · 2 years

Photo

NAME: Rat King

RARITY: ★☆☆☆☆

THREAT LEVEL: ★★☆☆☆ | Rat kings are common threats that are initially just a nuisance, but can become dangerous when larger.

HABITAT: Most often in populated areas because that’s where you’re likely to find rats. Other variants involving primarily wild rodents may be found in the woods or meadows.

DESCRIPTION: A rat king is not a distinct creature but rather a gestalt phenomena of rodents becoming physically entangled together and forming a hive mind. Cryptozoologists have many potential theories on why this occurs, but nothing is certain except that it only happens in rodent-like creatures, and increases in local paranormal activity are often accompanied by a dangerous spike in rat king occurrences. The initial rat king is usually about the size of a large cat. However, the rat king hive mind has a compulsion to devour and grow. When it encounters other rodents such as mice, rats, squirrels, etc, the rat king will forcefully incorporate them, fusing the new creature into itself. The process can continue indefinitely as long as there is sufficient food and an available rodent population to sustain the rat king’s growth. The nests of rat kings are very distinctive, often resembling giant mole-hills or beaver dams made out of trash, filth, and detritus. The area around the nest is putrid and absolutely reeks. Often, civil workers answer citizens’ complaints of an awful smell or leaks from the sewers only to meet a grisly end when the problem turns out to be a rat king in the city plumbing.

ABILITIES: Initially, rat kings are nothing more than an unsettling collection of rodents, and they aren’t any stronger or faster than your average group of rats. The danger comes from the hive mind’s ability to add new members to the tangled swarm. The type of rodent doesn’t matter and a rat king can grow to potentially infinite size as long as it can find food and more rodents to incorporate. Rat kings are amorphous, making them very dangerous opponents in closed spaces such as sewers. They can easily hide in pipes and holes before boiling out in a tidal wave of bodies. The hive mind grows stronger and more intelligent the more rodents are added to the swarm, almost as if thousands of tiny living computers are being networked. If left unchecked, a rat king can grow to sizes that can swallow many people at once, tearing them apart with thousands of tiny claws and teeth.

WEAKNESS: The individual components of a rat king are not any more durable than a normal rat. However, incendiary weapons such as flamethrowers prove very effective against the larger swarms. They hate fire and will often flee from it. Rat kings can also be poisoned, though they may eventually grow too intelligent to easily fall for bait. Because rat kings are very common threats, rangers can spend a lot of time culling them.

OTHER VARIANTS:

Atypical king: Any rat king comprised of non-rat mammals may take on the label of an “atypical king”. For example, there are kings made of mice, bigger rodents such as beavers, or a mix of many species. These atypical kings can be more unpredictable in their behavior than rat kings (such as beaver kings spending clogging up rivers instead of sewers), but still have the same drive to grow bigger and stronger.

ROUS: Most rat kings are entangled rodents of mundane size. However there are cases in which the rat king phenomena causes the afflicted rodents to swell to the size of small dogs. ROUS share the same mind but aren’t entangled, instead hunting together like perfectly coordinated pack animals.

Squirrel king: Some rat kings are primarily comprised of arboreal rodents and drop down on their prey from above. While these are most commonly eastern grey squirrels, the most dangerous ones are kings consisting of flying squirrels, because they can glide great distances even when entangled.

(Art credit: Markus Neidel)

#monsters #beast #pest #woods #farmland #populated areas #meadows #freshwater #death #atypical king #rous #squirrel king #rat king

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shop-korea · 2 years

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biglisbonnews · 2 years

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Did Ancient Egypt Have a Pigeon Problem? Egyptian pharaoh Akhenaten wasn’t content to take over Thebes, the splendid capital his father ruled before him. For his reign, only a city dedicated to the sun god would do. Akhenaten built Amarna hastily 250 miles to the north, its mud brick temples, estates and roads rising from the banks of the Nile in just four years in the mid-14th century BCE. The pharaoh moved into the Northern Palace and filled his court with paintings of birds. By the artistic standards of the day, the murals in the palace’s Green Room were its most unusual. Instead of stylized and symbolic, they were painted naturally with such realism that researchers Christopher M. Stimpson and Barry J. Kemp believe they have identified most of the 3,300-year-old species. Six of the nine birds are almost certainly pigeons. That wasn’t especially surprising; pigeons regularly appear in ancient Egyptian art and are depicted elsewhere in the art of Amarna. But here, they are out of place. Rock pigeons don’t fancy riverbanks and marshes; they roost up high in cliffs and caves. So, why are there so many in the bucolic riverside scene in the Green Room? “This is, and remains, a puzzle,” says Stimpson, an honorary associate at the Oxford University Museum of Natural History who co-authored an article on the birds in the journal Antiquity. What archaeologists do know is that pigeons were probably one of the first animals to be domesticated by humans, a kind of avian Swiss army knife for the ages. Not only can they be eaten, but their feces make excellent fertilizer and they can be trained to complete fairly complex tasks. Images and carvings of the pigeons first appear in the Middle East and North Africa around 3,000 years ago, according to Colin Jerolmack, professor of sociology and environmental studies at New York University and author of The Global Pigeon. They’d probably been lurking around North African and Middle Eastern cities for close to 2,000 years before that. “Until the telegram, pigeons were the most reliable messaging system in the world,” Jerolmack explains. There’s even evidence that ancient Egyptians used pigeons for communication around the same time Amarna was occupied. “An Egyptian bas-relief from around 1350 BCE depicts a flock of pigeons being released from their cages to fly and then return.” Dovecotes—earthen towers built to house domestic pigeons—offer more evidence of pigeon domestication along the Nile beginning around 2,000 years ago. In densely packed Mit Ghamr about 175 miles north of Amarna, hundreds of historic dovecotes are still packed into its city streets today. But at Amarna, which was inhabited for less than two decades between 1346 and 1332 BCE, there aren’t any dovecotes. There is virtually no archaeological evidence that pigeons were ever present at all. “While rock pigeon bones have been found amidst the archaeological remains at Amarna, they are quite rare and were likely the remains of meals of local workers in the Pharaonic period,” says Stimpson. “This rarity would seem to suggest against pigeons being held in captivity, certainly in any numbers.” But pigeons “have been in cities as long as we’ve had cities,” says Jerolmack. Even if the people of Amarna didn’t intentionally raise them, the pigeons may have found favorable living conditions in the city of around 30,000, putting them in closer proximity to the rivers and marshes nearby. “It’s thought that pigeons gravitated to cities to feast on the fields that surrounded them, and found walls and cornices to be suitable places to roost and nest,” explains Jerolmack. In a large city from the 14th century BCE, “I would certainly expect to find pigeons.” It’s likely that pigeons were attracted to Amarna, agrees Stimpson. But unlike modern urban landscapes in which pigeons are often considered “rats with wings” or vectors of disease, if the city did have feral pigeons, they probably weren’t viewed as a problem. “Quite the opposite, in fact,” he says. “Given that pigeons feature as votive offerings and were consumed as food, these birds [would] have made a positive contribution to both spiritual and practical life.” Without direct evidence from Amarna, though, Stimpson’s and co-author Kemp’s best guess is that the depiction of rock pigeons in a riverbank scene where they would never have been found in real life was nothing more than a whim of the artist or artists responsible. “Ultimately we felt it was artistic license and that the rock pigeons were included in the scene as simple motifs or tokens of wild nature,” he says. But Stimpson stresses that although their conclusions are one interpretation of the evidence, they’re not absolute. “We certainly hope the article encourages others to review the art and judge for themselves.” https://www.atlasobscura.com/articles/ancient-egypt-pigeon-problem

#Shoshi Parks #Atlas Obscura

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delaber · 3 years

Text

Remember (Bucky Barnes)

Summary: Bucky doesn't remember much but he remembers blond-haired, blue-eyed man.

Words: 1.3K

Bucky doesn't remember much.

He remembers what he did yesterday. And the day before. A few weeks back too and how he pulled an unconscious blond man away from certain death in the icy river. He doesn't remember why he felt inclined to save the slightly familiar stranger's life and flee to another continent afterwards, but he remembers the feeling of doing the right thing. Disobeying.

Still, he's bitten his nails down to the plate while sitting amongst rattling barrels of barley and wheat, nervously awaiting orders for what to do now that he is across the ocean - but the orders never come. He is a free man. He can do whatever he wants, he reminds himself and almost cries at the thought. He's not sure he likes it yet.

Thankfully, he is blissfully distracted when the freight train's rumbling engines come to a definitive halt, and he sees a sign in neat letters of some European city he's not sure he's ever heard of before. Bucuresti.

He traces the cursive letters with his eyes and hears the beautiful symphony of syllables when the conductor on the other side of the platform rolls it off her tongue. Bucuresti. Something about it emits peace, so without giving it a second thought, Bucky jumps out from his hiding place behind the barrels, tucks away his metal fingers in his pocket, and blends in with the masses of the city.

He keeps to himself while he walks around. He sleeps on benches, in parks, on dirty tiles in subway stations - but he likes the city. For the first few days, Bucky thinks it's because of the rest squeezed in between Bucu- and -i, but suddenly, foreign syllables spill automatically over his tongue and the sweet Romanian grandmother who is subletting a dingy apartment understands him when he in perfect Romanian asks for full discretion.

"I never rat on my own pack, fiul meu," she pats his cheek as if he is one of them. Calls him my son as if she trusts him with her life.

...Is he Romanian? Is that why Bucuresti seems to calm him? He doesn't feel Romanian - he feels more like a tourist, an intruder, someone who doesn't belong - not like someone's fiul.

So he continues his voluntary isolation while searching for answers.

So far, he's done everything he can think of. Yoga. Meditation. Eating the right things; plums, green beans, gagging on pineapple that he realises he hates. Nothing jogs his memory from before the train ride in and a vague memory of being called Soldat. Everything else is blank - well apart from the blond-haired, blue-eyed man from the river. The image of him has edged itself into Bucky's brain and it is driving him insane! He can't let go of the thought that maybe blond man holds the key to his past.

Cross-legged and desperate for answers, Bucky sits in the middle of his one-bedroom apartment while he tries to block out the musky smell of moulded wallpaper as he racks his brain for information on who he is. He sweats, and he grunts, and he gets so annoyed when everything remains blank that he yanks the elastic band out of the stupid bun on top of his head before he stops. Focuses on blending in instead, hoping to dear God that his brain will play along later.

He does what the people around him are doing. Buys a phone. Learns the internet. Meditates. Eats. Sleeps. Repeats. Googles "blond man, blue suit". "Man with star on chest". "Handsome blond". No result.

He knows he's seen him before. He knows!

"Come on, remember" he groans at night and squeezes his eyes shut. Presses in on his eyeballs so hard that he's kaleidoscoping. Sometimes it helps. Sometimes, he gets titbits, small glimpses of what he should remember. Mud. Gashing wounds. Harsh commandoes while his brain is being fried. Pliers. He tries to focus on the other stuff though. The pleasant stuff. Blond hair and blue eyes.

"Remember!" He hisses at himself, "Remember! Come on, Bucky!" It shoots out of him, and he freezes.

His eyes grow wide.

...Bucky?

Bucky?!

His name is Bucky!!! He lets his hands fall to his sides, stops the aggravating kaleidoscope while whispering to himself, "Bucky...". It sounds familiar, like the name of a long-lost lover. His name is Bucky - but that's not all though, is it? It doesn't seem like a first name, so he presses in on his eyeballs again and wrenches his brain. Waits for the other shoe to drop but falls asleep none the wiser.

It comes back to him a few days later. He's staring at the rusty shower head as he tries to wash off the most recent nightmare when suddenly, he remembers. His name is James! James Buchanan Barnes but he likes to be called Bucky! It sounds English. American. And suddenly, he remembers stars and stripes. His own palm pressed to his chest during the pledge of allegiance. He's American. He grew up in Brooklyn.

Excited that maybe pictures online can help him remember the rest, he jumps out of the shower, leaves wet footprints all over the floor while he marches to his phone and searches for pictures of Brooklyn ten years back. Then twenty. Thirty. Forty. But he has to go back almost seventy years before the pictures on his screen begin to look normal; the women are dressed differently, and the buildings look familiar. He remembers a particular street with a barber and a small store, and when he closes his eyes and goes back in time, blond man sitting by his side. He's smaller, thinner - but it's him. No doubt.

Bucky clicks an article with a vaguely familiar German name in the headline. It instinctively sends shivers down his spine - sounds like something he should remember, and he quickly learns that it is a name of war. That the young men in America were shipped off to the battlefields in Europe. Remembers that he was too. There's a muffled memory of men whispering the twenty-third psalm, of airstrikes and projectiles buried in mud, but when he filters through the rifles and the ear-splitting bombs, ignores the panic they induce, blond man is still by his side. He's bigger then. Taller, burlier, a war machine. Bucky's stomach churns at the thought. He remembers not liking that blond man has been turned into a weapon. He's Bucky's friend, not a symbol.

'That's why I pulled him from the river', Bucky thinks to himself. ‘We're friends.’

Friends. He remembers the feeling of having friends.

He's disappointed when the next few weeks bring him nothing. No titbits. No epiphanies. Not even when he's kaleidoscoping or meditating or splashing his face with cold water. But every night, he whispers to himself what he remembers. "My name is Bucky. I am from Brooklyn. I have a friend." But when he wakes up, he's always disappointed that nothing else has come back.

He walks around in a vegetative state for days, frustrated with himself and his inability to just fucking remember - until one day, he wakes up in the middle of the night after that nightmare. The worst of them all: the one with the free fall. It’s different than usual; this time he isn’t alone, his friend is there too. But Bucky is still bathed in sweat and his heart is pounding a mile a minute while the image of blond man's horrified face is etched in his mind’s eye. He can still hear him crying out his name, can see him desperately reach out from the train as Bucky falls into the abyss.

"It's Steve!" Bucky gasps almost as if he is drowning in it.

The name overpowers him, ties him to the bed while the memories flood his senses. Not just memories of death, and war, and the free fall, but of childhood, and love, and friendship.

Suddenly Bucky remembers every line, freckle, and wrinkle on his friend's face. Remembers his laugh, his scent, his courage, and the way the two of them were inseparable even after he became Captain America. "It's Steve," Bucky repeats and hears how a small, relieved chuckle escapes his struggling lungs amidst all the chaos. He can feel the tears well in his eyes. Tears of happiness and calmness because suddenly he remembers everything; who he is, what happened to him, but most importantly, he remembers Steve. His best friend, his companion, his Stevie.

"Blond man's name is Steve!" he laughs and reminisces who they used to be.

#sebastian stan #bucky imagine #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes #bucky barnes angst #bucky barnes fluff #mcu bucky barnes #bucky x steve #captain america #steve rogers #james bucky barnes #bucky barnes fanfic #stucky

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endlich-allein · 3 years

Text

Interview with Till about his life: he fought with his father, killed his beloved dog, swam on a wild river and worked on suffering. How Till Lindemann's mind works

"I will finish you off" and why you fought for the German army.

Werner Lindemann wanders around the room, interrupting the silence with strange questions, writing something down. His motive is to get to know his son and make him a friend. But it's complicated. Generational conflict.

"My island of tranquility is shaken every day. The day before yesterday, a guy pulled on my socks because his were torn. Yesterday he didn't put out a single lamp in the house. Now, with voluptuous delight, he spits cherry pits into the cat's fur. Is this grown boy really an adult?"

The apprenticeship in Rostock, where you have to do window production after graduation, is the limit of boredom. Till Lindemann moved to his father in the countryside so that he could forget about the hustle and bustle of the city and not fall under the article for anti-social attitudes. He thought of a new life, in which there was no pointless work, and arranged an attic in his father's house.

In the mornings over coffee, he scolded life that everything went according to schedule. And listened very loudly to music - electronics and metal. My father didn't understand and grumbled: “I matured late. Naturally, I wanted to listen to the music I liked, but I could not get my hands on these records. For example, my father did not understand when I bought the Alice Cooper record for a month's salary.

Werner Lindemann was a children's writer who went through the war.

At the height of his career he disappeared for weeks on literary tours - his fame spread to teachers and librarians across the country. His father pecked at Lindemann for refusing to work and promised to turn him in:

"My willful child. What doesn't fit his standards is rejected as nonsense or crap." So he took a job as a carpenter, where he made shovel cuttings and cart wheels. The head foreman constantly drank vodka during the day, didn't want to be annoyed with questions and addressed the long-haired Lindemann with the nickname: "Mozart!" This suited him.

Werner Lindemann talked about war, hard existence and limitations. For example, about a grenade splinter that remained in his body. Lindemann did not believe in all these stories - but categorically did not accept service, war and murder:

“After that I objected: “I would hide, I would not go to war. Why did you even let yourself be dragged into this? You could have hidden."

And he said: “It didn't work out. They searched for it and it took away."

Then I said: “I would rather go under arrest. Never in my life, I would go to the front line to shoot people. It's against my nature. It would be better if I went to jail."

Much of the time father and son were simply silent, even while watching television.

"He regularly made me feel guilty, to say the least, he placed himself on a pedestal towards me: I shouldn't complain. At your age, I ran barefoot through the stubble, and in my stomach - a potato in a uniform."

The only acceptance is Mike Oldfield's music: "One day my father came to grumble again. At that moment I was listening to Mike Oldfield, and he sat down and said: "That sounds interesting."

For me it was like a quantum leap: my father sits in my room, listens to my music and thinks it was good. Probably because of melancholy. He was sitting in a rocking chair that I made myself - at the time I was working as a carpenter on a farm. I, too, always sat in an armchair, immersed myself in music and smoked hand-rolled cigarettes."

The conflict was intensified by a fight. Lindemann bought a Trabant car, installed speakers in it and tested the sound - loud as usual. “Then my father came and I had to turn off this fucking music. It was kind of loud for him. He was then fiddling around his cases of flowers, and then suddenly the situation escalated. I think he slapped me while I was still in the car.

He leaned toward me and hit me with the back of his hand. I made some bullshit remarks like, "Leave me alone," something like that. That was a provocation to him, and he said: "If you do that again, I'll hit you for real." And I said, "Then you'll get it back. Because you're crazy. Don't you dare to hit me anymore."

And then he hit me with his palm again. He wasn't controlling himself.

He was exalting himself. Instantly he introduced himself as a boxer - he had boxed in the Hitler Youth - and I just... I thought I didn't hit him, I just pushed him away. And then he stood in front of me again, "Come on, I'll finish you, you haven't got a chance!" Somehow. After that, he went up to the attic and threw all my stuff out the window.

It happened over the weekend, my sister was there, a lot of screaming, serious drama. Then I packed my things, put them in the car, went to a friend's house and never went into his house again. At first I lived with this friend, and a week later I bought myself a house in the village."

His father's book is about his son, which the son will only open up after the death of the father.

Lindemann is a late child. He was born when his father was 36. The gap in their relationship was felt in everyday life and perception of the world. Werner Lindemann woke up early in the morning, worked with the circular saw under the windows and did not understand when his son slept until noon after a working week.

Lindemann's parents then lived separately, but kept in touch. Mom worked as a journalist and discussed her texts with his father. "She still lived in Rostock and always came to see him only on weekends. Mostly on Sundays she came back quite early, because she couldn't stand the stress of being with him, either."

In 1988, the book “Mike Oldfield im Schaukelstuhl Notizen eines Vaters" In this book, Lindemann Senior describes the relationship with his son (whom he calls Timm in the book), who settled with him at the age of 18. The book was written in the 80s and laid on the table until the German Democratic Republic and the Federal Republic of Germany were reunited.

Werner Lindemann wanted his son to take up writing too. But this only amused him, although as a child he wrote poetry. At the age of 13, little Till Lindemann and his father were returning home along the bumpy road to Mecklenburg. They talked about career self-determination:

"You should already have thoughts about what you want to become, boy." My answer: "I don't know yet, maybe a fisherman on the high seas."

But immediately, no matter what I said, objections arose: “But then you have to get a certificate of maturity. But then you will be away all the time. But then you won't be able to start a relationship."

There was always a “but”.

At some point it got on my nerves, as usual. And I said: "Worst case scenario, I'll just become a writer.

I still remember how alienated his face became. "And what do you think then, what do I do! It's a very hard job! In fact, it's not even a job, it's a passion. And it's a job that's supposed to be enjoyable."

I said, "I don't know anybody who works with pleasure."

"Yeah, that's the problem. You have to look for a job that gives you pleasure." Then I say again, "But some people never get to choose..." This gigantic discussion happened because I didn't take his profession seriously. At the same time, he was completely lost, funny!"

Lindemann thoughtfully read his father's book, in which he comprehends their relationship, after his death. Faked for hidden anger and indecision. For example, in a situation where their dog Kurt was bitten by a fox. The father was frightened because of rabies: “At the same time, we did not even know whether he was bitten by a fox or not. The father immediately called the huntsman. But I said: no one will enter this courtyard and shoot the dog. I'll do it myself if I really need it. At some point I really had to kill the dog."

Lindemann is not a monster. The animals he fiddled with are an important attribute of childhood. He had an aquarium and hamsters, brought mice and rats home, and was friends with dogs. “Like many children of new buildings, he felt the need for someone alive, in need of love,” said Werner Lindemann. Sometimes the appearance of an animal in the house was surprising:

“This guy will never say what he's up to. He appears on the doorstep at the same time as me. He gets out from his vehicle, throws his coat open and puts a young black shepherd in my hands. "Your Christmas present!"

Till's father is speechless. My son stands before me like the sun's little brother. Touchingly concerned, he directs me into the house, working out a plan for the animal husbandry, accommodation and diet of our new pet housemate.

With confusion, a question flies from my lips, "Wheredid you get the dog from?" "Timm" is gibbering, "Imagine, the mason in the barnyard wanted to hang him, simply wanted to strangle him with a rope, said he was a worthless eater..."

Werner Lindemann died of stomach cancer in 1993, when his son was 30. They didn't finally reconcile, but Till visited him in his last days and was there for him with his mother: "They couldn't be without each other, even though they lived apart. Unreal, but my mother never had another man afterwards. To this day she can't let go of him."

- Not going to the Olympics in Moscow and ending up in the German ghetto

Lindemann had the knowledge and the potential to be a swimmer. And a shyness that pounded harder three days before the competition than concerts in front of crowds of thousands. "I know how difficult it is to develop willpower and stamina and instill those attributes. In the GDR this was instilled in us by coaches and so-called functionaries."

Lindemann came to swimming at the age of eight and devoted his entire youth to the sport. He would get up for training at five in the morning and pass out in the evening. His grandmother watched him from the stands. At a competition in Leipzig she shouted at the coach, who told Lindemann off for a poor result. The grandmother took the coach by the ear and said: "How do you talk to my grandson?"

Sports tightened up his upbringing and developed self-discipline. “Drilling - probably the boy has already received this experience as a swimmer,” Lindemann's father wrote. - Once he had to take second place in a competition, but by no means first place. Of course, he got carried away, forgot about it, became the first, thanks to which he received a shouting for indiscipline. And whenever he lost in the future, his coach would torture him at practice for a long time and yelled at him: "Even if you win, you're not a winner yet!"

Lindemann swam the 1.5 km freestyle and could have gone to the 1980 Olympics in Moscow. Everything was ruined when he left the hotel without permission during a competition in Florence: "I didn't want to run, but just wanted to look at the city. Cars, bikes, girls. I was caught and kicked out of the team, but then I didn't give the required results either."

Lindemann competed at the European Junior Championships, but did not go any higher. After the story in Florence, his career in sport slipped away. Perhaps an abdominal injury influenced his departure. Lindemann is gone, but he doesn't yearn: "I was relatively young. There were no good [memories] left. I was glad it was over."

"The hardest part was getting back to normal. I fell into a real hole. My home was no longer a sports school, but a ghetto in Rostock. Now I stood out through drinking and fighting. I used to be surrounded only by beautiful ladies who were interested in swimming. Now I had fierce women standing in front of me asking, "How come you don't drink?" When I was shy about approaching a girl, it was interpreted as: "Are you gay?"

Lindemann now works with a coach and swims a few kilometers before his tours to get in shape: "When I exercise, I feel a certain lightness - not only physically, but also mentally. I just feel better. The main problem is staying in shape. That's where self-discipline comes into play. Teeth grinding is important."

- Three weeks in the wild and loneliness as a creative tool

Emotionally, concerts = sports:

"How do I go on tour? Hungry. And happy. It is good to compare concerts with sport. You don't want to do both at first. You don't want to go on stage. You don't want to go to the pool. You don't want to go to the boxing ring. It all happens with reluctance. It has to be accepted somehow, that's life: spring, summer, fall, winter.

When it's done, winter's gone, the blooming begins, greenery appears, it gets bright, and you start to get a taste for it. When it's over, you feel happy. Then the body produces a sea of chemistry, a lot of happiness hormones. I think the body rewards itself."

The stage, like sports, is an embarrassment, but a necessity. Lindemann wore dark glasses in order to collect fewer views from the audience. Therefore, a couple of steps before the water, he looked at the pool with a shiver. You need to cope with yourself in order to open up to new emotions.

Lindemann's gut requires solitude and moderate solitude. This is the point:

“Loneliness is always good for a creative push - you drink a glass of wine and you feel even shitier. Art is not complete without suffering; art exists to compensate for suffering."

With his friend Joey Kelly, Lindemann spent three weeks on the Yukon River. They paddled through the wilderness in a kayak for eight to 10 hours each and lived in a tent. Lindemann didn't take a tape recorder with him, so he transferred the lyrics wandering in his head on paper.

They were catching inspiration and atmosphere:

"There were times when we wouldn't say a word for hours, but then: look there, look there! It was breathtakingly beautiful. These relatively fast-changing panoramas and skies, layers of clouds, the colors.

Except for a few bears and wolves, it's hard to see anyone else out there, it's exhilarating. Along the way we saw two hunters setting traps. No one else.

I grew up in the countryside, and I have a very strong connection to nature. I love fishing, hunting. It's an archaic experience that I like to revisit over and over again. When I'm in the city for too long, I start to miss it."

To recreate situations in the Yukon, Lindemann and Kelly trained for nine months on the Rhine river in Germany because of its liveliness.

"We went down the Rhine to where the transport ships create huge bow waves. If we hadn't had a coach with us, we probably would have been sunk by the side wave impact already during our first attempt," Lindemann said.

Together with Kelly, he had four sessions with two coaches and swam from Cologne to Koblenz [more than 100 kilometers by car]. Lindemann trained separately each week on the lakes in Mecklenburg. It's both physically challenging and savage identical to being natural.

In 2015, Till started his solo project Lindemann. On the album Skills In Pills, the song Yukon was released, in which the lyrics appeared first, and then the music.

- "My lyrics come from pain rather than desire."

The country boy is big and not much of a talker. That's how the Rammstein members saw him at the start, when they were hanging out at home. "He looked cool, like a big peasant talking one sentence an hour," keyboard player Christian "Flake" Lorenz recalled. - He always had food and vodka. He'd just steal a couple of ducks somewhere and cook them on a tray. And then, frozen like in Sleeping Beauty, there were people lying in corners and on trunks in his house."

Lindemann loves and appreciates home gatherings. This came from my father, who always had guests. “In my opinion, this is the little bit that I inherited from him. Throwing parties and gathering people. Throwing parties and getting people together. He just enjoyed being a good host. The house was always full of guests from Leipzig, from Rostock, foreign guests, even from Kazakhstan.

It was always exciting for him. He stood at the stove, cooked, bought an abundance of wine, and there was always a fire in the garden. At some point he stopped drinking, then he left the party at 21:00 and the whole company continued to feast. And in the morning he got up at four, cleaned and tidied up."

Till Lindemann is about self-digging, overcoming and childish shyness, which is covered by a pumped-up figure of a swimmer. This is how Lindemann decrypts himself:

• “And I really am like a big child - ill-mannered, but harmless. People think that I am always strong, explosive. This is not true. I am sensitive and easily hurt, but in love I am romantic and passionate."

• “At the very beginning, you sit somewhere in a dark room, open a bottle of wine and figure out how to make the lyrics popular with the music. At first you only have a vague idea of what it could be.

And when, three years after recording, mixing, and more mixing, developing the artwork, all this nonsense, then you stand on stage, and what you came up with then really works, when you manage to get 20 thousand people to raise their hands, then you experience incredible sensations."

• “Art is a kind of therapy.

When I feel that something is arising inside me, domineering and is most often dark, I need to give it a way out, otherwise it will simply crush me. So destruction and self-destruction are the two pillars on which my creativity is based.

But everyone chooses this for himself.

• “My lyrics arise from feelings and dreams, but still more from pain than by desire. I often have nightmares, and I wake up at night sweating, as I see terrible bloody scenes in my dreams. My lyrics are a kind of valve for the lava of feelings in my soul.

We are all struggling to hide behind good manners and outward decency, but in fact we are governed by instincts and feelings: hunger, thirst, horror, hatred, the desire for power and sex. Of course, there is also additional energy in us - this is love. Without it, all human feelings would fade away."

- "When you're constantly living someone else's life, it's very hard to get back into your own skin. I like that in principle, but sometimes you start to get confused - are you out of a role or not yet. You're already Till, or you're still a homicidal maniac."

- "I hate the noise. I hate the chatter. I expose myself to it, which is pure masochism. And then I have to protect myself from it. Noise makes you crazy. You die in it."

• “I think there is no God. And if he is and actually allows all the misfortunes on this earth, then he must punish me along with other sufferings. I will not pray to such a god."

This is how the members of Rammstein see Till - flexible and with a split personality:

Guitarist Paul Landers: "Till is so good that when you let him know that his lyrics should go in a different direction, the very next day he brings a new version of the song."

Guitarist Richard Kruspe: “He's a hell of an extreme man. He dives very deeply into situations where I cannot follow him. Everything he does is very extreme; I don't know anyone who does it. "

Drummer Christoph Schneider: "I would not want to be in Till's shoes: his soul is tormented by doubts and contradictions, he is equally a moralist and a monster."

June 1, 2021 - Translate by Lindemann Belgium

#very interesting #till's life #till is love 🖤#till lindemann #till 2021 #werner lindemann #flake lorenz #paul landers #christoph schneider #richard kruspe #oliver riedel #joey kelly #rammstein #t.lindemann #t.lindemann 2021

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fallout4reactsblog · 4 years

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What if a sole survivor that’s a teenager(like 14-16 years old) begins to view the companions and faction leaders as parental figures, before slipping up and accidentally calling them “mom” or “dad”? Just a thought.

Ada: “Ah, shit.”

Sole patted themself down, checking their pockets, before sighing. “I knew I should’ve taken the time to skin those mole rats.”

“Is something missing?”

Curious, Ada leaned over to check the project they were working on. They slid to the side to accomodate her.

“I just don’t have enough leather to finish my armor mods. I wanted to put some pockets in my chestplate so I could carry a couple extra rolls of duct tape, but I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

“Leather?”

She checked back through her mental inventory, sizing up what she was carrying. Enamel bucket, ashtrays, pack of cigarettes...

“Ah, here we are.” She pulled out a baseball glove and handed it over. “Will this suffice?”

“Oh, yeah, this is perfect!” They beamed. “Thanks, Mom.”

“Anytime.”

If either of them noticed sole’s little slip-up, neither of them said a thing.

Cait: Sole reminded her too much of herself, some days. She knew their jaded expression, their thousand-yard stare, the haunted look of a kid who’d seen more than they should have. She knew more about them than they’d probably like, which was how she knew to stop them before they could do something they’d regret in the long run.

“No chems,” she said, plucking the canister of X-Cell out of their hands before they could get too close a look at it. It still felt dusty from its years laying in a Concord Speakeasy, and she wiped her hand on her pants.

“I know,” they huffed, rocking back on their heels. “I was just looking.”

“Well, don’t.” She tucked it into a back pocket, making a mental note to either toss it in the closest river or sell it first chance she got.

“It’s not like anything bad can happen from just looking at it, Cait. I wasn’t even thinking about it.”

“You better not have been. If you start doin’ that shite-”

“I know.” Somehow, their tone remained patient. “I promised I wouldn’t do chems, and I won’t, okay, Mom?”

The breath left her like she’d been sucker punched. For a moment, all she could do was stand there, eyes wide, unable to form a thought, much less words. Was it really like that? Had she really let things go this far? How long until she ended up like-

“I mean, uh, Cait.”

She glanced up to see their face beginning to turn red, and they ducked their head.

“Sorry, it just slipped out. I don’t, I mean, I didn’t-” They huffed. “Sorry. I know you don’t want to be a parent or anything, and I don’t mean that you should, I just...”

They prattled on nervously, as if trying to comfort both of them, words going right past Cait’s head. To think sole thought of her as a mother. She couldn’t have that responsibility. Her parents had been trusted with a child, and look how she’d turned out. She couldn’t take that risk, not with sole, not when at any moment some switch could flip inside her and she’d turn into the monsters that had raised her.

She’d known this was a bad idea, right from the start.

Codsworth: “I was thinking about putting another mod on my pistol today,” they said, hunched over the kitchen table. They were poking at some circuit board or another, something that they’d never have been allowed to touch before the war. He eyed the screwdriver in their hands warily.

“A fine idea,” he said, resigning himself once again to the fact that a new world meant a new way of life for mum and sir’s child. “Perhaps a larger magazine?”

They chewed their lower lip thoughtfully, tightening a screw. “I was thinking something more quick-eject, you know? Speed in battle and all.”

He couldn’t argue with that.

“The only reason I hadn’t done it was I needed some more adhesive. But since Carla stopped by again and she had some duct tape, we should be set.”

“As I recall, Miss Carla had more than enough for an extra set of sights as well. You asked me to remind you when you had enough material for a large scope, and by my measure, you should be there now.”

“Oh, yeah, I forgot about that.” They nodded thoughtfully. “We can get that old hunting rifle in working order again. Thanks, Dad.”

He froze. Dad? Him? No, that wasn’t right. But they’d said it so casually, as if they hadn’t even realized they were saying it. Surely, they couldn’t have forgotten sir already. They’d had years with him as their father. Such things couldn’t be forgotten so easily.

“Sole.” He tried not to make his tone sound warning.

They, too, seemed to have realized what they’d said, ears beginning to turn red. “Sorry, Codsworth. I was just working and not thinking about it, and-”

“It’s alright. Such slip-ups happen, after all! We’ll just have to make sure it doesn’t become a habit. After all, I’m simply the family Mr. Handy. Hardly a father. I wouldn’t want to take sir’s place.”

“Right, right. Sorry.”

“No need for apologies! We’ll simply call this a learning moment, for both of us.”

They sighed, “Sounds fair,” and returned to their work.

Curie: “You have your stimpaks, yes?”

They patted a pocket. “Got ‘em right here.”

“And your bandages?”

“In my bag.”

“Extra ammunition?”

They sighed. “Stop fussing, Mom. I told you, I’ve got everything I need.”

She pursed her lips and cocked her head to the side. That was certainly an... interesting choice of words.

“You see me as a maternal figure?”

“What?” They adjusted the straps on their bag, refusing to make eye contact.

“You referred to me as your mother. I am simply curious when you began to perceive me in such a role.”

“I don’t.” Their cheeks flushed, and they turned away further. “I didn’t call you ‘Mom,’ either.”

“Oh, but there is no need to be embarrassed! It is only natural for such things to happen. Your brain is still maturing, and as the primary provider of such maternal care in your life, it is predictable that you would-”

“Okay, okay, I’m leaving now.” They turned hastily to the door. “I’ll see you in a few days, Curie.”

“Certainly. Au revoir.”

As she watched their retreating back, she let herself consider the happy hum in her chest. Did she want to be sole’s mother? Was it that she wanted to be their mother specifically, or was there simply a general maternal instinct that was now surfacing? It was intriguing that such an instinct could exist in her, since she could never have children, but perhaps there was some lingering Ms. Nanny instinct that was affecting her. No matter what, it was certainly interesting.

If sole saw her as a maternal figure, she’d do her best to provide.

Danse: He found sole leaning against a wall, panting. There was blood splattered across their armor, gun dangling loosely from their fingers, but they were smiling, which was good enough for him.

“You look exhausted,” he said.

They laughed a little and smeared some of the blood from their cheek. “That was quite the fight. We should’ve brought some backup, huh?”

He glanced over at the scribe Quinlan had sent along, who had been of even less use than he’d expected, but decided to let that go and focus on sole. “I wouldn’t be so sure. You fared quite well on your own, and for your level of training your performance was impressive.”

Their eyes flicked over to meet his. “For real?”

“I would never lie to you, especially in your field evaluation. You’ve come a long way.”

He caught a hint of their smile before they ducked their head. “Thanks, Dad.”

He paused, sucking in a breath. While it wasn’t an uncommon mistake, it wasn’t one he was exactly willing to overlook. Still, best to approach things tactfully to avoid embarrassment for them. “What was that?”

They wouldn’t meet his eyes. “What was what?”

The scribe, tapping at the terminal, decided that was his moment to be useful. “You called Paladin Danse ‘Dad.’”

“No, I didn’t. I said, ‘Thanks, Danse.’”

He allowed himself a smile. “I didn’t know you saw me as a father figure, sole.”

“I don’t.” Still, their flush of embarrassment betrayed them.

He waved a hand through the air. “It’s alright, Knight. You wouldn’t be the first to refer to their sponsor as Mom or Dad, and I sincerely doubt you’ll be the last.”

Really, they were a good kid. Young initiates usually tended to find a substitute parental figure in the ranks, and of all sole’s options, he was glad it was him. He could keep them on the right track, make sure they didn’t go astray. With any luck, they could probably take his position someday.

All in all, this was a good thing for both of them.

Deacon: “Deeks, how does this jacket look on me?”

He glanced up from the hats in Fallon’s Basement to see sole tugging on the sleeves of a leather jacket. It was a bit rough around the edges, but it was just worn enough that he could believe it had seen some action. It wasn’t really their style, though; Agent Whisper tended more toward a softer kind of spy work, based more on charisma and less on punching people in the face.

“I like it,” he said, rocking back on his heels. “It’s a new look for you.”

“I was thinking I should add a more badass disguise to my collection. Try for that intimidation factor every once in a while, you know?”

He tossed the idea around a moment before agreeing. “We could make it work. It’d need practice, though, and some other accessories.”

“We could go get a bat from Mo while we’re here.”

“Now you’re talking. You put a couple nails in that sucker, and boom. You’re halfway to badass city right there. We’ll just have to teach you how to actually use it so you don’t stab yourself by accident.”

“Yeah, sure, but you’ll teach me, right, Dad?”

He nearly choked. Shit. Did sole know something he didn’t? No, that couldn’t be true. He’d never had kids, despite how much Barbara wanted them. Plus, sole had known their father. He’d seen the body, still half in cryo in 111.

That left the fact that sole had come to see him as a father figure, which left him in the awkward position of either shutting that down, probably hurting their feelings in the process, or just letting it slide. But could he even consider the latter? He couldn’t be a father, not in this state. He couldn’t lie every other word and still consider himself a decent parental influence, now could he?

Still, that voice in the back of his head nagged, “Barbara would want you to say yes. She thought you’d be a good dad.”

“Deeks?”

They looked at him quizzically, obviously still looking for an answer.

He sighed and, just this once, gave in. “Sure, kid. I’ll teach you how. It’s not that much different from their intended use, really...”

Desdemona: She always had a certain fondness for sole’s reports. She never got to hear much about the missions, just a quick affirmation of success and not much else. Sole, though, sole always told her a story, starting from the beginning and highlighting anything that they thought was interesting.

“But, you know, they’re just raiders,” they said, twenty-some minutes after they’d started. “In the end, H2 got where he needed to go. Highrise will take it from here.”

She smiled and ruffled their hair, making them laugh. “Good work, agent. You’re making all of us proud.”

“Thanks, Mom.”

They froze immediately, realizing what they had said, but their moment of embarrassment was cut short by Tom’s sigh of relief.

“Finally! You know how long we’ve been waiting for this? You took so long to join the club.”

Glory caught sole’s look of confusion and added, “Everyone calls Dez ‘Mom’ at some point. It’s basically a rite of passage.”

They looked to Dez for affirmation, and she could only nod.

“It’s true. It happens to everyone, sooner or later. I’m more than used to it by now.”

“You sure?” they asked, voice still hesitant.

“Positive. The only one that hasn’t is PAM, and she doesn’t have the capability.”

“Give her time,” Tom said. “She’ll get there.”

Gage: “You’re being stupid,” he snarled.

They glared back with surprising intensity. “You’re being a prick. You said yourself, I’m the Overboss. Things go how I want them to.”

How they’d managed that little trick, he didn’t know, but he hated it more and more every day. “Bein’ the Overboss doesn’t mean you don’t have to listen to anyone. You’re still new here. You better show me some respect.”

“Oh, fuck off, Dad,” they snapped.

That only pissed him off more. “What did you just call me, you little shit?”

They blinked, anger seeming to cool for a second. “Gage. What else?”

“No, you called me Dad.” His temper settled in return, hovering at a simmer. “Like this is some sort of family reunion or some shit.”

They snorted. “As if.”

“Don’t try and take it back now. I heard you.”

“You’re old and losing your hearing. Old fucker.”

His temper flared again, and despite that he knew they were baiting him, he couldn’t resist. “What was that?”

“What, I need to enunciate everything for you? Do you need your hearing aids, Grandpa?”

“What the fuck is a hearing aid?”

“What do you think, dumbass? It lets you hear better when you get old and lose your hearing. Like you.”

A knock on the door interrupted what he was going to say, and he snapped his mouth closed with irritation.

“Overboss?” The voice was muffled through the door. “Do you have a minute?”

“Yeah, just a sec.” They dusted their hands on their pants, anger instantly melting into a mask of cold determination. “Come on, Gage. Work to do.”

He huffed and resolved they would finish this later.

Hancock: He was always impressed with how well sole handled Goodneighbor. It went to show that they were much tougher than their age and pre-war softness let on; that this kid who looked like they’d never even handled a gun would shoot you without question if threatened. He’d seen how they’d handled Finn.

“Cold today,” they said, blowing into their hands. “This wind is killer. You wanna head inside and check up on things while I barter here?”

They gestured in the general direction of KLEO’s shop, and he chuckled.

“I dunno. Maybe the big, bad mayor better stick around to make sure you don’t get yourself into more trouble.”

They rolled their eyes. “Come on, Dad. I can handle myself, you know.”

They realized their mistake before he did, eyes widening, jaw snapping shut. He faltered, snappy words dying in his mouth before he got hold of himself again. Dad? Were they kidding? Their face said they weren’t.

“Woah, now.” He held up his hands. “It ain’t like that, kid. I’m not exactly the fatherly type, y’know. Cool uncle, maybe, but I ain’t anybody’s Dad.”

They huffed, clearly embarrassed, and diverted him by saying, “Bet you’ve been more than one somebody’s Daddy, though.”

“That’s more like it.” He nudged them in KLEO’s direction. “You go do your shopping, and I’ll go make sure they ain’t burnin’ down my town while I’m away.”

“Sure. If I’m not here when you get back, I’ll be in Hotel Rexford.”

“Sounds fine. Get me somethin’ nice while you’re at it, huh?”

“Alright, but I’m charging you a convenience fee.”

Content that they were back on the same page, he agreed and went to find Fahrenheit.

MacCready: “Your fever’s gone down a little.” He rested a hand against their forehead. “Seems you’re gonna pull through.”

They smiled a little, eyes still hazy with sickness and medicine. Soon, they’d be on their feet again, he hoped.

“I bet you’re a good dad, Mac,” they said. “Duncan must really love you, huh?”

He let out a sigh. Sole had been strangely emotional ever since they got sick, which had annoyed him at first, but lately he’d just come to accept it. After all, there wasn’t much he could do about it, was there?

“Jeez, I don’t even know if he remembers me. It’s been a while since I got to see him.”

“He remembers you. I mean, I remember my dad, and he’s been dead for a couple hundred years now, I guess.” They laughed a little, as if they’d said something funny. “But you should go see him. Take a break. I’ll be fine without you.”

“Nah, we’ll go together. After all, he’ll probably want to meet you.”

“You think?”

“Yeah. He’ll probably see you as some kind of adopted older sibling or something. You’ll get along.”

They exhaustion in their laugh betrayed them. “Sure, whatever you say, Dad.”

There was a wryness in their voice, an almost mocking note that told him they’d meant it as a joke, but long after they’d fallen asleep, he sat at their bedside, watching them. He’d thought he was joking, too, but now that he was along with his thoughts, he had to wonder. Maybe he did want them to meet Duncan, and maybe he did want them to get along like siblings. Could he do that? Was that wrong?

He sighed and rose from his chair. No use worrying about it now. Sole had probably been joking about him going to DC anyway. After all, there was work to be done here.

They definitely weren’t going anywhere until they were better, though. For now, he had to focus on making sure they pulled through.

Maxson: He watched them across the table as they studied the map of the Commonwealth spread between them. It was a crude battle plan, mostly consisting of bottlecaps and buttons, but it was enough for them to discuss. He found he was regularly impressed by their knowledge in this area; in many ways, they reminded him of himself at that age.

“What if we swung south?” They pushed three bottlecaps across the table. “The way C.I.T is set up makes anything but a direct assault difficult, but we could try to split their forces, or at least their fire.”

He hummed, considering. “You’re still assuming we can’t assemble Prime in time.”

“Right. I’m concerned they’ll force our hand before we’re ready. We need to be prepared for that.”

“If you hope to split their fire, we’ll have to split our forces. That means we’ll need more men overall and be pulling more away from the airport, leaving us vulnerable.”

They scrunched their face as they thought about it. “You’re right, but in these circumstances we’re already at a disadvantage, don’t you think? We’re outgunned and outmanned.”

“Both of which can be overcome by outplanning them.” He leaned back in his chair. “What you lack in physical strength can often be overcome with mental acuity.”

They glanced away from the diorama to look at him. “That’s pretty good advice. Nice one, Dad.”

He felt his heart skip a beat. They had already returned to the diorama, now considering the forces around the airport, but he suddenly couldn’t focus. Sole considered him a father figure. Did he mean that much to them that he was someone they looked to for guidance, not just on the Prydwen, but in all aspects of their life? To be a father to them, to be able to guide them, was more than he could have ever asked for.

He cleared his throat. “I believe you mean ‘Elder,’ Knight.”

“Hm?” They looked up again.

“You referred to me as something else. I’m reminding you that the proper title is ‘Elder.’“

“Oh. My apologies, Elder. It won’t happen again.”

He sighed. “I ask that you’re careful around the others. That is all.”

They nodded, mind clearly already on other things.

Nick: He watched them poke around Earl Sterling’s apartment, careful eyes taking everything in. He lingered by the doorway, letting them do their thing, curious to see how it would play out. He was taking a bit of a risk letting them work the case, but he figured he could clean up any mistakes they made along the way.

Mistake number one was probably letting them pick up all those beers, but he figured as long as he watched them sell them all, it would be fine.

“Aha!”

Triumphant, they emerged from where they had crouched on the floor, brandishing a piece of paper.

“Find somethin’?” He flicked his cigarette to the side, nudging it out with the toe of his boot.

“Some sort of receipt, I think. Facial reconstruction with Dr. Crocker. Appointment date... should have been sometime around his disappearance.”

“That means ol’ Doc could’ve been the last to see Earl alive.” He nodded thoughtfully. “Good work, kid.”

They flushed with pride and perhaps a bit of embarrassment at the praise. “Thanks, Dad.”

He raised an eyebrow, hoping they would realize their mistake on their own, but they were busy tucking the receipt into their bag. It seemed as though they hadn’t noticed at all, and after a moment of thought, he decided not to mention it. After all, there was no need to embarrass them. They’d realize what they’d said eventually.

Plus, it was kind of nice, in a way.

Piper: “You’ve got ink on your face.”

Sole glanced up from the freshly-printed edition of the paper, fingers wandering to their cheekbone. “Here?”

“Little to the left.”

“Here?”

“Less to the left.”

“Here?”

“Oh, just hold still.”

She leaned over, wiping the ink off their cheek with her thumb. It smeared a little bit, but was a marked improvement, and she scrubbed the rest away with the heel of her glove.

“There you go. Good as new.”

They nodded and returned their attention to the paper. “Thanks, Mom.”

They seemed to realize immediately, eyes widening, and Piper felt a sharp pain in her chest.

“Aw, Blue, you know I’m not really...”

They visibly deflated. “I know. I’m sorry, Piper.”

“Not like that.” She leaned forward, putting her coffee to the side. “I’m not upset by it. I’m just not that kind of person, that’s all. I’m like your older sister, not your Mom. I wouldn’t want to replace her. It’s not a big deal, just, you know, get it in your head.”

“Older sister?” That seemed to perk them up a bit, and she smiled.

“Yeah. You’re still part of the family, Blue. Just not like that.”

They smiled. “I guess I’ll take it.”

Preston: The first sign was always the quiet. Sole wasn’t likely to stay quiet for too long; they were always listening to the radio, humming or singing along. When it was quiet for too long, that usually meant they’d either wandered off without telling him, which was never good, or they’d fallen asleep somewhere.

Sign two was the glow of a lantern at the workbench. It wasn’t uncommon for them to work late into the night, but that was always accompanied by the sound of work: the screech of metal on metal, the hum of an engine, the rattling of loose hardware in its drawers.

Quiet and light together meant they’d fallen asleep at the workbench. Again.

“Sole.” Gently, he shook their shoulder. “Come on. You can’t sleep here.”

They sat up, bleary-eyed, a sheet of orange plastic cut from a pumpkin stuck to their cheek. Almost unseeing, they looked up at him with a sleepy, questioning hum.

“Come on.” Gently, he pulled at their arm.

“Sorry, Dad.” They rubbed their eyes, rising on unsteady feet. “I’m going.”

A smile crept to his face as he led them across the Sanctuary street to their home, making sure they got settled. Almost instantly, they were asleep again, long hours of hard living catching up to them all at once. Quietly, he closed the door behind him.

It was too good to be true. They were just tired, and mistook him for their father in the dark. But still, a part of him wanted to believe that it was possible. Maybe he could be a father to sole. He could show them how to make it here, in this unfamiliar world, and support them as they grew into the General he knew they could be.

Maybe, just maybe, they would let him.

X6: He watched them pace back and forth in front of the door, coat tails swirling with every pivot. They adjusted their lapels for the fifth time, sighed, and glanced around for a clock.

“It’s only four twenty-five,” he said. “You’ve still got twenty-five minutes.”

They sighed and sank heavily into a chair. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

They groaned and dropped their head onto the table. “You said it was thirty minutes to go, like, an hour ago.”

“Five minutes ago.”

“Doesn’t feel like it.”

He set his gun on the table with a sigh and set his sunglasses beside them. “If you keep worrying about it, you’ll only work yourself up more, and the time will seem to pass slower. Your best move would be to get a cup of coffee and relax.”

“I can’t relax.” They leaned back in their chair. “It’s my first meeting as the director. Half of the Institute already hates me because I’m so young, so if I mess this up I’ll be out on the street by dawn. This is no time to relax.”

“If you don’t relax, you’ll be more likely to make a mistake.”

“I know, but it’s easier said than done, Dad.”

He blinked. At first, he wasn’t sure if he’d heard them properly, but his hearing was beyond satisfactory. If he’d heard it, they’d said it, but that didn’t mean anything.

“Case in point. You’re upset, you make mistakes. Like that.”

They sank their head into their hands. “You’re right. I’ll- I’ll get some coffee. Sorry.”

“There is no need to apologize. Humans make mistakes, after all.”

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natromanxoff · 3 years

Text

20 - Rockin' in Rio

Greetings one and all A quick return from the Bondi Bard. Last weekend there was a surprise party for Gerry and Sylvia in San Francisco, and judging from the email I got from Ratty a good time was had by all, and a few of our old mob were there. I would loved to have been there but I was committed to go to the wedding of a good buddy of mine. James and his new wife Suze got married on the original Manly ferry, which has been converted into an amazing houseboat and is moored at Balmain. The ceremony was at 7pm, just as the sun was setting to the left of us, and the Harbour Bridge to the right, very picturesque. An Aussie band called Leonardo's Bride sang their top five hit to the couple (of course I can't remember the name of it) and the girl singer has an incredible voice, and is also gorgeous and a very charming lady, who is shacked up with a DJ mate of mine. Lucky bastard. The booze was good, the food even better and a fun night was had. I can hear that question again, "Whats this got to do with Queen?" Well I shall tell you. James worked as an engineer at Metropolis Studios in London, along with the lovely Heidi, where the Queenies did a lot of recording, he also did some work with the band, but did a lot on BM's first solo outing. The next link is even weaker. I spent a good part of the evening chatting with Rob Hirst, who is the drummer with Midnight Oil, and is also a fabbo chappie. And being a typical drummer, while the Oils are not working he is recording his own solo album, as a singer/guitarist.......sound familiar. We had a couple of drinks and swapped a few stories, and as his wife was with us we managed to keep them all clean.

Staying on the subject of drummers I had an email, via Jacky, from a drummer who didn't seem that amused by the joke I told in my last ramblings, they might hit things but they are really quite sensitive deep down. So I suppose I should say I'm sorry, well I'm not. But here's another little jest to piss him off some more. Q: Whats the most asked question to a person with an IQ of 2? A: What sticks do you use?

Onto Sonia's request for some info on our trips to Brazil. What can I say about Rio except that it is a fun city and we all had a great time there, maybe that's why we went back a second time. On the first venture there I was still looking after the kit, and on one night myself and a few of the crew hit the town and got very drunk on the local drink, I think it was made from sugar, which I can pronounce but I've no idea how to spell it. (Help me out Sonia) We were in a bar getting louder and louder when a Welsh Rugby team came in, and they were big boys, and they are also on the tipsy side.

I'm 6ft, Jim Devenney makes me look small and Bob Bickleman made him look small, and the rugby players are of equal size, so we now have a contest on our hands as to which team can sing the loudest and dirtiest rugby songs. To start with the Welsh were winning because they had a couple of good looking women with them, and even though it was loud it was also in good fun. Devenney then comes up with the great statement that rugby is a girls game, the Welsh reply that at least they don't need padding when they play, unlike Gridiron, to which our team say, "OK, lets have a game on the beach tomorrow morning." This to me sounds like a really daft idea as I hate Gridiron, Rugby and Soccer, so one of the lighting guys and myself decided to leave, which means the Queen crew won by default cause neither team turned up on the beach to play, and as the two of us were leaving the bar we took their gorgeous ladies with us. Sorry Wales.

Our second visit to Brazil, when I was traveling with the band, was for the first Rock in Rio which was a two week festival with a host of big names on, each playing two nights. We did the opening night with three Brazilian acts, then Whitesnake who had Cozy as drummer, then Iron Maiden and then us. The second show was at the end and our opening acts were the B52's and the Go Go's. After the show I ended up in my room with a couple of Go Go girls, and boy were they party hounds. Apart from the bands I've mentioned there were other big names like Rod Stewart, AC/DC, Yes, George Benson and more. It was fun because we got to see old friends of the road, but it was also a nightmare cause we were almost prisoners of the hotel, due to the fact there were far to many fans outside the hotel, so we hung around the pool most of the time. The press were paying guests with poolside views so they could use the room and snap rockstars by the pool, which, of course, put an end to that.

The only thing left to do between shows was to get out of Rio and Roger and I heard of a great place called Buzios (Hope I spelt that correctly) which I suppose is about 100 miles away. Deaky and Wally decided to come as well, and being wimps they took a limo, unlike us drum type people, we don't eat quiche, we're gonna drive. The locals were all driving around in beach buggies, they look like fun, thats us, lets go. A buggy is basically a VW beetle with a different body, and our gleaming white buggy turns out to be the biggest pile of crap ever allowed on a road.

I take the wheel and we're not too far into our journey when 1st gear goes on the missing list, I don't care, I'm a good driver, I can start in 2nd. The gearstick decides to loosen on us, so trying to get it in gear was like stirring soup, who cares, onwards and by now our buggy decides to dump the clutch, so when it came to pulling away I just pushed the stick, and whatever gear it went in was the one we drove in. At least we can see the funny side of it all. What else can God give us to make this mission harder, how about torrential rain, which is great fun to drive in when you don't have a roof on the car. Needless to say the buggy rapidly filled up with water. Five minutes of this downpour and we get our next treat, the wipers pack up, so RT has to stand up and lean over the top and wipe the windshield so I can see where I'm going. By this time we look like a couple of soaking wet tramps, but we are killing ourselves laughing as we watch the red mud flow down the hillsides into the river we are trying to drive through. As we go round a bend we both screamed out "OH F***" at the same time. A huge truck was heading in the opposite direction to us, and as it passed at high speed a tidal wave of red water engulfed us and our crappy little car. I have to be honest here, that did wipe out a bit of the humour. We got to our destination, found the hotel and as the drowned rats walked in, the wimps were sitting in the bar, very dry with very cold beers. Next time, I'm with you Deaky. You would think the first thing I would want was a shower, nope, top of the list was a nice quiet chat with the company that rented us our friendly little buggy, and after a couple of well placed words they didn't charge us. Once there we had a good time. Oh, I nearly forgot, we did a couple of great shows as well.

Loads of the usual stuff

Crystal

#oh i suppose i forgot to queue this!#queen #queen band #roger taylor #john deacon #crystal taylor #crystal's tales

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jeromesxreader16 · 3 years

Text

Such a Joker (53)

Part 52 Here!

~o0o~

I pack two sandwiches in my purse and proceed to cover my hair with the large silk scarf. "Where are you sneaking off to?" Babs asks walking past me and downing a drink. "Secret date? I figured you would get sick of the pale faced clown." I smile at my hands. I could never tire of my boy. I'm as crazy as him, maybe more, but he would never turn me away, and I could never leave him.

"I'm married." "Even better." I narrow my eyes at her. "Babs, I'm going to see my dad." She widens her eyes. "Now you're asking for a death wish." I walk out the door, my heels clicking every step. "If you say so."

I walk into the GCPD and can sense the chaos and tension thickly canned in the air. Not seconds later two individuals start brawling over bread. "Hey! Break it up!" My father pushes them back. "For all the new people here... everyone is welcome in Haven, but there are rules. And one of them is we leave the fighting outside. Government already thinks we don't deserve help. We have to show otherwise. Gangs want to tear themselves apart outside, that's their business. In here, in Haven... we help each other survive." I hum with a slick smile as the two dispute the issue and the tension falls. Saved for another day.

I walk up to him nudging his arm. "Nice speech. I think it worked." He turns to me and gasps, but recovers quickly. "(Y/n). You're so big. No... Just-" "Pregnant, dad." He nods smiling. "So what happens when they find out the government abandoned them?" He sighs, shaking his head. I pat his back. "Come on paper man. You need some real food." I pull him into his office and remove the disguise. "Italian sub for you, and tuna for me." "You hate tuna." I smile sitting down. "They don't." I pat my swollen tummy. "So there are two of them?" I nod smiling.

"And you're happy? He treats you well?" I nod again smiling at him. "Of course he does. He's not a monster, dad." He grabs my hand over the desk and squeezes it. "I don't... like him. You know this. He destroyed the damn city for christ's sake, but he is the father of my grandchildren, and the husband of my only daughter, so I can promise you... I will never kill him." I kiss his hand and smile. "Who knew that'd be so comforting to hear."

I walk into the elevator with the smile ghosted over my lips. Crackling from the speaker erupts my mind causing me to shake and grab the wall in fright. "Aw, honey, I'm sorry." Ecco's voice pipes up from the speaker. I wave my hand in front of the camera with a smile. "No worries. All good here." I laugh placing a hand on my stomach. "Where is Jerimiah?" "Working down below. Would you like me to get him?" I smile up at the camera. "Let me go down."

"Uh... Miss, I think we should wait. He doesn't want you around the-" I press the button to the bottom floor faster than light. "Oops," I smirk up to Ecco as the elevator skips the main floor and descends below.

The two doors slide open revealing a steamed room with the funk of hard labor. I step on the uneven ground and see Jerimiah fanning himself as he watches his workers. I rest my hands on his shoulders and kiss his cheek. "You're working hard." He spins around with a glare. "And you're not supposed to be here." He grips my hips pulling me towards him.

"I missed you." I nuzzle into his chest. He hums as we rock back and forth. "I missed you, my love. Come on. No lady should be exposed to this heat." He places his hand on the small of my back leading me to the elevator.

Holding me the entire way up and then carrying me to our bed, never letting us go. "Are my darlings all suggled up?" He asks resting my head on his chest. The icy colored flesh proving wrong to the touch of fire on my fingers. "Yes, Jer." I mumble feeling my eyes draw to a close. "Never will I go a day without my family... even your father." He kisses my head before I can ask the question.

Jeremiah POV:

My workers work endlessly day and night to break the walls of the under the earth. Slowing down each day, getting on my nerves in the end. You're pushing my men way too hard. "We're not gonna break through for at least a couple more days. There is absolutely no way to make it on schedule." The leader of the pack of sweat cogs comes in.

My wife doesn't need to be kept in this filth any longer. How dare he disrespect my future. "Well, not with that attitude, you're not." I slice the man's throat, as he falls to the ground, blood flowing on the dirt.

"Now... everyone... let's reach inside and dig... a little deeper, shall we? 'Cause that's the only way you're all making it out of this hole." I hum watching their fear thicken.

Two taps on my shoulder break my gaze from the project. "Oh, Echo. Are these all the recruits?" Skinny, no brains, slim Whitted. These are my soldiers?

"Well, I thought you would want quality over quantity. Not everybody can pass a .38 caliber test of faith." I smirk thinking of the trials and tests they've suffered. "Yes... you certainly have set a very high bar for devotion."

"Oh. Almost forgot. Bruce Wayne and his sidekick Curls... Or is he the sidekick? Anyway, they tried to infiltrate our little operation here."

"Oh?" " Oh. And Curls can walk, really well, especially... for a paraplegic. Ah. And she wants to kill you." I glare at her with a snarl. This doesn't help that my wife is being cared for in the same building.

"A lot, FYI. If I see her, I'll give you a shout. Oh... and kill her." I nod rolling my eyes. Finish the job and move on for the better of my wife and children.

I walk into the GCPD questioning room with my scarf wrapped around my head, and my belly protruding out. Quite the look I must say. I open the door to see Victor Zsasz pushed on to the table by Harvey.

"Ow. This is a really nice table." I snicker and take my glasses off. "You do realize her thrives on the pain." The three pairs of eyes look at me. "We got a dozen witnesses that saw you walk out of that building before it went kabooey."

"Yeah. I heard some gangs had taken over." Zsasz says turning his eyes to me. "Figured, with you guys occupied, I might help myself to some of your supplies. Hey, do you guys have any canned peaches? Man, I'd trade an arm and a leg for that right now. Not mine, somebody else's. Maybe little baby Maniax's." He laughs reaching for my stomach before Jim swats his arm down.

"If you're innocent, why shoot up a city block full of cops?"

"Because it was full of cops." Zsasz and I say at the same time.

"Who were also trying to shoot me. And, guys, those were warning shots. I mean, if I really

wanted to kill you... you'd be dead. You got a pen? I want to write this guy a thank-you letter. Do the math. If I blew up a building full of people, I would have covered

every inch of my body in sweet, sweet scars. Mrs. Valeska... want to do a strip search?" He winks before my father punches him. "She's married, pig."

I lock arms with my dad and walk through the station. "Got Lucius on the horn for you, Cap."

"Lucius, talk to me." I grab the phone holding it close enough for the both of us to hear. "Haven wasn't destroyed by a bomb. It was an RPG, like the one that took down the chopper."

"You sure?"

I'm holding what's left of it in my hand right now. We found pieces of it in the rubble. It was fired through the basement window, detonated the fuel oil tank. And we're still trying to figure out exactly which rooftop it was fired from.

"Rooftop?"

"Yes."

"Dad, the only angle you could hit this place from is above. Zsasz was on the ground. Looks like you need a new suspect. I think we need to-"

"Jim! Ah. I know the wheels of justice turn slowly, so I'm here to provide- a modicum of grease."

Rushing up towards the front, Oswald, the Mayor of fallen Gotham, stands tall and proud.

"You need to leave right now."

"Still claiming he's innocent, is he?"

"Yes. And as much as I hate to admit it, the evidence is backing him up."

Harvey busts out, "What the hell's going on?" "Harvey, according to Lucius, Zsasz couldn't have done it."

Oswald huffs with a smile. "I did not expect you to go soft, Jim. Actually, I did. Behind a grandpa and all must've changed your ways. Which is why I didn't come alone." Several gunmen come out armed and ready to fire. My father huddles me close and shields me from the view of guns.

"Bring me Victor Zsasz!"

"Leave, (Y/n). Go home!" Jim pushes me away towards the doors.

Jeremiah POV:

I wave my hat fanning my pale skin placed upon the crippling bones. It's so damp and hot in here, but I'm freezing. My heart has gone cold without her scent around. Not a touch, not a wiff, not a glace for days it seems. Where is my angel with my bundles of joy?

"You see, a river cuts through rock not because of its power, but because of its persistence. So what do we do when we feel like giving up? Dig a little deeper. And what do we do when we can't possibly go on any longer? Dig a little deeper. And what do we..." A sharp blade stabs into my side crippling my speech. I look down seeing the masked figure in the striped coat. I gasp feeling my footing slide as the attacker shoves the blade into my stomach further.

"Deep enough?" The individual removes the mask revealing the little pussy of them all. "Well, Selina, I must say..." She pulls the blade out plunging it back in sharply.

"Don't say anything." Over and over again the blade is shoved into my side. The light dimming, the hot steam hitting my brow, the devilish laughter of my brother. This is near my end? Maybe so...

"Selina!" The rat is stripped away from me causing me to fall to the ground barely clinging to the life of happiness I have.

"Selina!" Bruce Wayne holds the fierce kitty back. "Stop. It's done! It's over."

The building is quiet. The entire place is quiet... Not one swing of an ax hitting limestone, making a light clink sound. Not the ring of my husbands voice calling to his men. Not even Echo meeting me at the door with my slippers and milkshake. Something is not right.

"Jeremiah?" I call out as if he could hear me from below. If not him then someone. One of the members at least, but no one came. I proceeded to enter the elevator only to see blood on the buttons and floor. They were having the graduation today, not everyone makes it.

The doors open to the pool room and I could almost drop to my knees at the smell. Thick scent of blood coating the walls. I walk out of the elevator and down into the pool counting the dead. No Echo or Jeremiah. Good so far.

I make my way down to the tunnels where silence has taken over. Just a simple lone man sitting in a chair. "Where is Jermiah?" I panic pulling my jacket closer. Could he have left me?

"Mrs. Valaska!" "Where is my husband?" "He's off in the tunnels. He's got injured. I'm supposed to take you to him." "Well, go on!" He shuffles his feet in a pace of nervousness, tripping over rocks and pickaxes. "How did he get hurt?" "Someone came in and just stabbed the boss. She was taken away by Bruce Wayne." I feel fire ignite in my blood. Selina and Bruce. What a treat. Trying to kill my husband in my own home.

Down the tunnels I hear him. Groaning in pain as Echo stitches him up. "How could you let this happen?" I shout at her. "She was fast." "And you're supposed to be faster." I glare at her as she cowers at my words.

"Don't stress, darling. It's not good for the babies."

"Jeremiah." I kneel down next to him grabbing his face. "Are you alright?" He places his hands over mine, kissing them each. "I'm still alive. One thing I've still got on my brother. How are you, my love? I'm sorry. You must've been wrecked with worry." Jeremiah pulls me into his lap. I nod with my bottom lip out. "Yes, I was. I was so scared, Jer." He pulls me to him. "Aw my darling. I know. I know."

I shift my weight slightly causing him to jet in a sharp inhale. "Oh, honey. Stitches still sore?" He nods. "Never would have happened if you wore that armor I prepared." Echo hums, causing me to roll my eyes. "That bullet makes you sentimental of the wrong things." I huff out pushing her out of the view.

"Why would you not check who was working? You always do. You're always prepared." Jeremiah places his hand on my cheek again. "I had to let Selina thrust the knife into my flesh at least once. Verisimilitude trumps precaution, you see." "They think you're dead." I think putting everything together.

Echo stands to the side bouncing with information. "What is it?" She giggles jumping on her heels. "All systems go." Jeremiah lifts himself, placing a hand on the small of my back and leading us along behind Echo.

"You could've died." I whisper looking at the dirt. "I didn't." "But you could have, Jeremiah. That's my point. You have two children growing, and soon they'll be out in this world. They need their father. You've kept me safely away, but that won't mean shit if you're not around to protect your children." I move ahead of him in a fit of fire.

A hand grabs my shoulder spinning me around. Jerehimah dips me and pushes our lips together. His grip on my arm and hip so tight, keeping me pulled to him with no fight. He pulls away only an inch, looking at my eyes, looking into the soul. "Now, you may not understand everything I do, but I do it for you and these two kids. I think and I plan for hours. You sit up in the bed resting your feet like I tell you. When you start questioning if I'm going to make it, that's when this will fall apart. You're my darling. You've been mine for thousands of years. Never doubt me, (Y/n)." He places his hands on my stomach and pecks my forehead. "Come along now. We have things to do."

Leading me through the tunnels I start to see less of the dirt and more solid grey rock already formed into tunnels. "Where are we?" Jeremiah giggles pulling me alongside.

"Doctor. I'm hearing good things." Jeremiah says holding in laughter.

What is he up to?

The Doctor nods. "The bandages are ready to come off. Your assistant thought you'd like to see the results." Echo shakes her head in praise like a dog while Jer nods his head. "Indeed, I would."

He turns to me. "You won't want to miss this, (y/n)."

The Doctor unravels the bandages on the individuals faces revealing a profile built from professional lifestyle and diets. This is Thomas and Martha Wayne before my eyes... ALIVE!

"Oh, you two look beautiful." I smile looking down at her pearl necklace. "Down to the very detail with you." Jeremiah kisses my cheek. "I love family reunions, don't you?" "More than Christmas!" I cheer and giggle.

#jerome #jerome x reader #jerome valeska #jerome valeska imagine #jerome valeska x reader #jeremiah valeska imagine #jeremiah valeska x reader #jerome valeska smut #Gotham #Gotham City #gotham cast

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